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

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

Yes.

  “You’ll write down the directions or perhaps draw a map?”

  Yes.

  Fergus tilted his head and studied the boy for a few moments.

  “Harlan, why don’t you speak? Your sister says it’s a choice, not a physical issue.”

  In response, the boy merely stared at him with unblinking eyes.

  “Very well. It’s your business. I hope you brought some paper and a pencil. I’d like to learn sign language someday, but there’s no time for that now.”

  Harlan reached into his coat and withdrew a wrinkled piece of paper covered in pencil-eraser smears. He began to draw.

  What appeared on the grimy sheet over the next few minutes might have been a pre-oil sketch by Lorrain or Patinir or any of the Renaissance landscape masters. Fergus shouldn’t have been surprised. Many of Chicxulub’s survivors possessed astounding artistic talent, but Harlan was so unassuming and quiet — a glowing crescent moon to Willadean’s blinding noonday sun — that he had simply been overlooked.

  “I know where this is. It’s not far from the cemetery, yes?”

  Another nod.

  “Very good. Let me know if you’re able to dream fly again tonight. Now, run along, young man. I need to have a talk with your grandfather.”

  Harlan gave him a beseeching look.

  “I understand. The astral traveling is between us.” He patted the shaggy, brindle hair, then watched as the slender boy, still a half-head shorter than his twin, took off at a full run.

  Did children ever simply walk?

  The thought made him feel tired and old. After his mission at Whitaker Holler, perhaps he would spend some time down in Cthor-Vangt’s vast confines where he didn’t age even a day. Oddly, the notion of spending time there was appealing but also distasteful. That sometimes happened when he spent years above ground, mingling with modern humans.

  When he returned to the cabin, Skeeter was awake, rubbing his mostly bald head and lifting a dented tea kettle from the squatty wood stove.

  “What’d the boy want?” the old man said without turning.

  “I thought you were asleep.” Fergus smiled at the two chipped ceramic cups Skeeter had set out beside a Tupperware container filled with instant coffee. The aromatic grounds might have been gold, so precious now in areas without volcanic soil.

  “Not much escapes me. ‘Specially these days.”

  “Interesting. You believe your...talent...has increased since Chicksy?”

  “No doubt about it. Now, quit hedging and tell me what Harlan was in such a froth to talk to you about.”

  “Froth is not a term I would apply to your grandson.”

  Skeeter cackled. It was an exhausted cackle. Even though the old man was chronologically thousands of years younger than Fergus himself, his body was that of an eighty-year-old. No matter how healthy, Skeeter was still subject to the aches, pains, and fatigue of a body in decline.

  That was Fergus’s future if he didn’t get his ass back to Cthor-Vangt soon.

  “True ‘nuff. He’s enigmatic, for sure. That’s one of Willa’s words. So, what did he want?”

  Fergus accepted the steaming cup of coffee, breathing in the aroma before answering. “He didn’t make me swear a blood oath, but it amounted to the same thing. What I can tell you is I have an inkling as to the location of the murderess.”

  Skeeter twirled like a man in his prime. “Where?” he demanded.

  “About two miles west of the cemetery.”

  The old man set his cup down, sloshing a bit on the spotless countertop. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Hold on a minute. We can’t go riding into danger like our lives don’t matter. And that’s not because I’m a coward, but because there are people counting on us to stay alive for myriad reasons.”

  “What will we do, then?”

  Fergus sat on one of the wooden chairs. “This woman cannot be underestimated. She is brilliant, she is remorseless, and she loves to kill. I doubt you’ve ever been up against someone like her before.”

  “She’s still a woman.”

  Fergus laughed. “Ah, there’s the backwoods sexism I’ve been expecting.”

  “Ain’t sexism if it’s true. Men are stronger than women. Period. You can’t argue ‘bout that.”

  “That’s generally correct, but my experience is that intelligent women figure out workarounds for any physical disparities. Consider your daughter.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Lizzy will be expecting us to pursue her. So I think rather than approach this like a hunting situation, we should entice her to come to a place of our choosing. Lure her out, like one of those corn feeders that deer hunters use.”

