Fergus smiled. That explained Skeeter’s sporadic forays into proper grammar. “Was there an actual election placing her officially in that role?”
Skeeter shrugged. “Sort of. After she handed out a bunch of the supplies she’d brought, people were so excited with the gifts that they took a vote then and there. She won by a landslide. Didn’t hurt that she’d passed out a few fifths of Wild Turkey before.”
Fergus chuckled. “Clever woman. That makes her official in my book. People are always going to grumble about authority figures. From what I can tell, your daughter is doing a fine job. I’ve seen much worse in my travels. People here should appreciate how lucky they are.”
“Maybe you could spread that around a bit more. For the most part, everyone here has lived in the holler all their lives. Just like me. There’s only a handful of folks who wandered in and were allowed to stay.”
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that almost all of the hundred or so souls currently residing in Whitaker Holler are indigenous?”
Skeeter nodded. “Yes. And I know what that word means, too.”
“How many of the residents died from the plague?”
“Not many. Maybe a dozen or so.”
“That’s extraordinary! Do you know what the mortality rate of Chicxulub...Chicksy was?”
“The news fellers never said, but Serena Jo told us it was pretty bad out there.”
“It was over ninety-nine percent.”
“Not here, it weren’t.”
Fergus’s mind was spinning. He and others at Cthor-Vangt had suspected these mountain people were special, but they had no idea how special. The vastly superior survival rate Skeeter alluded to meant that a disproportionate percentage of the residents possessed the genetically-engineered DNA that had saved them.
And Fergus thought now he knew why.
“Lots of folks are related to each other here in the holler, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Just about everyone is kinfolk here. We don’t marry our sisters or brothers like those rednecks in Arkansas, but we ain’t opposed to marrying our second or third cousins. Don’t see nothin’ wrong with that.”
Of course.
“That...uh practice, shall we call it, is probably what saved you all. Your ancestors passed on the magic gene that kept you from succumbing to the plague. Did you know Chicksy was genetic in nature?”
Skeeter shook his head. “Nope. Serena Jo never mentioned that when she came home from Knoxville.” There was that faint tone of disapproval associated with Knoxville that Fergus had heard before.
“I don’t think it was common knowledge. You didn’t want her to go to Knoxville in the first place, did you? You said there was a reason folks didn’t leave the holler...” He trailed off, prompting Skeeter to elaborate.
But the old man didn’t take the bait. “I reckon it’s time for bed. I’ll see about getting you some warmer clothes in the morning. If I forget, just remind me. I been forgettin’ more and more things these days.” He blew out the lantern.
Fergus grinned in the dark. Skeeter possessed a healthy dose of scythen, no doubt. But he was too old and not terribly exceptional in other areas to be considered as a recruit for Cthor-Vangt. A few other holler residents, however, had potential. He was enjoying himself immensely on this mission, and the picturesque setting scored bonus points. The only thing he missed about Florida and Cthor-Vangt was Amelia.
He closed his eyes and sent his scythen south.
***
“Willadean, may I have a word with you?” Fergus said following a communal breakfast of grits and ham the next morning. He was relieved of schoolmaster duties for the next two days. The weekend, now a pointless temporal construct, would provide extra free time to work on both short-term and long-term goals. The latter: isolating and testing potential recruits. The former: discovering whether the children had heard or seen the drone again.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“First, what’s behind your back?”
“Nunya.”
Fergus chuckled. “That’s not a respectful response to an adult who is not only your teacher, but your Friday-evening raconteur.”
Sudden interest sparked in the golden eyes. Of course she took the bait. A born writer couldn’t resist learning a new word.
“What’s a...rackunTER? How’s it spelled?”
“Quid pro quo. Tell me what’s behind your back and I’ll give you the spelling and definition of that most excellent word, a word that any author worth her salt includes in her repertoire.”
“Fine. It’s a sheet of paper from a big drawing pad. We brought a bunch of art supplies with us. Kept Harlan and me distracted on the drive here. We were just little kids then, you know.”
He could imagine the harrowing drive from a populated city during the aftermath of the pandemic. Had Serena Jo the foresight to leave early, before the bloody, violent end? He resolved to discover the details later.
“What do you plan to draw with only one black magic marker? Are you into abstracts? You’ll need a red marker if you intend to sketch my portrait.”
Willadean gave him a friendly grin that quickly turned sly. “Our agreement was only about what was behind my back. It didn’t include what I’m going to do with it.”
“Sneaky cheeky monkey. Very well. I’ll give you raconteur as well as insouciance. It’s Frenchy, too. Do you know it?”
“No. And I like the sound of it. Agreed, but you’ll have to swear another blood oath.”
He sighed, then extended his hand, palm up as before. His previous blood-oath incision had just scabbed over. The child’s palm, now open next to
