by David Lucin
Dylan thrust his radio at her chest and shoved Blue Face from behind, sending him awkwardly stumbling toward the blanket and the wrappers. The man continued offering no resistance. He even had the audacity to yawn. Did he lack the capacity to feel fear, or did he feel no emotions at all? Could he be suffering from some sort of antisocial personality disorder? Nicole would know for sure.
As Dylan thrust Blue Face into a sitting position against the wall, another possibility occurred to her: what if Blue Face showed no fear because he had no reason to be afraid?
She gulped and sidestepped to the window. Outside, Sam, Quinn, and Beau stood by the Toyota’s open tailgate. Nothing caught her eye in either direction on Route 12.
What about a drone? Could Blue Face have one trailing him? Craning her neck, she checked the sky. She made out no movement against the dome of near-uniform gunmetal gray, but a drone could still be up there; the Militia’s medium-range recon models flew so high they were all but invisible from the ground.
Or maybe those moronic CIA thrillers her brothers used to watch weren’t entirely fantastical and tracking devices really did exist.
“Quinn might be right about a tracker,” she said to Dylan. “Maybe we should give him another pat-down. You didn’t check his shoes or his—”
“I said I’ll be quick.”
She ground her teeth in frustration. Ever since Dylan peeked into the council chamber, he’d been acting out of sorts. No, more than out of sorts. The Dylan she knew wouldn’t have opened fire on two unidentified targets before warning her, wouldn’t have stopped in this crummy office without knowing for certain it was safe, and would have considered or at least listened to her objections. Had seeing those bodies triggered him somehow? Or had he started behaving strangely when he first saw the smoke plumes? She couldn’t remember. The action of the past thirty minutes had left her mind a jumbled mess, like cords tossed carelessly into a drawer. Untangling them might take days.
Dylan lowered himself into a crouch while Jenn remained standing with her rifle in her arms, the safety off in case Blue Face tried to escape or his minions showed up.
“Okay,” Dylan began. “Let’s have a nice little chat, you and I.” He reached into his pants pocket and produced a switchblade. Jenn knew what came next, but unlike the last time in Phoenix, she felt no remorse. She disgusted herself by almost wanting him to cut off a toe. “I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer. If you refuse or I think you’re lying . . .” With the push of a button, the blade swung out. “Well, you get the idea.”
Blue Face didn’t so much as give the knife a cursory glance. “I understand.”
“Good, let’s get started, shall we?” Dylan tapped the blade on the palm of his hand, probably to draw out the tension, not that it seemed to have any effect on Blue Face, who only wiggled his hands behind his back. “We’ll start with something easy. What is your name?”
“I lost my name long ago,” Blue Face said, almost cordially. “Now I am known simply as the Great Khan.”
Jenn snorted at him, but she couldn’t ignore the goosebumps breaking out across her skin. “Great Khan? Seriously? Like Genghis Khan?”
Blue Face—the Great Khan—lifted his chin in what Jenn thought was pride, then said without a hint of sarcasm, “You honor me with the comparison. Genghis was a great warrior, an inspiration to my people.”
Again, Jenn snorted. Those goosebumps, though, had begun to spread. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“The title was bestowed upon me,” the Great Khan said. “I am not so vain as to adopt such a lofty moniker for myself, I assure you.”
“Huh, good to know. Because naming yourself the Great Khan would be totally weird. It’s fine if other people call you that.”
He stared at her blankly, and his left eye vibrated a little. Had her quip offended him? She meant to test her theory with another insult, but Dylan spoke over her: “Were you responsible for killing those people in the council chamber and setting those buildings on fire?”
Contempt sharpened his words. When he interrogated Ian, he hadn’t allowed his emotions to show through. In fact, he was so good at hiding them that Jenn hadn’t been sure he felt any at all. Now, for some reason, they poured out for the world to see. For the Great Khan to see. Jenn worried the Khan could use Dylan’s anger to his advantage. If he began coaxing Dylan, or trying to manipulate him, she’d step in and end this interrogation. She didn’t care one iota about the Great Khan’s well-being; she only wanted to prevent Dylan from doing something he’d later regret.