  “Amateurs use those, not real hunters. How you reckon on doing that?”

  “With the perfect bait.”

  “What would that be?”

  “A fresh potential victim.”

  “Who?”

  Fergus sighed. “Me, of course.”

  ***

  “Why would you sacrifice yourself like this?” Serena Jo asked later that evening.

  Fergus was savoring his second cup of coffee of the day, courtesy of Whitaker Holler’s leader. Apparently being willing to die for the safety of the mountain folks scored major points, redeemable for hot coffee.

  “That word invokes a lamb scampering off to slaughter. I do have a few skills, you know,” Fergus replied.

  “Right. Otis told me you’re former Special Ops.”

  It had been a convenient white lie, but wasn’t far off the mark. He did, in fact, possess expertise surpassing that of elite military types. “I think I’m well-suited to confront this threat. Plus, I’m expendable.”

  “Not as expendable as when you first arrived,” she replied, tapping slender fingers on her kitchen table and studying a pine-knot bullseye on the opposite wall.

  “You’ve fallen in love with me! I knew it. I’ve been picking up vibes for dozens of minutes now.”

  Serena Jo didn’t laugh often, but when she did, it was the music of a hammered dulcimer. He couldn’t picture the taciturn woman singing with abandon, but he could imagine the voice that would flow from that lovely mouth.

  “Hardly,” she replied. “But for some inexplicable reason, I have decided I like you. More importantly, so do the children and my father.”

  “Clearly you all have exquisite taste. So you agree to my plan?”

  “Yes. I don’t see a downside.”

  “Other than I could be killed and strung up in a tree.”

  “Yes, other than that,” she replied, unsmiling.

  “Mister Fergus!” Willadean said from the darkened bedroom. “Don’t get yourself killed. You’re the most interesting person in this backwater hell hole.”

  “Language,” Serena Jo said.

  He grinned. “May I?” he said to their mother, who answered with a distracted nod.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Both children sat upright in their beds. Of course they had heard everything about his plan, which was good. Harlan needed to understand how helpful the information he might gather from his astral excursions could prove.

  “I promise not to get myself killed. But if I do, please make sure I’m buried in the cemetery’s most choice location.”

  “When will you leave?” Willa asked.

  “In the morning. I need a good night’s sleep first,” he said with a pointed look at Harlan. The boy gave him the barest of nods.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “That depends on how quickly I’m able to apprehend the perpetrator.”

  “Will you be armed?” the girl said with a big wink her mother couldn’t see. Serena Jo didn’t know about the mini arsenal under the floor of her father’s cabin.

  “If our leader allows it.”

  “Of course,” Serena Jo said from behind. “You’ll be given a firearm in the morning. You and I will visit the U-Haul before you leave. We’ll take Pops with us. He�
��s the only other person I allow inside it.”

  Fergus turned, his interest piqued. “How exciting. I’ve been hearing about the mysterious U-Haul since my arrival.”

  “Better make him swear a blood oath, Mama.”

  “No need for that. I understand discretion,” Fergus replied.

  Serena Jo said, “I really don’t know why I trust you so soon and with such sensitive information. But I do.”

  “Maybe you inherited some of your father’s...what was the term? Backwoods sixth sense? You realize on some intuitive level that I’m one of the good guys.” In truth, he’d had his scythen’s output set to ‘trustworthy’ since the moment he’d taken off Skeeter’s stained blindfold.

  “Maybe so.” The luminescent eyes stared at him, unblinking. “Good night, then.”

  As he closed the cabin’s door behind him, he summoned images of the last Yankees game prior to Chicxulub. It had been a squeaker with the Astros, but the Yanks pulled it out in the bottom of the ninth.

  Thinking about baseball was far safer than imagining the bosom of Whitaker Holler’s leader sans the obligatory plaid flannel.

  ***

  “I won’t make you swear a blood oath, but I do need your word of honor that you won’t speak of what you see in here.”

