I’m not sure if either of us would have been able to enlist if we hadn’t gotten in so early — Tai enlisted right out of high school, a few years before JANUS, and I’d gotten an accelerated degree and teaching certificate and enlisted right as the virus surfaced, back when most people still thought it would be like COVID-19 and a year of inconvenience and abstract fear. But we had our directives — our tribe needed skills and experience that the military could provide — so Tai and I both joined the Army back when the military still had separate branches.
And then the world ended. But this time, we were ready.
When COVID-19 hit eight — almost nine? — years ago, the Native nations discovered the depth and breadth of our repression by the United States of America. What had previously been privation and prejudice became something darker, more sinister. It felt— systematic. It felt like things had been engineered to make us the most vulnerable population, and the disease ravaged us, practically unchecked. Reservations had shoddy infrastructures, poor medical care, widespread poverty, and chronic health conditions left untreated for decades — too often they were preventable diseases and avoidable outcomes: substance abuse and addiction, alcoholism, untreated mental illness, and domestic violence.
Our elders were particularly vulnerable to COVID, but it was the young people — often suffering from poor nutrition, chronic respiratory conditions, and lack of adequate pre-natal care — who almost broke us as a people.
We lost nearly a whole generation in a few devastating years, as the rest of the nation recovered and resumed business-as-usual.
The Native Nationalist Coalition sprang from the ashes of our children, a phoenix born of rage and grief.
Leaders emerged, like our mother, Vernita Fox. She’d enlisted at eighteen herself and achieved the rank of Staff Sergeant in the Army before she retired at thirty to return to the reservation and have Tai and me. We were teenagers during the first pandemic, when she redirected our people’s anger and grief outward, away from self-destructive outlets, using military-level fitness and firearms training to empower us. She gave us an enemy to unite against.
My mom was a student of military and guerrilla warfare and tactics. She organized the Hopi first, then the entire Navajo Region — using forced detox when necessary, and ruthlessly enforcing tribal laws. She trained law enforcement and her recruits to be relentless and uncompromising in order to oppose the brutal oppression that we’d been living under.
Other leaders emerged on other reservations and in other regions, and a council was established to unite the different peoples and establish cooperation and resource-sharing. We became a shadow nation within the U.S. borders.
No one person benefited more than anyone else, no one lived in luxury while others suffered in poverty. All of us had suffered, all of us had lost, and everything we had was put towards the collective good. Nothing else could prevent the benign, negligent genocide of our people.
Tai and I were groomed for this new world. We were sixteen when COVID-19 devastated our community, and by eighteen when Tai enlisted, we were among the ranks of the emerging Native Nationalist Coalition. We knew our strengths, and our people’s needs, and we were willing to use whatever means necessary to further our agenda, including exploiting the U.S. Army for training.
When things fell apart, no center left to hold, Mom asked us to stay in place to feel out the changes. The sitting president staged what amounted to a military-backed seizure of power, instituting a “state of emergency” to cancel all elections and retain office indefinitely. Then the U.S. lost Hawaii to Japan in a bloodless coup of economics and boots-on-the-ground numbers, and after that, all military forces — and most diplomatic units — were recalled to hold the borders and impose martial law. The majority of the active military were stationed in Alaska, Texas, and along the coasts, leaving the interior practically lawless. The idea of “democracy” became just a pleasant memory, it was now a one-party system of fear-mongering and misinformation. Those who’d seized power, held it.
And the military grew: at last count, about 15% of the population were active military, versus something like .4% pre-JANUS, and it was mainly due to the promise of the AESLI vaccine.
Aesli.
Un-fucking-believable the things that were being done for a fraction of a milliliter of this girl’s blood, this girl who gave it willingly even to her own detriment.
Mouse sent almost 600 portions of the vaccine to my family practically on a whim, like it had just been lying around so why not? Mom was selfish with it, she vaccinated all the kids and living elders in our small community before sharing with the rest of the rez. Not even 600 portions, and she ended up immunizing every kid under ten on the whole entire rez, plus the older kids and elders in our little town. Before COVID-19, the Hopi Rez had about two thousand kids under ten, another 1,500 between ten and eighteen, and a couple hundred elders.
