Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

  I know he’s in his kitchen, Marcus thought. At least, that’s what I suspect. I’ll try to find the supplies in another home. No need to anger him further. At least not yet. And then, well, then I can work out what might be done to help the Reverend’s wife.

  With his decision made, Marcus walked to the door and opened it.

  A cool breeze caressed his cheek, and he stepped over the line of salt, walking towards the Village.

  ***

  “What is he doing?” Abel’s question seemed to bounce off the walls, and no one answered him. He was alone and focused on the chapel.

  The opening of the granite building’s wooden door had taken him by surprise, and he was further shocked when Subject B stepped out of the chapel’s safety. Abel was so taken aback by what he witnessed, that it took him a moment to free a drone to follow the subject.

  Fascinated, Abel watched the man weave through the headstones, then retrace his steps from the previous evening. But when Abel thought the subject might return to 114 Broad Street, the man suddenly angled away, heading toward the back of the Greely home.

  Oh, Abel thought with a bemused chuckle, there is someone in there I do not think you would enjoy meeting, sir.

  For a heartbeat, Abel considered contacting David and having the building secured.

  But that would be interfering with the experiment in an unprecedented and utterly unethical way, Abel thought, chiding himself. This has to happen as naturally as possible.

  So, while he did not wish to lose such an interesting subject, Abel knew he had to let the situation play out exactly as it should.

  Move on, show me what you’re going to do, Abel thought, smiling. I would, in all honesty, greatly appreciate it.

  Abel picked up his radio and said, “David.”

  “Sir?” David asked a moment later.

  “Is Subject C in the area yet?”

  “Not yet, sir,” David answered. “Half an hour out last I checked. Would you like me to inquire again?”

  Abel paused, then said, “No. That’s alright. I am merely anxious.”

  “Understood, sir,” David said. “I will inform you as soon as the subject is here.”

  “Thank you,” Abel said and set the radio back down. He returned his attention to Subject B and waited.

  Chapter 21: Unexpected Interference

  Lonnie Matlin whistled as he walked.

  He had been whistling for days. Weeks even.

  It was one of the joys of being alone. At least for Lonnie.

  No one bothered him about his whistling. Just like no one bothered him about taking out the trash, or spending all his paycheck at the liquor store, or forgetting to put gas in the car.

  Lonnie Matlin was alone and responsible for nothing greater than finding something to eat and a place to sleep.

  Two challenges he was eminently capable of meeting each day.

  Lonnie knew what roots and mushrooms were edible. He knew to boil his water before he drank or cooked with it. Lonnie knew a great many facts and pieces of survival information; they were the few parts of the world that he cared to know.

  And it had only taken a single failed marriage to make him see that he could put those facts into significant use.

  Important use, he corrected as he came to a stop. He slipped his canteen off his belt, had a few sips, then put the canteen back into its place. Lonnie paused, wondered what Evie might be up to, then shrugged.

  There’s a reason why she’s an ex, he told himself. Doesn’t matter if we were married. I just need to be thankful that we didn’t have any kids together. Hell, I need to be thankful that I don’t have any kids, period.

  The idea of having produced offspring was a frightening thought, and he had suffered more than one nightmare about having to support not one, but multiple children. Fathered with a slew of different women.

  Lonnie shuddered and shook the thought away.

  He started back along the game trail he was traveling on when he caught a glimpse of something metallic ahead of him.

  What can be metal out here? he wondered, and after several minutes, the answer became clear. Disturbingly so.

  A tall, wrought iron fence stood almost fifty yards away from the edge of the forest, and perhaps another hundred yards to either side stood a tower.

  Looks like a damned prisoner of war camp, Lonnie realized. The oddly placed fence wrapped around to the left and to the right, and beyond it, he could see fifteen or twenty houses. He wasn’t sure exactly how many.

  But it wasn’t the houses that made him think.

  It was the existence of the fence. The idea that the houses beyond were being used as some sort of prison.

  What the hell is really in there? Lonnie didn’t like the way it looked. He didn’t like a single item about the fence and the houses, and he wondered what might be done about it.

  Nothing from out here, he thought. I need to be inside. Over the fence, if I’m going to figure out what’s what.

  He nodded to himself, smiled at the idea of a little breaking and entering in the middle of nowhere, and then crept up to the fence, wary of the towers. Lonnie paused halfway between the tree line and the wrought iron barrier, his eyes trained on the nearest tower. He thought he had a glimpse of someone, but it turned out to be only a trick of the eye.

  When he reached the fence, Lonnie stopped and peered through the bars. About thirty yards from the barrier was a trio of tall oak trees, their broad leaves turned up to the sun. In the distance, he thought he heard the sound of voices, and he realized that he had to make a decision about going over the fence.

  But he had made his decision as soon as he had seen the fence.

  Lonnie was going over.

  Come hell or high water, as his father had been fond of saying.

  Grasping the crossbeam in both hands, Lonnie pulled himself up easily, swung one leg, then the other over the rough points of the bars, then launched himself into the compound. He landed, rolled, and was up in a heartbeat, sprinting for the trees.

  As soon as he was among them, he crouched down, presenting a low profile as his eyes swept the fence.

