by David Lucin
Yes, please. Thank you.
The Khan lowered himself into the cushy black swivel chair behind the desk. He removed his headdress—it had suffered no damage in the encounter with the warriors from Flagstaff yesterday—and set it next to a lamp with a brown shade. Absently, he ran his fingers through the deer pelt across his shoulders. He recalled the creature fondly. For weeks its flesh sustained him, and even now, its fur kept him warm. As a tribute to its sacrifice, the Khan chose its antlers as the symbol of his authority.
His memories of that time, the aftermath of the bombs and before the White Horde, grew fuzzier by the day. Only snippets survived. The Khan had a name once, he knew, but it had long ago escaped him. As had any recollection of his childhood, his career, his family. Through the haze, though, he could see two faces. They appeared vague, indistinct, like sketches of a painting of a badly damaged photograph. The first belonged to a woman with curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a warm, friendly smile. And then a teenage boy, aged fourteen or fifteen, with the same eyes as the woman but sandy-blond hair. Often, the Khan could hear them shouting. In their voices lurked so much anger, so much disappointment. He couldn’t recall who they were, but they inspired distant feelings of regret and loss.
That life is no more, Gaia lamented. You must not succumb to the urge to remember. To dwell on the past is to be distracted from our mission.
“I am simply curious,” the Khan said. “Did I know them? Were they important to me?”
Gaia spoke calmly and with patience. All you must know is this: they endeavored to break our link, forcing upon you drugs so that we could not commune. Had they succeeded, there would be no Great Khan, no White Horde. I would have been compelled to choose another. Is that what you desire?
He vaguely recollected this: the woman with the blue eyes asking in Gaia’s voice if he’d remembered his medicine. Could she have been his doctor? A nurse, perhaps? Or someone of greater significance, like a sister or wife? “No, Mother. I am your hand until you deem me unworthy.”
Then let them go, my child. You have no need for them. She paused, and the Khan sensed what she would say next; he’d been ruminating on it for over a day. The warriors from the west, you released them. Why?
He considered lying, but his thoughts were Gaia’s own, so he admitted, “I feared for my life.” He hastened to add, “But it matters not. Our horde will overcome any that stand in its way.”
Beware hubris, Gaia warned. You must not underestimate our foes as Xerxes once underestimated the Greeks.
The comparison stung. Despite his army of a million, according to Herodotus, Xerxes, the Persian king of kings, was defeated soundly by an alliance of Sparta, Athens, and a handful of other Greek city-states in 480 BC. How the Great Khan knew this, he could not recall. “Yes, Mother.”
Do not be ashamed, she continued in a more soothing tone. Many of my creations experience fear. I bestowed it upon them for a purpose: to make them stronger. I made man differently by giving him the power to overcome fear, to control it. Yet in my own hubris, I failed to foresee that fear could control man in turn. You must conquer fear, destroy it, for you must be fearless to carry out our work.
“I understand, but I am weak.” He shut his eyes, remembering the sharpness of that blade against his skin, the coolness of it. “I am a coward.”
You are merely human. Your flaws are no fault of your own. If one is to be blamed, it is I.
Gaia’s words lifted the Khan’s spirit. She always knew precisely what to say. “Thank you, Mother.”
A knock came from the door.
Answer it, Gaia ordered. One of your captains comes with news of our conquests.
Sitting with his spine straight, the Khan donned his headdress, folded his hands atop the desk, and called out, “Enter.”
With a squeak of its hinges, the door opened. An honor guard, his face concealed by a black ski mask, stepped into the office and bowed deeply. “My Khan, Captain Johansen requests an audience.”
“As I’ve expected,” the Khan said. “Send him in.”
The honor guard slipped out, and in came Richard Johansen, dressed in a brown jacket with yellow stripes running down the sleeves. Thin with sunken cheeks and dark eyes, he’d grown his blond beard long and braided it at the chin. He wore his hair long, too, and tied it back in a ponytail. Plain metal hoops hung from both earlobes. One of his front teeth was missing, and an unsightly scar ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth—the consequences of a hard life in modular housing. The Khan did not care for the expletives tattooed across Johansen’s knuckles, but they gave the man a certain air of violence, a useful quality in a captain of the White Horde.