Every single one of us knew the stats, knew the head counts. When the asshole politicians and pundits ask what could possibly justify the NNC, it’s that. That.
I don’t know what it will be like when we get outside these walls, I don’t know what it’ll feel like to not have to be so cautious all the time, so afraid, but I know this: even if Azzie didn’t intend to send more vaccine to my family like she’s said, I’d still protect her with my life. Even if I didn’t love her, I’d follow her to the ends of the earth. Almost six hundred of my family are safe from JANUS-23 because of her and Mouse.
“—part of Azzie’s patrol next shift, she can raise the alarm,” Sean was talking, seemed like he had been for awhile when I focused back on the room. “If she does it mid-shift, that gives us about twelve hours to prepare. Is that enough time?”
I realized he was talking about his wife, who was currently watching the street outside so we could have this meeting.
“It’s a way to control the timeline,” Tai agreed with him, looking hopeful for once. No one else might recognize the almost imperceptible changes to his expression, but I— Azzie squeezed his hand, smiling. Apparently it wasn’t just me. I tilted my head down so I could smile without anyone else noti— Sev elbowed me and grinned. Fucking hell.
Apparently we have a new tribe.
“What are we supposed to do after?” I didn’t know anyone here, but this woman had been in the store since we first arrived, and seemed kind of abrasive.
Before any of us could say anything, the guy Pete that had seemed to be in charge on their side of things spoke up. “Not their problem, Kate,” he chided her, a definite edge of command in his voice. “Like Azzie said, she’s giving us a choice and a head start. And apparently she gave us immunity. She doesn’t owe us any-fucking-thing else.”
“A city is your best bet,” Luka piped up. “The bigger, the better since you’re vaccinated, and only someplace large will be able to absorb a group of any size, though I hope you don’t try to travel together. Ideally, Chicago, but you might be able to blend into Cleveland or Cinci. You can work but you’ll have to be paid under the table until you can get a titer run and get registered as a survivor since you can’t prove your vax status.”
“Detroit’s closest,” someone called out.
“Detroit’s a wasteland,” Sev answered, shaking his head. “And it’s Apocalypse Riders territory. The club might take some of you, but it won’t be many, and those fucks are savage to outsiders.”
“What about Canada?”
“Borders are closed,” Sev said, sharply, and I shuddered. God help them all if even one of them tried to cross. “Canadians won’t take refugees, and the U.S. won’t take kindly to anyone vaccinated trying to leave. Or the secrets you might tell the U.K.s. You’re registered, and if they realize one of you got out, that puts everyone else in jeopardy. You’ll be hunted.”
“How do you know all this?” Pete asked, narrowing his eyes. Sev and Luka eyed each other, then Luka shook his head.
“We just do,” Sev replied, not breaking eye contact with his brother. He
moved up to sit on the edge of the table, looking out over the crowd. “I don’t know how long you’ve been in here, or where you came from before that, but it seems like everyone we’ve met here has some kind of military connection and that’s a bubble all its own. Things have changed out there, even just in the last year. You aren’t going to want to advertise your immunity, anyone sees a large group with vaccines like yours, you’ll be targets. People will want to know where you came from, why you have them. If you won’t tell them, they’ll make you tell them. If you can’t tell them, you won’t be any use to them. So you need to keep it to yourself.”
“What do you mean?” There was real fear in Pete’s voice, reflected on faces all over the room. Only the young kid, the one that had only been on base two weeks but got dragged into this, seemed to understand. He was nodding, telling the abrasive chick next to him that we were right.
