Storm of Locusts

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  Pete screams, clawing for his eye.

  Aaron grabs Pete’s head, drives it down into his knee, forcing the needle farther into the socket. He twists Pete’s neck and the scream cuts off abruptly. He throws Pete into the room, and his body slides awkwardly across the tile, clearly dead.

  Aaron’s other friend stares in shock. But not for long.

  He swings, a blade hidden in his hand, slicing open Aaron’s face right above his eye. Aaron staggers back, cursing. And his friend takes off running. Not back up the stairs, a death trap, but across the room to the exit door on the far end.

  Aaron looks up. He’s bleeding, blood dripping into his eye, blinding him. He wipes at it ineffectively, trying to stanch the flow. He’s not going to catch him.

  I move.

  His friend doesn’t make it ten feet before I’m tackling him from behind. He hits the tile, face-first, me on his back. I grind my knees into his shoulder to hold him still. Grab his hair and have a surgically sharp blade at his throat, all Honágháahnii fast.

  “Shhhhh!” I whisper in his ear. “Or I cut your throat.”

  “Cut his throat,” Aaron says, coming up behind me with Rissa. Blood streams down his cheek in rivulets, following the lines of his scar, spattering onto his white double-breasted.

  I say, “I thought they were your friends and we weren’t supposed to hurt your friends.”

  Aaron presses at the wound on his forehead. “I thought so, too, but they’re not friends of mine. Did you hear what Pete said? What he and Wyatt had planned?”

  Wyatt whines under my hand, and I pull his hair a little tighter to shut him up. “I heard. Not very original. I’d be more impressed if they were sneaking down here to steal our kidneys or something.”

  “Teeth,” Rissa adds. “You all could use some better teeth than this silver crap you got filling your mouths.”

  “I don’t abide rapists,” he says with such vehemence that I turn all the way around, shifting to drive my knee into Wyatt’s neck just because I can.

  “I can’t say I care for them myself, but that sounds personal,” I observe carefully.

  Aaron stares at me. He lost his aviator’s cap somewhere along the way, and his hair trails down his back in a long line, the sides of his head completely shaved but for the strip of hair down the middle. He looks wild, fierce in a way he didn’t before. But his eyes are bright and wet. Hurt. He blinks white lashes at me, the look on his face answer enough.

  I sigh, conflicted. “I’m trying not to kill people,” I explain. “It’s a new thing I’m trying. I mean, I know I said all that stuff before . . .”

  He takes a moment before he nods. “Then I’ll do it.”

  I look over at Rissa. She’s watching Aaron, head tilted, evaluating. I catch her eye and she shrugs. Clearly not our problem.

  “And murder’s not a sin to you?” I ask. Not that I’m interested in whatever flavor of religion Aaron seems to be so strongly devoted to, but I am curious.

  “Those who disobey, even in thought, are deserving of death.”

  “That seems harsh. We could just lock him in one of these cages.”

  Aaron seems to think about it. “There is a punishment Bishop decrees that is short of death for those that are tempted by lust.”

  “Fine. Do that.”

  Aaron nods once, flicking blood across his white jacket.

  I slam Wyatt’s head down against the concrete. Hard. He grunts, dazed.

  I stand up, hand the blade to Aaron, and step back. “He’s all yours.”

  Aaron stands there, blade in hand. Unmoving. I’m worried he’s in shock until he opens his mouth and says, “You know the rules and you chose to break them. You know the punishment.”

  Wyatt moans, a sound that sends a tremor through the room.

  “Just kill me,” he wails.

  But Aaron is unbending. “Choose, Wyatt.”

  “I—I can’t!”

  “I take your tongue or I take your balls. Choose.”

  Rissa’s eyes widen. I grab her arm and pull her toward the stairwell door, Wyatt’s pleas for death trail us, growing more hysterical. “We’ll wait out here,” I call back. We sidestep Pete’s body to clear the entrance.

  “Don’t take too long!” Rissa says as I close the door.

  The lights of the stairwell are stark and the air is warm compared to the temperature in the lab, but I still feel cold. “Holy shit! Who are these people?”

