A rising, rattling hum startled them all, until they realized that one of the trees dotting the property had cicadas in it. The insects buzzed their way up the register, and then fell silent.
It was still too quiet.
“Maybe it was market day? They took the pigs and chickens in to sell?”
“Every single one, Sarge?”
“Do you have a better explanation?”
Algol cleared his throat. “They must have looked pretty odd carrying all those chickens and walking. The wagon’s still here.”
They all looked at the wagon. It was distinctly wagon-like. The cicadas buzzed again.
“Check the hen-house.”
They made their way around the farmhouse. Coming out of the woods, they had been moving like goblins on a raid—low to the ground, skulking, hiding behind things. It was beginning to seem silly in this deep, abandoned silence, but Nessilka hadn’t lived this long by going into enemy territory and sauntering around in the open.
Besides, it was so quiet that it was almost comforting to crouch behind water barrels and old haystacks. It made you feel like you could hide from that terrible silence.
The last stretch to the hen-house had no cover for anyone over six inches tall. Crouched behind the compost bin, the three goblins eyed the distance. Nessilka gritted her teeth, squared her shoulders, and said “Wait here.”
She didn’t run. Goblins know all about monsters—they’re related, after all—and they know all about the rules. Like small children, they know the rules in their bones. If there was something out there, something cloaking itself in the silence, if she ran, it could run, too.
She walked, therefore, to the door of the henhouse, over earth packed hard and littered with old chicken droppings and bits of straw, while the skin on the back of her neck crept and crawled and cringed. Algol and Murray crouched together, shoulder to shoulder, biting their lips. The sergeant reached out, caught the wire door, and flung it open.
Sunlight lanced down through cracks in the ceiling, and made pale spots on the straw. Old dust, old straw, old feathers. There were reasonably fresh droppings near the door, but no clucking greeted her, and there was no movement of nervous chickens along the walls.
She considered looking behind the door. She decided not to tempt fate.
She closed the door instead, and walked back across the courtyard with a deliberately steady tread.
“Empty,” she said in a low voice. “For a few days, probably.”
Algol, without saying anything, crab-walked over to the pig pen and looked over the fence. The other two followed him.
“There’s still a half-bucket of slops here, Sarge,” he said quietly.
“Well, that’s not that weird—”
“Have you ever known pigs to leave any slops behind ‘em?”
They stood around the slop bucket like three witches around a cauldron. It was indeed half full. The sides of the bucket had crusted and dried, and there was mold growing in the bottom.
Algol dipped a finger in, pulled it out covered in gunk, and popped in it his mouth, rolling the tastes around like a gourmand.
“More than three days. Less than a week. Needs more salt.”
They stood in silence, then, as one, looked at the farmhouse. Nessilka sighed.
“Okay, what are you guys thinking?”
“Plague, maybe?” said Algol.
Murray shook his head. “No bodies. And where’d the chickens go?”
“Maybe they buried the bodies and took the chickens.”
“Doesn’t explain the pig slop. And I haven’t seen anything that could be grave markers.”
“Maybe they left suddenly? Bandits?”
“No blood, and they wouldn’t have taken the chickens. And it still doesn’t explain the pig slop.”
“Maybe bandits killed the pigs before they were done eating.”
“No blood in the pen. And the place is in pretty good shape. Bandits would have wrecked the joint.”
“Could they be hiding?” Algol jerked his chin at the farmhouse.
“With the pigs, and the chickens, and the mules or whatever ought to be in those empty stalls? It’s not that big a house.”
They all looked at the house in question again. Nessilka nodded.
“Okay, let’s go in. Don’t bother sneaking, let’s just get this over with.”
In a properly run universe, the door would have opened with one of those long creaks that go on forever, but it was hung on leather strap hinges and swung open silently.
The interior was dark and quiet. Two chairs, one table, one bed. A thin film of dust lay over everything. The goblins looked towards the bed, which was unmade, but empty, and breathed a sigh of relief.
A plate of food lay on the table, with a fork next to it. There was a piece of elderly broccoli speared on the end of the fork. Mold fuzzed most of the other contents of the plate.