under an old oak tree and along the side of the house to a rickety-looking carport in the back, which sheltered a small pickup truck.
“I’ll go around the other side,” Angel whispered. He crossed the unfenced lawn to the far side of the house and disappeared around the corner.
Buffy walked silently down the long, narrow driveway beside the house. Light came from a window at that end of the house; sound came from it, too — a rhythmic thumping sound. Buffy crouched slightly as she approached the window, careful to keep out of sight from inside.
Beneath the window, Buffy slowly raised her head until she could see just above the bottom of the sash. It was a tiled room. Bathroom? Nope. Laundry room. Clothes hanging on a rack. A water heater in the corner. The thumping came from a washing machine working on a load of laundry.
Buffy stood up a little higher. A white wicker clothes hamper lay on its side and its lid lay in the half-open doorway. Beside the hamper was something that did not, at first, make visual sense to Buffy. Strangely neat angles, wet, dripping in some places, and a few inches away on the floor, a meat cleaver, the blade’s shine dulled by a dark half-moon–shaped stain. She gasped with realization.
The blood-streaked bones were moving, slowly, until the remains slumped to one side. It was settling. It had just happened, the scream was when it started. Whatever had eaten the flesh from those bones had worked fast, and was still close.
Buffy stood and ran to the back of the house, toward the carport. She jumped the six-foot fence surrounding the backyard, and when her feet hit the grass, she hunkered down, became still, and absorbed her surroundings.
Quiet except for the hushed breath of the drizzle and the muted thumping of the washer. But there was an aura of activity. Something had just been through that backyard.
Across the yard, at the corner of the house, something squeaked. Rusted metal and cranky wood complaining together.
Buffy raced across the yard and found a gate so old and uncared for it was too crooked on its hinges to close properly.
And something had just gone through it.
From the gate was a narrow strip of grass that led between the side of the house and the rest of the six-foot fence. To the front yard. And the street.
Buffy ran along the house to the front yard. Angel was standing on the sidewalk, staring up the street. And children were laughing somewhere.
When Angel saw Buffy, he waved for her to come quickly.
“I was running down the side of the house, toward that old gate,” Angel whispered. “And then I heard them. Laughing. They cut across the front yard here and there they went up the street. Still laughing and talking. Like they just got out of a bar.” He pointed.
They were at the end of the block, waiting for a Don’t Walk sign to change, even though there was no traffic at all, not even the sound of traffic in the distance. Maybe six or seven of them, all about the same height, maybe eight or nine years old. It was impossible to tell if they were all male, female, or mixed.
“Why didn’t you stop them?” Buffy asked.
“I didn’t know what to do. I mean . . . they’re children.”
A little more than halfway across the street, the giggling, laughing children stopped and fell silent in the crosswalk, bathed in the glow of the streetlight on the corner they’d been approaching. They turned, all at once, and stared at Buffy and Angel. The glow from overhead shadowed the top halves of their faces, but their mouths were visible. None of the children were smiling, but their mouths were moving. They were . . . whispering to one another.
“No,” Buffy said. “They’re not children.”
She broke into a run, heading straight for them. The children turned and ran away from her, onto the sidewalk, down the side street, and out of sight for a moment. Buffy picked up her pace, hit the sidewalk, followed their path for several yards, then stopped.
Up ahead,
“I’ll go around the other side,” Angel whispered. He crossed the unfenced lawn to the far side of the house and disappeared around the corner.
Buffy walked silently down the long, narrow driveway beside the house. Light came from a window at that end of the house; sound came from it, too — a rhythmic thumping sound. Buffy crouched slightly as she approached the window, careful to keep out of sight from inside.
Beneath the window, Buffy slowly raised her head until she could see just above the bottom of the sash. It was a tiled room. Bathroom? Nope. Laundry room. Clothes hanging on a rack. A water heater in the corner. The thumping came from a washing machine working on a load of laundry.
Buffy stood up a little higher. A white wicker clothes hamper lay on its side and its lid lay in the half-open doorway. Beside the hamper was something that did not, at first, make visual sense to Buffy. Strangely neat angles, wet, dripping in some places, and a few inches away on the floor, a meat cleaver, the blade’s shine dulled by a dark half-moon–shaped stain. She gasped with realization.
The blood-streaked bones were moving, slowly, until the remains slumped to one side. It was settling. It had just happened, the scream was when it started. Whatever had eaten the flesh from those bones had worked fast, and was still close.
Buffy stood and ran to the back of the house, toward the carport. She jumped the six-foot fence surrounding the backyard, and when her feet hit the grass, she hunkered down, became still, and absorbed her surroundings.
Quiet except for the hushed breath of the drizzle and the muted thumping of the washer. But there was an aura of activity. Something had just been through that backyard.
Across the yard, at the corner of the house, something squeaked. Rusted metal and cranky wood complaining together.
Buffy raced across the yard and found a gate so old and uncared for it was too crooked on its hinges to close properly.
And something had just gone through it.
From the gate was a narrow strip of grass that led between the side of the house and the rest of the six-foot fence. To the front yard. And the street.
Buffy ran along the house to the front yard. Angel was standing on the sidewalk, staring up the street. And children were laughing somewhere.
When Angel saw Buffy, he waved for her to come quickly.
“I was running down the side of the house, toward that old gate,” Angel whispered. “And then I heard them. Laughing. They cut across the front yard here and there they went up the street. Still laughing and talking. Like they just got out of a bar.” He pointed.
They were at the end of the block, waiting for a Don’t Walk sign to change, even though there was no traffic at all, not even the sound of traffic in the distance. Maybe six or seven of them, all about the same height, maybe eight or nine years old. It was impossible to tell if they were all male, female, or mixed.
“Why didn’t you stop them?” Buffy asked.
“I didn’t know what to do. I mean . . . they’re children.”
A little more than halfway across the street, the giggling, laughing children stopped and fell silent in the crosswalk, bathed in the glow of the streetlight on the corner they’d been approaching. They turned, all at once, and stared at Buffy and Angel. The glow from overhead shadowed the top halves of their faces, but their mouths were visible. None of the children were smiling, but their mouths were moving. They were . . . whispering to one another.
“No,” Buffy said. “They’re not children.”
She broke into a run, heading straight for them. The children turned and ran away from her, onto the sidewalk, down the side street, and out of sight for a moment. Buffy picked up her pace, hit the sidewalk, followed their path for several yards, then stopped.
Up ahead,
Similar Books