  Rissa doesn’t say anything. Just climbs a few stairs and takes a seat. She’s still got the thoughtful look on her face.

  I frown. “What is that look? Oh no. Don’t tell me you like him.”

  She glances up, surprised. Blushes under the bright lights. “He’s interesting,” she admits.

  “He’s some kind of religious fanatic.”

  “Believing in sin doesn’t make him a fanatic.”

  “He’s in there right now butchering a man he called his friend five minutes ago.”

  “He doesn’t like rapists. That seems like an excellent quality to me.”

  I exhale some of the adrenaline from Honágháahnii, shake out my arms. “Don’t ever say I have bad taste in men again.”

  She snorts. “That was my mom, not me. Although I still think Kai—”

  The door opens, and we both turn. Aaron comes through, gently closing the door behind him. He’s cleaned up. Traded his bloodied white jacket for a new spotless one. The cut on his head has a crude bandage on it that the blood has already begun to soak through.

  “You’re going to need stitches for that,” I say, gesturing toward the wound.

  “I can do it,” Rissa offers. “It will only take a minute. I’ve got lots of experience sewing people up.”

  Aaron looks up at us, tears caught in his lashes. “I’m sorry you had to see that, ladies.” His whole demeanor has changed. He’s a different man than the one that swaggered into the room earlier.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  I want to ask her where and when, but I don’t think I want to know.

  Aaron holds his hand out, offering up a bottle of superglue and a spray bottle of Bactine. “I think glue will do the trick. It’s not deep.”

  Rissa frowns but takes the bottle from him. “I’ll try it.”

  “I just don’t like a needle so much,” he says, without a hint of irony. “Bad memories, you understand.”

  I don’t, but whatever. Aaron’s obviously a man with a collection of nasty stories, none of which I need to hear to believe that this place is a hellhole and the sooner we’re all out of here the better.

  Aaron lets Rissa clean his wound and apply the superglue. We wait a few seconds for the glue to set, and then Rissa gently wipes Aaron’s skin clean. “Good enough,” she says, giving her work a critical eye.

  “Then let’s go,” Aaron says, his voice subdued. “I’m done here.”

  Chapter 24

  “The Tank is on the top floor of the building, at ground level,” Aaron explains as we make our way up the stairs. He’s somber. The lightness in his personality seems to have leeched out of him along with his friends’ blood. We didn’t ask what ultimately happened to Wyatt, because we didn’t want to know. But Aaron doesn’t seem worried about anyone following us, so that’s likely explanation enough.

  “The Reaping Room was at the bottom level, four floors down. Once we get to the Tank, we grab your weapons, load the plane, and leave. If we’re lucky, everyone will be at the auction, where they’re supposed to be, and no one will even notice we’re missing until we’re airborne.”

  “There’s one thing you forgot,” I remind him. “Ben.”

  He looks at me blankly.

  “You promised you’d help us find our friend Ben. The girl who was on the bike with me, out in the canyon. We need to rescue her, too.”

  “Ahhh . . . ,” he says, scratching at the scars on his face. “That might be a problem.”

  “How’s that?” I ask, my voice as sharp as a surgical blade.
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  “I’m afraid it’s too late for her.”

  “Too late?”

  “She’s not dead,” he says quickly. “She’s getting married.”

  I stop, plant my feet on the stairs. “Explain.”

  He hesitates, mouth twisting up like he’s searching for the words. “I’ll tell you everything,” he says finally, “But keep moving.”

  The landing in front of us is marked with a big number two. Halfway there. I glare at him but start back up the stairs.

  “Every second month, Bishop holds an auction. People come from all over. The Burque, Hopiland, the Kingdom. A delegation even came from New Denver once upon time, looking for a real specialty item. And these are important people. Wealthy.” He rubs two fingers together. “People looking for goods they can’t get anywhere else, if you catch my drift.”

  “Body parts,” I say flatly. “We’ve established that. What else?”

  “We make knives, of course. It’s in the name. Guns, too. Explosives. But we also sell labor and the occasional exotic.”

  I frown. “Exotics? Labor?”

  “Slaves,” Rissa says, her voice sounding tired. “He means slaves.”

