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

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  Definitely Ray. His new friend was an inadvertent sender with little filtration.

  Well, fuck you too, Ray, he thought, smiling now. Throwing an adult to the wolves to save a child was exactly what he would have done.

  The sound of rifle shots snatched him out of his scythen state. Next came a muffled crash, then thumping and pounding on the ceiling above.

  Silence for thirty heartbeats.

  Someone was descending the stairs. No...two someones.

  The basement door burst open again, slamming against the cinderblock wall. Skeeter loomed in the doorway, blood streaming from his nose, his hands in the air.

  “On. The. Bed,” Lizzy hissed.

  Skeeter complied. The barrel of Lizzy’s handgun, pressed against the bald head, brooked no argument. How she got the old man chained up, Fergus had no idea; her body blocked his view from the cage, but it must have been excruciating. Some of the fingers of one hand had appeared broken, and the bullet wound in the other shoulder was surely hurting like hell.

  Once Skeeter was restrained, she turned to face Fergus. Gone was the normally composed Lizzy. In her place was a wild-eyed banshee wearing a mask of agony.

  “I’ll be back,” she said. “And when I return, you’ll have a front-row seat for the show.”

  After the door slammed behind her, Skeeter raised his head and scanned the room. The keen blue eyes settled on Fergus in the cage. A wide grin just about split the wrinkled face in two.

  “Welcome to hell,” Fergus said. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Got Willa outta here. This might just be the happiest day of my life.”

  “Thank goodness. Ray has her?”

  “Yep. How’d you know?”

  “Same way you know stuff. About that happiest-day-of-your-life business, enjoy it now. When Lizzy comes back, she’s probably going to torture you.”

  Skeeter chuckled. “I ain’t worried ‘bout that. Not even a little bit.”

  “You say that now. Ever been tortured before? I have a feeling Lizzy is a real pro.”

  The bald head tilted to one side, identical to Willadean’s when she contemplated something important.

  “Nope, never been, but I still ain’t worried about it. She got cameras in here? Audio?”

  “Good question. Unknown, but better to be safe...”

  “Gotcha. Anyways, like I said, I ain’t worried about it. There’s a reason folks don’t leave the holler.”

  “You’ve said that before and I still don’t know what it means.”

  Another chuckle, this time more enigmatic than joyful. “Gotta keep them talents from gettin’...attenuated. Willadean taught me that word. Know what it means?”

  “Of course. Weakened...diluted.”

  “Right. Maybe I ain’t told you ‘bout all of the abilities I got.”

  Fergus considered the words. What additional talents could the old man possess besides scythen? He pondered the survivors with whom he’d had contact after the plague. What had their gifts been? Elevated intelligence, obviously. Everyone these days was special, but not all in the same way. Some actually registered below average in terms of brain power, but Fergus knew compensations existed that offset lackluster intellects.

  Mentally challenged savants were no longer as rare as they used to be. Even beyond inherent artistic, intellectual, or even biomechanical gifts, less obvious ‘enhanced’ attributes surfaced within the surviving population. A person came to mind at that moment from his recent travels in Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas.

  Sam.

  Sam was no intellectual giant, but his physical prowess was extraordinary. Still, that wasn’t the most impressive thing about Sam. Fergus had watched the young man’s horrific wounds heal practically overnight...wounds that should have proved fatal or at least required weeks of recovery. Even more recently, he’d witnessed that same rapid healing in Willadean’s self-inflicted blood-oath cut; it had gone from open wound to pink scar overnight. Was this the genetic gift that Skeeter was alluding to? Being able to heal quickly didn’t mean you could withstand torture, though. Skeeter had said he’d never been through that, so how could he be so unconcerned about it? Was there something else?

  “I see your hamster’s goin’ hard on his little wheel,” Skeeter said with a tap to his bald temple.

  Fergus laughed. “Yes. I’m considering the possibilities.”

