Storm of Locusts

by Rebecca Roanhorse

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  To all the women who are hard to love, and to the people who love them anyway

  Chapter 1

  Four men with guns stand in my yard.

  It’s just past seven in the morning, and in other places in Dinétah, in other people’s yards, men and women are breaking their fast with their families. Husbands grumble half-heartedly about the heat already starting to drag down the December morning. Mothers remind children of the newest Tribal Council winter water rations before sending them out to feed the sheep. Relatives make plans to get together over the coming Keshmish holiday.

  But these four men aren’t here to complain about the weather or to make holiday plans. They certainly aren’t here for the pleasure of my company. They’ve come because they want me to kill something.

  Only it’s my day off, so this better be good.

  “Hastiin,” I greet the man on my front steps. He’s all weathered skin and hard, lean muscle in blue fatigues, skull bandanna hanging loose around his corded neck, black hair shorn skull short. He’s also wearing a small arsenal. An M16 over one shoulder, a monster of a Desert Eagle at his hip, another pistol in a clip holster in his waistband. And I know he’s got a knife tucked in his heavy-soled boot, the left one, and another strapped to his thigh. He didn’t used to do that, dress for a worst-case scenario. But things have changed. For both of us.

  “Hoskie.” Hastiin drawls my last name out. Never my first name—Maggie—always just the last, like we’re army buddies or something. Likely his way of trying to forget he’s talking to a woman, but that’s his problem, not mine. He shifts in his big black boots, his gear jingling like tiny war bells. His fingers flex into fists.

  I lean against my front door and cross my arms, patient as the desert. Stare at him until he stops fidgeting like a goddamn prom date. I’ve learned a lot about Hastiin in the last few weeks, and I know the man shakes like an aspen in the wind when he’s got something on his mind. Some remnant of breathing in too much nerve gas on the front lines of the Energy Wars way back when. Which doesn’t bode well for me. I can see my day off slipping away with the edges of the dawn. But I won’t let him have my time that easy. He’s going to have to work for it.

  “You lost?” I ask him.

  He chuckles low. Not like I’m funny. More like I’m irritating. “You know I’m not lost.”

  “Then I’m not sure why you’re here. Thought we’d agreed this was going to be my day off. I promised Tah that I’d . . .” I frown, scanning my yard. “Where’re my dogs?”

  Hastiin’s mouth cracks slightly in what passes as a grin, and he jerks his chin toward one of his men farther back near the gate. Young guy in fatigues, a fresh-scrubbed face that I don’t recognize, hair tied back in a tsiiyééł. He’s kneeling down, rubbing the belly of a very content mutt.

  “Traitor,” I mutter, but my dog doesn’t hear. Or doesn’t care. All three of my mutts don’t seem to register Hastiin and his Thirsty Boys as a threat anymore. If we keep this business arrangement going, I’m going to have to work on that. I turn back to Hastiin. “So, what’s this all about?”

  He squints dark eyes. “Got a bounty come in. Something big and bad over near Lake Asááyi.”

  Most of the lakes around here have dried up. Red Lake, Wheatfields. But Asááyi has stuck around, fed by an underground aquifer that even this record drought couldn’t kill. It seems doubtful that whoever or whatever Hastiin was hunting over by the lake couldn’t be done without me. Which means—

  “If this is you trying to apologize again for not having my back at Black Mesa . . .”

  “Shit.” He drawls that out too. Spits to the side like it tastes bad in his mouth.

  “I’ve already said you don’t owe me anything. You can stop offering me gigs to try to make it up to me.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  He shrugs, a spare lift of a knobby shoulder. “It’s worth big trade,” he offers. Unconvincingly.

  “I don’t need the money.”

  “Thought you might. What with Grandpa staying with you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He scratches a knuckle across his scruff. Sounds somewhere between resigned and hopeful when he says, “Could be something big and bad. Maybe fun.”

  “And your Thirsty Boys can’t handle it?”

  “You’re the Monsterslayer.” He gives me another squinty stare. “Me and the Boys are just a bunch of assholes with guns.”

  He’s throwing my words back at me, but he says it with a small smile, and I know he doesn’t really mean it. And it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, this is his idea of friendly. He’s inviting me because he does, in fact, want the pleasure of my company. Something inside me shifts. Unfamiliar, but not entirely unappealing.

  “All right,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. No need to let him know I’m pleased at the gesture. “I’ll go. But at least tell me what the job is.”

  “Tell you on the way. Clock’s ticking and all.”

  I look over my shoulder back into the house. “One problem. I promised Tah I’d take him up the mountain to cut some good logs. He wants to build a new hogan.”

  Hastiin blinks a few times. “In Tse Bonito?”

  “Here. On my land. He’s staying.”

  He nods approvingly. “Tell you what,” he says. “You help me with this bounty today, me and the Boys’ll help Grandpa build his hogan tomorrow.”

  It’s a good trade, and better than me hauling the logs down the mountain by myself. In fact, I’d call it a win, and it’s been a while since I had one of those.

  “Let me get my shotgun.”

