The flock a thriller, p.1
The Flock: A Thriller, page 1
PRAISE FOR J. TODD SCOTT
The Flock
“It’s all here: doomsday cults, innocents and grifters, unexplainable phenomena. Heartache and regret. A chance at redemption. What sets The Flock above your average thriller is the absolute ring of authenticity from this twenty-plus-year career DEA agent. You got the real deal right here.”
—Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor and The Hunger
“Scott lays out his short, propulsive chapters like a trail of breadcrumbs you can’t help but follow. This one will keep you up late turning the pages.”
—Brian Freeman, bestselling author of Thief River Falls
“We live in a world of bent truths, tribal divisions, and conspiring realities—and you’ll find a dark, mesmerizing reflection of this in J. Todd Scott’s latest thriller, The Flock. Scott writes with a terse poetry and builds a relentlessly paced plot, but it’s the superbly drawn characters who will wreck you in the best possible way.”
—Benjamin Percy, author of The Unfamiliar Garden
Other Works
“Mr. Scott, as it happens, has been a federal agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration for more than twenty years, which surely contributes to the authenticity of this convincing saga.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Scott’s twenty-year career as a DEA agent infuses his work with realism, and his writing chops will make readers wonder why he waited so long to launch his literary career.”
—Associated Press
“The author exploits his decades of experience as a federal agent to create a powerful, realistic picture of crime.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Scott writes beautifully, dreaming up intriguing action scenes, which those who are focused only on thrills will wish kept going and going. But patient readers will recognize and appreciate Scott’s end game: showing us a world where thieves, murdere rs, and sadists are everyday folk.”
—Booklist
“J. Todd Scott’s series reads like equal parts Don Winslow and Ace Atkins. Having spent twenty years working with the DEA, Scott knows his stuff, adding instant credibility to his stories, which are well written and hopelessly addictive.”
—New York Journal of Books
“As addictive as the best crime show.”
—Newsweek
“The poetic and bloody ground of [the west] has given birth to a powerful new voice in contemporary western crime fiction.”
—Craig Johnson, New York Times bestselling author of the Walt Longmire series
“J. Todd Scott is the real deal.”
—Michael McGarrity, New York Times bestselling author
OTHER TITLES BY J. TODD SCOTT
Lost River
This Side of Night
High White Sun
The Far Empty
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Jeffrey Todd Scott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662500398
ISBN-10: 1662500394
Cover design by David Drummond
For Delcia, a miracle every day.
Mirabile dictu.
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Bloody Birds Drop . . .
THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS
LIMON, COLORADO
I BLACK-WINGED BIRD
The Ark of . . .
1
2
3
4
5
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
FIRES AT DAWN
13
14
15
16
TRANSCRIPT OF DARK STARS
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
Los Angeles Nights . . .
24
25
II SHINE A LITTLE LIGHT
FBI REPORT OF INVESTIGATION
26
27
28
AUGUST 2016 DAR CHART
29
30
31
32
KILLER CULTS
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
US Department of Justice Attorney Work Product // May Contain Material Protected Under Fed. R. Crim. P. 6(e)
42
43
44
45
46
47
CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH
48
49
50
51
52
53
A Prophet in . . .
54
55
56
57
58
59
III FIRE AND RAIN
Where There Is Smoke
60
61
62
63
64
65
AUTOPSY REPORT
66
67
68
69
70
71
Recorded Transcript of Voluntary Interview, January 15, 2025
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
FOURTH DAY / A X L
83
84
85
86
87
Hurricane Nigel Falls . . .
IV THE END OF THE WORLD
How an Internet . . .
LIMON, COLORADO
BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS, VIRGINIA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
Francis William Bourdillon,
“The Night Has a Thousand Eyes”
Bloody Birds Drop from Sky
Like a scene from a horror movie, bird enthusiasts in Australia recently discovered a thousand birds “falling from the sky like stones,” bleeding heavily from their open eyes and gaping beaks . . .
New York Times, July 13, 2019
Drones Buzz Colorado
In a mystery that only deepens with time, since late October, a ghostly night flight of winged drones has circled over numerous counties across Colorado and Nebraska, igniting a firestorm of increasingly wild rumors, and firing the popular imaginations of armchair detectives and conspiracy theorists all over the world . . .
