What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  Thorny underbrush connected one tree to the next, creating natural barbed wire fencing throughout the forest. But they didn’t have to navigate it. What had likely been a game trail was now a well-worn path, one which the perimeter guards traversed on a regular basis. If he could emulate those whistles, he would find it much easier getting back to Ray and the warehouse if the necessity arose. Or to escape Whitaker Holler, if he got on Serena Jo’s bad side. Many of his future plans would depend on what happened today.

  “Excellent,” Fergus said. “Specifically, where did he go to relieve himself?”

  The dark head dipped. “See that oak with the split trunk up yander? Just on the other side. Last place I saw him.” The final words came out as a whisper.

  Fergus reached up and squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Give me a minute. I need to conduct some research. Plus, I need to take a leak, too.”

  Otis nodded, pressing his lips together in a thin line.

  Fergus continued on toward the oak tree. As he walked, he performed the mental tasks necessary to prepare his scythen for receiving random signals. Ideally, a soundless, pitch-black box would serve best, as he’d discovered back in Florida. But over the millennia he had learned to improvise on the fly. He did so now.

  By the time he reached the oak and placed a hand upon its rough surface, his mental radar dish was picking up ambiguous snatches of thought. Proximity played a small part in the quality of the communication, but wasn’t critical, especially between Cthor-Vangt residents.

  Hope we can get that new privy built ‘fore the ground freezes. This one stinks to high heaven...

  Should I use the rabbit or the venison in the stew tonight...?

  Those kids better not go past the clotheslines today or I’ll have to tell their mama...

  Fergus grinned. That last one was from Skeeter. His output was strong, which wasn’t surprising, considering he was also a gifted receiver and somewhat aware of his own abilities.

  How could I have been so stupid? I knew she was dangerous. I should have killed her while I had the chance...

  Ray was a sender, too, it seemed.

  And there it was at last. No snatches of thought, but rather a mental miasma that crept into his psyche like an invisible poisonous gas. He recognized its signature from the hand-holding back at the warehouse. On some level, Lizzy was probably aware of an inherent telepathic ability, as were a few other sociopathic survivors he’d encountered recently. But hers didn’t appear to be honed nor disciplined. At least, not yet. Fergus made sure to lock down his own thoughts so they wouldn’t return to Lizzy on the same transcendental highway on which hers had traveled outward.

  Just as he closed his eyes to concentrate on dialing in her location, her output abruptly ended, like a haunted-house door slamming shut from the inside. Damn. Had she learned to control her scythen on some rudimentary level?

  The smell assaulted his nostrils the next moment.

  “Oh no,” he muttered, glancing backward to Otis.

  The rain had stopped, and the man’s uplifted nose was scenting a sudden breeze. A brisk wind blew from the north, heavy with the smell of death. Any mediocre woodsman would recognize that smell.

  Otis crashed through the forest, past Fergus and the split oak. Fergus followed.

  It didn’t take long to locate the wretched figure crucified to a massive hickory tree. The vibrant yellow leaves surrounding the body seemed intentionally placed, like an arboreal halo meant to emphasize the human focal point positioned within. The dead twin’s arms stretched outward, tied with nylon rope to tree branches a man’s height off the ground. The head tilted unnaturally to the left; several coils of rope at the base of Everett’s neck were visible between the blood-stained, open shirt collar. How the slight Lizzy had managed such a feat was impressive, if not beyond belief. One universal tenet to which Fergus subscribed after countless human encounters on earth was this:

  Never underestimate the tenacity and determination of the very good and the very evil.

  Otis crouched at the base of the tree, his face in hands, his body wracked with sobs. Fergus stood respectfully nearby with eyes closed, attempting for a final time to triangulate the source of Lizzy’s signal. No luck. He waited for the grief-stricken man to gather himself.

  “We’ll get her, Otis. I promise you that.”