  The old man leaned his back against the concrete wall. “You ever hear of a family in Italy just before Chicksy happened? Last name’s...” Skeeter mouthed the letters M-A-R-S-I-L-I-S.

  The surname sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps he’d read an article about them at some point.

  Skeeter grinned. “If you can remember that article, you’ll have your answer ‘bout why folks don’t leave the holler.”

  “You’re good, old man. I had a talk with your granddaughter about the very thing you just did.”

  “She ain’t got it, but there’s plenty of other things she can do.”

  “Right. I suspect she’s like her mother in many ways. Her brother on the other hand...”

  “Yep. Harlan’s a special boy.”

  “Indeed.”

  Fergus was getting frustrated by not being able to speak freely. His scythen wasn’t pinging, but he couldn’t be sure Lizzy wasn’t listening. She had found a way to block her output, so he had to assume she was lurking on the other side of the door or watching them through a hidden camera.

  “You keep working on that article. Don’t mind me.”

  The keen blue eyes closed. Fergus would take the opportunity to analyze what had just happened. Then he would visit his memory palace and try to access the article about the Marsilis family.

  Lizzy had appeared exhausted and in pain. Her words slurred a bit when she talked about returning to torture Skeeter. Was she on drugs? Some kind of narcotic for pain? If so, could he take advantage of that? Perhaps. He’d return to that thought soon.

  Next. Obviously Ray had escaped from wherever Lizzy had taken him, and for that Fergus was grateful. How he had done so and then managed to find Skeeter, Fergus had no idea. But the two had discovered Lizzy’s isolated cabin. Maybe the conversation with Harlan in the astral plane had paid off.

  Willadean had escaped, and as long as Ray got her far away, she should be safe. The relief felt like slicing through an anchor’s rope that had been pulling him to the bottom of a murky lake. Surely Lizzy was in no state to go hunting for them in the woods. She looked near collapse. Unless she had access to stimulants, she wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

  Now to the article about the Marsilis family. Fergus closed his eyes and summoned an image of Versailles. A person who’d lived for thousands of years needed a 700-hundred-room palace to store all those memories. He imagined himself strolling past doorway after doorway, this one baroque, the next rococo, then colonial revival, art deco, and mid-century modern. The various styles of interior design helped him categorize the memories stored behind them.

  He arrived at the Asian Zen door, tugged on the embossed, nickel-plated pull, and then entered. Bookshelves lined the walls, as they did in all the other rooms. Some shelves appeared as a hodgepodge of various colored tomes in a dozen different sizes. Books wedged onto other shelves matched in size and hue. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid an unremarkable-looking book from its unremarkable-looking shelf.

  News Articles from 2016.

  Time lost all meaning in the memory palace, so he had no idea how long or how many pages he scanned until he came upon what he’d been searching for.

  Scientists have discovered the secret to the Italian family that doesn’t feel pain...a genetic mutation is responsible for their seeming super-power... sometimes they experience a moment of unpleasantness from a broken bone or a burned hand, but the sensation doesn’t last long...the rare anomaly allows these individuals to blissfully navigate extreme physical discomfort...

  Fergus glanced up from the book. Bingo.

  In the real w
orld, his eyes popped open.

  Skeeter grinned at him from across the room.

  “Figured it out, did ya?”

  “I believe so. I knew the reference sounded familiar. The holler people wanted to keep it from becoming attenuated...of course that makes perfect sense. How long has this been, uh, kept in the family?”

  “We’ve known about it for generations. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

  “That explains why you were angry that Serena Jo left.”

  The bald head nodded.

  “Does everyone know about it?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Does she?”

  The keen blue gaze drifted away for a second as Skeeter contemplated the question, then returned to the cage. “My daughter ain’t as open to this kinda stuff as most folks in the holler. Prolly ‘cause of her university education.”

  “So you’re like those people in the article?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who else?”

  “A few folks you don’t know. And the grandkids, a little bit. Not like me, though.”

  “What about their mom?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fascinating. So it randomly manifests?”