The Khan blinked, long and slow. “Yes, I am responsible.”
With his confession, Jenn saw that little girl and her horse, saw the blood. Her index finger ached, begging to pull the trigger and end the Great Khan once and for all, but she resisted and turned her focus to Dylan. He worked his jaw, and the hand not holding the knife had formed into a tight fist.
“How many of you are there?” Dylan asked. “Where did you come from?”
“We number over a thousand, but my White Horde has no home. We come from everywhere and nowhere.”
White Horde? The Khan must have more than two men in Window Rock, but a thousand? Enough to call his group a horde?
He’s crazy, remember? The White Horde was likely nothing but a figment of this sick man’s imagination. This sick man who thanked her for comparing him to Genghis Khan. Of course he’d conjure up some great army. In his mind, his soldiers probably rode on horseback and fought with bows and arrows. “No way,” she spat. “You’re lying. If that many people were in Window Rock, we would’ve seen them.”
“Indeed,” he said. “The bulk of the horde remains in Santa Fe, completing its work. Accompanying me is merely an advance guard. Twenty-five men, two of which you have sent to the underworld. A wholly sufficient force for the task at hand. This settlement offered remarkably little resistance.”
Twenty-three, then. Twenty-three armed killers who would be searching for their leader. Not a thousand, thank God, but almost quintuple the number in Jenn’s small team.
A string of mucus dangled from the Khan’s left nostril. “You see,” he continued, “all great commanders must lead from the front. They must share in the dangers their followers face as a consequence of their orders. So I thank you. Surely, today will live on in the collective memory of my horde. Your taking me should add greatly to my legacy.”
A twinge of unease tightened Jenn’s belly. Each time the Khan spoke, it became harder to dismiss him as a rambling psychopath. Now she found herself considering the possibility that this White Horde truly existed. It could be like a cult, with the Great Khan as its leader. Strange, but not impossible. Given the promise of food and shelter, people might actually follow him, blue face paint and all.
“Where are the rest of them?” Dylan asked. “The ones you brought to Window Rock.”
The Khan smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. The teeth of a one-percenter. Sam had teeth like that. Nicole, too. But not Jenn. Her bottom teeth were too crowded, and her left eye tooth was crooked. Whoever the Khan was before the bombs, he’d had enough money to afford expensive dental care. The way he spoke, with clear, precise diction, suggested he also had a decent education. Maybe the mental hospital had an in-house dentist and an English teacher.
“Worry not,” he said. “They’re no threat to you now.”
What was “now” supposed to mean? That his honor guards would be a threat in the future or they wouldn’t be able to find this place? Screw the Great Khan and his cryptic way of speaking.
“You mentioned your work,” Dylan said. “Tell us more about that. Was killing all those people part of it?”
“Indeed,” was all the Khan offered in response.
A heavy silence hung in the room. The muscles in Dylan’s face had gone taut, and his grip on the knife had tightened, the knuckles white. “Why did you kill them?” he pressed. “What did they do to you? There were kids in there, noncombatants.�
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The Khan cocked his head to the side as though he didn’t understand the question or thought the answer was self-evident. “Because Gaia has willed it, and I am her hand on the material plane.”
A bead of cold sweat tickled Jenn’s temple. “Gaia? Who’s that? Your boss?”
“In a manner of speaking.” His eyes flitted to the ceiling. With reverence, he added, “None are mightier than Gaia. She is the Earth itself. Our Great Mother.”
That twinge of unease in Jenn’s stomach grew. Was the Khan hearing voices in his head? Did he think he spoke to Mother Earth? Whatever the case, he clearly believed every word that came out of his mouth. This was no ruse or elaborate hoax. “Dylan,” she pleaded. “Seriously, let’s get out of here. We’ll strip-search him to see if he’s got a tracker somewhere, then take him with us.”
Dylan fixed his gaze on the Great Khan and clicked his tongue. “We aren’t done here.”
