Killer of Enemies Read online

  Yup. Too bad for you, honey.

  I make my way close enough to be able to see her eyes and take aim. As I do so, she raises her head and stares at me.

  I’m ready. Send me back to the sky.

  I raise my arm to wipe the dust that has blown into my eyes and is making them water.

  Bye-bye, birdy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Spring

  What do you do when you’ve just killed a monster? Well, you could do what I am doing right now. Calmly holster your gun, then turn around and puke your guts out.

  I manage to walk over to a rock that is shaded by the cliff and shaped like a seat, put my hands on it and gently lower myself down. I am feeling as weak as a day-old wolf pup. (No way, even now, am I going to compare myself to a kitten.) I am bruised, bloody, and I smell like the delightful mixture of monster bird crap all over my body and the bird louse goo that coats my left leg. If there is any other deadly critter anywhere near here I suspect they will be repelled by my smell as if I were a skunk.

  I am equally disgusted with my odiferous self. It’s hard to keep my gorge down. But if I vomit one more time, lose any more liquid from my body, I may be too weak to walk.

  I reach down to my side. One of my canteens was torn loose somehow during my wild ride. But the other one, more than half full, is still there. I uncap it and take a small sip through my cracked lips, enough to get rid of the dryness in my mouth and the tightness at the back of my throat.

  However, the nausea, like an old faithful friend, does not desert me.

  I shake my head and am relieved when it doesn’t dislodge itself from my neck and go rolling away. Every part of my body is in agony right now, from my hair down to my toes. My cheek where I was slashed by Papa Bird’s claw is throbbing like a second heart. Even thinking about standing up hurts. Plus it is now night, the normal time to give my body up to sleep even when it hasn’t been through a twelve-round battle with a flock of avian horrors.

  But I can’t rest now. Not if I want to survive. It’s going to be bitterly cold now that the sun is gone. I need shelter. I force myself to my feet.

  Take one step, girl. Good. Now another one.

  Soon I am walking, slowly to be sure, but steadily. Luckily, the moonlight is bright enough for me to easily see where I’m going. And as I walk I am studying my surroundings. I know where I am. The monster bird’s last flight took me another four miles further west from its aerie. This canyon, if I am right and not hallucinating—which might be possible considering how everything around me is blurry at the edges—opens up around the next bend.

  I can also feel myself being drawn by my power, which has come back to guide me to this place I’ve never visited before, even though it was described to me by both my father and my uncle. It’s a place of refuge that was known long ago by my namesake.

  Just a little further, Lozen. Keep going.

  I pass a spiral shaped petroglyph chipped long ago into the surface of a great round boulder. And there it is, above me—a little clump of dark vegetation growing thickly around the base of a red hill.

  I make my way carefully through the cholla cactus and old saguaros that cover the slope. I reach that clump of shadowy green and hear a sound that every creature in the desert knows and loves. The soft echo of dripping water. I kneel, my head spinning as I do so, and crawl through the narrow, hidden opening between the stones.

  And I am in another world. This hollow in the hill is narrow and open to the sky. The spring that rises here has made a series of pools of water that step down its slope. Each pool is progressively larger and deeper before the flow disappears through a V-shaped crevice at the base. Whatever stream it joins is underground, hidden beneath the dry soil and stone outside. Just being here, just seeing this spring takes away all of my nausea. I am filled with a feeling of well-being.

  I do not know much of the language that my old people spoke. Back in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, that language was taken from most of us by the schools my Navajo and Apache and Pueblo two-times great-great-grandparents were forced to attend. But my family did keep enough of our languages to pass on to us certain songs and prayers. And certain words such as those I speak right now.

  “Thank you,” I whisper in Chiracahua. “Thank you.”

  Then I dip my hands into the lowest of the springs, washing the blood and filth from them, watching as it is carried down into the earth through that crack in the bedrock. I cup up some of that water and fill my mouth with it. It tastes of minerals, a strong good taste that is like food. I feel its strength washing through me

  “Thank you,” I repeat. “Thank you.”

  I pull off my boots. I put my feet into the healing water. Perhaps I could just stay here forever, lean back against the water-smoothed wall and become stone myself. That would not be a bad thing.

  But it is not something I can afford to do. Other lives—and other deaths—still depend upon me.

  I take a very deep breath and then let it out slowly along with the pain which came with that deep inhalation. I reach down to feel my ribs on my right side with the palm of my hand.

  Ah! Sharp stab like a knife with that pressure. One or more of them cracked or broken for sure.

  I undo the belts and straps that secure my holsters and my body armor. I carefully lay everything on the wide shelf of rock next to me where I’ve already placed my boots. Armor, staff, guns, knives, canteen, pack, all my clothing. In this quiet, secret place I feel safe enough to do so, though I keep everything in reach just in case.

  Then I slide into the water. It’s cool, but not cold. The only part of me not under water is my face. The water is at least two feet deep and the stone pool is shaped like one of those luxury bathtubs I’ve seen pictures of in old magazines. Like the tubs that the Ones are said to have in their private quarters at Haven. Not like the few cups of water in a bucket each of us peons are allowed to use every now and then to cleanse our bodies as best we can with the stained cloths that hang in the communal washroom.