“Things are breaking down, man,” Luka snuck a kiss to Azzie’s cheek before joining his brother. She sat forward, gripping Tai’s hand, focused completely on the two of them. “The first year or two, everyone was convinced things could return to normal once we got past some imaginary hurdle. They were talking about first wave, second wave, like the whole thing could be contained and explained in easy to understand terms. The fucking protests… people not wanting to stay inside, all that shit, like this was COVID-19 all over again, but it isn’t. Half the country is dead. Straight-up numbers are hard to comprehend, but that’s not even the issue. Think about it: a hundred and forty million people have died over the last four years — who’s dealing with the bodies? Who is fixing things, growing food? What happens if you break your leg? Or need surgery? Who is teaching other people how to fix things or grow food or perform surgery? Who is fucking driving around neighborhoods to remove the bodies before they contaminate the area and breed disease, before rodents and insects multiply… are you getting it now? The people still alive find a place and hunker down.”
“You’re immune,” Sev continued, holding his hands up like what the fuck? “Even if you can’t let anyone know officially, you’re fucking immune. Everyone else is building their little compounds, only letting one or two representatives out to interact with others, barter for goods or services locally since the government controls the internet and all communication outlets. You can fucking go anywhere, do anything, and not have to be afraid of catching JANUS— you just have to act like you are, but you don’t have that constant, stomach-churning anxiety that the rest of the world has. In a land of the blind, the man with one eye is king. Until Azzie can get the vaccine out there to the people, you’re the ones with one-fucking-eye. And I’m guessing some of you know how to fucking fix things, grow food, or perform surgery, so make yourself fucking useful! Figure it out!”
“You’ll blend into a city,” Luka said, putting a hand on Sev’s shoulder to calm him down. “And you could go to the coasts, there’s a higher percentage of immunized people in the northeast and on the west coast, it’s where the wealthy have congregated. There’s probably a lot of work, service jobs and such, or skilled trades. Security is a big industry, and I bet a lot of them would overlook how you got your status, you could live comfortably as unregistered. But it’s the rural places that need you.”
“Avoid the motorcycle clubs,” Sev said, looking pointedly at his brother. “I know I said that the Apocalypse Riders might take a couple of you, but that’s debatable. And they’ll want to know how you got vaccinated. Unless someone from a club tries to recruit you, you’d be at risk approaching any club. I’m sure some of you will get noticed and a club might express interest — you’d be okay then, but if you go to them, you’ll be grist for the mill.”
“So go to the city, but don’t go to the city. Don’t let anyone know we’re vaccinated, but use our immunity to find work. Motorcycle clubs might want us, but stay away from them until they happen to notice us and approach. Oh, and recognize being immune is a privilege and don’t rub it into people’s faces, but somehow try to help them?” Angry Kate again, stirring shit up.
“Pretty much,” Luka said, at the same time Sev smirked, “No MC is going to want you.” She bristled, offended, and he stared at her stone-faced until she looked away.
“Motorcycle clubs are still pretty sexist,” Luka explained, nudging his brother. “All the big ones at least. That’s all he means.”
“Sure, that’s what I mean,” Sev said coldly, still focused on her.
“Okay!” Azzie stood up, moving in front of them and facing the room. “Good talk. So yeah… I’m not sure what to say here except that we need to go. I hope— I hope this works. I hope we’ve done enough to save you all, or rather help you save yourselves, and that needs to be your priority, as selfish as it sounds. You aren’t going to be able to save everyone, and anyone that jeopardizes your escape… leave them. As cold as it sounds, just— just leave them. Be selfish, and get out who you can. Your job is to survive, because it sounds like the world could use skilled, competent people who aren’t going to spread JANUS. And I’m going to do what I can to make sure there are more people out there who are immune. Oh, and take some games with you into the tunnels, okay? Maybe not a whole Warhammer army, but a deck of Fluxx cards or a source book or something… the thought of them bombing this place, destroying all of it — the world needs more gaming. Everybody should take a set of dice, and a game of some kind…”
By that point, she was losing it, looking around the room at everything they’d built, and I figured it out: all of this represented Mouse, it represented her. It was the place she was normal, and the place she forged relationships with these people who listened to her, and trusted her, especially when we wouldn’t. These people who believed in her. The map, the plan, everything… gaming was what would save these people, and she felt like the Game Leader or whatever it was called, the person running the show.