  “Are you fucking insane?” Otis jerked himself from the ground and stomped toward Fergus, stopping inches from his face. “You think some woman did this?”

  Fergus nodded. “I do. And we will find her. But you have to do the impossible right now, and that is to be calm. Hysteria will not avenge your brother. Cold, calculated methodology will. Is there anything you want more at this moment than to exterminate the person responsible for your brother’s death?”

  Otis blinked, then brushed tears from his ruddy cheeks. He shook his head.

  “Exactly. Now, first things first. Let’s get him down and take him home. Then we will track down the creature who did this and burn her at the fucking stake.”

  ***

  Later that evening, a solemn crowd encircled a recently dug grave in Whitaker Holler’s ancient cemetery. The sun had set, so the mountain people held lanterns and torches, illuminating the eerily beautiful setting populated with primitive tombstones and wooden crosses; they were unaware of how their clothing — their expressions, their somber demeanors — added to the picturesque scene.

  Fergus stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the proceedings with fascination that mingled with a sense of foreboding. Lizzy would have to be dealt with, and soon. After reporting in to Serena Jo and coming clean about his perimeter breach in an effort to find Everett, he knew he’d been excused if not forgiven. The woman did not suffer transgressions, but she’d seen fit to let it slide. This time.

  “Bad business,” Skeeter whispered. He’d sidled up without Fergus even noticing. Sometimes he was less of an old coot and more of a hillbilly ninja.

  “Extraordinarily bad,” Fergus replied.

  “You think it’s that woman?”

  “No doubt in my mind.”

  “Seems a stretch to think she coulda done that thing with the tree.”

  Fergus turned to face him, then said, “You know that talent you have that you don’t like to talk about? Well, I have a bit of it myself. You’ll just have to trust me on this. She did it. And we need to find her before she does it again.”

  At the words, both pairs of blue eyes sought out the children standing next to their mother at the front of the crowd. Serena Jo was providing the eulogy.

  “And so, friends, we will honor this man who gave his life for our community. Everett wouldn’t want us to mourn his passing. He wouldn’t want us to be sad. He wouldn’t want us to mope around, wishing he were still here. He would want us to revenge his death.” Serena Jo’s tone transitioned from soothing to fierce in the span of a few words. The performance, if that’s what it was, worked marvelously. The somber crowd met her final statement with howls of agreement.

  “You don’t want to cross us holler folks. It may take a while, but we’ll catch up to you.”

  “Duly noted,” Fergus replied.

  Serena Jo strode toward him now with the twins in tow. Not for the first time, he was struck by her effortless grace as she glided through the parting crowd.

  “You two. My cabin in an hour.”

  She didn’t break stride as she walked past. Willadean turned and shot him a stern look steeped in subtext: Don’t break the blood oath, Mister Fergus, or it won’t end well for you.

  Fergus sighed.

  ***

  By the time they had gathered at Serena Jo’s cabin, it was midnight. The children were sleeping — supposedly — but Fergus knew better. Their mama probably did, too.

  “Tell me about this woman,” she said, the golden eyes boring into him.

  “It’s like I told Otis. I met this daunting female on my way here from Florida. She struck me immediately as someone to avoid at all co
sts. I parted ways with her as soon as I could manage it.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Long black hair, slender build, probably about your height. Exuded malevolence with every breath.”

  Serena Jo’s eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me a slender woman did that to Everett?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t buy it. I don’t believe a woman, especially one like you’ve described, could have gotten Everett into that tree. Besides, I have another theory. Maybe we have a traitor in our midst.”

  Fergus set aside his surprise for a moment. “Let me ask you something. If you wanted to kill a man and string him up in a tree, could you do it?”

  “Of course. But that’s me. Not everyone is so...determined.”

  Skeeter snorted from his perch on one of the kitchen chairs. A similar but higher pitched snort came from the bedroom.

