By Mike Suchcicki

Copyright 2007 Mike Suchcicki

Younger readers: Parental Advisory

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

"I hate field trips," said David Lake.

Pamela Gray turned to look at Lake in the back seat. "Last month, when we studied the infestation at the aircraft factory, you said you loved field trips."

"OK, let me qualify that," said Lake. "I love field trips. I hate field trips that literally take us out into a field." He peered out the window at the countryside whizzing by. "I haven't seen anything resembling civilization in hours. I didn't know the country still had this much of nothing in it."

Gray followed his gaze, and spent several minutes simply taking in the lushness of the rolling hills, forests and grazing land. "After so much time in The City, this is paradise," she said at last. "I wouldn't mind if this mission lasts a long, long time. It's always been my dream to be able to move away from The City, to an area like this, forever."

"I'm very happy beneath the fluorescent lights of my lab, thank you," Lake said. "Give me nice, filtered, conditioned air any day. I don't trust all this wide-open-spaces fresh stuff. Who knows what's in it?"

Gray lowered the window and took a deep breath from the cool air that flowed into the car. "Mmmmm. It's sweet. Fresh. It's been a long time since I've breathed air that didn't smell of chemicals. It's wonderful."

"It's freezing," Lake said.

"Sorry," Gray said with a chuckle, closing the window.

From behind the wheel, Cornealius said to Gray, "Don't get too cozy. Don't let the innocence of this place make you lose your focus. Don't forget that there are plenty of Ghouls where we're going."

"Man, can you kill a mood," Lake said. "How long till we get to this place … what's it called?"

"Johnson Ridge," said Gray, pulling out the map. "Looks like we're about a half hour away."

Lake reached into his satchel and pulled out a briefing folder. He flipped through the pages until he came to a particular e-mail printout. "OK, tell me again why we're giving credence to this person over all the other wackos who write us."

"I wish you wouldn't call them that," Gray said. "Everyone who contacts ADEF wants to help. They want to rid the world of Ghouls as much as we do. Some of them are just misguided, that's all. Naïve. Anxious. Terrified. They think they have an answer, but they don't. They just don't know any better."

Lake held up the printout. "So again I ask, why are we paying attention to these folks?"

"Ferrell Coggins, who wrote the message, is an old friend. He's a scientist and college professor who provided valuable guidance to my mother and I during the crucial parts of our research and development. Since his retirement he makes his headquarters near here, but he spends a lot of time traveling these little back counties, checking out these would-be inventors and their homemade Ghoo formulas. His theory is that these backwoods Ghoul hunters have access to ingredients and production methods that we either don't have or don't consider in the big city."

Lake glanced back over the message. "So, when this guy says someone's found a more powerful Ghoo, it's worth listening to, eh?"

"Exactly," said Gray. "Apparently these Ghoo-experimenters are plentiful, especially here in the rural areas where Ghoul hunting is a veritable sport."

"A sport?" said Lake. "You mean, as in 'yee-hah, let's go have us a good ol' time baggin' us some Ghouls' kind of fun sport?"

"You'd be surprised," said Gray. "In some of these towns, Ghoul hunting has become almost a religion. Out here, no one is afraid of Ghouls, or if they are, it's not good form to show it. It's as if you're not allowed to be afraid. Everyone carries a Ghoo gun, even more so than in The City. Children are taught at a very early age how to shoot at a Ghoul. You should hear some of the stories Ferrell has told me in his letters."

"Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned deer hunting?" asked Lake.

"That's just it," said Cornealius. "There aren't that many deer or rabbits or any other ground-based game for that matter. The Ghouls have made them almost extinct, except in the preserves, where malectoplasm infestation is kept at a minimum."

"Ick," said Lake. "The thought of all those little Ghoul-bunnies ripping away at the real bunnies gives me the creeps."

"Anyway," said Gray, "Ferrell is going to introduce us to the Ghoo maker. If their formula is as effective as Ferrell says it is, we'll be that much closer to a Ghoo that brings down a Ghoul regardless of where it's hit."

"And we just have to hope that we're the ones who get to it first," Lake said.

"And are able to get back with it alive," said Cornealius.

The other two didn't say anything; they knew that Cornealius wasn't being overly dramatic. It was the reason he was their sole escort, instead of truckloads of ADEF soldiers. They hoped that their single, unescorted vehicle would escape the scrutiny of the multi-billionaire Heston Wynn, who would do anything, even commit murder, to obtain a more powerful Ghoo formula.

After several minutes of silence, Lake finally said, "You know, Wynn knows as much about these Ghoul-hunting societies as we do. Do you suppose he already has his agents out in these communities?"

