Moving With The Sun

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  That had been the plan, at least. He complicated things when he fell in love with her. He was no longer content with just sex, which she offered in exchange for introductions. The silly man wanted to marry her, so she ended the relationship soon after his proposal. She had gotten what she needed.

  A week later he hung himself from the chandelier in his dining room using one of her silk scarves as a noose.

  She was the one who found his body: dead eyes bulging, petechial blossoms on the pasty cheeks, blackened tongue poking out of the mouth. The tongue was the worst part – it made him look cartoonish.

  She sighed in the darkness, willing the memories to recede and the knots in her stomach to relax. Gilbert hadn’t deserved that end. He had been dignified, compassionate, and kind. And she had killed him. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been the one to kick away the step ladder under his dangling feet. His death was on her hands, and it always would be.

  Impatient fingertips brushed away tears; she forced herself to shift gears. Wallowing in guilt wouldn’t help anyone.

  She began making a list of all that needed to be done the following day. Once that was complete, she conducted the nightly analysis of the physical world around her – her version of counting sheep. There was a strong breeze tonight, so the darkened bedroom wasn’t as warm as usual. How lovely it would be in the fall, she thought. Cooler temperatures in paradise would be welcome. She could hear the riotous crashing of waves and imagined how the ocean looked at that moment. She was tempted to slip on a robe and go for a beach walk, but she needed sleep more than she needed to gaze upon whitecaps painted pewter by the gloom of night. She caught the ambrosial scent of jasmine wafting through the window. The frogs and crickets performed their evening concerto.

  She pondered the animal screech she had heard the other night. Had it been the mewling of the mutilated cat in its death throes? With so many other pressing concerns, the incident had been delegated to a mental back burner. She vowed to address it the next day.

  A spy living in their midst was one thing. A serial killer in the making, quite another.

  Chapter 19 – Amelia and Fergus

  Amelia lay in bed listening to the ocean waves crashing just outside her window. She was emotionally drained. In the span of an hour, she had learned that not only was there someone in the Colony who had precognitive dreams – just as Maddie had back in Kansas – those dreams told of a tempest that may obliterate their home in the near future.

  She didn’t for one second doubt Ingrid’s story. She knew psychic abilities had manifested in the current human populace, and it was no accident; those talents had been cultivated by the Cthor through genetic engineering. Despite her age, Ingrid would need to be tested as a potential recruit if it turned out that her intellect was also exceptional. If she possessed healing langthal, as Zoey did, she and Fergus may have two new recruits for Cthor-Vangt on their hands.