After shutting the door behind him, Johansen greeted the Khan with a respectful nod. “Sir, thank you for seeing me.”
“Certainly, Captain. Please, sit.” The Khan gestured to one of the two exquisite wooden chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “What news have you of our enemies from the west?”
Johansen took the proffered seat and made himself comfortable, his elbow on the backrest, his right ankle resting on his left knee. The Khan would not tolerate such body language from his other captains, but he valued Johansen above all else. He was a natural leader of men and a competent tactician, yet the Khan trusted no one. If he suspected treachery, he would have Johansen executed without hesitation or remorse.
“No sign of anyone coming in from the interstate. I think we spooked ’em away.”
“Yes, yes. Fine work. You shall be rewarded generously.” The Khan held out a hand. “Do you have the report I requested?”
“Got it right here.” Johansen dug into his pocket and retrieved a folded-up piece of paper. “List of everything useful we’ve turned up. I told the counters to do a better job this time. I know how you like it detailed.”
The Khan unfolded the paper on the desk. As he’d insisted, three columns divided the page: ITEM, QTY, and NOTES. For some reason, his mind thrived on order. He found lists, spreadsheets, and hard data strangely pleasing. Was this a holdover from his old life? Gaia might know, but she’d already warned him once today about dwelling on the past.
“It’s not much,” Johansen added. “These people were living on scraps. Hopefully we can scrounge up a bit more in Santa Fe.”
“This should come as no surprise.” The Khan drummed his fingers on the desk. “Mankind has wandered too far from its ancestral roots. We no longer know how to live in harmony with our Great Mother. Our food, manufactured in plants that spewed toxins into her air, originated hundreds of miles away, transported in vehicles that used energy derived from nuclear fission, which then produced radioactive waste that we buried deep beneath her skin.”
Johansen’s eyebrow arched. An involuntary reaction, possibly, or even a nervous tic, but in it, the Khan saw nothing but malice. “I hear you, but Denver was a bust, and Santa Fe’s not looking much better. Now this. I mean no disrespect, sir, but the horde’s hungry. We gotta eat.”
“And you will, Captain. The Navajo tell stories of Flagstaff’s riches. They speak of a bounty that can feed tens of thousands until spring. A prize such as this will allow us to rest and rebuild our strength before we continue our campaign to the coast.”
“I hope so.”
The Khan detected a hint of a threat in Johansen’s cadence, but not enough to warrant punishment. It was simply a reminder of the horde’s precarious state. Napoleon had once said that an army marched on its stomach. The same held true for the White Horde.
Carefully, the Khan folded the paper and tucked it into the top drawer of the desk; he would review it in more detail later. “Have you found any additional survivors?”
“Twenty so far.” Johansen scratched the inside of his nose with his thumbnail. “Rounded ’em up in a house down the street. You want us to take care of it?”
“Have you deemed any of them worthy of joining our ranks?”
Johansen clicked his tongue dismissively. “Honestly? No. They’re
all starving. The few that might’ve been worth taking a chance on died defending the place when we got here.”
“Then do what must be done, Captain, but be mindful: a great battle looms on the horizon, and we must preserve our munitions. Set the house ablaze instead. Shoot only those who try to escape.”
An inkling of excitement flashed across Johansen’s face. “You got it, sir.” And then, after he flicked away something he’d found in his nose, “What do you want done with Richter and Adams?”
The Khan’s two dead honor guards. He experienced an uncharacteristic pang of sadness. Like many of his honor guards, both Richter and Adams had sworn their loyalty in the beginning, when the White Horde comprised a handful of ragtag survivors scraped from the ruins of the Twin Cities. They were true believers, and replacing them would prove difficult, if not impossible. “They perished in defense of their Khan. They shall be cremated, their ashes spread and returned to Gaia.”