"We're pretty sure of it," Gray said. "That's why Ferrell's e-mails are rather cryptic, and why I had to be the one to come to Johnson Ridge. He'll trust only me with the identity of the Ghoo maker."

Cornealius said, "Well, other than your friend Ferrell, I wouldn't trust anyone else we meet in this town. If anyone asks why we're here, it's just to pay a visit to an old friend. We'll find this person, get a sample of this new Ghoo and head straight back."

"That's fine with me," said Lake. "I'm homesick already."

The rest of the journey was silent, as the quiet, empty countryside gave way to telltale signs of habitation — road signs, billboards, gas stations, abandoned produce stands and the eventual sign that read, "Welcome to Johnson Ridge, Population 3,417."

Cornealius followed the signs off the main highway and down a series of smaller and smaller roads, one of which eventually led straight through the heart of the town. The main stretch of "Downtown Johnson Ridge" was just about what each of the trio expected: shops and eateries along each side, a single movie theater, the storefront offices of the Johnson Ridge Daily Journal, the sheriff's department/jail/courthouse, doctor and dentist offices, a couple of churches and a town square about midway down the street.

What they didn't expect was the large banner suspended above the thoroughfare: "WELCOME TO THE 3RD ANNUAL GREEN DEMON FESTIVAL! FOOD! FUN! MUSIC! CONTESTS! PRIZES!"

Cornealius pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces near the sheriff's office and the three climbed out of the car.

Lake was astonished at the banner. "You're kidding," he said. "They actually have a festival?"

"That's right," said Gray. "And that's the other thing: They don't call them Ghouls around here. They're 'green demons'."

"In some of these rural areas, they're 'Satan spawn'," Cornealius said.

"Or 'rock monsters'," said Gray.

"Or 'space giants'," said Cornealius.

"Or, 'Slimeys'."

"Or, 'Gremloids'."

"Or …"

"All right, all right," Lake said. "Whatever. I guess 'Ghouls' is a big-city thing."

Gray said, "Out here, Lake, folks don't know malectoplasm from molasses. All they know is that it's everywhere and that it's out to kill them."

"And all they want to know," said Cornealius, "is how to kill it first."

The town was hopping. Hundreds of citizens were out and about, scurrying from store to store, loading goods into their trucks and swapping tales of their latest "kills." Many townsfolk, both men and women, were dressed in bright orange or yellow hunting garb. Almost everyone, hunters or not, was carrying a Ghoo gun. The town even had its own soundtrack, the music from a live bluegrass band on the gazebo in the crowded town square. Lining the square were booths selling food, beer, arts and crafts and several varieties of homemade Ghoo.

"Cause for celebration," said Cornealius with a contemptuous growl.

"Yee-haaa," said Lake.

"I'm not sure where Ferrell lives," Gray said. She pointed across the street. "Let's go ask at the sheriff's department."

The lone deputy stuck with the task of watching over the empty station while everyone else was out hunting or attending the festival didn't know Ferrell Coggins' location, but told them that the sheriff could be found across the street at Branson's Outfitters.

"He's checking out the new line of shooters that just came in," said the deputy, anxiously shifting a large Ghoo pistol back and forth in his hands.

"Shooter?" Lake repeated.

The deputy held up his Ghoo gun. "Shooter."

Branson's Outfitters was the typical hunting and fishing store, except that all products designed for the tracking and killing of animals were now relegated to a small shelf against one back corner. Most of the main shelves were now stocked with different brands of commercial armor and tracking devices and rows and rows of cartridges filled with liquids of varying colors, all touted on their display cases as being the "Best Demon Killer Available."

"It's an industry," Lake said, examining the shelves. "I'd seen the occasional Ghoul-hunting device in the stores back in The City, but I never imagined it was being marketed to this level."

"And guess which one of our favorite billionaire industrialists is marketing the bulk of this stuff," Gray said.

"Look at this," Cornealius said grimly, pointing to the wall behind one display case. Hung in neat rows along the wall were framed photo sets, at least two photos per frame, showing before-and-after shots of hunters encountering Ghouls. The first photo in each frame showed the hunter from behind, Ghoo gun raised at a charging Ghoul. The other photo showed the hunter standing with gun raised, smiling broadly. Some of the hunters in the "after" photos were bloodied and injured more than others.

"Dead Ghouls don't leave them a carcass to stuff, so they have to have another trophy to display," Gray said.

They heard Lake gasp. He was staring at one photo set in particular. "I can't believe this," he said. "Is that a little girl?"