  But the Ingrid matter would have to wait for now. Amelia needed to focus on more pressing issues.

  ~~~

  Amelia: Are you there, my love?

  Fergus: Yes, but my attention is required elsewhere at the moment. May we chat later?

  Amelia: Is everything okay? Are you safe?

  Fergus: Safe as a pit bull puppy suckling at its mother’s teat.

  Amelia: Very well. Contact me as soon as possible then. It seems we have a hurricane to prepare for.

  Fergus: How unfortunate. I shall, my darling. I promise.

  ***

  Fergus severed the mental connection with Amelia so he could focus his attention on the man who pressed a blade against his throat. A woman with biceps that looked like flesh-covered baseballs did the same to his new friend Lester. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. Fergus could think of a million different ways to wake up in the morning that would be more pleasant than the current scenario.

  “I thought you were a light sleeper,” Fergus said, keeping his attention focused on the man who held him at knife-point while picturing the annoyed expression on the face of his companion.

  “These two must be quite stealthy,” Lester replied. Was there a hint of amusement in the deep voice?

  “If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut and not make any sudden moves,” Knife Man said.

  “Yeah,” Muscle Woman said. “We’ll cut your throats if you give us any shit.”

  “Very well,” said Fergus. “No shit shall henceforth be given.”

  A low snort came from Lester’s vicinity. Fergus realized he had just heard him laugh for the first time. The thought made him smile, despite the circumstances.

  “I didn’t catch your name, sir. I’m Fergus and this is my new best friend Lester. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Fuck you. Why do you talk like that?” Muscle Woman said.

  Fergus’s banter diverted her attention just enough to give Lester an opening. For such a large human, he moved with feline speed. The next moment, the wrist of the knife-wielding hand was in Lester’s vice grip; the long, powerful fingers of the other hand encircled her neck, python-like. Knife Man’s eyes flicked toward his partner, giving Fergus the opening he needed.

  Fergus whipped his elbow up and into his captor’s Adam’s apple, causing the man to drop the weapon. It wasn’t a death blow, but not being able to breathe would disable a person for a few minutes.

  “Nicely done.” Lester smiled.

  Two more firsts: the smile, which revealed flawless teeth, and a compliment.

  “Not bad for a weakling, ay? Now, what to do with these two?”

  “We’ll tie them up and leave them in the shade somewhere.”

  “We’re not going to kill them?”

  “I don’t believe in killing except in self-defense. These two are pesky horseflies. They bite at my ass but can do no real damage.”

  Knife Man writhed on the ground, struggling for air.

  Muscle Woman moved her mouth in such a way that Fergus knew what was about to happen. Before he could give warning, she spat a glob of mucus onto Lester’s cheek.

  The amused grin vanished. The python hand tightened on a neck which looked scrawny in comparison. Lester looked like an overgrown farmer throttling his dinner chicken.

  The woman’s eyeballs bulged. Her tongue protruded.

  “Lester...” Fergus said.

  The giant gazed at his captive. Her saliva snailed down his jawline, then dripped onto the ground.

  “Lester.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re killing her.”

  “No. I’m teaching her a lesson. It is impolite to spit on someone.”

  The python constricted further. The female’s face turned crimson.

  “I agree. There are few actions as rude as spitting, unless it’s taking a piss in someone’s beer or wiping a booger on a child.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I know, but the child had it coming.”

  Another bass chuckle.

  “I think that will do,” Lester said finally, releasing the woman. She fell to the ground, gasping for oxygen, as her accomplice had done moments earlier.

  Side by side with arms crossed, they watched their would-be assailants writhe on the grass.

  “You have tie-wraps?” Fergus said.

  “Of course. I like to be prepared, remember?”

  “Turns out we did have a couple of cattle rustlers show up uninvited.”

  “And you see how they regret it now.” Lester patted Fergus on the back, almost knocking him to the ground.

  Soon after their attackers had been dealt with, the two stood inside the AT&T industrial complex next to a nondescript one-story building. Printed on the door was ‘GENERATOR FACILITIES.’ Next to it was a fenced area containing six sausage-shaped white tanks lined up in a neat row.

  “What’s their capacity?” Fergus asked.

  “A thousand gallons each. If they’re not tapped out, we’ve hit the jackpot.”

  Lester climbed the eight-
foot chain link fence as easily as a spider monkey navigating a rainforest canopy. Next, he took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped at the glass-covered gauge on one of the tanks.

  “Looks like you’re in the Terminators,” Lester said over his shoulder.

  “So this was my initiation?”

  “Of course. Everyone has to prove himself. Or herself. You just did. This tank is seventy percent full, which means there are seven hundred gallons of liquid propane inside.”

  After a quick inspection of the remaining tanks, Lester returned to stand beside Fergus. “You’ve earned your paycheck for the week.”

  “I won’t spend it all in one place. What now?”

  “We return to headquarters and report our findings. They’ll send one of the tanker trucks to get the propane.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting to leave posthaste?” Fergus said, rubbing his backside.

  Lester tilted his head, studying the man who stood almost two feet below him.

  “Would you like to take the day off? You’ve earned that too. You’ll be a hero when we get back.”

  “You mean with Aubrey?”

  “I mean with everyone.”

  “Has it earned me the right to know more about the Terminators? I would like to have a clearer picture of what I’m getting myself into. I’m like you, Lester. I don’t believe in killing people.”

  “Understood. I’ll answer five questions, no more. Consider them carefully.”

  He gave Fergus another vigorous back pat, added a shoulder squeeze, and then took off at a brisk pace back toward the complex entrance. Fergus rubbed the shoulder, which felt like it had been struck by a Winnebago.

  “Just how tall are you, anyway?”

  “I’m seven foot two inches. Now you have four questions.”

  Fergus chuckled, then took his new friend’s advice and contemplated, carefully, the wording of his remaining questions.

