FIVE BOTTLE HOLLOW
At Bottle Hollow, Luanne watched the watcher land on her barn.
It had wings folded tight against its body. Two red eyes glowed in the center of its chest. It did not blink. It did not move.
Luanne got her children into the root cellar and told them the old rule: no matter what you hear, do not come up until someone sings the yellow-house song.
The small gray things came from the cottonwoods. They moved in quick bursts, too low to the ground and too fast for their size. They swarmed the chicken coop first. Feathers lifted into the night. Then they came for the house.
Luanne fired through the window. One creature flew backward, hit the dirt, and rose again.
The watcher on the roof opened its wings.
That was when the Hairy Man entered the yard with Chenoa over its shoulder.
Luanne saw the girl’s hand move. She saw the creature turn its head toward the cellar door.
It had followed the warmth of living people.
Arlo’s truck arrived in a blast of dust. Tomas climbed from the passenger side carrying the iron bell. He rang it once.
Every small gray creature froze.
The sound was thin and ugly, barely louder than a spoon against glass. Still, it made the things in the yard fold their hands over their heads. The watcher recoiled on the roof.
Tomas rang again.
The Hairy Man roared. It dropped Chenoa and charged.
Cawley fired. The round hit its throat. Arlo threw the red cord around the creature’s ankle as it passed. The cord tightened by itself, burning bright against black fur.
The creature crashed into the dirt.
Chenoa crawled toward the truck. Luanne ran from the house and dragged her inside.
The watcher lifted from the barn. Its red eyes fixed on Tomas.
“It counted enough,” he said.
“What does that mean?” Arlo asked.
Tomas looked toward the mine.
“It means we are late.”