  I stare, aghast. “You’re selling Ben as a slave?!”

  “Not me!” he says quickly, hands raised. “Bishop. I got no part in that side of the business.”

  “You clearly have a part in it if you’re here, serving him, working for him.”

  His rubs at his scars again. “My choices are obey or end up downstairs on a steel table. What would you have me choose?”

  I breathe in, try to steady myself. “What happens to Ben if she goes to auction?”

  “A young girl like that? She could go as a house girl, but most likely she’ll go as a wife.” He narrows his eyes. “She’s bled, right? She can have babies?”

  “What the fuck, Aaron?”

  He shrugs. “It matters.”

  “And how is that different from rape?” Rissa asks. “How is that different from what your two buddies were thinking they could do to us?”

  He looks genuinely taken aback. “It’s marriage. She’ll have babies, raise a family.”

  “And what if she doesn’t want any of that?!”

  “All women want that.”

  Rissa and I exchange a look over Aaron’s shoulder. He shakes his head, clearly confused. We’re at the top of the stairs, facing a thick gray metal door. There’s a caution sign on our side, warning against cross traffic. Aaron looks up as if he’s contemplating the caution sign.

  “It’s the best life that the Malpais can offer. She’ll have a rich husband if he can afford the auction. And a home of her own. Better by yards than what happens to most kids who grow up out here. Better than what we had planned for you both.”

  “But Ben didn’t grow up out here. She’s from Dinétah. She’s with us.”

  He shrugs, still not getting it. “Shitty luck. Just didn’t go her way, then.”

  “Hey,” Rissa says, grabbing his arm. “She’s a sixteen-year-old girl. You’re going to help us, right?”

  He looks at her like a drowning man looks at the shore—wondering why he ever left and wishing like hell he could get back. He exhales heavily, bending over, his hands on his hips. He shakes his head violently like he’s trying to shake off whatever emotion he’s feeling. And then he kicks the door in front of us. Once, twice. He’s wearing a steel-toed boot, and the door bends where he makes contact. He slams his head against the door with a strangled growl, hard enough to leave a dent.

  We watch in silence.

  Finally, he stops. Leans forward on the door, arms folded and head resting on his forearms. “Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “Okay.” He scrubs a hand across his face before he stands straight and faces us. “I’ll help you get your Ben, but then you are taking me to Dinétah.”

  “That was the deal,” Rissa says.

  He nods once. “There are some things you should know. This is the Tank, but the auction will be across the road in the big tent. There’s only two ways in and out of the tent. One in the front and one straight back. Like a barn. There’ll be security. The auction draws a big crowd.”

  “How big?” I ask.

  “Tonight? A hundred? Maybe more. The Familias were already arriving when I came down to the Harvest Room. And I’m sure there’ll be some representative from the Kingdom. Even a Swarmer or two from Amangiri.”

  I look up. “Amangiri?”

  He nods.

  “You know Amangiri?”

  “Yeah.”

  My heart ticks up a beat. “Can you take us there? In your plane?”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “We can talk about that later,” Rissa interjects, throwing a pointed look my way. “Right now we need to focus on getting Ben out.”

  It hurts, but I let Amangiri go for now. Knowing Aaron knows about it, that it’s a real place that actually exists at all, is enough for now. Rissa’s eyes linger on me until she’s sure I’ll keep my mouth shut before she turns back to Aaron.

  “Is there anything else we need to know?” she asks.

  He says, “Bishop’s a crazy man. Not reasonable like me. And you can’t buy him over, neither. He catches us, we’ll be made an example of.” His fingers run across his scars again unconsciously. “For stealing his property, he’ll cook up something extra nasty, I suppose. A skin flailing. Feedings us to the sporting dogs. Maybe a chase down in the desert.” He shudders. “He’s a monster.”

  I want to yell at him that Ben is no one’s property, but the adrenaline’s kicking in now, and I can feel my clan powers rising again, waiting. Hungry. I still plan to keep my promise not to kill anyone, but I can certainly make these sick bastards suffer.

  “I know we haven’t officially been introduced, Aaron,” I say, “but they call me the Monsterslayer. I think I can handle Bishop.”