  ***

  An hour later, the two men sat on the edge of a manmade pond. The nearby tropical foliage was unkempt and overgrown, since there were no longer greenskeepers to maintain it. Soon all these golf courses would become jungles or forests or prairies again, and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Two pairs of feet, size eight and size fourteen, dipped in the water, creating tiny circular tsunamis for the insects that skidded and hovered on the surface. The din of the cicadas was so clamorous the men had to raise their voices to hear their own conversation. The Florida shoreline was enchanting with its cooling breeze coming off the ocean and its picturesque views. A half mile inland, where they were now, was a different story: flat, humid, and insect-ridden. Fergus couldn’t imagine why anyone would live here.

  “I’ve formulated my next question,” he said.

  “Did you consider it carefully?”

  “I did, after you tricked me with that height thing.”

  “There was no trickery. Merely a lack of focus on your part.”

  “I should have known better. I’ve seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”

  “The Bridge of Death scene.”

  “What is your favorite color? Blue...no! Aaaahhhh!”

  A trio of deep chuckles emanated from the man. Fergus thought of green giants wearing leafy togas standing in verdant, hilly farmland.

  “What’s your second question?”

  “How many people are there in your organization?”

  “Forty-seven...living...at this time.”

  “What do you...? Wait. Never mind.”

  Fergus mulled the answer. Did that mean they’d had more at some point? What had happened to them, if so? Forty-seven was not an intimidating number. The Colonists could handle that many invaders as long as they didn’t all look like Lester.

  “Next.”

  “Would you consider the majority of your people to be moral or immoral?” The question had come to mind when Fergus considered the residents of both Hays and Liberty, Kansas. While the people in Liberty weren’t without flaws, they were generally good, whereas the people in Hays were generally quite bad.

  “Interesting question, although too subjective. You’re assuming that my definition of moral and immoral are similar to yours.”

  “Yes. I’ve decided you are a good person, Lester. My spidey sense tells me so.”

  “Much is riding on your spidey sense. For your sake, I hope it’s accurate.”

  “So what’s the verdict? Are the Terminators mostly moral or immoral people?”

  “Before I can answer that, we should have a philosophical side discussion. I wrote a book on philosophy.”

  “That no one ever read?”

  “Correct. My philosophies are for me, no one else.”

  “Right. This side discussion doesn’t count against my remaining three questions?”

  “It does not.”

  “Very well. Philosophize away, sir.”

  Lester paused, then said, “Is a man justified in killing another man for the purpose of defending his wife and children?”

  “Of course, assuming the victim was intent on doing harm to the wife and children.”

  “Is that same man justified in killing another man for the purpose of defending his property? His livestock? His beloved pet?”

  Fergus hesitated, then said, “Property, no. Livestock, no, unless it results in the family starving. Beloved pet, yes.”

  “So a man who kills another man to protect a beloved pet is still a good man? The life of a human is less than the life of an animal?”

  “It’s not about which life form is more worthy. It’s about the justification of the act itself which springs from love. Then there’s the secondary issue: a human who would want to kill a beloved pet is evil, unless of course the pet bit the guy in the ball sack. Then all bets are off.”

  Another deep chuckle. “Is a man justified in killing another man because he knows with certainty that at some point in the future that man will cause great harm?”

  “How can he know that with certainty?”

  “This is hypothetical. Let’s assume he does.”

  “So this is your version of whether to kill baby Hitler?”

  “Not really. We’re not killing a baby here. We’re killing an adult.”

  “Then I say the man is justified. He may be a hero, even.”

  “What if the man who will cause great harm in the future is currently popular with his people? What if he is considered a good man himself, practically a saint? What if he has saved the lives of others by providing food and shelter for those in need? Should he be killed now despite all the good he has done and will continue to do for a time because he will someday do great harm?

  “I would have to think about that for a minute.” Fergus rubbed his beard, then smiled when Lester continued without waiting for a response.

  “On the subject of baby-killing, why is it acceptable to eat baby cows and baby sheep but not baby dogs or baby cats? And on the subject of eating flesh in general, why not utilize that of dead humans? I’m not suggesting we knowingly eat Uncle George for Sunday dinner, but why shouldn’t every scintilla of our dead bodies be used to benefit the living rather than taking up precious real estate in cemeteries? We could ship human sirloin steaks over to feed the starving people in Africa.”

  “That is some weird shit, Lester.”

  “Truly. But you see now why moral and immoral are so subjective. There are countless justifications for our actions. Rarely is anything black or white.”

  Fergus sighed. “Duly noted. May I retract my question?”

  “No, and I will answer now, although I don’t think my response will enlighten you. Morality is subjective in ways you may never have considered. There are more good people than evil within our organization, but you might not see them as such. Next question.”

  Fergus never expected to be enjoying himself on a propane-scouting mission with the largest man he had ever met. Yet he was, and immensely so. Situations such as this were one of the reasons he loved being a
bove ground. Yes, he was aging and therefore shortening his lifespan, in addition to putting himself in danger on a regular basis, but it was worth it to have such fascinating interactions with the newest incarnation of humans. Despite the few bad seeds, Fergus decided this new crop was spectacular on almost every level. And it didn’t hurt that the women were more attractive now than during any other time on earth.

  “Perhaps I should switch back to more straightforward subject matter? That’s not one of my questions...don’t answer. All right, then, Lester, where do you get your food?”

  “You chose well because the answer is multi-pronged. You’ll get more bang for your buck.”

  Fergus chuckled. Lester smiled. The droning of the cicadas pervaded all other sounds of nature until it was pierced by the sharp report of a rifle shot. Fergus watched a crimson flower bloom on the khaki fabric covering Lester’s chest. He pulled his new friend to the ground.

  A second bullet zipped above their heads, taking a half inch of flaming red hair with it.

  “There are many ways I’ve envisioned my death,” Fergus said, “But shot in the head on an overgrown golf course in Florida while in the company of a philosophizing giant is not one of them. How bad is it?”

  “Not bad. I believe it missed my heart and lungs. I’m breathing without trouble and the blood escaping isn’t arterial.”