Killer of Enemies
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Bruchac
Cover photo © 2013 by Stephen C. Graham
Clouds photo © by Andrejs Pidjass
Eagle head photo © by Jeroen van de Sande
Bird wings photo © by Sias van Schalkwyk
Flying birds photo © by Petr Kovář
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
TU BOOKS, an imprint of LEE & LOW BOOKS Inc.
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Manufactured in the United States of America by Worzalla Publishing Company, September 2013
Book design by Isaac Stewart
Book production by The Kids at Our House
The text is set in Adobe Garamond Pro
First Edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (Print)
Bruchac, Joseph, 1942-
Killer of enemies / Joseph Bruchac. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: “In a world that has barely survived an apocalypse that leaves it with pre-twentieth century technology, Lozen is a monster hunter for four tyrants who are holding her family hostage”— Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-62014-143-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) —
ISBN 978-1-62014-144-1 (e-book)
[1. Genetic engineering—Fiction. 2. Hunting—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Extrasensory perception—Fiction. 5. Hostages—Fiction. 6. Chiricahua Indians—Fiction. 7. Indians of North America—Southwest, New—Fiction. 8. Southwest, New—Fiction. 9. Science fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B82816Kil 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2013023567
For my Grandmothers, my Mother, and my Sisters, the Warrior Women who made me who I am.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One. Numero Uno
Chapter Two. A Good Knife
Chapter Three. Little Food
Chapter Four. Password
Chapter Five. The Jester
Chapter Six. On the Road
Chapter Seven. TRAPPED
Chapter Eight. More Time to Think
Chapter Nine. Rescue
Chapter Ten. Bait
Chapter Eleven. The Female of the Species
Chapter Twelve. The Spring
Chapter Thirteen. Enough to Feel Full
Chapter Fourteen. Lady Time
Chapter Fifteen. Where the Heart Is
Chapter Sixteen. Precious Things
Chapter Seventeen. The Dreamer
Chapter Eighteen. The Bloodless
Chapter Nineteen. Dragoon Springs
Chapter Twenty. More than One
Chapter Twenty-one. Crawly Things
Chapter Twenty-two. Inside
Chapter Twenty-three. A Simple Plan
Chapter Twenty-four. The Best Laid Plans
Chapter Twenty-five. Take Your Choice
Chapter Twenty-six. Food?
Chapter Twenty-seven. A Song
Chapter Twenty-eight. Punishment
Chapter Twenty-nine. Am I Human?
Chapter Thirty. Run
Chapter Thirty-one. Outside
Chapter Thirty-two. Clever Repartee
Chapter Thirty-three. Reasons to Run
Chapter Thirty-four. One Step at a Time
Chapter Thirty-five. You Asked
Chapter Thirty-six. Your World Now
Chapter Thirty-seven. All Around Me
Chapter Thirty-eight. Civil War
Chapter Thirty-nine. Another Trail
Chapter Forty. The Walking Hill
Chapter Forty-one. Just a Second
Author’s Note
Bibliography
CHAPTER ONE
Numero Uno
I’m five miles away from the walls of my prison, up in the high country above the Sonoran Desert. Thus far, surprisingly, nothing has yet attempted to maim or devour me since I settled here a half hour ago. Despite the nearby presence that I sense of one of those “little problems” that I deal with out here in the wilds, I have met nothing to worry about . . . yet.
I’m sitting on my favorite ridgetop, leaning back against a standing stone. I checked first to make sure no big, hungry being with wide wings or sharp teeth was perched atop or behind said stone. I look back toward Haven, formerly known as Southwestern Penitentiary.
Even from this height and this distance, it is an impressive sight. Home sweet home. If you can call a place a “home” when it is where your family members are being held hostage against your good behavior. Sanctuary for some, but still fulfilling its steady old role as a prison for far more.
Haven’s double row of walls makes it resemble the cross-section of a giant concrete truck tire. Although no truck tire was ever draped with miles of razor wire or topped with machine gun turrets. Of course, for the last decade, truck tires of any kind have been redundant aside from being used as fuel for watch fires.
I remember that time of motor vehicles, Mars rockets, and mag-levs. I was born in what used to be New America B.C.—Before the Cloud.
My hands start to tingle. I hold them up at elbow height, palms out, and turn until I am facing west. Yup, sure enough, something is moving up the hill through the thick stand of aspen and cottonwood trees below.
I can’t see it yet. But from the motions of the branches it is big and coming my way. To be precise, it is coming for me. And for the thousandth time I say a little prayer of thanks for the unaffected workability of the heavy object I am now holding in my right hand.
Every application of electronics—from comtech, advanced weaponry, and computers to the tiny disease-purging nanobots that constantly healed our near-immortal leaders—totally ceased working with the advent of the Cloud. Even batteries.
However, our silvery visitor had no effect at all on the more basic technologies, such as those that use a mixture of sulphur, salt petre, and finely ground charcoal to propel a non-spherical projectile through a rifled barrel with explosive force.
Technology such as that of the .357 Magnum revolver clenched in my fist.
