Alun fell into a full-halt silence. “That can’t be so,” he breathed. “You killed him.”
“Jeb Lindson killed him,” Cedar said. “Those bodies we found have been gleaned and cleaned. Bits missing. Specific bits, as if just the best of each person was taken.”
“You’re sure it’s not an animal?”
“Yes.”
“Savages?” Alun asked.
“No.”
“And you’re certain it’s Shunt?”
“I know that devil,” Cedar said. “The smell of him on the bodies. The song of him left in the things he’s touched.”
Alun just stood there in the rain as if that news rolled like an earthquake under his boots and changed the landscape around him.
“We should look for him,” Alun said.
“He’s not in the town,” Cedar said. “Come and gone, maybe far on as a week ago.”
Alun got moving again and Cedar paced him atop Flint.
Finally Alun said, “Dark things slip in this night, Mr. Hunt. You can feel the Strange?”
“Yes.”
“They can feel you too,” Alun noted. “They know the one man who can track them, hunt them, tear them apart. They know you’re here, you and your Pawnee curse. And they don’t fear the dark.”
“That suits me fine,” Cedar said. “Because neither do I.”
It didn’t take long to reach the center of town. Cedar and Alun got to work moving the dead, starting with the family in the general store, and lifting, or as the circumstance required, dragging the bodies to the clearing.
Cadoc finally returned with the wagon, having found Bryn. After a brief talk with Alun, they unloaded several crates and a boiler out of the wagon. Bryn got busy assembling pieces of a device that looked more suited to pumping a well than digging a grave, while Cadoc and Alun took the wagon farther off to gather up any more people they could find.
It was grim work. Silent work.
Cedar had done his share of digging graves in his life. He’d stood above far too many saying his last farewells. His wife’s. His child’s.
Many more.
These people were strangers to him, yet the shame of so many lost, stripped and picked over like a feast of convenience, burned a deep anger in him.
He carried a small body toward the pile, each step slower than the last.
The beast within twisted and stretched. It wanted out. It wanted to hunt. It wanted to destroy the Strange. It wanted to destroy Mr. Shunt.
Cedar found it more and more difficult to find a reason to fight that need. A man’s hands could do as much damage as the beast. A man’s hands could tear a person limb from limb. Why not let the beast take his mind and use his hands for its needs?
“Mr. Hunt?” Rose said. Again, he realized.
He blinked until he could see the world. He’d been standing for some time now.
There was no rain, just the cold exhalation of the night against his skin.
“You can put her right there,” Rose said gently.
Cedar looked down. He held a girl in his arms. Maybe two or three years old. Not much bigger than his own daughter had been when he held her, dead, in his arms.
This little girl was cold and gone, a splash of blood on her dress around the hole where her stomach should be. There were no tomorrows left for his daughter. And now there were no tomorrows left for this child.
Cedar swallowed hard and placed her gently next to a woman missing the top half of her skull. He didn’t know if it was her mother. He hoped it might be.
“I’m going off for more wood,” Rose said. “Mrs. Lindson is going to stay with Bryn Madder to help mind the fire and boiler. Are you all right?”
In the firelight Rose looked softer. Lovely as an angel come to comfort. Cedar knew she had no reason to tell him what everyone was doing.
She must have seen him standing there, frozen with grief and memories, the dead girl in his arms. Her words had tethered him back to the night, eased the beast, and shaken the memory’s hold.
Rose was a practical woman. And kind.
“I’ll come along with you,” he said.
“No need, Mr. Hunt. There’s a good stack just behind that house over there. One or two more loads and Mr. Madder says he’ll have enough for the digging matic to start working.”
Cedar glanced over at Mae, who was working next to Bryn Madder. They had built a fire that could likely be seen for twenty miles.
The boiler was now attached by long metal tubes to the pump device, and Bryn was wrenching wheels onto the base of the thing. It looked like a railroad handcart, with a lumpy brass teakettle the size of a pony bolted to it and a wooden shovel attached by long handles to the front, controlled by pulleys and ropes. Probably a mining matic the brothers had devised.
“I’d prefer to come with you,” Cedar said.
Rose inhaled as if to say more, then stopped. She glanced at the dead girl in the pile, then at his hands and coat, which were both bloody enough, the rain couldn’t wash them clean.
Finally, she looked at his eyes. Likely seeing the sorrow he could not hide.
“Of course, Mr. Hunt,” she said softly. “I’d appreciate your company.”
He walked with her to a lean-to that had been built to keep the worst of the weather off the wood stacked up against a house. There wasn’t enough room in that small shed for two, so he waited outside.
“Enough firewood here to keep a person warm till next summer,” Rose said as she bent beneath the roof eve and piled several pieces into her arms.
“That’s true,” Cedar said distractedly. The night wind brought with it the sound of crying, the soft weeping of a child. A child close by.
“Have you looked in the house across the way there for bodies?” he asked.
“Not yet. I thought after I gathered the wood, I’d help out finding people.”
“I’m going to look inside,” Cedar said.
“I’ll come with you if you wait,” Rose called back.
He didn’t wait. He strode up to the back door of the house and tried the latch.
The door opened onto the kitchen. A woman lay on the floor. She was missing both of her arms. Silent. Dead.
In the far corner of the room huddled a child. He’d guess her to be maybe eight or ten years old. Still in her nightgown, bareheaded, barefoot, her cheek tipped onto her bent knees, her hands gently clasping her ankles.
She didn’t move. But a soft, wheezing cry drifted from the corner of the room. Cedar put his hand on the doorjamb. No song of the Strange came to him. He took a cautious step into the room.
“Child?” he said quietly.
The girl still didn’t stir. But the wheezy sob continued.
Cedar crossed the kitchen, carefully stepping around the mother, and knelt in front of the girl.
“There, now,” he said. “It’s going to be fine.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t startle her.
At his touch, the song of the Strange shot through him like greased lightning, cracking in his skull and stabbing straight through his feet to fuse him to the earth.
The Strange hadn’t just touched this girl, they had infested her.
He could feel a tremble, a ticking beneath his fingers.
The girl was not a girl. Or at least not anymore. Now she was a hollowed-out shell. A doll with clockwork innards that ticked, ticked, ticked, slowly winding down while leather bellows wheezed out the last of the air it had been pumping into her lungs.
The Strange had made her. Or remade her.
The girl fell sideways. A metal key stuck out of her back. A small key made of tin that ground to a stop like a music box striking the last tine.
“Mr. Hunt?” It was Rose, come into the room.
“Rose!” Cedar called. “Don’t!”
But it was too late. The key stopped moving. Touching the girl had sprung the Strange trap. He’d set off some kind of trigger set deep within her. A trigger that sparked a short fuse.
Cedar was on his feet, running, throwing himself to shield Rose. They tumbled out the door, but the explosion was immense. The kitchen, the mother, and the girl flew into bits. A barrage of flesh and bone and wood rained down around them where they lay out in the mud. His leather duster shielded him from the worst of it.