"You mean the quiet?"
"The animals know he's here. Instinctively, they fear him. They won't make a sound because if they do, he'll have them. He can mime the sound of any life form and when he does that, he has them."
"He has them how?" Mr. Stevenson asked in a tight, anxious whisper.
"By pretending to be one of them and killing them when they don't expect it."
"I see. And we—"
"Keep on the lookout," I said. "And don't separate. As long as we stay together, sir, all four of us, we're safe."
We had come a couple of hundred yards from the stockade. Unless you knew the way back, though, it could have been a couple of hundred miles. Some of the bogs could be treacherous, too.
I went knee-deep in the muck and pulled my feet out. The mud made sucking sounds against the rubber of my boots. Something touched my shoulder and I whirled—but it was only Mr. Stevenson.
"Where are they?" he said.