Safety off. Time to flow and go, girl. I head down into the forest to meet it halfway.
I don’t have to go far before I see it lumbering up the slope, following the scent trail I was careful to leave. It’s a gemod. I expected that, it being well into the afternoon. The regular critters tend to start their hunting early in the morning.
Gemods. Genetically modified beings, put together from the DNA of disparate critters. The pleasure parks of the most powerful Ones used to hold large numbers of such dangerous designer monsters. Until the creatures found themselves no longer confined by electric fences. And with their newfound freedom they also discovered they were on their own when it came to finding sufficient protein on which to survive—such as that of their former owners.
The bulky and bushy-tailed cat-like creature is now snuffling through the fallen aspen leaves. The leaves’ silvery sheen is a nice contrast to the cat’s golden coat. Its round body and that huge tail make it look awkward, sort of bumbly and harmless. Nowhere near as massive or threatening as some I’ve seen and survived—like the gigantic cave bear beast I was butchering the morning I was inducted into the service of my current benevolent overlords.
Not that I was a willing conscript. Especially after they
killed my dog. Despite their weapons, Lobo had lunged for the machine gun-toting mercenaries before I could stop him. As soon as they showed themselves, he’d known them to be enemies and leaped to his feet growling a warning. One quick blast of three shots cut him down right in front of me. Lobo’s eyes were dimming as he tried to crawl back to me. And then the light in his eyes went out forever.
In that moment, I stood up with fire in my own eyes. All I wanted to do was kill them right then. And despite their guns, those AK-47 boys might have ended up dead then. But they were not pointing their guns at me. They had them trained on their three hostages. Although they had killed my father and my uncle, they’d brought with them my mother, my little brother Victor, and my sister Ana. They’d heard what I could do. They wanted me alive.
The little village my late father and my Uncle Chatto had set up in our hidden valley a few miles away had been the first stop on their recruiting tour. It was a place hidden so well that it was only found because of my father’s kindness. He’d rescued two men from what seemed certain death when he found them lost in the desert a day’s walk from our mountain stronghold. They were spies for Diablita Loca. They betrayed us, cut the throats of our sentinels, and led enemies into our small Shangri-la.
I shake my head, turn my mind away from my memories of Valley Where First Light Paints the Cliff, from the peach trees that grew there in that ancient sheltered valley to the south, from the remembered faces of a father and an uncle I will never see again in this lifetime. No time at this moment for grief or regret. I need to focus on what is in front of me.
This critter is not a cave bear. But looks are not everything. If it’s survived thus far, there has to be something lethal about it. It’s not gigantic, but it is bigger than, say, a Siberian tiger. Its seeming neglect of my presence as I stand silently is the opposite of its true intent. It’s been following my scent, planning to take me unawares. Members of the cat family tend to attack from ambush, hitting their prey from behind and stabbing their canines into the neck. Then all it takes is one determined shake to break the spine.
That is why, as the object of its affection, yours truly has now placed her back against a wide-trunked cottonwood tree. Somehow the tree survived the past century’s clearing of the mountain forests. And right now, it is key to my survival.
I can feel my heartbeat quickening. Not a bad thing. It always does in moments like this. Speeds up reaction time.
Why have I not yet attempted to ventilate this critter? True, all I have is a handgun. A rifle would have been better, but this was all I was issued for my mission. One problem with being in the employ of crazy people: Rulers who find it amusing to expect me to succeed and unreasonably challenge me at the same time. But it’s not my weaponry that is my reason for waiting. The big cat is only thirty yards away now, well within the range of my .357. And I am not unsure of my aim. At double this distance I can hole the bulls-eye in a target six times in four seconds. (It’s possible to get off six shots faster, but for accuracy one needs half a second to adjust for recoil.)
No, my hesitation is due to two things.
Numero Uno, my stalker has its head down, hiding its eyes. A shot into the body mass would be easy, but some gemods have skin so thick and ribs so strong that even a Magnum round would pierce no more than an inch or two. Deep enough to tick it off. That is why I always aim for an eye shot. I have yet to encounter any beast with impervious retinas.
Numero Dos, this particular gemod is one I haven’t seen before. Gemods were never made up as one-of-a-kinds, but in litters, batches, prides, mobs, gobs, or whatever you want to call them. And they were cooked up to be fertile, able to produce more of their kind. I might eventually run into another one like this. Thus, I’d be wise to observe as much of its behavior as possible—especially its method of attack—before sending it off to whatever afterlife a recombinant might experience.
Time to stir the pot and see what’s cooking. I pull my motorcycle goggles back down over my eyes.
“Yoo-hoo,” I call. “Over here, kitty-cat.” Then I hurl the nice round rock I picked up from the ground, bouncing it off its skull.
AHR-REEEEEEK!
Its shriek as it rears up on its hind legs and spreads out scimitar-sized claws is startling enough to make the hair stand up on my arms.
And at mid-point of that scream, it attacks, with a leap quicker and longer than most people with normal reflexes would expect. But not me. I had already dived back behind the cottonwood tree before it hit. And dropped to the ground.
