Skeeter dipped his head.
“If you do anything to cause me concern, one tiny misstep, we’ll kill you. You can leave now if you have any reservations. We’ll put the blindfold back on and lead you out of the holler. But if you choose to stay, you’re one of us. Nobody leaves. That’s how we stay safe from the madness that’s happening out there.”
“Very well. I accept the terms.”
Serena Jo turned her back and glided away. The other folks returned to their tasks. Fergus blew out a relieved breath.
Skeeter clapped his back and smirked. “This way, little feller. It’s gettin’ airish. Got a blanket?”
“Yes. It’s in rather a sad state, however. Could do with a good washing.”
“We’ll tend to that tomorrow. Tonight you can borrow one of mine.”
“Skeeter, I have to ask you something,” Fergus said as they strode through the primitive village toward a shanty that looked slightly less dilapidated than most. A well-worn dirt road meandered throughout the dwellings. The aroma of cooking food permeated the air. His stomach rumbled.
“Go ahead and ask,” Skeeter said. They stepped onto a wooden porch with only a few missing boards. He reached into another pocket, pulled out a matchbook, and lit the lantern hanging near the door.
“How many people have worn that blindfold?”
“About half a dozen since Chicksy.”
“Are any of them still here?”
“Just one now.”
“Me?
“Yep.”
“What happened to them?”
“They didn’t work out.”
“I see.”
“Best mind yerself. My daughter don’t like things gettin’ gaumed up. She keeps the trains runnin’ on time.”
“Gaumed up?”
“Messed up.”
“Ah, I see,” Fergus said, “Yes, she seems like quite an impressive woman.”
“Son, you got no idea.”
“I hope she doesn’t decide to kill me.”
“Can’t make no promises.”
“Skeeter, why does she talk the way she does?”
The old man opened the shanty door and stepped inside. Soon the glow of a second lamp lit up the interior. Fergus was delighted to see that the tiny space was clean and orderly. There was only one bed. He would be sleeping on the floor, but at least he would be sleeping inside. Skeeter was right. The weather was getting colder.
The faded blue eyes settled upon him. He could see some kind of inner conflict playing out on the wrinkled face.
“You mean why does she sound educated?”
“Yes.”
“Because she is educated. She left the holler and went to the college in Knoxville.” The old man’s tone had transitioned from friendly to stern.
“You sound as if you disapprove...”
“Folks don’t leave the holler for a reason.”
“Why is that?”
“None yer business.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t. But maybe you will in time. Anyways, when she did come back, she weren’t the same. She knew a lot of useless stuff, but also some stuff that weren’t so useless.”
“She’s the leader here.” The deference given to Serena Jo had been evident. Even the shotgun-wielders seemed to acquiesce to her. He had noticed it in their body language, as well as some snippets of scythen picked up from unintentional senders.
“That’s right.”
“No offense, but it seems that in a culture such as yours, a man would be in charge.”
Skeeter’s expression softened. Thankfully.
“That’s usually true. But when Chicksy happened, there weren’t no better person to take over than my daughter. Everyone knew it. Nobody fought it. Except for one feller, but he ain’t gonna give anyone no more trouble.”
“I assume he’s buried around here somewhere?”
Skeeter cackled. The various nuances of his laughter repertory were fascinating. This one sounded ominous around the edges.
“We got our own cemetery up yander.” A calloused finger pointed in a vague northerly directly. “Goes back for generations. You gotta walk through all the old graves to get to the new ones.”
“How new is the newest?”
Skeeter didn’t cackle. He merely grinned, exposing teeth that were straight and white. These folks must have superior genes to fare so well under semi-primitive conditions. Surely regular dental checkups were not woven into the Appalachian lifestyle.
He didn’t answer the question. “Leave yer stuff here. It’s just about supper time. I’ll introduce you to the Whitaker clan. You’re in for a treat, little feller.”
Chapter 2
Ray
Ray lay in bed, thinking about what his work day would look like. He knew one of the solar panels needed to be replaced, but he didn’t relish the notion of climbing to the roof unless he was going to fly the drone. Few people had known about his condition — back when there still were people — and he hadn’t included agoraphobia in the psyche section of the government’s exhaustive job application nineteen years ago. Why would he? As a twenty-three-year old, fresh out of Georgetown’s graduate program, he had carried a mountain of debt. He had needed the job. Desperately.
It was his M.S. in Health Systems Administration that had gotten him the interview. If he had told the human resources manager he was terrified of open spaces, it might not have mattered, considering the nature of the job opening. Being top of his class and excelling in an area of study particularly suited for working within the country’s new Strategic National Stockpile program provided him with a foot in the door. But he hadn’t mentioned the mental health disorder. Instead, he dialed up the charm, aced the emotional intelligence and skills assessment sections, and been offered a job in middle-management. Ray could be charming when he wanted to be. But there had been no need for a long time. As one of two inhabitants living in a secret government warehouse near Tremont, Tennessee, he had no need of charm.
He did, however, desire an occasional conversation with someone who wasn’t insane.
No matter how intense the sporadic bouts of loneliness, they were better than being out there. People had gone