Denver Post, January 9, 2020
Macao Will Close Its Casinos for Four Weeks Over the Hadney-Pharoah’s Outbreak
Macao, the gambling capital of the world, is planning to close its casinos as the deadly HP outbreak continues to surge . . .
CNN Business, February 3, 2023
End-of-Times Cloud Spotted Over Bering Sea
A glowing, multi-hued cloud was recently observed off the coast of Nunivak Island . . .
Alaska Public Media, March 16, 2024
Western Wildfires Are the Four Horsemen
Four massive fires burning across the American West—the Camson/Devil fire in Oregon; the Elkhorn fire near Redding, California; the Greater Wolf fire in the heart of the Sierra Nevada Mountains; and the High West fire in Colorado—are yet another example of the earth’s climate change–induced fury . . .
Los Angeles Times, August 2025
THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS
No one sees the old Sunseeker RV as it rolls to a stop thirty yards from the small house.
Engine idling, headlights off, it lurks in the dark as if regarding the house itself.
Watching, waiting.
In the snow-dusted pines along the road, a hundred roosting crows murmur and rustle, disturbed by the RV’s sudden arrival.
But if they know what’s about to happen next, they keep it to themselves.
Inside the Sunseeker, a blue-eyed woman raises a hand over a kneeling man.
She whispers to him, “How you have fallen from heaven, Morning Star, son of the dawn. You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations. You said in your heart, ‘I will ascend to the heavens, I will raise my throne above the stars of God, I will sit enthroned on the Mount of Assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon, and I will ascend above the tops of the clouds. I will make myself like the Most High.’”
She touches his shaved head. “But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit.” She crosses his heart with her gloved finge
Then the woman leans close and slips the semiautomatic handgun into the man’s grasp.
They got the gun, and all the others like it, three days ago from a novitiate in Oklahoma. Three days before that, the guns were sitting in a police department evidence locker in Guymon, long forgotten, likely never missed.
“You are one of the Seven Archangels, Camael,” she murmurs. “One of the Exalted. When we are done here, you will rise on great wings, for Ascension is finally at hand.”
“And I welcome it,” Camael whispers back, head bowed.
The woman knows this in her heart. She nods in the dark and checks her watch before turning to another young man sitting behind the wheel of the RV. She says to him, “Kill the engine and get the backpacks.” When he hesitates, she raises her voice, insistent. “Now, novitiate.”
This novitiate, Nico, has not yet completed his vows or the Third Circle, has not yet been granted a new name. He’s been useful and loyal so far, but she’s looked into his eyes, caught glimpses of indecision, uncertainty.
His heart still holds so much doubt.
But Nico finally nods his own assent and abandons the driver’s seat, disappearing to the rear of the Sunseeker.
She hears him breathe, feels his unease, a thick swampy fear fueled by the things they will do here and the things yet to come.
Fear breeds faith.
And faith makes all things possible.
Moments later, the woman and two men stand in the snowy dark just beyond the house’s hidden security lights.
Once they’ve moved within twenty feet of the perimeter, those lights will snap brightly on, and eave-mounted cameras will start recording.
Fortunately, they’ve come prepared. In their GoRucks they carry more guns gifted from their allies in Oklahoma, as well as Kobalt bolt cutters, Diamond Tech pistol-grip glass cutters, US military–grade AGM night vision goggles, file-shredding software and scrubbing programs backed up on custom titanium flash drives, and multiple sets of Peerless restraints.
Camael still wields the long-bladed knife she bestowed on him days ago.
The novitiate Nico has zip ties as well as Sabre tactical pepper gel.
And she has a Gamo air rifle slung over her shoulder that she’ll use to shoot out the forward-facing security lights, allowing them to approach under the cloak of night via the unattached garage—where the security system sits—before covering the final distance to the house itself.
Still, they’ll have only a few minutes to breach the door, even though it feels like she’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.
I was brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit.
She unslings the air rifle and kneels in the fresh snow as seven crows circle above, silently eyeing them all.
I am the one who will shake the earth and make kingdoms tremble. I am the one who will make the world a wilderness.
I am the one who will overthrow its cities.
She says to the two men next to her, “I need both alive, but the child matters most.”
I am the one who will not let my captives go home.
She says, “If there must be a great struggle, sacrifice the rest.”
Sacrifice. Penance. Faith.
Blood.
