“Does it matter whether you like me or not? Believe me, I’m not losing sleep over your lack of affection. The issue isn’t me. It’s getting your brother back, if he’s even still alive.”
Before Otis could punch him in the face, Fergus ducked, skirted around the larger man, and drew his knife. He pressed the tip against the threadbare fabric of Otis’s shirt, just above the right kidney and just hard enough to get the man’s attention.
Otis didn’t move.
Perhaps he wasn’t as stupid as he looked.
“Now it’s your turn to listen to me, you gap-toothed cretin. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your brother, but I do care about a few of these people, and I’d rather nobody else went missing. Get me outside the perimeter to the area where he vanished, and I’ll do the rest.”
Otis swiveled his head, peering back at him. Fergus could see interest in the dark eyes.
“You some kind of tracker?”
“You could call me that,” Fergus replied, sliding the knife back into his boot. “Special Ops. Afghanistan.”
Otis turned to face him, grinning. “Why the hell didn’t you say so sooner?”
“I don’t like to brag. Do we have a deal? Serena Jo hasn’t given me permission to stray beyond the village proper. Our excursion will have to entail subterfuge.”
“You sure do like to use them big words, don’t ya? Yeah. We got a deal. Meet me by the cabbage field. North corner. You know where it is?”
“Yes, one of the more humbling duties during my tenure here has included fertilizing said cabbage field. What time?”
“One hour,” Otis replied, glancing up at leaden, oppressive skies. “Better bring some rain gear.” He strode off in the direction of the privies.
Fergus blew out a relieved breath.
***
“This is the spot,” Otis said several hours later.
Light rain had begun falling, making the terrain more treacherous than normal. Fergus was thankful for the waterproof poncho. It was almost as effective at keeping him dry as the camouflage hunting jacket and pants Otis had donned before leaving the village. These rural folk could smell rain far better than urban dwellers.
They stood in a thicket known as the northwest quadrant. The journey from the village had been uneventful, with Otis whistling every now and then per security protocol. Those whistles kept a person from getting shot.
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