Sure enough, the hunter in that particular photo set was a youngster of no older than 10 or 11. The hunting cap she wore in the first photo was, in the second, on the ground far behind her. Her blonde hair in the second photo was disheveled and matted on her left temple where a streak of blood began, running down her cheek and onto the front of her armor tunic. She smiled broadly, but it was a different smile than those of the other hunters.

"She looks relieved more than anything," Gray said. "Glad to be alive. That's a frightened little girl."

"I can't believe they let children hunt Ghouls," Lake said.

A voice from the back of the store boomed, "Can I help you folks?"

The three worked their way to the back, where a tall, black-haired 40-ish man in a sheriff's uniform leaned against the counter, chatting with a man and woman in their early- to mid-50s who stood side-by-side on the other side. The couple was dressed in matching plaid shirts, except the woman's was open to reveal a Branson's Outfitters T-shirt.

Gray smiled and held her hand out to the sheriff. "Hi! You're the sheriff, no doubt? I'm Pamela Gray."

"Tom Sealy," the sheriff replied, taking her hand. He nodded toward the couple. "This is Helen and George Branson. They own this store. What can I do for you folks?"

"We were wondering if you could help us find Ferrell Coggins."

"Friend of yours?"

"Good friend. He told me to drop by if I was ever in the area and, well, I'm in the area."

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. "And, you're in the area because ... ?"

"Research. Field research. I used to work with Dr. Coggins."

Sealy rubbed his chin. "Well, ordinarily this time of year I'd tell you to look for him somewhere around the festival, but he told me the other day that he had reason to stay up at his cabin this weekend. I can guide you folks up there. Ready to go now?"

"Tell you what," Gray said. "Let us go check into the hotel and we'll meet you outside the sheriff's department."

"Sounds like a plan," Sealy said.

Lake was fidgeting, trying to maintain his composure. Of course he realized that the proper thing to do would be to stay quiet, say nothing, but he just couldn't resist. He pointed to the photo sets on the wall. "I notice you folks like to keep a record of your Gh ... uh, demon hunts."

"That's right," said George Branson. "Usually on a hunt we send out at least one person with a camera. Otherwise, you have nothing to show."

Lake nodded. "Uh, I couldn't help notice that some of these hunters are quite young."

The Bransons smiled. "Yes, indeed," said Helen. She pointed to the photo set of the young blonde they had seen before. "In fact, that one there, that's Nattie Collier. She was the first youngster to join the grown-ups on a demon-hunting trip. That was, oh, say, about 10 years ago, wasn't it, George?"

"Just about that, yes," George said, nodding. "Not too terribly long after the Infestation began."

"That was when we realized that it was OK to send the children out to hunt, as long as they were adequately trained and supervised," Helen said. "In fact, a couple of our children are up on the wall as well."

"Soon our youngest will be up there," said George. "That'll be Hallie."

Lake pointed to the blonde girl. "Well, Nattie Collier looks scared to death."

"Of course she was," George said. "It was a green demon. But she held up and took care of it, and now it's one of the proudest moments of her life."

"Doesn't it bother you that it's very easy for these kids to get killed?" Lake asked.

George and Helen looked nervously at each other. Sealy just looked down at the ground.

"Look, mister," Helen said. "We know how to take care of ourselves here. Demon-hunting has become a fine tradition in Johnson Ridge. Besides, the more guns we have out there killing these things, the better off we'll be."

George added, "Not only that, but it's good for the children to learn at an early age how a demon thinks and behaves."

Lake rubbed his hand through his hair, clearly upset. "Yeah, well, you know, that's the thing. Ghouls ... demons … don't think and they don't behave. You could fight these things all your life and not have two of them act in the same way. Hunting demons isn't like hunting animals. Animals have behavioral patterns, they have survival instincts, they have thoughts and reflexes and ingrained reactions. You can study an animal and be rewarded with knowledge that can help you. Try to do that with a demon and you're just wasting your time. A demon is nothing more than a chemical reaction with teeth and claws. All it wants to do is kill you. It's fast and it's deadly. That's the only thing you're going to learn. After that, all you can do is hope you're fast enough and that you hit it in the right place."

Even as he told them these things, Lake knew that he was reaching the end of their polite tolerance for excitable outsiders. But he kept going.

"You know, it's dumb enough that you make sport out of hunting these things, because that's like selling a Russian Roulette kit. You're playing with death every time you face one of these things. But to send children out there, just for the sake of a photo up on the wall, that's just plain irresponsible."

Lake stopped ranting and the store was silent. All shoppers' eyes were on him. George and Helen didn't know what to say. Sealy just stared at him.

Before anyone could react, a young voice piped up from behind George and Helen. "Mommy, why is that man so angry?"

Lake looked behind the counter as George and Helen stepped aside. A tiny, wide-eyed girl with long, brown, wavy hair looked up at him.