Her skin itched with irritation. Why did he need answers now when he could just as easily interrogate the Great Khan later, in the brig at Militia HQ? Now she was certain those bodies had triggered him. They triggered her, too—namely into vomiting—but he hadn’t been considering the greater threat: the Khan’s people and how they could be searching for him.
But what could she do? Call in Quinn, Sam, and Beau so they could haul Dylan out of here? He was her superior officer. She might joke about ranks and how silly they sounded, but she’d face consequences for opposing his orders, like losing her squad or getting booted from the Militia altogether. Also at stake was her friendship with Dylan. Yet she would rather lose all of those things than wind up dead or captured because he refused to leave when he had the chance.
She’d give him one more question before pulling him aside and arguing her case. Only as a last resort would she call in the others. Even then, if she told them to help her stop Dylan, would they listen? Sam would, though not without some reluctance. Quinn? Likely, but she’d need convincing. Beau? Jenn had no idea. He was a wild card. Overall, those weren’t the best odds if she hoped to carry out what amounted to a mutiny.
Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
Dylan tossed the knife from one hand to the other. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said to the Khan. “I asked you why you killed those people, not who or what told you to do it.”
“Yes, I understand now.” The sound of the Khan’s dry tongue on his dry lips made the hairs on the back of Jenn’s neck stand on end. “Gaia lamented their existence. They are a blight on her great creation, and so they were destroyed.”
“The Navajo are a blight,” Dylan said. Or did he ask? She chose not to count that as a question, mostly because she wanted to know the answer. What justified the killing of the Navajo in particular? In the Great Khan’s perverted mind, what had they done to deserve death? She owed it to that little girl to find out.
“A blight, yes. But not just the Navajo. Mankind. Gaia gifted us with life, and in thanks, we defile her, insult her, rape her. Now, after three centuries of transgression, we committed our greatest sin: we burned her skin with atomic fire, poisoned her air with radiation. In turn, she demands our punishment.”
Jenn bit down on her knuckle. The Khan almost sounded like the climate protestors on campus. They’d go on and on about Mother Earth and the damage humanity had inflicted on the planet, but never would they have endorsed killing people as a possible solution. Could he be one of them gone crazy?
She surprised herself by speaking: “And your White Horde is carrying out this punishment by, what, murdering innocent civilians? Committing genocide?”
“Gaia has willed it.” The Khan licked his lips some more before sniffing up the snot leaking from his nose. “The bombs were the twilight of humanity. The White Horde is the night. Soon, dawn will come, and we will be given a second chance, but first, all must be undone. It must be returned to its default. None will be spared. Only once the stain of our existence has been cleansed can our Great Mother rebuild the world anew. Flagstaff will be next.”
She went rigid. Had she heard that right? Did he mention Flagstaff?
Panic buzzed in her head, quietly at first, then so loudly her ears began to ring. How did he know where she and Dylan had come from? Obviously, neither of them were Navajo, but they could have traveled here from Prescott or Phoenix or Albuquerque, New Mexico. “Who says we’re from Flagstaff?”
“Its fate is inevitable,” he said, paying her no mind. “Like Sioux Falls, Rapid City, Casper, the National Guard safe zones outside Denver, and now Santa Fe and Window Rock, Flagstaff will be razed, cured of the disease that infects it.”
An image of the corpses in the council chamber flashed in her mind. This time, Maria lay among them. As did Sam and Gary and everyone else she loved. That little girl was there, too, facedown in a pool of half-frozen blood, reaching for her stuffed horse.
As if a switch had been flipped, the White Horde became as real as the weapon in her hands, as real as the two dead honor guards outside the council chamber, as real as this lunatic wearing an animal pelt. Yes, it could still be a fabrication of his imagination, a twisted manifestation brought on by mental illness, but could she risk not believing him? After Sunset Point, she promised herself to always plan for the worst, to assume it would happen. To do otherwise now would go against every instinct in her body.
“Your horde,” she said. “Would they be willing to bargain for your life? We send you back, and in return, they don’t attack Flagstaff.”
