When the Devil Dances

The farm was set in a small pocket valley, a “holler” in the local vernacular, set off of the main valley that comprised Rabun Gap. The valley was an almost perfect bowl with steep, wooded sides and a narrow opening where a small river dropped down a series of cataracts. The opening to the valley was to the south and the two-story stone and wood house, which was backed up onto the north side, faced it across a checkerboard of fields. One of the fields had just been stripped of its corn and another was covered in wheat or barley that was just about ready to be harvested. Others were devoted to hay or lying fallow under clover. On the east side where the valley started to slope up was a small orchard of mixed trees, some that she recognized as pecans and others that were probably fruit trees. The western edge was devoted to a large barn and a massive rifle and pistol range.

The house had the look of a fortress; the windows were generally small and, especially on the stone ground floor, set back in the thick walls. There was a large front porch overhung by the upper story, but that looked like a defensive item as well; anyone trying to get through the front door could be terribly discommoded by people on the upper story. On the western side, where most houses would have a garage, was a low sand-bag and wood bunker with the snout of a tarp-covered gun jutting from the center loophole and on the eastern side there was a large outdoor cooking area that clearly had seen more active days.

She finally unwedged herself from the back of the Humvee and nodded as she stepped down from the vehicle. She had to admit that despite the cool evening, and the temperature really was dropping like a rock, this was much better than the Sub-Urb or Franklin. Now if the locals were just friendly.

* * *

Mosovich shook Papa O’Neal’s hand. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy here, Snake.”

“Visitors are always welcome,” O’Neal said with a smile. “As long as they are either pre-cleared or female.”

Mosovich laughed and shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

“Come in to tell it,” Papa O’Neal answered. “It’s getting cold and those kids are kind of underdressed.”

* * *

Cally started fading backwards as the group entered the living room. It had been so long since they had had unknown visitors that her defenses were screaming about threats that didn’t exist. Finally she stopped by the couch and smiled in welcome, her left hand by her side and her right on her hip. Where it could access the H K better. It would be okay. And if it wasn’t, it would simply be very bloody.

* * *

Papa O’Neal saw Cally and realized she was wound tighter than a string. He knew that he had to defuse that situation quickly.

“Sergeant Major, you’ve met my granddaughter, Cally. But I don’t think she’s met any of the rest of you.”

Mosovich smiled and ran through introductions on the adults. “I’ll admit I don’t know the names of all the children.”

“Billy, Kelly, Susie, Shakeela, Amber, Nathan, Irene and Shannon,” Shari said, pointing to each child. “Thank you for taking us in like this. We won’t be here long.”

“Nonsense,” Papa O’Neal said, shaking her hand. “Feral Posleen move more after dark and, frankly, as packed into that rattletrap as you are it would be hard to defend. Except by running one over, which is admittedly a technique.” He realized he hadn’t let go of her hand and released it quickly. “No, staying overnight would be better. I insist. We have plenty of room.”

“Uh…” Shari said, turning to look at Wendy.

Wendy shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t have so much as a toothbrush with us. On the other hand, we’re not exactly dressed for the fall and that Humvee is pretty uncomfortable.”

“Seriously,” Papa O’Neal said. “Stay the night. We’ve not only got beds, there’s spare clothes around; I’m the designated storage point for… well, a lot of people. And…” he looked at Wendy and Shari somewhat pleadingly, ”… I’d consider it a personal favor.”

Shari looked at him with a puzzled expression then shrugged her shoulders. “Well… okay, if it’s not an imposition.”

“Not at all,” Papa O’Neal countered forcefully. “Not. One. Bit. Please stay. At least overnight and part of tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Wendy said. She shrugged one arm where her coat covered the shape of a rifle. “On one condition; do you guys have any cleaning kits?”

* * *

Cally cocked her head as Wendy rubbed naval jelly into the barrel. “You’re really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Wendy said, looking up. “You’re one to talk.”

They were attempting to repair the damage to Wendy’s rifle in the O’Neals’ gun room. The room was in the basement on the back side of the house, but well ventilated. It had to be; the air reeked with gun oil, propellants and solvents.

The west wall was taken up with a workbench that included a lathe, drill press and various rotary polishers. There was also a large tumbler, some buckets of soapy water and an elaborate reloading kit. Under the workbench were blanks of metal and several barrels marked “Explosive: No Smoking.”