Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

That’s not a problem, Alex thought. He hated it. The only reason he did eat it was the same reason why he did or didn’t do anything.

  He didn’t want to be punished.

  His stepfather was quick with his hands as Alex’s oft-broken nose could attest to.

  “Eat your fish,” the man stated, and Alex did so mechanically, knowing it would be better to get the chore of eating over with.

  ***

  “Teams are in position,” Timmy relayed. “And is this really necessary here?”

  Suzie nodded. “The Boss said it is. He wants the element of fear ramped up in Subject D before we ever get them into the village.”

  Timmy shook his head but didn’t say anything more.

  She pressed a key on her laptop, and the cell phones in Subject D’s home went dead. Another keystroke disconnected the internet and the landline that piggy-backed on the cable.

  “Secure the vehicles,” she murmured, her throat microphone picking up the command.

  From his seat, Timmy saw a pair of operatives walk up the road, smiling and chatting with each other. They looked like a young, successful couple finishing up a final weekend at the beach before the weather became too bitter for such trips.

  As they neared the subject’s home, they angled in toward the pickup truck and small SUV in the driveway. Within seconds the front tires on both vehicles were sinking, the rims on the crushed gravel of the driveway moments later.

  The two operatives peeled away from the vehicles and stood across the road. They pressed close to one another as if sharing an intimate moment, when in reality, Timmy knew that they were watching the front of the small, cape style home.

  “Rear entry now,” Suzie said, and the acquisition was smoother than it had been for Subject B.

  ***

  Alex gagged on a second bite of fish and nearly choked with surprise when the knock at the back door came.

  His mother frowned, and his stepfather rolled his eyes.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” she asked.

  The man shook his head. “I’ll see who the hell it is.”

  Alex’s stepfather wiped his mouth with his napkin, set it on the table and stood up. Alex, Todd, and their mother all watched as he went to the back door, unlocked it and opened it.

  A middle-aged woman, her frizzy, brown hair standing up in mad clumps, adjusted her glasses, smiled and said, “Oh my, I don’t think this is the Danvers’ house, is it?”

  Alex saw his stepfather’s shoulders relax, heard the man inhale to answer, and then watched him stagger back as the woman coughed.

  But she hadn’t coughed.

  The pistol in her hand had.

  His stepfather stumbled back, caught himself on the counter and looked with horror at the blood blossoming on the front of his plaid flannel shirt.

  The woman stepped smoothly into the room, firing three more shots into his stepfather’s broad chest. She put a fifth bullet into his right eye.

  As she did so, three more people entered the room, but Alex couldn’t pay attention to them.

  All he could do was watch the blood drain from his stepfather’s face as his remaining eye rolled up to reveal the whites. There was the sound of more weapons firing, and then a sharp pain like a flu-shot in Alex’s shoulder, and that was all.

  ***

  Subject D was loaded into the back seat and a member of the acquisitions team cleaned the injection site on the subject’s shoulder. The sedative administered in the kitchen would remain effective for several hours. Timmy kept his mouth shut, as the car drove off at a leisurely speed, and he wondered if any payment was worth what he had just been part of.

  No, he thought, closing his eyes.

  It’s not.

  Chapter 31: In the Middle of the Night

  “How are you feeling?” Marcus asked.

  Maggie shrugged and nestled deeper into the blanket.

  “May I look at your wrists?”

  She nodded and extended her hands.

  Marcus took them gently, turned each over to inspect the bandages he had fashioned from torn strips of a tablecloth, and smiled, setting her hands down on her lap.

  She hasn’t talked, he thought. Not since we reached the chapel.

  “Will you try and rest?” he asked her.

  She stared blankly ahead for a moment, then nodded.

  “I’m stepping outside to smoke,” he explained. “But the door will be open, and you will be able to see me.”

  Her only response was to stretch out on the pew and to close her eyes.

  He hesitated, considering another attempt to get her to speak, and then chose against it.