George wrapped a protective arm around her. "It's, OK, Hallie. He's not angry. He's just real excited about something."

Helen said to her, "You go on into the house and find your sisters and tell them to meet me in the kitchen in just a little bit so we can put supper together."

Hallie beamed. "And then we're going to the festival?"

"And then we're going to the festival," Helen said, smiling back. She tried to maintain the smile as she turned back to face Lake, but it faded. Hallie ran off toward a back door.

Sheriff Sealy said, "What kind of work did you folks say you did?"

Gray stepped up and grabbed Lake by the arm. "Excuse my colleague. He's grumpy after a long car ride. We'll be heading to our hotel now. Sheriff, we'll meet you in front of your headquarters in about 15 minutes, say?"

"See you then," Sealy said.

Outside of the store, Gray continued to keep a firm grip on Lake's arm as she guided him across the street.

"What happened to the low-profile part of our plan?" she asked.

"They're sending children out to be slaughtered by Ghouls," Lake said. "How old did Hallie look? Six? Seven?"

"I know, it's terrible, but it's none of our business right now," Gray said. "We can't afford to be spotted by Wynn's goons. So we need to stay under the radar."

Cornealius said, "I think we're still OK. As far as the folks in the store know, Lake's just another anti-hunting fanatic."

The woman behind the hotel front counter, a brunette who would have otherwise looked to be a woman in her late 30s but for the streaks of gray in her hair and deep-set weariness in her eyes, considered them with a steely glare. "Are you here for the festival?" she asked.

"No," Gray said cheerfully, entering their names on the registration sheet. "We're here to visit a friend. Actually we didn't know there would be a festival."

At that the woman seemed to lighten, to relax. "Oh, how nice," she said, her voice now almost chipper. "I hope you enjoy your stay with us."

Just then a burly man with tousled hair and a bright-orange hunting vest came practically staggering from a side entrance behind the counter. "I'm going back to Woody's," he growled at the woman.

"We have guests, Bob," the woman said, gesturing to the trio.

The man tried with considerable difficulty to focus his intoxicated eyes on his new customers. "Hello," he said finally, before flipping up a hinged counter section and staggering through the small lobby and out the front door.

"Please forgive my husband," the woman said.

"No harm," said Gray, signing the register.

"If you don't mind my being nosy, who's the friend you're visiting?" asked the woman.

"Ferrell Coggins," said Gray. "Do you know him?"

The woman smiled warmly, honestly. "Ferrell's been a good friend of the family for years. Tell him I said hello when you see him."

"I will, Mrs. …?"

"Collier. Sheila Collier."

Lake's ears perked up. "Collier? Are you the mother of the little girl whose photo we saw over at the outfitter's?"

Sheila Collier's smile dimmed. "Yes, that's right."

Lake started to say more. He could see from the corner of his eye that Gray and Cornealius both were prepared to cut him off if he flew off the handle, but something he noticed over the woman's shoulder made him pause. On a back wall behind the counter, to one side of the key rack and the message boxes, was an array of framed photos, awards, citations and other items on proud display. Whatever had been the center, most prominent item, however, was now missing, leaving behind a rectangular, dust-rimmed bare spot. Lake guessed that it most likely had been another copy of the same photo set he saw of Nattie Collier at the Bransons' store.

He also guessed the reason this troubled family had taken it down. He said nothing else.

After an awkward moment, Sheila Collier relaxed and with a smile said, "OK, then, let's get you folks to your rooms."

Lake had deposited his luggage on his bed and was running through an inventory of the items in his satchel when Gray stepped in through the open doorway.

"I know you're thinking the same thing I am about why these folks are so bitter," Gray said. "I noticed the missing photo too."

"They lost her," Lake said. "They lost their precious, Ghoul-hunting daughter. They think it's so heroic to send their children out there, and they think because they have all this gear and all this tradition that it will protect them, but they still have no idea what they're facing."

Gray held up her hand. "I know, I know. Preaching to the choir. But we need to keep these folks on our side and friendly. We can't go around upsetting them."

"'We'?"

"OK, you can't go around upsetting them."

Cornealius stepped in. He was wearing the leather jacket he usually donned to disguise his tiny, "civilian" Ghoo gun, carried in a shoulder holster, the gun that he hated for its lack of power and tiny Ghoo reservoir.

Lake said, "You know, C, around here there's not as much need for subtlety. You could carry a larger rifle and not be noticed. In fact, you'd probably blend in better."

"Let's keep the profile low for the time being," Cornealius said. "But don't worry; I have plenty of high-powered gear for all of us stowed in the car. You guys ready?"

Continue to Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6