WHOMP!
Quite an impact, that heavy blow which shakes the big tree. Delivered not merely with those big front paws, but also with that bushy tail. Quilled, of course. A handful of dislodged foot-long spikes fly over my head as the end of its tail whips partway around the trunk. Would have impaled me had I not dropped.
Part tiger and part porcupine? How nice!
Enough learning for one day. I rise to one knee. My gun is up and steady in both hands as it sticks its head around the tree expecting to behold a punctured corpse. Alas. It barely has time to look disappointed before—ka-pow! ka-pow!—I permanently dilate its left and right pupils with several ounces of lubricated lead alloy.
CHAPTER TWO
A Good Knife
There’s nothing more comforting than the heft of a good knife in your hand. Especially one that’s as heavy and perfectly balanced as the Tennessee Toothpick I’ve just pulled from its sheath at my waist. At fifteen full inches in length, it’s bigger than the one Crocodile Dundee brandished in the ancient viddy that bore his name. Another item in my memory bank like such long-gone things as sound and pictures from hand-inserts and temp lenses. (Lucky for me, we never had credits or status enough to afford viddy-plants. Picture smoke curling out of overcooked corneas.)
I remember corny old Nick Dundee because my Dad loved that viddy so much. He was always slipping it into my queue of oldies. And—like that Croc guy—loving and knowing how to use a knife was part of who my father was. This blade I’m holding was his.
Was. Damn it. The week before he died, he gave me this beautiful bone-handled blade. His favorite knife.
I drag my right forearm across my face. Too much blood on my hands to use them to wipe the mist from my eyes. The warmth still rising up from the dead monster’s body is wrapping a cloak of cloud around me as a cool wind blows across the clearing. That wind rattles dried leaves clinging to the tips of the branches of a small nearby aspen. Dead now, but green will once again glow from that tree. Spring will slowly return, its steps, as Dad always said, like those of a small bird. And with that season of renewal more shoots of trees will spring up from the soil. Dad used to point that out—that with the power gone, the forests will come back. Bad as the Silver Cloud was for most of humanity, it was a blessing for plants—and monsters. Too bad some of those monsters are humans.
I bend back to my butchering, a task made simpler by the fine implement in my hand. It is a more or less exact replica of the gift given way back in the mid-nineteenth century by Rezin P. Bowie (born 1793) to his older brother Jim (born 1796). With a guarded handle and a strong, weighty single edge blade, its back straight for most of its length before curving concavely to the tip, it was perfect for the frontier duels fought back then by such deadly dandies as Jim and Rezin. The lovely, lethal Bowie knife. More like a short sword. And when it’s as razor sharp as I was taught to keep this one, it slices thick skin like butter.
I draw the blade down the length of the beast’s belly, put the knife down. I use my hands to spread open the cut, exposing the beast’s warm interior. Then I lean in, fingers spread wide, to lever out the stomach and other internal organs.
I have two reasons for my efficient, though bloody disemboweling. Numero Uno—investigate the stomach contents. I need to verify that this is the creature that claimed the lives of the three hunters and two couriers gone missing in this quadrant. Most recently only two days ago. That’s when the decision was made to send m
e in.
A few minutes later I have the answer to part one of my pop quiz. Its gut held the masticated, partially digested remains of the second courier, identifiable by the numbered copper band (like the one I wear) on the gnawed left wrist. I prod with my fingers and extricate from the stinking colon a sturdy little metal case. I wipe it off on my thigh and then open it. It still contains the message that this courier risked—and lost—his life to carry. From Diablita Loca to the head of another settlement barricaded within the walls of a former automobile manufacturing plant a two days’ run west of here.
I open the case and pull out the folded paper.
“Buenos días,” it reads. “We must do lunch sometime.”
And that’s it. No requests for an alliance. No big strategic plans. Just a pointless message. I rest my forehead in my palm. This ironic, inane note and the ones I assume were just like it got how many people killed?
Five.
I stick the message case in my pouch, where it clinks against the shell casings from my two expended rounds. I have to account for not only every weapon but also every bullet when I check back in at the armory.
If I searched the few square miles around here, I would find what’s left of the other four missing people. Their partly eaten corpses will likely be cached the way big solitary predators store their prey. They’ll be covered with dirt, leaves and sticks pawed over them. Turkey buzzards are circling over a little range of hills a mile or so to the north. Probably above one of those half-buried bodies.
But I’m not going to check that out. That’s not my work. Neither is interring human remains. But I still take the time to bury what’s left of this courier. His name was Kyle. I used to nod at him in the food line. He had dark hair and a big nose. He didn’t smile much. I can’t recall anything in particular that he said, aside from a shy “Hey.” Kyle was even taller than me. He had strong legs, a lean body. Running was his job. Different from mine.
Not many have my unique skill set. I am the best in Haven at my job. That’s why I was sent out here today. I’m a monster hunter, a killer of enemies as my dad might have put it—partly tongue in cheek.