the stranger, run past him? Or should he stop and interrogate him, see if he knew anything about the bones and the strained voices?
The figure opened its mouth as Grant approached, issuing a terrible groan, followed by something else: vomit, black as midnight, running from its mouth like tar.
Grant stopped, bringing himself up short before the vomiting man. “You okay, man?” he asked. “You need...something?”
The man doubled over, vomiting more forcefully, and a gush of black ooze spattered across the street between his feet. There was more ooze coming from his eyes, Grant saw now, and a dark trickle ran down from his left ear and both nostrils.
“What happened to you?” Grant asked, keeping a wary distance. “Did...did someone do this to you?”
* * *
BRIGID, MEANWHILE, PROCEEDED more slowly down the empty street, peering in the windows of buildings for signs of life. Three doors down she found what looked to be a meeting room or a saloon, shades drawn halfway down. She had to crouch to peer inside, and when she did she saw chairs arranged in a circle, with a dozen pairs of legs sitting in them. There were people in there, a ville meeting, maybe. Could that explain the sense of the place being abandoned?
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