  She had been traumatized, and any additional pressure could worsen her condition.

  Marcus got to his feet, picked up his pipe and tobacco, and carried them out to the single step, taking care to not mar the line of salt across the threshold. He sat down on the cold granite and glanced up at the sky. The stars were exceptionally bright, a sure sign that the small, ghost-filled village they were in was far from civilization.

  There is no ambient light here to spoil the view, he thought, packing his pipe. When he finished, he touched the flame of the lighter to it and drew deeply on the stem. The smoke curled out of his mouth, and he felt some of the stiffness in his back and shoulders ease out.

  He shivered and then noticed that the Reverend’s wife had appeared a few feet to his right.

  “Hello,” Marcus said.

  She gave him a small, shy smile.

  “We are well met, are we not?” he asked her.

  Her smile broadened, although the lips did not part. She did not, it seemed, wish for him to see the ruins of her tongue.

  “I assume,” Marcus said after a few minutes of silence, “that you have a name?”

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

  “I know you cannot speak your name,” Marcus continued, “but I have no doubt you can tell me your name.”

  She narrowed her eyes, frowned, and looked at him with something akin to disbelief.

  The expression made him smile.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth, winked conspiratorially at her and asked, “Do you know your alphabet?”

  She nodded slowly, smiled, then let out a choked sound he identified as a mangled laugh.

  “I thought you might,” he said, chuckling. “Shall we begin?”

  The Reverend’s wife sat up straighter, beaming at him.

  “Now, simply raise your hand when I reach the proper letter,” he said, “and we shall proceed in such a fashion.”

  Marcus reached the letter ‘E’ before her hand shot into the air.

  The other letters followed in rapid order, and he nodded at her when they were done.

  “Elaine,” he said, smiling, “I am pleased to finally know your name.”

  The starlight created a glow around her. For the first time, Marcus noticed that she wore a ragged and tattered dress. Not surprisingly, the dead woman was unaffected by the chill in the evening air, but she seemed suddenly conscious of the state of her clothing.

  She ducked her head down and gathered her legs beneath the remains of her clothes.

  “There is no need for that,” he said gently. “At least, not on my behalf. I am an old man now, Elaine, and I can assure you that such thoughts are in my past.”

  A shy smile spread across her face, and she nodded, even as she kept her legs hidden.

  Elaine straightened up, her head snapping to the right, peering toward the houses.

  A heartbeat later, she vanished.

  Marcus heard them before he saw them; four guards in the familiar black, their features hidden, shotguns at the ready.

  But there was someone new.

  An individual not dressed in any uniform, but rather clad in an unremarkable gray chambray shirt, over which he wore a corduroy blazer of soft brown. His pants were a pair of jeans that looked as if they had just come out of a store, and his loafers were the same.

  The man was
short, perhaps no taller than five feet, and he wore a pair of gold framed, circular glasses perched on the bridge of a small, narrow nose. His cheeks were thin, matching the rest of his slight frame, and the gray hair was cut close, the bangs rising up in a gentle curve before being swept back. He kept his hands in his pockets, and in the bright light of the night’s stars, Marcus could see the man’s broad smile.

  “Hello!” the stranger called cheerfully when he and his escort stopped some twenty or so feet from where Marcus sat.

  The voice, Marcus realized, was that of the man he had spoken with. The one running the experiment.

  “Hello,” he answered cautiously. Marcus knew he didn’t have a chance to attack the man. The four guards saw to that. And he suspected the men were equipped with some sort of deterrent to keep the dead at bay.

  The man in the middle didn’t seem to be one who would leave anything to chance.

  “I wanted you to know,” the stranger said, “that I am thoroughly impressed by your ingenuity and constant achievement over your fear. It is inspiring, to be perfectly honest.”

  Marcus disliked and distrusted the flattery.

  “My name,” the man continued, “is Abel Worthe. And this is my village. My pride and joy, as it were.”