“My fate is of little consequence. Kill me now, hold me captive, it matters not. If I fall, Gaia will appoint another to take my place. The White Horde is her creation, a force of pure nature, like a hurricane or an earthquake. I command it, yes, but it cannot be destroyed by ending me alone.”
“I’m open to testing that theory.” Dylan threw a fist into the Khan’s jaw, knocking him onto the floor.
Jenn froze in surprise. She’d expected Dylan to do something like this, but now that he had, she found her feet glued to the cheap linoleum, unable to move. When she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came out.
Lying on his side, the Khan grinned broadly. Blood colored his white teeth red, and the blue face paint was smeared where Dylan had struck him. “What vigor. You shall make worthy adversaries. Perhaps some of your number will join my ranks and aid me on future campaigns.”
Dylan sat him against the wall and brought the knife to his throat.
Jenn found her voice: “Dylan, stop.” That came out as little more than a squeak, so she repeated herself, louder. “Stop!”
Face contorted in fury, Dylan pressed the blade to the Khan’s neck hard enough to draw blood. “No, I say we kill him, right here, right now.”
This had gone too far. Although Jenn wanted to see the Great Khan dead, they needed him alive. “We aren’t doing that. I’m calling in the others and we’re going to do what I said earlier: strip-search him and bring him with us.” She softened her tone. “Don’t do something you can’t take back later.”
Dylan kept still, eyes burning with rage. Jenn brought her hand to the mic on her jacket, ready to radio her team, but before she pressed the talk button, Dylan pulled the knife away. “Fine,” he relented and folded the blade inside the handle. “We do it your way.”
About time. A layer of tension slipped off her shoulders. She made a note to speak with Dylan about this later, though. Actually, she should first speak with Courtney, who acted as the intermediary between Dylan and his squad leaders. Maybe she’d have some insight into what was going on with him, because frankly, Jenn had no idea.
The Khan cracked his neck with a loud pop. “I have an alternative proposal.”
“Oh, this should be good,” Jenn said. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s quite simple, really.” He swallowed what must have been a mouthful of blood. “Release me, and I shall let you live.”
She laughed, an involuntary response to the fear gripping her chest. “Pretty big threat
from a guy with his hands tied behind his back.”
His awful smile returned, and he made a noise that might have been a laugh of his own. “I am the scourge of God herself. Did you truly believe that of the twenty-five warriors who accompanied me to Window Rock, only two would be assigned to my defense? By now, no fewer than ten of my honor guards will have tracked me to this location.”
Her heart stopped. “Are you saying you do have a tracker? Or a drone?”
“My honor guards need no such tools. They comprise my horde’s greatest and most noble warriors. True believers of Gaia. Each of them moves like a shadow, tracks like an Apache scout. You cannot hide from them.”
Not possible. She hadn’t seen any vehicles on the road, so he must be wearing a tracking device. How else would his honor guards know where he’d been taken? Or could he be lying in hopes that she and Dylan would leave him here for his people to pick up later?
Worst case, Jenn. Always worst case.
She darted over to the window. Quinn and Sam stood vigilant at the rear of the truck, watching the right—north—while Beau watched the south. All carried rifles, even Sam.
Jenn pulled out her radio. “Quinn, Jenn here. You see anything?”
Quinn perked up and spun in a full circle before facing the shipping container. “Still all clear. Everything all right in there?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Just checking in. Jenn out.” Breathing easier, she turned to the Great Khan, who watched her with those empty eyes, his face a mask beneath the blue paint. “Looks like your pals won’t be saving you today. So sorry.” And then, to Dylan, “Maybe we do the strip search on the way. We can ditch his clothes and wrap him in a blanket.” She’d have to make Beau do the stripping part. The thought of coming within a foot of the Great Khan churned her insides; it smelled like he hadn’t bathed since the bombs.
Dylan tapped the stock of his rifle a few times. “All right. Call Novak. Get her—”
“Uh, guys,” Quinn said through the radio. “Scratch my last. We got a problem out here. Three trucks, headed our way.”