  I hold my hands up out of the water and look at them. These hands I have used to take many lives.

  And I ask the water to cleanse my hands.

  And my hands feel clean and renewed.

  I wipe my fingers over my eyes.

  And I ask the water to clear from my eyes, if only for a moment, the sight of death.

  And my eyes feel clear and renewed.

  I wipe the deep slash on my cheek, the water mixing with the dried blood and washing it away. And the throbbing of the wound stops and my breath, which had been quick and labored, slows and calms.

  I run my hands along my body, touching every place that feels bruised or broken from the battles I just fought. And I ask the water to heal me, to restore my strength.

  And my body feels strong and renewed.

  Then I lift my hands to my forehead and I ask the water to empty from my mind my memories of loss.

  And even as I do so, I know it is more than I can ask, more than this water can give.

  And my memories remain with me.

  But do I really want those memories to vanish? For those memories, hard as they are, are also part of who I am and who I must be.

  So I thank the waters for allowing me to keep those memories.

  And as much as my troubled mind can be, it feels renewed.

  It is still night when I crawl out of the cave of the spring after cleaning off my clothing and my gear and dressing myself.

  There’s no point in trying to return to Haven in the darkness. It is not just that they would not let me in if I arrived after dark—the door of Haven is never opened to the night. It is also the simple fact that in this world as we now know it, setting out on a journey in the dark—even with moonlight to guide you—means that you will probably never reach your destination.

  Those who hunt in the night are better left unmentioned.

  But there is enough space for me to stretch out here among the little verdant oasis at the m
outh of the cave, where the roots of the bushes and other plants reach down to draw life from that water before it disappears. I unfold the blanket from my pack, put the pack under my head as a pillow, and look up at the stars in the clear desert sky. I feel safe hidden in here.

  I also have the safety off on the .357 held by my right hand across my chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Enough to Feel Full

  I set out with the first rays of the sun. Objective Numero Uno is to return to the bike, at the place where I was trapped by the stone. It takes me as much time to reach the place as it does for the sun to rise two hands high above the ridgetop.

  The bike is still there. And aside from a few scrapes, it is in just as good condition as it was when Guy first wheeled it out to me. I wonder which will be more surprising to him—that I actually brought it back intact or that I was just as undamaged myself.

  Speaking of which, I suddenly remember those broken ribs on my right side. I’d forgotten completely about them after my bath in the cave where Lozen’s spring flowed so sweetly. They hadn’t hurt even when I strapped back on my body armor before I covered myself with my blanket and sank into a dreamless sleep.

  I touch my side gently, then press hard. No pain. None at all.

  I’d been expecting to have to just live for a month or so with my ribs bound and a knife point of pain every time I breathed in deep. That had been my usual experience the last four times I suffered cracked or broken ribs.

  But not this time. Lozen’s medicine spring healed me. It makes me wonder what else that place might heal. Or if it would work every time anyone went there. However it works, I also have the feeling—maybe from my Power whispering it to me—that going there anytime I have a booboo would not be right. What I need to do is accept the gift of that healing and not expect anything more.

  I look back at the narrow space in the rocks under that chipped stone shelf, with the boulder that once trapped me casually tossed aside. I could still be in there, pinned, drying up like one of those Peruvian mummies I saw in an ancient issue of National Geographic magazine in the communal library at Haven—a one-room library of tattered, cast-off books and magazines the Ones no longer wanted. I was lucky in more ways than one yesterday.

  There’s a smile on my face as wide as any smile I ever permit myself as I glide down the hill on my iron horse. That is what my ancestors called the first bicycles they saw. Iron horses. Back when there were horses to compare things with. All we have now of those horses we loved so much is in our memories. I’m not sure if I feel sadder for those of us like Mom and me who remember horses and rode them and miss them or those like my little brother Victor, who never saw a real living horse and doesn’t know what he missed.

  Let it go, girl. Be glad you’re alive. Enjoy this moment.

  Lovely day. It is a lovely day. Especially because there is nothing circling in the sky except for those two kettles of turkey buzzards—one flock a mile behind me, where a certain hilltop holds a nest full of some good pickings and the other over the canyon, where I left another scavenger’s smorgasbord.

  It takes me almost no time at all to reach the arroyo where I hung my deer. I park the bike and walk down, my knife already out of its sheath to finish butchering off the better cuts of meat.

  But my deer is not there as I had left it, high enough to be out of reach of the coyotes. And it is not, as I had feared, that some predator such as a mountain lion climbed the tree to drag it down.

  It is far different from that. No mountain lion took my deer out of that tree. Unless mountain lions have learned how to use tools. There, hanging from the tree by the same rope I used, is exactly one quarter of my deer. The right rear haunch, skinned and strung up by its hoof, is waiting for me. It has also, I see as I come closer, been salted.

  The sand around the tree has been wiped smooth. There are no tracks visible. Wiped away with a tree branch used like a broom as whoever or whatever left carrying the rest of the deer.