  A minute later, he saw a pair of people he could only assume were guards. Their genders were hidden beneath black tactical uniforms, body armor, and full-visor helmets. The sun gleamed in the reflective surface of the visors, and the pair of guards carried what seemed to be shotguns with drum magazines.

  What the hell is this place? Lonnie wondered. His heart beat with excitement as he considered the many different scenarios.

  Government? he asked himself. Paramilitary? Is this some nut job’s compound?

  And while he knew there was an inherent danger to such a place, he couldn’t deny the thrill he felt at being there without permission.

  This, he thought, is fantastic.

  ***

  David sat in the command bunker two hundred yards away from the entrance to the Village. He had a cup of coffee, heavy with cream and sugar, and a hard copy of the previous night’s events within the Village. Some of the dead had been extremely active, while others had remained silent.

  David knew the case history of each house, and he felt perfectly fine with the dead remaining quiet in some of them.

  The radio squawked, and he picked it up absently.

  “This is Abel Actual, over,” David said.

  “Abel Actual, this is Gate One,” one of the guards stated. “We have a situation in the Village, over.”

  Frowning, David said, “Sitrep, over.”

  “Someone climbed the fence, over.”

  David shook his head in disbelief. “Say again, Gate One?”

  The guard repeated himself, and David swore.

  “All units, prepare for burst,” he said, and he twisted in his seat, putting his hand on a red toggle switch attached to an innocuous black box. Silently, he counted down from five, then flipped the switch, holding it up for thirty seconds.

  ***

  “The hell?” Lonnie said
aloud as his right front pocket shook.

  He dug his cell phone out and then threw it down with a gasp of surprise. Light gray smoke curled out of the slim piece of hardware, and the stench of melting plastic and burnt circuits filled the air.

  Did the battery short out?

  Before he could try and answer his own question, he heard a klaxon from the center of the small group of houses. Along the fence line he saw people racing towards the towers, and with a sudden, piercing fear, Lonnie turned and ran for the nearest house.

  He reached it in a matter of seconds, leaping up the steps to the back door and wrenching it open.

  Damn, I hope no one lives here, he thought, tumbling into the room. He kicked the door shut, breathing heavily as he got to his knees and peered out the closest window.

  The people he had seen running were in the towers, but no one seemed to be making an effort to come into the compound after him.

  In fact, they all seemed to have binoculars trained on the house he was in.

  Confused, Lonnie looked to the left and saw a single individual in that tower, the person half leaning against the wall to peer at the home Lonnie was hiding in.

  Why aren’t they coming in? he wondered. Cautiously, he stood up. The watchers in the towers fixed their gazes upon him.

  Lonnie took a step back, then he turned around and looked at the room he was in. It was a well-kept kitchen, but it looked as though it belonged in a museum.

  No microwave, no toaster, Lonnie thought, glancing around. Not even a fridge.

  A smile crossed his face.

  This is my type of house, he thought. He crept out of the kitchen and into a narrow hallway that branched off to the left and right. Lonnie chose the right and walked toward a closed door. When he opened it, he found himself in a small study. Bookcases lined the walls, shelves filled with sturdy volumes. A single window stood opposite a large hearth, and it was to the window that Lonnie walked.

  He looked out of it and saw a narrow, cobblestone street. To the left of the house was a gate that led out of the compound, and the gate was flanked on either side by tall towers. A black Humvee was parked across the dirt road that stretched away from the gate, and a trio of black-clad individuals stood near the vehicle.

  But they made no effort to enter the compound.

  Why aren’t you coming in? Lonnie wondered. You know I’m here.

  For a few minutes he watched them, then he shrugged and turned his attention to the books on the shelves.

  Most of the titles, Lonnie saw, were adventure books. Zane Grey westerns and even a few by Jack London. There were books about King Arthur and his knights, books by Robert Louis Stevenson, and more than a few illustrated by the various Wyeths and Arthur Rackham.

  Lonnie shrugged off his pack, dropped it to the floor, and pulled a beautiful, leather-bound copy of Treasure Island off the shelf. He carried it to a tall, overstuffed chair and sat down. Opening the book, Lonnie found an inscription on the title page.

  To my dear Henry, the note began, may you enjoy this book as much as I did when I was your age.

  Your loving Daddy. April 3rd, 1910.

  “What are you doing?”

  Lonnie screamed with surprise, dropping the book to his lap and jerking his head up.

  A young boy stood in the doorway. His light brown hair was tousled, and his face looked red and slightly swollen. There was a sickly glow to his eyes, and for a brief moment, Lonnie wondered if the boy had some contagious disease. The child looked as though he was eight, perhaps nine years old, and he wore a heavy bathrobe over pajamas and a pair of house slippers. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of the robe, and his face was a mask of anger.

  “I was just trying to get a little reading in,” Lonnie said with a nervous chuckle, picking the book up and holding it in front for the boy to see.

  Shivering, Lonnie thought, How can he look flushed when it’s so damned cold in here?

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” the boy stated in a flat voice. “This is my library.”

  Lonnie bristled at the statement. “You can’t keep knowledge to yourself.”

