by David Lucin
Gary rubbed his hands together to warm them. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thank you, Roberta.”
She threw up the hood of her ski jacket and strolled down the hall, whistling.
Inside the drunk tank, the Great Khan, tucked beneath a heavy knitted blanket, sat alone on a stainless-steel bench. The police had confiscated his headdress of antlers, but he was allowed to continue wearing his deer pelt vest. Gary could smell it from twenty feet away.
Three days had passed since Flagstaff defeated the White Horde at what had become known as the Battle of the Walkup Skydome. While the prisoners remained under heavy guard at Pine Ridge Village, the Khan had been brought here, where the police kept him in isolation.
Gary had expected someone taller, more imposing. Huddled up in the corner of this drunk tank, shivering beneath his blanket, the Great Khan looked like a homeless transient or a drug addict who’d escaped a modular housing complex, not the feared leader of the White Horde.
“I’m Gary Ruiz,” he began, his voice echoing off the walls. “Mayor of Flagstaff.”
The Khan perked up, threw off the blanket, and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He smiled, his teeth glowing white in the emergency lights. Traces of blue paint still colored his cheeks and chin. “I should congratulate you, Mayor Ruiz, on a victory well won. A true Cannae. Your warriors showed great prowess.”
Gary wasn’t sure how to respond; Jenn had warned him that the Khan spoke strangely and often in riddles. He hadn’t come here to chat, though. The police had spent hours interrogating him, but he’d revealed no details about his past or the origins of the White Horde, not even his name: simply half-coherent ramblings about Gaia, her mission, and the utopia she sought to impose on this world.
“I won’t waste your time,” Gary began, knowing full well the Khan had nothing but time, “so I’ll get right to it. I’ve come to inform you of your fate.”
“My fate?” The Khan licked his lips. “Do you mean to execute me?”
“No.” Gary wrapped his fingers around one of the bars, the metal cool on his skin. “You and your followers have been sentenced to exile.”
“‘Sentenced’ would imply a trial. Under your laws, am I not entitled to representation?” The Khan sounded more curious than afraid or frustrated. Jenn had also mentioned the man’s oddly stoic demeanor, but experiencing it firsthand made Gary uneasy.
“It wasn’t so much of a trial as a tribunal. City council reviewed the case and ruled that you are guilty of crimes against humanity. Needless to say, the evidence was overwhelming.” The knowledge that 436 people had been condemned to die of exposure, likely within a day or two, would surely keep Gary up at night, but what else could he do? Imprisonment would require Flagstaff to feed them, and few, if any, residents would support a plan that gave the White Horde any of the town’s limited food supplies. Outright execution by hanging or firing squad felt too barbaric. Exile—or, rather, execution by exile—was a necessary compromise.
The Khan laughed, an unsettling cackle that came straight from the depths of his gut. “Crimes against humanity? Everything I do is for humanity, to ensure our place in our Great Mother’s new world. We are a parasite, a virus. If we are not destroyed, we will continue to drain the life of our host until she can nourish us no longer. Already we may have rendered this world uninhabitable for centuries to come. Gaia promises to resurrect us anew. In return, she demands punishment for our transgressions. We, her greatest and most cherished creation, have failed her. Instead of giving her our thanks, we torture her. We must be punished for the damage we’ve done, Mayor Ruiz. We must.”
Gary had seen these types before in Phoenix: paranoid schizophrenics so consumed by their delusions that they twisted reality to fit the narratives in their minds. Out in the world, uninhibited, the Great Khan posed a danger to himself and to others, but here, behind these bars, he was nothing but a sick, sad man.
Yet he made an uncomfortably good point: mankind had defiled the planet. Never would Gary have considered himself an environmentalist, and he only shook his head at protestors and radicals, most of whom went through life entirely divorced from reality, but a quick glance at the sky offered definitive proof of how the bombs had fundamentally altered the Earth’s climate. The short-term consequences—nuclear winter—had proven severe enough. Gary could only begin to imagine the effects in ten, twenty, a hundred years.