“That’s what I figured.” Johansen tugged at one of his earrings. “One last thing. There’s been some reports of a flu among the locals here. Fever, headache, coughing, the usual stuff, but it sounds pretty nasty.”
“Ah, a pestilence. The unseen hand of our Great Mother. Have any of our warriors shown symptoms?”
“Nothing yet, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Good. Take any precautions you deem necessary to prevent the infection from spreading amongst our horde. Have the afflicted Navajo been exterminated?”
“Yes, sir, and we burned the bodies.”
The Khan found himself impressed by Johansen’s display of initiative. Too much, however, would arouse suspicion. “Excellent work.” There was more to discuss, particularly as it related to the logistics of moving the horde westward, but the Khan thought it best to keep these interactions brief, lest his captains become too comfortable in his presence. “Thank you for your report, Captain. You are dismissed.”
Johansen rose to his feet, offered a respectful nod, and left the office.
He will kill you, Gaia said when she and the Khan were alone once again. If you do not provide the provisions you have promised, he will take your life and I will be forced to appoint another.
“I understand.” He removed his headdress and returned it to the desk. “It would be easier to control him if he believed in our mission.”
What men like Johansen believe is of no consequence. They are tools, nothing more. Must your hammer comprehend why you are using it to drive nails?
“No, I suppose it does not.”
Precisely. Johansen is a hammer. Use him as such. If the hammer ceases to function, replace it. Yet you must exercise caution. Even the most rudimentary of tools require a certain amount of care and attention. They cannot be neglected or misused.
“Yes, Mother.” The Khan yawned, and his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in days. A memory of the blue-eyed woman raced through his mind, like a television program on fast-forward. She sat in a restaurant, surrounded by friendly, ambient chatter, a crustacean on her plate. Oddly, the Khan smelled something sweet, fruity. Perfume? The woman laughed, sipped white wine, and then reached her hand across the table to—
Rest, child, Gaia cooed, interrupting his thoughts. And eat. You must maintain your strength. The greatest test of our might is forthcoming, and we cannot afford to fail.
11
Upon their return to Flagstaff, Gary’s Militia escort took him straight to HQ, where he was led to a study room with a long conference-style table and black LED screens on three of the four walls. There were no windows in here; an electric lamp provided the only source of light. At the head of the table sat Liam, wearing his coat and, to Gary’s relief, a mask. To his left was Chief Craig Morrison, also masked. And to his right . . .
“Mayor Ruiz,” Sophie Beaumont said, feet up on the table and leaning back in her chair. Like the men, she sported an N95, and her graying chestnut hair, tied into a ponytail, poked through the opening in her mesh-back cap. A homemade black and yellow scarf concealed her neck. She noticed Gary eying it and held up one end. “You like this? My husband, believe it or not, is quite the knitter. If you ask nicely, I’m sure he’d be willing to make you, our fearless leader, one as well.”
Gary smiled behind his own mask. “I’m fine, but thank you for the offer.” He pulled out a chair near the door as his Militia escort left the room. “What brings you here today, Mrs. Beaumont? I feel like we haven’t crossed paths in weeks.”
Liam planted his elbows in front of a tablet on the table. “She’s graciously offered to help with the logistics of moving supplies to the Skydome and says her security will stay there to defend it. I’m still trying to figure out how she managed to weasel her way into sitting in on this meeting.”
“I can be very persuasive,” she said and sniffed, then rubbed her nose through her mask. “How did things go in Prescott with my friend Sheriff Jordan Wilson? He didn’t try to run you off the road with spike strips, did he? Is that why it took you so long to get back?” She tapped her wrist but wasn’t wearing a watch. “We’ve been waiting on you for hours.”
“No spike strips, fortunately.” Gary groaned to himself. “Mayor Bonelli did make me wait two hours before meeting with him, however, and then proceeded to discount the threat of the White Horde altogether.”
“Bonelli’s a pig and a crook,” Sophie spat. “If you gentlemen had bothered including me in your group planning sessions from the get-go, I could’ve told you this and saved you a trip out there.”