  “It seems to be an evening for names,” Marcus replied.

  “Oh? How so?” Abel asked with a benevolent smile.

  “I’ve learned the name of the Reverend’s wife,” Marcus said, grinning at the look of surprise that flickered across the other man’s face.

  “And may I ask how you acquired that information?” Abel’s voice held a longing to it, a strange and curious sound.

  I doubt he is ever told ‘no,’ Marcus realized. He was tempted, briefly, to refuse to respond, but he suspected the men with Abel would beat Marcus enough to make him tell anyway.

  Better to avoid the beating, for now, he told himself.

  “I asked her,” Marcus answered.

  “She’s a mute,” Abel stated. “The good Reverend silenced her.”

  “So he did,” Marcus said. “But he didn’t rob her of her wits. I went through the alphabet.”

  “And she stopped you when you hit the right letters,” Abel said, clapping his hands excitedly. “Brilliant! Oh, Marcus, you are a wonder! You, my good sir, have made this experiment even greater than I could imagine.”

  “Then you’ll let me go,” Marcus said.

  Abel chuckled and shook his head, returning his hands to his pockets.

  “No,” the man said, “I am afraid that is not an option. It was no longer an option the night we took you. You see, we were forced to sanitize your home. And you, of course. As far as the world is concerned, Marcus, you died in a horrific and tragic house fire. Faulty wiring, not uncommon in an old Victorian such as the one you lived in. Especially when the previous owner had been so inept with the repairs he had made on his own.”

  Marcus refused to let his shoulders slump.

  “I suspected as much,” he said.

  “Of course you did,” Abel said. “You’re a smart man. You’ve shown that over and over again. But, that isn’t why I’ve come out here. No, not at all. I wanted to inform you that the dynamic of your little group is going to change. In the morning, you will receive a third member to your little group. Oh, let me correct myself. A third living member.”

  “No,” Marcus said, his back stiffening. “You can’t put anyone else in here. It’s madness.”

  A dark expression settled over Abel’s face. “It is not madness. Not even close. This is science. I am testing a hypothesis, and I am seeking to recreate the reactions. This, sir, is the epitome of scientific research. Unfortunately, it requires the destruction of some of the test subjects. A decidedly disheartening side-effect, but there is a great deal at stake here. So, keeping that in mind, I push forward. I must.”

  One of the guards shifted his weapon and Marcus bit back an angry retort.

  “Another member,” he said, his voice low with fury.

  “Indeed,” Abel replied. “I will be changing the dynamic slightly. You will be supplied with food and water. Even clothes and a way to contact me. You may request items, but it will be on a temporary basis, and I will decide if they interfere with the experiment, of course.”

  “And if they do?” Marcus asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Then you will not get them,” Abel said with a sigh of satisfaction. He looked around at the graveyard, chuckled and added, “Brilliant, taking refuge in the chapel. Absolutely brilliant. Keep your eyes and ears open in the morning, Marcus Holt. You’ll need to be in the welcoming party.”

  Marcus’ growing rage silenced any response.

  Abel slipped his hands back into his pockets, peered through the open doorway at the sleeping form of Maggie, and chuckled.

  “Yes, you’ll need to be the welcoming party,” he repeated, and with his guards flanking him, Abel Worthe turned and left the graveyard.

  Chapter 32: Preparing for Subject D’s Delivery

  Abel felt jittery, the sensation reminiscent of the first time he had attended a lecture as an adolescent on anthropology and the psychology of violence. He had the cameras on the gate trained on the section of the cobblestone street where David would meet Marcus Holt.

  And there is a possibility Subject C will be there as well, Abel reminded himself. But it is slight at best. She is most certainly not standing up well to the rigors of this experiment.

  He considered that for a moment, then leaned over and jotted down a single question on his notepad.

  Is this due to her age, or perhaps even to the level of estrogen in her system?