He should conclude this conversation and walk away; nothing good would come of feeding the Great Khan’s fantasies. Against his better judgment, he said, “We’re stronger than you think. And smarter. We’ll learn from our mistakes. As you were saying, the bombs changed the planet, but unlike you, I don’t see them as the end. They can be a beginning, a new way forward, a chance to start fresh and right the wrongs we’ve committed.”
That sounded preachy, even to his own ears, but he believed every word. America before the bombs was a shadow of its former self: its economy was in tatters, the rich blamed the poor and the poor blamed the rich, and politicians worked against each other rather than for the good of the country. Flagstaff’s response to the White Horde and the alliance with Prescott gave Gary hope for the future. The world as he knew it might have ended on April 28, 2062, but what came next could be better. Would be, if he continued having a say in the matter.
The Khan withdrew into the shadows, resting his head against the cinder block wall. “Hubris,” he spat. “I am guilty of it myself, believing my White Horde to be invincible. Now it lies broken and defeated. Heed this warning, Mayor Ruiz, and heed it well. Gaia seeks to wipe us clean of her skin because we are flawed, dysfunctional. In us lurks great potential, but it is buried too deep. Our nature cannot be changed. Whatever you seek to create is doomed to failure. To oppose Gaia will only prolong your suffering.”
A chill snaked its way down Gary’s spine, but he refused to let the Khan’s cryptic threats dampen his optimism. So he thrust his shoulders back and stood tall, saying, “Tomorrow at sunrise, we’ll begin transporting your people east, south, and west. They’ll be dropped off and left without weapons, food, or water.” He turned to leave but added, “If Gaia is indeed on your side, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
* * *
There was a clank, the sound of metal on metal, followed by a screech. Light flooded in through a crack in one of the trailer’s doors, revealing thirty-eight of Gaia’s followers. All sat on the floor, packed together like livestock being led to their slaughter. The Great Khan himself was tucked into the far corner, an honor guard to each his right and to his left.
Both doors swung open now. After several hours in total darkness, the Khan had to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight. The stink of vomit burned his sinuses; a number of the passengers in this trailer had voided their stomachs during the ride.
Silhouetted by the bloodred sun, two figures appeared outside in the snow. Both carried rifles. “Out,” a woman said. Her voice was familiar: one of the warriors who captured the Great Khan in Window Rock. “And hurry it up. It’s a long drive home, and I’d like to get back to my warm, cozy bed sometime before dark.”
A few groaned in reply. One man pleaded, “Please, you don’t have to do this. We were just following orders.”
“Don’t care.” The woman waved her rifle, gesturing for the prisoners to climb out. “You picked your side. Time to face the music.”
“I’ll work,” he continued. “Anything you want. I can—”
“Shut up already,” Johansen said, then drove a boot into the man’s hamstring, sending him falling forward and out of the trailer.
Johansen. The most traitorous of the horde’s captains. Until this morning, the Great Khan had assumed the man died during the battle at the Skydome. He was disappointed to learn otherwise.
One by one, the captives in the trailer filed out. Soon, the Khan and his honor guards were the final three who remained.
The girl poked her head inside. “Come on, Your Highness. Don’t make us drag you out
of there.”
Do as they say, Gaia told him. There is no use in resisting further.
But my followers. I see the way they look at me—with disdain. Johansen, particularly. Once we are left alone, they will endeavor to do me harm.
That fate is inevitable, child.
The Khan thought back to that moment at the Skydome, when he’d pressed the Glock to his temple. He had been a coward then, and now he would suffer the consequences.
I will show you, Gaia said softly. The ones you seek. Join me, and you will see them again.
His bottom lip began to quiver, so he bit down on it with his front teeth. Thank you, Mother.
With renewed vigor, he rose to a crouch and made his way out of the trailer, which straddled two lanes of a divided highway. The terrain comprised snow-covered plateau colored with brown grasses and brush. Above, the sky, smoke-filled and gray, loomed oppressively large. This was east—Navajo country.
No fewer than eight armed guards stood in a line along the edge of the road, backs to the desert, rifles at the ready. If a single prisoner posed the smallest of threats, the guards would not hesitate to open fire.