  Fergus continued, “I believe this woman is also determined. And hers is the determination of a warped mind. She has the focus of a depraved soul, coupled with the tenacity of a dedicated psychopath. There are none so determined as the truly wicked.”

  A skeptical blond eyebrow arched. “How poetic. You picked up all that from a short encounter on the road?”

  Fergus held her gaze without blinking. “I did. She shared some details about her life that raised a few red flags. But more importantly, when she was asleep, I went through her things. She kept trophies. You know the kind I mean?” Half-lies always worked best. He hadn’t actually met Lizzy on the road, nor gone through her belongings. But he had Ray’s testimony about them as well as his own scythen. Together they presented a textbook study of a high-functioning serial killer.

  “Interesting. Very well. I won’t rule her out as a suspect, but as I said, I have another theory to consider. Pops, have you heard anything lately? Any rumblings of discontent? It’s common knowledge that Everett resented my authority. What better way to bring me down than to frame me for his murder? I doubt there’s anyone who would want Everett out of the way more than me. He’s been a thorn in my side and everyone knows it.”

  Skeeter shook his head. “Ain’t heard nothing other than the usual chatter. I think I’d a’ heard, one way or another.” He gave Fergus a meaningful look.

  “You might have heard and then forgotten. Sorry, Pops, but I’ve been noticing your memory issues. If you hear any grumbling or complaining about my leadership, report to me immediately. Other than sanctioned scouting missions, we’re in full lock-down mode until the murderer is caught. You two,” she pointed at him and then her father, “Will be with Otis. He wouldn’t kill his own brother. I consider everyone else a suspect. Are we clear?”

  Skeeter dipped his head once.

  Fergus nodded. “Clear as a mountain stream.”

  Serena Jo wasn’t finished with him. “The only reason you’re not a suspect is because you’ve been ill. And the only reason I believe you’ve been ill is because my father vouched for you. And the only reason I excused your perimeter breach with Otis is because I think you had good intentions. Don’t undermine my trust again. It won’t end well for you.”

  That line seemed to be a recurring theme in Whitaker Holler. Fergus did not take the threat lightly. Visions of the torch-lit cemetery sprang to mind. He had no desire to become one of its permanent residents.

  Chapter 11

  Ray

  Ray now knew more about Lizzy than probably anyone who had ever lived. Certainly more than anyone currently alive. The gruesome details of the murders she had committed — the first of which had been perpetrated at the age of thirteen — were indelibly imprinted on his brain. The bizarre fire-dancing rituals she performed after a murder, which involved burning locks of the victims’ hair, had struck him as especially heinous. He was no psychologist, but he understood that Lizzy wasn’t insane. He’d suspected as much when he first began reading her journal; now he knew with certainty. She didn’t hear demonic voices. She was no more schizophrenic than he was. She killed because she savored the activity, like a normal person would relish reading a well-written book or eating a delicious meal.

  Allusions to events which had taken place during her childhood provided insight to her chosen path: other family members, including a cousin and her father, had engaged in ritualized killing while making her watch. One entry struck him as especially poignant: Pa made me kill my bunnies because he knew I’d gotten too attached. He worried the same might happen with people, and he was right.

  If he didn’t know about her trophies, he might be inclined to feel sympathy.

  After finishing the journal two days ago, he still hadn’t worked up the courage to leave the warehouse and join the search. Not because he was afraid of her — well, mostly not because of that — but because in addition to OCD, he also suffered from agoraphobia. It was the primary reason past romantic relationships had fizzled and why he was so oddly content now. What situation could be more perfect for an agoraphobic OCD introvert than living in a safe, well-stocked facility after the tragic end of humankind? His disorder was another reason he loved flying the drones: he could see the outside world without physically venturing into it. If he had more DVDs and books, his setup would have been damn-near perfect.

  Until Lizzy had come along and ruined everything. If she was wandering around out there wreaking havoc with the few remaining survivors, that meant she wasn’t in here wreaking havoc with his peace of mind. It was a selfish notion, he realized. And it prompted a question: Why hadn’t Lizzy killed him when she had the chance?