  “I can do whatever I wish with my own possessions,” the child retorted.

  “Fine. Whatever,” Lonnie said brusquely. He set the book on the arm of the chair, stood up and said, “Thanks for nothing.”

  “Where are you going?” the boy demanded.

  “I’m leaving,” Lonnie replied, picking up his pack and slipping his arms through the straps.

  The child shook his head. “No. You’re not.”

  Lonnie started to speak, and then he stopped. There was something strange about the boy. An oddness to him that Lonnie couldn’t quite identify. As he tried to place his finger on it, he had a sharp and terrible thought.

  What if he is sick? What if that’s why this whole place is behind a fence? Lonnie’s mind wrestled with the question, and a moment later the boy stepped into the room. The temperature sank several degrees, and suddenly Lonnie could see his own breath.

  But not the boy’s.

  Lonnie squinted and came to the realization that he could see through the child.

  The boy faded in and out, solid at one moment, then translucent the next.

  “These are my books,” the boy whispered. “My father gave them to me. They are mine!”

  The last word struck Lonnie like a hammer, causing him to stagger into the chair. The backs of his knees hit the cushion, and he fell hard into the seat. Struggling to regain his composure, Lonnie shouted as the boy stalked toward him, his small hands out of his robe pockets and clenched into fists.

  “You shouldn’t touch other people’s books,” the child said through clenched teeth. “That’s rude. It’s impolite. They are all I have!”

  Lonnie tried to reply, but the boy was too close. Horrified, Lonnie watched as the child thrust his fists into Lonnie’s chest.

  A scream tore out of his throat as an unbearable pain ripped through him. He flopped like a dying fish on a barbed hook and tried to move away from the agony.

  The boy flashed a feral grin and opened his hands in Lonnie’s chest.

  Lonnie’s last sound was a muffled whimper as his lungs froze and his heart shuddered to a halt.

  ***

  David stared at the screen for several minutes, the camera focused on the dead intruder in the Engberg house. He had known there was the ghost of a boy, of course, the ghost of John Lawrence Engberg. The child had suffered from tuberculosis, and it had been a bitter twist of irony for the family that the boy had begun to get better, only to succumb to scarlet fever.

  And he’s an angry child, isn’t he, David thought, turning the camera off. I’ll have to send a clean-up team in later. Perhaps have a book brought in as a peace offering.

  He sighed and shook his head.

  David’s private line rang, and he picked it up. “Sir?”

  “Impressive, isn’t he?” the professor asked.

  “Most definitely, sir,” David agreed, although he wouldn’t have put it in such terms himself.

  “Do we know how he managed to get in?” the professor inquired.

  “Not yet, sir,” David said. “We do have several former Army Rangers on staff. I’ll be sending them out shortly to backtrack the intruder’s trail. I’d like to know where the break in the perimeter sensors is.”

  “Agreed,” the professor replied. “I’ve decided that I want Subject C placed in the Reverend’s house. I want you to make as much noise as possible.”

  “Sir?” David asked, confused.

  “On the off chance that Subject B doesn’t notice the placement of Subject C,” the professor said with a chuckle. “We certainly wouldn’t want him failing to know there is a second, living human being trapped with him.”

  “No,” David said, smiling. “We wouldn’t want that at all.”

  Chapter 22: A Change for the Worse

  Marcus spent half an hour sitting on the damp grass, waiting to see if he was the subject
of the sudden surge of activity around the perimeter of the experiment. He was still attempting to decide if they were interested in him, or something else, when a sharp, agonized scream cut through the air.

  Within minutes, the guards in the towers stood down, the unknown men and women climbing out of their perches. Foot patrols started up, and Marcus saw that he had not been the focus of their attention.

  Who was? he thought. His joints complained as he got to his feet, his hands aching as he shifted the iron chain from one hand to the next and looked out at the back of the houses he could see.

  He knew there was another side to the narrow cobblestone street, and he rationalized that if he wasn’t of any interest, then perhaps they had been focused on one of the other homes.

  Marcus hesitated, and his stomach reminded him of his initial purpose.

  Food, he thought. I need to eat.

  He glanced at the other houses and shook his head. On second thought, I shouldn’t try someplace new. Better the devil that I know than the demon that I don’t. At least with the Reverend, I know who look out for.

  He approached the Reverend’s house and stopped a score of paces away from the back door, the one that led back into the kitchen. His heart rate had increased, and anxiety had settled into his stomach to accompany the pangs of hunger he felt.

  Marcus took a deep breath, gripped the chain tight in his hands, and strode towards the building. Within a matter of seconds, he was inside, his ears straining to hear the slightest change. Quickly, he pulled a drawer out of the lower cabinet and piled it with food. He found an ivory colored tablecloth, tied it into a rough gunnysack, and quickly rifled through the kitchen. It took him no more than fifteen minutes, but he was sweating by the time he was done.

  He carried everything outside, set it on the ground and wiped the sweat off his brow, trying to think of the best way to carry the food.

  And water, he thought grimly. What to do about water?

  He had seen several buckets in the kitchen, old, battered tin affairs that at least looked serviceable.