The man who had begged earlier, a pathetic creature in his fifties or sixties, his hair graying, the wrinkles around his eyes deep from age and malnutrition, fell to his knees and pressed his palms together as though in prayer. “Please, you can’t leave us out here.” He aimed a finger toward the Great Khan. “It was him! He’s who you should be punishing. We just needed to eat. We didn’t want to hurt nobody. I swear it!”
He began to cry, burying his face in his hands.
“Pretty sure he didn’t kill those people in Window Rock,” said a guard with an orange beard and a faded black baseball cap. The Khan recognized him as well—the one who’d held a knife to his throat.
“No, that was—”
The guard gripped the prisoner by the front of the jacket and lifted him to his feet, then pushed him backward, into the others. “Walk,” he ordered and pointed east. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
A few complied without question, trudging past the trailer and into oblivion. The crying wretch made a final plea for mercy before a pair of prisoners took him by the arms and pulled him away.
“Your turn, Mr. Khan,” someone taunted, though the Khan could not see who had spoken.
One of his honor guards, Nolan, a tall, bearded Caucasian man with a patch over his left eye, whispered, “We’ll protect you, my Khan.” He angled his head toward the second honor guard, Tucker, a shorter, younger man who still wore his black ski mask. “Until the end. In the name of our Great Mother.”
His words filled the Great Khan with gratitude. He clasped Nolan on the shoulder and offered him a firm nod. “We go to Gaia.”
Flanked by his most loyal followers, the Khan turned his back on his captors and proceeded past the trailer and the truck, down the interstate and toward his fate. They kept to the rear of the pack. Johansen had taken the lead, and the others followed. The captain’s coup had been subtle. After a mere five days in isolation, the Great Khan had lost control of all but his honor guards.
When the prisoners had moved a safe distance away, the guards shut the trailer and piled into the truck. Four climbed into the box. The vehicle then turned around and drove toward Flagstaff. As the Khan watched it disappear over the horizon, a frigid wind blew in from the north, stinging his face and ears. He pressed his arms tight to his torso to stave off the cold.
“My Khan,” Nolan said. “They come for you.”
Facing the Khan and his honor guards, the prisoners had formed a line stretching the width of the highway’s eastbound lanes. Johansen, outwardly unfazed by the freezing temperatures, his braided beard and blond hair blowing in the wind, stepped ahead of the others. He carried no weapons—none of them did—but his hands were balled into fists at his sides.
Nolan and Tucker moved in front of their leader. “Traitors!” Nolan shouted. “Our Great Mother will see you punished for this.”
Johansen barked a condescending laugh. “You know, I’m sick and tired of listening to this crap. Thankfully, I don’t have to take it anymore.”
At that, six prisoners lunged forth at the two honor guards. Tucker drove an elbow into one, but a second tackled him at the knees and knocked him to the ground. Nolan dodged a blow and hit a man in the mouth before he, too, was overwhelmed. A dozen assailants descended upon them both, limbs flailing with violent blows. The struggle lasted no more than a minute. When it ended, Nolan and Tucker lay still. Blood covered Nolan’s face, and Tucker’s head was bent at an unnatural angle, his neck snapped.
The Khan was struck by an urge to flee, but Gaia said to him, Stand firm. Overcome your fear.
He straightened his back and squared up to his would-be executioners. They parted, revealing Johansen. “Your turn,” he taunted through a menacing smirk. “Great Khan.”
In a flash, he darted forward, arms outstretched. The Khan raised his fists in defense, but it was no use. Johansen wrapped both hands around his throat. Together, they collapsed to the pavement, Johansen on top. The Khan kicked and struggled, but his captain was too strong.
“I should’ve done this a long time ago,” Johansen growled, teeth bared like some feral animal.
His fingers pressed into the Khan’s flesh. With terrible pain, his trachea popped. He fought to breathe, but his lungs could take in no air. The edges of his vision darkened, and the visage of Johansen, fierce and angry, blurred in and out of focus. Instinct compelled the Khan to begin clawing at Johansen’s back. Consciously, though, he knew this was the end. Seconds remained before he passed on.
Show them to me, he asked Gaia. Please.
A brief silence. And then, As you wish.
