Almost.
“When are you thinking about leaving?” Skeeter said, giving him a sideways glance. His bandaged hand lay in the lap of his overalls. No matter how quickly these people healed and no matter how high their pain tolerance, humans could not grow new fingers.
At least as far as Fergus knew.
“Who says I’m leaving?” There was no point bothering with a more robust denial. Skeeter would sniff out any lie.
“I’ll miss you,” Skeeter said, looking away.
“And I shall miss you as well. There are a few things I need to take care of before I go, however.”
“You want to talk to my daughter about that warehouse.”
“That’s one item on my checklist.”
“You want to talk to my grandson about going someplace where his talents will be understood and cultivated.” It was always interesting when Skeeter shed his bumpkin dialect and embraced proper grammar.
Fergus began to speak, but Skeeter waved his good hand.
“I don’t want details. And I’m not sure it would be such a bad idea. He’s special, that one. Even more so than his sister. But before you decide, take a look around. Let it sink in what you’d be taking him from. What he’d be missing in that strange underground place.”
Fergus had been contemplating just that. What childhood could be more perfect than one spent here, in this place of intense natural beauty, nurtured by a loving family, encouraged in all creative endeavors and personal choices? Would the Cthor allow Harlan to remain mute, or would they see it as a quirky shortcoming to be stifled? Fergus already knew the answer.
Maybe it was the moonshine, or perhaps it was seeing Serena Jo’s gaze follow the twins as they raced around like child-shaped tornadoes. Whatever the reason, Fergus knew he would not be taking anyone anywhere. The Cthor would pick up on the fact that he was keeping something from them, and it may well get him kicked out of Cthor-Vangt. The defining moment...the second he made his final decision about not taking Harlan there...was when he realized he didn’t mind expulsion.
Amelia had made a similar choice and even now was living her best life — out of many lifetimes — in a tropical paradise. She would enjoy another forty or fifty years doing exactly what she wanted to do, where she wanted to do it. Fergus could picture himself in Whitaker Holler someday when he was ready to settle down. Maybe he and Amelia could become snowbirds, spending the warm months in the Smoky Mountains and the winter months in Jupiter, Florida.
The notion was intensely appealing on many levels, but foregoing virtual immortality was a decision one didn’t make lightly or impulsively.
He would ponder further. Later.
“I’ve been wondering about something,” Fergus said, glancing down to Skeeter’s injured hand. The one with the narrow gold band.
Skeeter’s jaw twitched. “The subject of my wife is off-limits. For now, at least. Maybe when you come back for a visit, and if you bring some more of that top-shelf whiskey in your flask, we’ll get into it.”
“Fair enough, sir,” Fergus replied. “I need to talk to your daughter for a moment. Would you excuse me?”
“’Course. Come on back ‘soon as yer done. We got some drinkin’ to do.”
Fergus laughed. Hillbilly Skeeter was back.
Epilogue
“I don’t care about what’s in here,” Serena Jo said as Fergus punched numbers into the keypad bolted to the entrance of Ray’s warehouse.
“Yet you gave me the code. Interesting.”
“I promised Ray before he died.”
“And you’re grateful to me for my part in rescuing your children.”
“Yes, but my gratitude only goes so far, and I’ve already agreed to let you leave the holler with your hide intact.”
Fergus chuckled as the door screeched open.
For the next hour, they walked the corridors of one of the nation’s largest Strategic Stockpiles; the echoes of their footsteps bounced off the high ceiling. It was a lonely sound. How had Ray been happy here, Fergus wondered. Then he realized the answer lay in the man’s psychology: career bureaucrat obsessed with organization and routine who also happened to be an agoraphobic introvert. Here he had no need to venture out for food beyond the perimeter of the complex, so the set-up became the perfect storm of contented isolation. At least until Lizzy had injected herself into this one-man utopia. If not for her, Ray might never have left the warehouse, living blissfully in the enormous space for the rest of his life.
Fergus sighed, then shot a covert glance at the unflappable Serena Jo. She was impressed. Not that she said anything, but those mesmerizing eyes widened when they scanned the food pallets and then again next to the armory. The sight of the pharmaceuticals summoned a disbelieving head shake.
“So you can understand why Ray was insistent that you come here. Think what a difference these items would make to your people.”
“I am. But consider how well we’re doing without all this.” Her gesture encompassed the treasure within the warehouse.
Fergus nodded.
“Also, consider our society from before. Did all that technology make us happier? Did smart phones expand our world, or did they shrink it down to a tiny screen? Modern medicine might have added a few years to the average lifespan, but if those years were spent in a recliner with eyes glued to a television, why bother?”
“I had no idea you were such a philosopher,” Fergus replied. “I thought you were a flesh and blood, life-size, action figure.”
Serena Jo gave him a half-smile. “Believe me, it’s tempting to utilize all this. We’ve experienced a few winter months when I worried about food shortages. One of the elders died last fall of dysentery, and
