Tin Swift by Devon Monk

asked. “Night’s upon us, Miss Small. Whatever or whoever did this to these people could be nearby. I don’t think slinging a shovel is going to do us, or in the long run them, any good.”
    “I won’t leave them like this. And you shouldn’t want to either, Mr. Hunt. They deserve a decent burial. They deserve to have their souls put to a proper rest.”
    “I agree they deserve a decent burial,” he said. “But it is too dangerous for us to administer it.”
    “I’ve heard you,” she said. “But there isn’t anything about this new land that isn’t dangerous. That doesn’t mean we have to be the kind of people who turn away from the mercy at hand.”
    Rose walked to the back of the room, the lantern light swinging shadows and bright at each other like trapeze artists reaching for the catch. She picked up a shovel and then, without a word, walked across the room and out the door, leaving the dark to swallow Cedar whole.
    He took in a lungful of it and sighed. The girl meant well, but the last thing he wanted to do right now was dig a grave, much less dig one big enough for four, or who knew how many more. He walked over to the counter and rested his hand there.
    A song, like sour trumpets trembling in the distance rose up through his fingertips. He knew that fleeting tune, knew its haunting rhythms and trills. It was the song of the Strange, of one Strange in particular.
    Mr. Shunt.
    Suddenly, the chill of the night and the dark and death squeezed down around him. They’d killed Mr. Shunt. He’d seen him killed, seen his innards stretched out and pounded to a mash even the crows wouldn’t pick over. He’d seen the bits of Mr. Shunt smashed apart by Jeb Lindson, Mae’s dead husband.
    There was no possibility a man, nor any other creature, could come back together after the taking apart Mr. Shunt had received.
    The wind huffed against the rafters, silencing the song as a fresh scatter of rain broke from the sky.
    But then, there was no man nor creature like Mr. Shunt. If there was anything in this world unkillable, it would be him.
    Suddenly, the harvest made sense. Mae had said Mr. Shunt fell into pieces and sewed himself back together again. Maybe he needed more parts.
    But if Shunt were still in the town, hell, if he’d been within thirty miles of the place, Cedar would know. He wasn’t here. But he had been.
    “Mr. Hunt?” Rose said from the door, her lantern clutched tight in one hand, the shovel in the other. “I think you’d better see this.”
    “We’re leaving,” Cedar said, making to walk around behind the counter for the supplies. “Now. Come take an armful.”
    Rose didn’t say anything. Not a peep. Wasn’t like her.
    He glanced up. She was still standing in the doorway, the shine of light carving out holes of dark against the sweet angles of her face. There was more than just rain falling from the brim of her hat to wet her face. There were tears.
    “Rose?” He came out from behind the counter and walked to her. “Rose?”
    “I looked into houses. A half dozen houses,” she said. “They’re all dead.” She looked up into his face. “Children too, Mr. Hunt. Little babies missing their feet and hands, all carved up…”
    Cedar wanted to tell her not to worry about the dead. To tell her that if they left these people behind it was a civilized choice. But that was not true. The place stank of the Strange. And he had seen the Strange do terrible things with the unburied dead.
    “We’ll do what we can for them,” he said. “Give them a grave and a prayer, the only mercy still in our hands.”
    Rose wiped at her nose and nodded. “We’ll need to gather them all up. Maybe in the middle of town? The clearing?”
    “That should do,” Cedar said. “Let’s get the Madders to help. Quickly.”
    Cedar followed her back out into the rain. They mounted up and tracked back to the wagon.
    Alun was leaning at the side of it, the huge brim of his hat and the angle of the wagon