  Abel doubted it was the case, but all avenues, he knew, needed to be explored.

  He took control of one of the drones and brought it in low over the gate.

  A glance at the screen focused on the yard showed the delivery truck pulling out, and Abel smiled.

  Almost time, he thought and tried to keep his excitement under control.

  ***

  “Bad?”

  Timmy glanced at David in the front passenger seat.

  “Suppose so,” Timmy replied. Their driver steered the truck around a barricade, careful not to jostle the packages in the back. Or the newest subject.

  “You’ve never had to order the death of a child before?” David’s question was sincere, absent of the bravado that so many who wanted to be in their trade affected.

  “Ordered?” Timmy shook his head. “No. I’ve killed a few. Afghanistan. Iraq. Two in Somalia. One off the coast of the same when we went in to eliminate a pirate operation aboard a captured cargo ship. Those were essential to the mission, though.”

  “So was this,” David answered.

  Timmy didn’t argue. There wasn’t any point.

  But David evidently saw the disagreement on the other man’s face.

  “Timmy,” David continued, “you’ve been hired because you are, hands down, one of the finest people in acquisitions. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “I know that,” Timmy grumbled.

  David nodded. “Well, you also need to know that our employer, the esteemed Professor Worthe, is going to require us to commit acts with which we may not feel comfortable. And our comfort doesn’t matter.”

  Timmy held his tongue and waited for the other man to finish.

  “I’m pleased that you haven’t complained,” David said. “But I want you to refrain from speaking about the acquisition if you can’t come to terms with it. If anyone asks, you simply don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough,” Timmy stated. “The less said, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  David glanced back at him, saw the sincerity on Timmy’s face, and nodded. “You alright to do this part of it?”

  “Subject B should have been removed from the test group,” Timmy said. “And you know what they say, ‘ye shall reap what ye sow.’”

  “Yes,” Timmy said aloud. I know what he can do
. “I’m fine with this part of it.”

  “Good,” David said, facing the road once more.

  The driver turned a corner, and the black iron of the Village’s fence came into view.

  Chapter 33: Reception on the Street

  Marcus refused to look at 114 Broad Street. Mostly, he knew, it was a stubborn resistance to acknowledging a task left undone.

  Partly, it was because he feared the dead man within it.

  I must make no mistake, Marcus thought, striding along the cobblestone street, his back straight as he felt the eyes of the dead upon him as they peered out through the windows of their homes. The Reverend is not trapped in that home. Here he has free rein. I am trapped. Maggie is trapped. And whomever it is I am going to meet will be a prisoner here with us shortly.

  Marcus reached the end of the cobblestone street and came to a stop, not wishing to step off the heavy stones. The guards in the towers watched him, their weapons casually pointed at him. Another pair at the gate itself did the same.

  Marcus suspected he could go up to the iron barrier to wait for the newest arrival, but he had no wish to test the theory and discover that he was wrong.

  I hope the sun comes out, he thought morosely, looking up at the sky for a moment. Gray clouds, heavy and swollen with rain, hung in the air above the village. Marcus could smell the moisture in the air, and for the briefest of moments, he was reminded of Vietnam. The sickly green of the vegetation flashed before his eyes, and his fingers itched for the comfort of his M-16.

  It has been a long time since I’ve held a rifle, he thought. Then, with a bitter smile he thought, I would appreciate one now. I wonder how well those visors would stand up to a 5.56mm round.

  He chuckled, and then he heard the rumble of a vehicle.

  A moment later, an off-white box truck with an extended cab appeared. The road that led to the gate was pitted, and the driver did their best to avoid the larger holes. Still, the truck weaved and wobbled as it went, black diesel fumes occasionally billowing out of the exhaust.

  After several minutes, the truck pulled up to the towers, backed up, turned around, and then backed in toward the gate. The vehicle’s backup alarm was loud and piercing, an almost ungodly sound in the peaceful silence Marcus had so quickly gotten used to.