Sev saw it too, because he whispered to Luka, who got up and went to Azzie, leading her away while Sev spoke up again. “Everybody is here, now, because you all built a community around this place. You’ve got strong ties to each other, built on shared experiences in this room, a shared love of gaming. Don’t abandon that, use it. Trust your companions. The more of you that work together, the more people you can save, so don’t fucking split the party, okay?”
And with that, the meeting was over, and they were on their own.
As the group scattered — some working to clean up the board games set out on the tables while others went to the shelves to grab a game or book, every person taking a set of dice before leaving the store — a few gathered around Azzie.
I wasn’t jealous.
None of us were jealous.
Just because these guys were hugging her, passing her back and forth, whispering to her, making her cry. Just because she was kissing cheeks and holding on when they went to let her go. Just because there was a good half-dozen of them that she seemed unable to walk away from… I wasn’t jealous. We weren’t jealous.
Okay, only Sev seemed to get it.
“It’s her players,” he hissed at us when Luka tensed up so much he seemed to vibrate. I was totally calm. I wasn’t visibly losing my shit at all. “These are her people, okay? Back the fuck off.”
“We’re her people,” Luka growled, and it was way more threatening than I expected from him, he usually reminded me of a goofy golden retriever and not a menacing rottweiler.
“Don’t do this,” Sev warned, looking at both of us, and then at Tai as he joined our little huddle. “They’re good guys. Let her say goodbye to them.”
“Fuck!” Luka grimaced, shaking out his arms, rocking on his heels. “Fuck! We should— we should tell them. Them and Pete. If they make it out— she needs her people.”
“Agreed,” Sev reached up and wrapped an arm around Luka’s head, dragging them together so their foreheads touched. “Thank you for getting it. You go tell Pete, I’ll tell them.”
Tai and I watched in confusion as Luka bounded off — golde
n retriever aura firmly back in place — towards Pete who was in heated conversation with the woman Azzie called Sal, while Sev stepped up to the group around Azzie. He said something too softly for us to hear, but Azzie broke into loud sobs and threw herself at him, kissing his face repeatedly and hugging him to her, as the guys she was talking to looked at each other and him as if he’d just informed them that Santa was real and waiting outside. Then Pete was laughing, slapping Luka on the back and thanking him.
“What the fuck?” Tai muttered.
“No clue,” I replied.
Both groups broke up, and Sev returned to us with Azzie still wrapped around him while Luka got distracted looking at the boxes of shiny dice.
“What was that all about?” Tai asked as I eyed them with one eyebrow cocked up.
“Sev gave them the secret password for the Hellspawn,” Azzie gushed, and I realized that they’d given a handful of people important to Azzie the means to not only survive out there, but maybe even see her again.
“I told them where to go and what to say,” Sev looked down his nose at her with narrowed eyes and a half-smile, playing like she was being silly about nothing, but he sure wasn’t letting go of her. “It’ll get them in as prospects but they have to earn it from there.”
“Thank you,” she breathed out, looking up at him with luminescent eyes overflowing with emotion, and I felt another fucking pang of jealousy over that. Tai glanced at me, and I saw the same kind of regret mirrored in his eyes since we couldn’t exactly recruit for the NNC. Although…
“Will,” he said, at the same time as I thought it, and we both nodded. Azzie’s players were all enlisted men, and talking to him would help both parties. “I’m going to tell the teacher too. In case he needs backup.” Tai headed in his direction as I detoured towards her players, who were all talking quietly together.
“Hey, any of you know Lieutenant Will Gomez?” I asked them, checking faces for recognition. One of them hesitated then nodded. “Know him enough to talk to him? Or just know of him?”
Book of the Damned: A-E5L1-01-00: (A reverse harem, post-pandemic, slow-burn romance) (The JAK2 Cycle, Book 2) Page 22