  * * *

  The Tank is a massive hanger. The center is dominated by the airplane we saw out on the road, and around it are the outfitted battle trucks and metal-plated cars like the ones that chased us down. There’s also a dozen motorcycles, and at the end of a line, up on blocks and in parts, our bikes. They’ve claimed them as their own.

  “Well, there’s no getting those back,” Rissa says, sounding bitter.

  “Everything for a price,” Aaron says.

  “They’re my bikes,” she says, outraged.

  “Not anymore.”

  “What’s in the cage?” I ask, eyeing a fenced metal cage at least the size of my trailer. My question is a little rhetorical because I can clearly see what’s in the cage—shelf after shelf, case and case, filled with weapons.

  “Holy crap,” Rissa whispers as we make our way over. I rattle the door. It’s locked.

  “You still got those keys?” Aaron asks. I hand him the key ring, and he unlocks the weapons cage.

  “If you have all these weapons, why did you come after us with blades and baseball bats?”

  “There were guns if we needed them, but Bishop says guns are too easy. He wants to see us get bloody. Says it keeps us sharp.”

  “Sharp? Or dead.”

  Aaron shrugs. “Better to know sooner than later if you can’t survive in the Malpais.”

  “These are all for sale?” Rissa asks, eyes on the massive arsenal.

  “We hold them here until the auction’s finished. No weapons are allowed inside, ’cept each representative gets a personal bodyguard. Personal weapons only. The auction operates under truce.”

  “Honor among thieves,” I say. “Great for us.”

  Rissa admires what looks to be modified Heckler assault rifles. “It’s like early Keshmish,” she whispers, running a hand over the gun.

  I laugh, and she laughs back. Gives me a genuine smile.

  Aaron hauls up a plastic crate in which our stuff has been unceremoniously dumped. “I was going to sort it and categorize it tomorrow, but I guess I don’t have to now.” He gestures to the crate. “Have at it.�
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  I take my knives out first. Tuck them back in place next to the razors, which I decide to keep because why not. I put my Böker into the sheathe on my hip. Retrieve my shotgun. Attach my ammo belt. And there, still in its scabbard, still wrapped in black cloth, a thin ribbon of suede tying it all closed at the hilt, is Neizghání’s sword. I exhale a nervous breath, relieved to see it.

  Rissa’s rearmed, too, her familiar AR over her shoulder, a Sig on her hip. She runs a hand over one of the Hecklers again, hefts it up, testing the weight. “It wants me to take it home,” she murmurs. “Don’t you, baby?”

  “I helped modify those myself,” Aaron says.

  “That’s nice,” I say. “Rissa, bring an extra gun for Ben. I don’t want her defenseless.”

  “Maggie!” Rissa squeals with delight. “Look at this!” She picks up something from a bucket on the floor and holds it up. A hand grenade. She tucks a few in her pocket, looking like a kid who found a candy stash.

  “We ready?” I ask.

  “I’m ready,” Rissa says. “But what’s the plan? Do we just go in swinging?”

  “If I may,” Aaron says, face wrinkling in concern. “It’s just, seeing you like this, Rissa, it occurs to me . . .”

  Rissa looks suspicious. “Seeing me like what?”

  “I was thinking,” he says. “If we’re going to have a chance of getting to your friend, we might need to be more subtle than”—he swings an arm, taking in the weapons cage—“all this.”

  “I’m not putting my guns back,” I say.

  “Not you. No one would believe you as a fine lady. But Ms. Goodacre . . .” He turns and gives Rissa a little bow. I feel like I should be offended, but I’m so far from offended. Being a fine lady sounds like a fucking nightmare.

  “What’s going on?” Rissa asks, suspicious.

  “How would you like to make your auction debut as the heir to the Goodacre empire and a rising player in the Harvesting business?”

  Rissa’s face darkens. “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t have to buy anything. Just look the part.”

  “How?”

  “Any and everything for sale, including a closet for a queen.” He gestures toward another section of the Tank, where I can see mountains of fabric and discarded clothes. Rissa’s eyes follow, too, and I watch as she takes it all in.