[Lenka doesn't answer for a long moment; he's staring at the shadow gunk at the end of his shovel, where it's splashed off and onto the ground and likely is emitting some sort of noxious shadow fumes or something. Eventually, he shakes himself and seems to come back down to earth -- literally as well, as he starts wiping off the shovel on the grass.]

I don't-- They're-- [eventually he gives up, both on cleaning the shovel and being able to evaluate what they've just collectively stabbed] Maybe, what the app sent us here to find.

[And that brings up all kinds of unsavory possibilities, even if the app was telling the truth (what kind of truth?), per se. There's little time to regroup and get their bearings or shed any light on the matter, because already there are more rustling movements faintly carrying through the bushes. Somehow, the moonlit night seems darker.

Or maybe that's just because there's something moving in the treetops. More than a few somethings.

Lenka shudders and tightens his grip on the shovel. His teeth grind almost audibly as the low-key headache that's persisted for almost a week returns with a vengeance.]

We need to move. They'll surround us.