It was always destined to be this way. Ascension demands penance and faith and fealty and blood and suffering and sacrifice. Few are worthy or have the will to see it through, even as those left behind face their own final moments of grief, despair, fire, ruin.
She smiles at that, at the birds overhead, as she settles the air rifle against her cheek. The cold metal feels good on her skin, where, even untouched, it still burns all the time now. It’s like her blood is constantly aflame, penance for her own faithlessness and failure. She’s been on fire . . . burning in hell . . . for years and years yet welcomes that pain each new day with prayer.
It’s been so long, the blue-eyed woman thinks . . . prays.
But all is as it is and ever will be.
It’s a New Day Dawning.
And it is time . . .
LIMON, COLORADO
October 2025
When I get home tonight to find our front door kicked wide open and wild wind and fresh snow still blowing through it, I know the world is coming to an end.
My Rennie is gone, and Noah is dead.
I know in that bruised place in my heart; I know the way only a wife and mother can, although honestly, I’ve never been much of either.
I don’t need to follow that blood-black trail from our porch past the gravel drive, beyond the trees and falling flakes, to know my husband’s dead body is out there in the dark, somewhere.
Yet I can’t turn away from that ominous stain, brightly haloed in my headlights, even as Rennie flies farther and farther from me.
She might as well have real wings now.
My angel . . . my miracle.
Noah’s violent, blood-soaked passage—where he stumbled and fell outside our front door, then crawled hand over fist across the snow after our daughter—is a warning, a message.
A sign.
And if there’s anything I do know a lot about, it’s symbols and signs.
I’ve spent my whole life seeking and searching for them, waiting and worrying about them, running from them.
I steal a few moments to kneel next to that horrible mark: to touch it, trace it with my fingers, the way I traced Noah’s stubbled chin only hours ago. He hated that beard but grew it for me. I was mad when I left earlier, and he was too. Now I’ll never be able to apologize or say I’m sorry again—forever sorry, for so many things—and Noah will soon be snowed over, forgotten, left behind.
Like me.
Because that’s the real message written in bloody snow in front of my ruined house—
It was never about you at all, Sybilla.
It was, and always has been, about Renata.
And the End of the World.
I circle fast on foot to our backyard, where I buried the gun.
It’s dark and dead here, too, shadows holding even more shadows.
The porch lights are off or out, the hidden security lights and the sophisticated alarm system Noah installed for me either cut or disabled, so I use my phone instead and follow its watery glow and try not to cry.
I’ll need another phone soon.
But there are no footprints or boot treads here, no signs of struggle or blood. This snow is fresh and cool and untouched and goes on and on, and part of me just wants to go on and on, too, and never look back. And if it wasn’t for Rennie, I just might lie down here and let the snow cover me. Or go out past the trees to Noah and wrap my arms around him, one last time.
Let this falling snow fall over both of us until it’s over.
All these years I’ve spent waiting for the world to end—searching for the signs, a crazy, inexorable calendar in my head—only to discover now the day’s finally come, as real and unforgiving as Noah’s frosted blood on my fingers, that I was never truly ready at all.
I didn’t see it coming, not like this.
The End doesn’t always start with falling birds or shooting stars or a great flood or a fiery cataclysm. Sometimes it’s just blood in the snow and a dead body in the dark and a missing little girl. Noah, Rennie—my whole world—all gone now.
As if they never existed at all.
I run to Rennie’s old play set, chasing the phone’s pale glow in my hand.
It looms in the dark like a crashed car or plane, shrouded in freshly fallen snow.
The big play set is true Georgia pine, because Noah only wanted the best for our daughter, and he also planted three trees to shade it, one for each of us: Colorado blue spruce, which, over thirty years, can grow more than seventy-five feet high.
Noah used to tell Rennie those trees were alive, watching over our makeshift family, protecting us, remembering us even long after we are gone. And although I thought that was silly, hopelessly romantic, it was sweet and beautiful, too, and honestly, not any crazier than the things I was raised to believe at the Ark.
Noah wanted to be a writer, before he met me. So I helped him plant those trees for Rennie, for us, and then waited to see what birds might flock to them, seeking shelter in their growing branches. None did.
But buried near Rennie’s play set, marked by Bert the Beagle’s old tie-out stake and hidden under the spreading limbs of one of Noah’s trees, is a six-quart plastic Sterilite latching box I stole from the Dollar General, and in a way, that plastic box holds memories too.