  “Exactly.”

  Fergus desperately wanted to ask the old man about anyone possessing enhanced langthal, the ability to heal others — the most prized of all the gifts the Cthor had coded into the extant population’s DNA. If not for Jessie’s enhanced langthal, Fergus wouldn’t be alive today. She was the only person in the world he knew of who possessed that rare gift.

  Instead, he said, “This talent of yours will come in handy soon.”

  “Yep. I reckon it will.”

  Chapter 22

  Willadean

  “I was getting in good with her until you ruined it,” Willa growled. “Now she’s going to torture Mister Fergus and it will be your fault.”

  The man standing before her arched an eyebrow, making him look like the actor from one of her mother’s favorite movies.

  “Come on, kids. We have a lot of ground to cover before sundown,” the man said. Then he took off in the wrong direction.

  “Uh, Mister Ray, it’s this-a-way,” Cricket stage-whispered.

  “Guess Harlan should lead. I’m no good at this.” His lopsided grin turned rueful.

  Willa blew out an exasperated breath, then focused on her brother. Her twin stood silently beside her, a reassuring presence after her captivity. “What happened?”

  Cricket and I figured out where you and Mister Fergus were. Pops believed us, but Mama wasn’t on board, and we knew she’d never let me and Cricket out of the village to lead the way. So the four of us snuck out.

  “So that was Pops who crashed in through the back door?”

  Harlan nodded, his face a picture of worry.

  “Damn it. Now the witch has him too. We can’t leave him there. Come on, let’s go back.”

  I think we need to go for help, Willa. I hate to say this, but we’re not sure Pops is even still alive. Candy Man isn’t a tough guy and we’re just three kids. We need Mama and Otis at least. Be smart. That’s what you do.

  Harlan rarely defied her, but he had a point. Maybe this was one of those situations like in the story Mister Fergus had told them. She was being all damn-the-torpedoes and Harlan was being the cool voice of reason. For a half-second, she hated him for it.

  “Fine,” she said out loud.

  Harlan looked visibly relieved. He motioned for Cricket and the stranger to follow.

  “This is the place where we played Peter Pan,” she said as the foursome began navigating through the forest.

  “Yep,” Cricket replied from in front of her. “That’s partly how we knew how to get here, but another part was Harlan’s dream and my work with the compass.”

  Willa heard the pride in the squeaky voice. If she hadn’t been so worried about her grandfather, she would have praised him. He’d earned it.

  Instead, she glanced back at...George Clooney. That’s who it was. So this was the guy who’d been delivering candy and food to them. She could tell he hadn’t spent much time in the woods; he navigated the brush like someone who sat in front of a computer all day. Still, he wore a look of grim determination that took the edge off her annoyance. He’d been trying to help, after all. Maybe he’d even saved her life. Probably not, though. Her charm offensive had been working on the witch. No doubt about it.

  “Thanks,” she tossed back at him. “For rescuing me. Sorry I was rude before. I’m worried about Mister Fergus. And now Pops.”

  “No problem, Willadean.”

  She noticed the rifle he carried. It was one of the two Pops kept hidden under the floorboards of his cabin. Mama didn’t have a clue about them.

  “So Pops released one of the Krakens, I see. Is that what he brought instead of Josie?”

  “Yes,” Cricket said. “I wanted to bring her, but your grandpa said she’d knock me on my backside.”

  “He’s correct. You’re not big enough to handle Josie’s kick. You know how to use that thing, Mister Ray?” she said, glancing back.

  There was the lopsided grin again, followed by a nod.

  He was handsome for an older man, and she liked his self-deprecating smile. “You met my mama yet?” A sly thought began to percolate.

  “Yes, indeed. She’s an incredible woman.”

  Willa snorted. George Clooney already had it bad for Mama. That could mean easy access to Jolly Ranchers.