The Khan’s vision went black, as if a great curtain had fallen. Out of the darkness stepped the woman with blue eyes, her features clearer than ever. Little dimples framed her mouth when she smiled, and freckles ran across her nose. She wore a yellow sundress that flapped in a light breeze, and she smelled of warm honey.
Your wife, Candace, Gaia told him.
The boy with sandy-blond hair appeared beside her. He had the same round face as Candace, the same freckles. Blue eyes, too. He carried a hockey stick, and an equipment bag hung from his shoulder. The Khan was overcome with pride. My son?
Yes. He took your name: Alexander.
Alexander . . . the Khan repeated. Like the great conqueror of Persia.
You had so much in a time of so little, Gaia continued, and the image in his mind shifted. The black curtains withdrew, revealing a scene he had witnessed once before: the woman, Candace, packing a suitcase, and the boy, Alexander, waiting by the doorway. Candace stormed outside, headed for an SUV in a long, winding driveway. Alexander lingered for a beat longer but then followed his mother, head hung low in what the Khan interpreted as disgust.
A new figure appeared, a man in a dark suit with no tie, the jacket unbuttoned. His sandy-blond hair had been styled into a side part, and his strong jawline radiated an air of authority and confidence. One corner of his mouth rose in a half smirk.
The sight of the Khan’s own face made his blood simmer and then boil. You fool! he shouted to himself. You must go after them!
But the Khan—the senior Alexander—merely watched the SUV pull away and drive into the night. When it had disappeared, he shut the door and locked the deadbolt.
Overcome with contempt and self-loathing, regret and remorse, the Khan asked Gaia, Why did they leave? How could I allow this to happen?
She spoke without judgment: Although you loved Candace and she loved you in return, you succumbed to the temptation of the flesh. The first transgression she forgave. The second she tolerated. After a third, she took Alexander and left. You have witnessed your final memory of them. Seven sunrises later, I was burned and poisoned with atomic fire. Soon after, your mind was clear of the drugs that inhibited our connection, and our bond was thus forged.
Do
they live? he asked in desperation. My wife and son. Did they survive?
I cannot say. Gaia’s voice grew distant, echoey. It is time, child.
Panic flooded his veins. No, not yet. I must find them. I must make up for what I’ve done. Please, Mother, I beg of you. Show me the way.
Gaia gave no response. The Khan felt as though he was in free fall, and the curtains slammed shut, enveloping him in nothingness. He tried to envision Candace, her blue eyes, the dimples around her mouth, her warm, inviting smile, but the image wouldn’t form in his mind.
She was gone.
* * *
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Ed said from beneath the pine tree in Gary’s backyard. “Sam, you may kiss the bride.”
This time, Jenn waited for Sam to make his move.
Their second first kiss might have been less intense than the first, but she enjoyed it just as much. Her body was on fire, and she couldn’t wait to rush Sam off to their house down the street for a proper wedding night. It took most of her willpower not to pounce on him like she had before. Later.
Applause filled the air, and someone whistled. Maria? Possibly. She used to whistle at Ajax whenever he jumped onto the counter.
Sam broke the kiss but kept his forehead against hers. He’d cut his hair and trimmed his beard. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a suit in Flagstaff, so he wore black slacks, a pair of Ed’s black dress shoes, and a white collared shirt with a plain black tie, all beneath his ski jacket. Jenn thought he looked like a waiter at a fancy restaurant. A very handsome waiter.
She owned a single dress, a long-sleeved denim one that showed far too much leg, so Allison lent her an ankle-length halterneck. It was green, not white, but Jenn didn’t mind. Her coat hid most of the dress, anyway. Even so, Sam couldn’t stop ogling her. Maybe she should start wearing dresses more often.
They turned to face the crowd. In chairs brought out from the kitchen, Barbara and Maria sat front and center, their husbands to their flanks. Nicole stood behind them. For once, Jenn was thankful for the flu. In normal circumstances, she would have felt compelled to invite half of her platoon and the entire Beaumont farm staff. Under the guise of safety, she and Sam decided to limit the guest list to immediate family and witnesses only. Small and intimate, with no fluff. Exactly how she liked it. Later, in the spring, when the flu subsided, they could have a proper reception. A cake, music, dancing, and lots of wine would be nice, too, but she wasn’t holding her breath.