“I didn’t say the trip was a waste, Mrs. Beaumont.” Gary took some delight in watching her eyebrows shoot up. “Sheriff Wilson assured me in private that he’ll bring whatever support he can muster, and I’m confident he’ll come through in the end.”
Sophie made a noise. Gary wasn’t sure what it meant. Surprise? He’d gotten to know her better while Jenn worked at the farm, but he still had trouble reading the woman’s crass exterior. “How about that? Looks like your little expedition down to Sunset Point earned us a friend.”
“Indeed.” He massaged his knee beneath the table. Later, to ward off swelling, he’d have to bag some snow and ice it. “As for why we took so long to get back, Jordan offered to feed us lunch and charge the truck. I couldn’t say no to a free meal and free electricity, so I agreed, and we didn’t hit the road until one o’clock. Then we got stuck not far from the Rocky Park Road exit and spent about an hour digging ourselves out. My wife’s probably worried sick about me.”
“We’ll have you out of here shortly,” Liam said. “We’ve received word from the scout teams to New Mexico.”
“Already? I wasn’t expecting to hear from them before tomorrow. Did they find the White Horde?”
“They did.” Liam put his finger on the tablet. “We downloaded the drone footage. I can show you later, if you like, but it’s about as I expected: over a hundred vehicles, many of them pulling trailers.”
The news hardly fazed Gary; since yesterday, he’d accepted the White Horde’s existence as fact. Above all else, he felt a sense of urgency. There was still so much to do. “When do we expect it to arrive?”
“If they continue unimpeded, Tuesday at the earliest. Wednesday if it stops in Window Rock.”
So two days, maybe three. “I assume the scout team’s all right? Are they here now?”
Liam shook his head. “Sergeant Hiroyuki came back to report in but headed out again thirty minutes ago with Captain Townsend and our mortars. They’ll be fighting a delaying action in Holbrook.”
Worry pinched Gary’s gut. Not only was Jenn far from home, but she would be facing off against the White Horde, a force a hundred times the size of her small team. She had some of the Militia’s best as backup, but he wished he’d said a proper goodbye before she left. The last time he saw Camila, he at least gave her a hug and held her tight.
His emotions must have been plain on his face, because Liam added, “Don’t worry. Townsend has orders to hightail
it out of town if there’s even a whiff of trouble.”
Liam’s assurances helped loosened the knot in Gary’s stomach, but it didn’t release entirely. He had to give his mind something else to focus on. “So where are we at, then?”
“We’ve been moving rations to the Skydome,” Craig said, speaking for the first time. The man’s skin was ashen, his thinning hair disheveled. Had he slept at all last night? “If we work straight through until morning, we should get everything in there. The Beaumont crew has started transporting water from the treatment plant.”
Water. How had Gary not considered that yet? Water, more than anything, would limit how long the Skydome could hold out in the event of a siege.
Sophie pulled her feet off the table and crossed her legs at the knee. “Speaking of the water treatment plant, I think we should begin giving serious consideration to sabotaging the pump before we hole up in the Skydome. Lake Mary’s frozen and a decent drive outside of town, so without the convenience of a fancy treatment plant, supplying a thousand men with fresh water would be a real pain in the neck.”
Craig put a fist to his mask like he was yawning. “Agreed. The horde could always resort to melting snow, but I’m on board for anything that’ll make the Khan’s life even a little more difficult. I’ll talk to the engineers, see if they can come up with something we can easily undo later.”
“What about civilians?” Gary asked. “Now that we have proof the White Horde is real and coming for us, should we begin evacuations?”
“There could be panic when news of this gets out,” Craig said through another yawn, “but I’m not sure what else we can do at this point. If we only have two days to squirrel people away, we need to get started.”
Gary thought of Maria. Simply moving her to the Skydome would be a challenge, and being stuffed into an enclosed space with so many others would threaten her life. “Are there any precautions we can take regarding the flu? I realize there’re limits on what we can do to isolate the sick, but to be completely transparent, I’m worried about my wife.”
