“Not hide nor sickle-claw.”
But Teddy had focused on something; something out by the freshly painted barn (which nonetheless leaned precariously; a result of the hurricane-like winds that had attended the Flashback, no doubt), and frowned. “You sure about that?”
“What do you mean?” Nick followed his gaze but saw nothing, only a rusted-out van and some equally rusted drums, and something he hadn’t noticed before (probably because they hadn’t been there, he was sure of it): a stand of hoary cycad bushes. Literally—cycad bushes. In rolling wheat country. In Eastern Washington. After a bitter winter.
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
But there was something; something partially obscured by the van and the cycad bushes; something brown and tan and red and mottled green; a thing which didn’t move, didn’