  The flaxen hair, unbraided this morning, hung below an ivory cable-knit beanie, the slouchy type fashionable prior to the end of the world. The morning had dawned chilly but clear, and Serena Jo’s usual flannel shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers had been replaced with a fleece pullover, gray heather leggings, and shearling-lined rubber-soled boots. Fashion no longer mattered these days, but Whitaker Holler’s leader could have been the cover model for L.L. Bean’s winter catalog.

  “You have my word,” Fergus replied, shifting his attention from the woman to the U-Haul truck, parked in a cluster of mountain cedars. Squiggles of beige, green, and black paint covered every inch of the vehicle, even the tires. “Nice camouflage job, by the way.”

  “Harlan did that. He has a talent for painting.”

  “He’s an impressive boy,” Fergus replied.

  “Yes,” she said, unlocking the rollup door on the back of the vehicle.

  “So is his mother,” Fergus said after he’d absorbed what he saw.

  The truck itself was more than twenty feet long, adequate for moving the contents of a medium-sized home. In neat stacks and tidy piles within its cargo hold lay a treasure trove of profoundly useful post-apocalyptic items. He’d expected firearms and ammunition, two things not easily acquired after a societal collapse. Smart people had also gathered medicine, water purifiers, and such. Those were present as well, but there was so much more.

  “You put a lot of thought into this collection,” he said.

  “She sure did,” Skeeter replied. “Nobody else in the holler thought about half this stuff. Serena Jo came rolling in, all calm, cool, and collected, just when the world was going crazy.” The pride in the old man’s voice was unmistakable. He could see it made Serena Jo uncomfortable.

  “We may not even need everything in here, but we’ll have it if we do.”

  “How did you get your hands on all the antibiotics?” Fergus asked, eyeing an egg crate filled with bottles of amoxicillin and cephalexin. Beside it, another crate was filled with even more bottles. Printed on their labels: Fish Mox and Fish Flex. Thanks to Dani back in Kansas, he already knew about fish antibiotics. He was curious how Serena Jo had acquired so much of their prescription versions.

  “I held up a Walgreens.”

  He started to laugh, then realized it wasn’t a joke.

  “Armed robbery?”

  “Yes. It was the only way to get prescription medicines in bulk...fast. I did it before the runs on food and drug stores began. It was still well-stocked then, thankfully.”

  “I see. And the firearms? Isn’t there a limit on how many guns and ammunition a person can buy at one time? I hope you didn’t hold up a Cabela’s.”

  “No, I slept with the store manager. He let me buy everything I wanted with my Citi Card. I racked up a lot of miles with that purchase.” She smiled.

  Fergus had no idea if she were serious or not, and he decided he didn’t want to know.

  “Heirloom seeds...smart. A bullet re-loader, clever. I assume there’s black powder somewhere else?”

  “Of course. Not here, obviously. Same with the kerosene and matches.”

  Fergus nodded. “Salt, baking powder, instant coffee. Blankets, clothing, shoes. Axes, hand saws, shovels, hammers and nails, animal traps. All smart choices. Equally smart are the books: medical textbooks, beekeeping tutorials, Farming for Dummies,” he grinned. “As well as many classic fiction titles. I assume the drawing pads and spiral notebooks are for your progeny?”

  She nodded. There was that protective mama-bear expression again.

  “Sewing needles, fishing line, duct tape, mason jars, fire extinguishers...all items you can’t make or find here in the holler.”

  “No more fire trucks and glass factories,” Skeeter said.

  “I’m especially intrigued with this item,” Fergus said, reaching for something that looked like it belonged on a dystopian book cover. “Chicxulub wasn’t airborne. You know that, right?”

  Serena Jo nodded. “Yes, I know that now, but I didn’t know it then. Better safe than sorry.”

  “May I take it?”

  “Why?”

  “I have reason to believe the perpetrator — the woman I encountered — has tear gas.”

  “Did you see it when you went through her things?”

  He would have to lie. He needed that respirator mask. “Yes. Well, I thought that’s what it was. I didn’t have time to scrutinize it, though.”