  But you can follow the track made by wiping away other tracks. And I do that for a hundred yards or so until the sand gives way to rock. Clever. But not quite clever enough. For there is one partial print visible just where the sand and pebble mix before the ground becomes solid stone. Three times as big as one of my own prints. Almost, but not quite, the same as a track left by a barefooted human with proportionately longer-than-usual toes.

  There is a bee sting in the middle of my forehead.

  Little Food. You left enough for me to feel full. So today I will not eat you.

  Where and what the hell are you? I think back.

  Something like a chuckle echoes back into my mind. Then it is gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lady Time

  Stripped down to my underwear as usual. But this time I’m being taken to another of the Ones who own Haven and all of us the way ranchers used to own cattle spreads and all the beasts fenced inside. Back when there were ranches and cattle herds.

  I know where we are going. I’ve never been to her part of Haven before, but as soon as I hear the ticking of the clocks I am certain that I am to see Lady Time. The air is already laden with the musky odor of the heavy perfume she bathes herself in.

  We turn a corner and there in front of us is a heavy door with a painted clock face. The guard who stands beside it is already unlocking and opening it. I’m pushed forward.

  I am ushered into one of the largest and most ornately decorated residences in the center of Haven. Once, it was Electronics Training Center. Back when men were locked in here for actual crimes and not for simply still being alive, convicted felons were taught how to repair outdated computers and viddy players that were—like them—of no use to society.

  Of course I am not supposed to know that, just as I am also not supposed to have ever seen a map of the layout of Haven. Which, thanks to the Library, I have. I have a feeling the Ones do not know it’s there. Only the Ones are supposed to know such things.

  The Ones must know so much about the world, and history, and science, and . . . everything. The rest of us know only as much as is necessary to be useful to our overlords. The only other things we’re taught are the manual skills needed to serve our leaders. Carpentry, cooking, farming, laundry, tailoring and shoe-making, how to repair and make the devices that still work since the departure of electricity. Plus those few allowed to use their very special abilities outside the walls. Scouts, couriers, hunters . . . and me.

  Of course I am leaving out the guards. Their duty is to defend Haven against any attacking force. Or, if it comes to that, an insurrection from within. Those favored protectors of the status quo have the best food, the best beds, and a few other privileges that make me want to puke. Such as being able to choose whatever women they want.

  That is another reason I have to find a way to get my family out of here. The thought of Victor, who is only eight, one day being recruited to be one of those loathsome mercenaries because of his size and strength makes me cringe. And Ana, at the age of twelve, is already such a beautiful girl that I have seen more than one of the guards look at her in a way that has made me want to rip their throats out.

  Only the thought of what would happen next has kept me from that. It’s not her fault that the men look at her that way—most of the guards are predators who look at all the women in Haven that way. But even so, Mom and I both coach Ana all the time on how she can dress and act and do her hair to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  The door slams behind me and I am standing in the At Ease posture. My feet are shoulder width apart, my hands clasped behind my back.

  Covering every wall are clocks—round ones, square ones, some ten feet tall that stand on the floor. They are all the type made a century or more ago—before batteries or electrical cords. The clocks are powered by springs wound up with keys. Next to each clock, in fact, is its own individual key hanging from a wall peg.

  The cacophonous sound of their monotonous music fills the air. So
me tick loud, some softly. But each has its individual notes. Just as every one has chimes or bells or cuckoos that pop out whenever the minute hand touches six or twelve. It would drive me crazy to dwell in this sonic pandemonium.

  But the distance to crazy is a short journey for Lady Time. Like all of our overlords, she is more than half insane.

  Lady Time is standing with her back to me, looking up at one of her beloved timepieces, a grandfather clock that was once in a Phoenix museum and is over three hundred years old. I have heard it is one of her favorites and that it’s one of the few she winds herself, rather than leaving it to the Clock Keeper who is on call here twenty-four hours a day. Like all of her clocks, it was brought here at her behest by her Time Team, a group of guards whose job it has been to scour the surrounding area for a hundred miles to add to her collection. I’ve heard it whispered that two of them died bringing just this one to Haven.

  I wait and keep waiting, mentally counting—one and one pony, two and one pony—to keep myself from doing anything annoying like tapping my foot on the floor. The last person who did that found himself being held in place by three of her bodyguards while a fourth—Red, their slightly more sadistic leader—drove a nine-inch nail through the man’s instep.

  “Sooooo.”

  Lady Time’s voice is as sibilant as the hiss of a serpent.

  As she speaks, she turns to face me—if showing someone a mask like that of a clock face with exaggerated lips and black eyebrows painted between the numbers could be called “facing.” She tilts her masked face down at me. Though I am six feet tall, she’s half a head taller than me. She raises her graceful hands, the way priests used to do when giving a benediction, and glides a step closer.

  I control my breath, keep myself from shrinking back as she approaches. She wouldn’t like that, either. Despite the fact that they like to scare the crap out of everyone, they also like to believe that we all love and adore them and are deeply honored to be in their presence.