  He forced his thoughts from her journal and onto plans for making her prison more secure in the event that Fergus was successful in finding her. Although in his heart, he hoped the little man would dispense instant justice — something he himself wasn’t capable of — rather than bring her back here. If he had been able to put Lizzy down like the rabid animal she was, he would have done so months ago. But he couldn’t even kill the spiders in the warehouse, choosing to catch and release them on the rooftop.

  The situation filled him with anxiety. And when he was filled with anxiety, his mind drifted to a period in his life more fraught with it than any other.

  The end of the world.

  Three years ago...

  “Ray, you know what this means.”

  “Which part of ‘this’ are you talking about? The fact that the director of the CDC just lied about the mortality rate? Or that everything we’ve been doing for the last two decades won’t matter, because to be prepared for a disaster requires having enough people left to orchestrate an effective response to it?”

  “That second one. Who cares that Frieden lied? He had to. If people knew the actual mortality rate, society would be collapsing even faster than it already is.”

  Ray suspected the number was even higher than the fifty percent the big wigs at Health and Human Services revealed to everyone with a level-two security clearance. A dozen employees had called in sick that morning. Even the cost analyst sitting across the desk looked pale and sweaty. His speech was muffled through the medical masks they all wore, but Ray estimated he was slurring about every third word. Was the man drunk, panic-stricken, or ill? Did it matter?

  Ray felt physically fine. No chills. No headache. No fatigue, other than the effects of inadequate sleep. Maybe he would be one of the lucky ones...

  “You should go home, Tom. There’s not much you can do here. We’re in a holding pattern.”

  The man nodded, then left abruptly, stumbling on his way out the door.

  Definitely drunk, Ray thought.

  He was glad for the reprieve. Next, he tapped on his keyboard, then scanned the Excel spreadsheet titled ‘JUST IN CASE.’ He had used his personal credit card to order additional supplies that would arrive at the warehouse that day, per UPS tracking. If things continued on the current trajectory, it may well be the last shipment the facility would receive.

  Surveying the neat columns helped him tamp down the anxiety. There was nothing he could do
about possibly dying from the pandemic. But if he didn’t die — if he was one of the lucky ones — there was much he could do in terms of survival. The warehouse already contained almost everything he would possibly need in the event of TEOTWAWKI, an acronym he’d picked up from an online prepping forum; the breadth and depth of information contained there had proven priceless. Or at least it would if the metaphorical shit did hit the fan and he was facing The End Of The World As We Know It.

  After noticing Tom’s stumble, Ray scanned down to the bottom of the spreadsheet to a list of items not yet ordered or purchased and added a new entry: bourbon. He pondered the word for a moment, then typed in another: DVDs. He added a mental note: as many as you can find.

  He saved the spreadsheet, pushed his chair back, and headed for the small office next door.

  “Carla, I’ll be gone for the afternoon. You might as well go home too.”

  His administrative assistant’s reptilian eyes peered at him over the obligatory medical mask. “I’m on the clock until five, sir.” No slurring there.

  “And I’m giving you permission to leave early,” he replied, careful to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He didn’t want anyone at the facility when he returned, let alone that particular career bureaucrat. He could imagine those penciled eyebrows raised with suspicion when he returned with the cargo he intended to purchase.

  “Very well,” she replied with a sniff.

  He watched her retrieve her navy blue blazer from the back of her chair and followed her through the security checkpoint. The man standing next to the x-ray machine looked sick. The paper mask covered much of his face, but the eyes, struggling to focus on him now, were rheumy and red.

  Carla placed her purse on the conveyor belt, gazed at the sick guard, pointedly took two steps away from him and walked through the metal detector.

  When it was Ray’s turn, he gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go home, Charles. You’re the last one here. Lock up and go to bed. Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. I’ll handle security in the morning.”