  “Hmmm. Okay, take it.”

  He considered a wicked-looking implement next. The spring-loaded, saw-toothed monstrosity was designed to maim and restrain North America’s largest predator, the bear. Using something this lethal would be in direct violation of a primary Cthor-Vangt tenant: don’t cause injury to any human unless in self-defense. There wasn’t much wiggle room in that regard. All Fergus had to do to defend himself against Lizzy was to leave the holler. But he had no intention of doing that. Not yet. Not until he had eliminated her threat to the residents, and most importantly, to the children. He would deal with any Cthor fallout later, but he also wouldn’t consider using such an exceptionally painful method for dealing with any dangerous human, even Lizzy.

  Serena Jo said, “What type of firearm do you prefer? One of the ARs? Some of our younger Scouts seem to like them.”

  “If I were hunting feral hogs in Oklahoma that might be my choice. For this mission, I’ll take the Browning pistol, loaded. No extra clips.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’ll only get one chance at Lizzy, and when I do, I won’t miss.”

  Fergus liked to think he saw a flash of admiration on the beautiful face, but it might have been skepticism.

  ***

  By nightfall, Fergus was situated in his deer blind. Or perhaps ‘Lizzy blind’ would have been a more appropriate description. He’d gotten the idea from his earlier conversation with Skeeter. Hunter purists might disparage their use, but they wouldn’t if they were tracking a ruthless psychopath.

  By midnight, his butt was killing him.

  Perched on a leviathan oak branch ten feet above the ground, his face covered in black soot to match the borrowed black clothing, he should be nearly invisible. A smart hunter knew that in addition to masking one’s appearance, one’s smell must also be disguised. Prior to leaving the village, he had taken care to bathe in a washtub of heated water — no soap — and then rolled around in the crunchy dead leaves covering the forest floor. He had inadvertently rolled in some animal scat, but that should only further camouflage his natural musk. What exuded from him as he crouched in the branches would have discouraged all but the most ardent suitor. The notion made him smile. He would take a moment to send his scythen down to Florida.


  Hello, darling. I was just thinking about you. I hope I didn’t wake you.

  Of course you woke me, but I don’t mind. You know that. How are things there? Have you taken up with an axe-wielding lumberjack wench?

  Fergus grinned. No. I’ve been faithful to you, love. At least so far.

  I wish I could say the same.

  Do tell.

  He’s much too young for me, but aren’t they all?

  Indeed.

  I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

  As you should. How is the Colony?

  Flourishing. I’m utterly content here. It was the right decision. No regrets, love.

  The familiar stab almost unseated him. He couldn’t bear thinking about Amelia’s banishment from their home. She would live another thirty or forty years — with luck — and then she would die and turn to dust. Just like everyone who didn’t have access to the suspended-animation qualities of Cthor-Vangt.

  I miss you.

  What’s happening with the children you mentioned?

  Plenty. Not sure if either are potential recruits yet, but I did just discover that the boy regularly journeys to the astral plane.

  Delightful! Just like Jessie.

  Exactly. The child was able to gather useful information about a dangerous foe.

  Amelia didn’t answer right away. He was beginning to wonder if they’d lost their connection.

  You told him about shielding himself in situations like that? Astral dreaming can be a two-way street, you know.

  Damn! He had forgotten that not only was Jessie able to see the malevolent Isaiah during her dreams, but he was able to see her as well.

  No, I didn’t think to tell him. I will, though, the next time I see him.

  The sooner the better. I must sign off, darling. My young paramour is stirring.

  Very well. Just do me a favor. Picture my face on his muscular, nubile body during your lovemaking.

  Of course!

  He could hear the smile in her voice.

  The next moment, he was alone in the woods, cold and worried. He hadn’t gotten the opportunity for a private chat with Harlan before he’d left, and didn’t know if the boy had managed to slip into an astral dream the night before. It seemed unlikely, though. Harlan said the dreams only happened a couple of times each month. Unless, as Fergus had instructed, the boy had figured out how to initiate the experience through sheer will.