  Just as she was about to ask another question, Harlan’s hand flew up, then three fingers pointed downward — the signal for HIDE! The problem was they were hiking through an open meadow. No clusters of juniper or thick blackberry bushes lay anywhere in sight, but a solitary Ponderosa pine towered thirty yards ahead. Both boys looked at her for guidance. She analyzed the tree’s branches and the overall situation, then with hand gestures, indicated to the boys what they would do.

  Mister Ray wouldn’t know about the HIDE! signal, but he’d figure it out when he saw them hauling ass for the tree. She couldn’t take the time to explain it. The signal was only used in extreme situations when dangerous people or creatures were close by and immediate action was required.

  Willa made it to the tree first, thinking thank goodness for the low branches. She began to climb. The boys followed close behind. The pine needles offered excellent cover, and most human predators wouldn’t think to look up.

  Yes, they’d be trapped up there, but the calculated risk was the best decision under the circumstances. She perched twenty feet off the ground now. The boys took positions an arm’s length above and below her.

  Where the hell was Mister Ray? Shielding her eyes from the mid-afternoon sun, she scanned the meadow and spotted him traveling in the opposite direction of their hiding place.

  Damn it! Was he totally clueless?

  She watched his diminishing backside, his rifle held at the ready, the salt-and-pepper head swiveling from side to side. She could hear his loud movements across the distance. He was headed back toward the cabin.

  Idiot!

  A light tap on her knee interrupted her thoughts. Harlan leaned against the tree’s rough trunk, legs encircling a branch just below her. He began to sign.

  He’s not stupid, Willa. He’s leading the witch away from us.

  Comprehension dawned. Yes, best to split up the group. The witch can’t go in two directions at once, and the man’s movements almost seemed intentionally awkward and loud. He was making sure the witch’s attention was drawn to him, not the children hiding in the tree.

  She whispered, “He doesn’t stand a chance against her.”

  Harlan nodded.

  Seconds passed, then minutes. How long should they wait before climbing down and making a beeline for the village?

  A single rifle shot split the air, reverberating from the direction of the cabin. She’d never heard Pops fire the Mossies, so she had no idea who had done the shooting.

  Harlan tapped her agai
n. We should go.

  Instinctively, she wanted to wait and see if Mister Ray would come walking back through the meadow, but Harlan was right. Whatever was happening out there, it would distract from them and their escape. She nodded. Once they had scrambled out of the tree, Harlan pointed in a different direction.

  “Why go that way? Isn’t the village over there?” She pointed.

  Harlan nodded, then signed before taking off. Yes, but mama is coming from this way. Let’s go.

  Willadean only had the psychic thing with Harlan, her twin. It was news to her that Harlan could sense Mama. The two of them would be having some long conversations when all this was over.

  ***

  Normally Mama wasn’t a hugger and that worked for Willadean just fine. She’d never seen the need for squeezing one’s body against another person’s. But when they came across Serena Jo and a bloody, battered-looking Otis half an hour later, Mama just about squished all the air out of her lungs.

  “I’ve been so worried.” There was a catch in Mama’s voice Willa had never heard before. It made her sound less...formidable.

  Willa didn’t like it.

  She allowed the hugging for a half-minute, then wriggled out of her mother’s grasp. “We gotta go back for Pops and Mister Fergus,” Willa said. “And probably Mister Ray. I bet the witch has him in the basement by now.”

  “They may not even be alive, Willa,” Cricket said. “That rifle shot we heard from the tree coulda been the end of Candy Man. The shots we heard from inside the cabin coulda been the end of your Pops, too.”

  Harlan nodded, his eyes round as saucers.

  Seeing the boys in cahoots pissed her off. “You don’t know diddly squat, Cricket. Now shut up and let the smart people figure out what we’re gonna do.”

  Her friend’s normally smiling mouth turned down at the corners. The hazel eyes filled with tears.

  Shit. “I’m sorry, Cricket. You’re smart too. That compass thing you did was impressive, and I want to hear all about it later.”

  “Nobody is going anywhere but home,” Mama said, giving her a level-eyed stare.