  * * *

  It doesn’t take me long to get ready. I’m already wearing what Hastiin calls my uniform, which is fairly rich considering he and his Thirsty Boys actually wear a freaking uniform. He tried to get me into a set of those blue fatigues when I first joined up with the Thirsty Boys right after Black Mesa, but I told him that it felt like I was playing soldier, and if there was one thing I’m not, it’s a soldier. I’m surprised I’ve made it this long working with the Boys, but I guess I didn’t feel much like being alone after everything that went down. I hate to admit it, and I intend to deny it if he asks, but I like Hastiin. Well, maybe “like” is a bit strong. But I could get to like.

  I do change my T-shirt. Same black, but it smells markedly better than the one I slept in. I tighten my moccasin wraps. Tuck my throwing knives into the edges just below the knee. One obsidian blade, one silver. Both made to kill creatures that might not be hurt by steel. My new Böker knife is all steel, and it goes in the sheath at my waist. It’s a recent replacement for the one I lost in the fighting
arena at the Shalimar and the first thing I bought with the trade I earned hunting with the Thirsty Boys. I thumb the hilt of the big knife, memories of the Shalimar wanting to surface, but there’s nothing good there and I’ve spent enough time replaying that night in my head. What I need more than anything is a fresh start. I’m tired of carrying around old ghosts.

  As if the threat of memories alone is enough to compel me, I find myself on my knees, reaching behind the narrow space between the head of my mattress and the wall. My hand hits cloth, and beneath it I feel the pommel of a sword. I know the rest of the sword is four feet long, its blade forged from the raw lightning that the sun gifted to his son as a weapon. His son who was once my mentor, once the only man I ever thought I’d love. But I tricked that man, trapped him and imprisoned him in the earth. I know I didn’t have a choice, that it was either him or me. And as much as I loved him, I loved myself just a little bit more.

  So now the sword is mine.

  I leave the sword where it is. It’s not meant for a simple bounty hunt. It’s too sacred, too bound in power and memories for me to take hunting with Hastiin. But one day maybe. Until then it stays put.

  My shotgun rests on the gun rack next to my bed. It’s a beauty. Double-barrel-pump action with a custom grip. I take it from the rack and slide it into my shoulder holster. Adjust it so it sits just right, an easy draw from the left. Glock comes too. It rides on the hip opposite from my Böker. I pat it all down, reciting my list of weapons softly to myself, just to make sure everything’s where it’s supposed to be.

  Tah catches me as I come out of my bedroom, a mug of Navajo tea in his wrinkled hands. “I thought I heard you in there,” he says cheerfully. “I’m ready to go. Just need to find my hat . . .” He trails off as he sees my weapons.

  “Hastiin’s here,” I explain. “Some kind of emergency at Lake Asááyi and he needs backup. But he said he and the Boys’ll help us build your hogan tomorrow. They’ll even do all the heavy lifting.”

  Tah’s thin shoulders fall forward in disappointment. For a moment he looks all of his seventy-odd years.

  And I know that’s my fault, even before today’s small disappointment.

  But Tah straightens, smiles. “Well, tomorrow’s just as good as today. I made some tea. Want to at least take a cup? It’s not coffee. . . .” He shakes his head, chuckles a happy laugh. “Remember when my grandson brought me all that coffee?”

  “And the sugar, too,” I say. “I remember.”

  I smile back, but it’s not much of a smile. In fact, it feels like I’m trying to smile past the broken place in my heart. We haven’t much talked about Black Mesa and what happened with Kai. And he hasn’t asked. But I saw him once, head together with Hastiin’s, when he thought I wasn’t listening, and I’m sure the mercenary told him what I did. Well, at least his side of the story, anyway. But Tah’s never asked me. Maybe he doesn’t want to know the truth.

  “Just you wait, Maggie. He’ll come. Kai will come. And then maybe you’ll quit your moping.”

  I look up, surprised. “I thought I was doing okay.”

  He shakes his head. “Maybe we’ll both quit our moping.” He folds his hands tight around his mug of tea. Stares out the window at nothing. Or maybe he’s staring all the way across Dinétah to the All-American, where his grandson is alive and well.

  Alive and well for more than a month and he hasn’t come to us. To me. When I asked Hastiin if he knew why Kai hadn’t come, he said, “Ask him yourself.” But I can’t. I’m too proud, or too scared to push it. If Kai doesn’t want to see me, I have to respect that. Even if I crawl into bed every night to stare at the ceiling and think about him. Even if I stumble out of bed bleary-eyed and restless a handful of hours later, still thinking about him. Even if every day starts and ends with the image of him lying dead at my feet. My last and most terrible deed, even worse than betraying my mentor. All of it eating me alive.

  “When he’s ready,” Tah says quietly, more to himself than to me. “When Kai is ready he’ll come to us.”

  I want to ask Tah when he thinks that will be, but he doesn’t know any more than I do. So I check my weapons again, my fingers lingering on the comfort of cold metal, and leave.

  Chapter 2

  Hastiin and the Thirsty Boys are gathered by their vehicles. Three of us pile into an armor-fitted jeep, Hastiin in the driver’s seat, me at shotgun with my shotgun literally across my lap, and another Thirsty Boy, the young one who was petting my traitorous pup, in the back. Two other Boys climb onto terrain-friendly motorbikes and lead us out. My dogs escort us, tails wagging, as far as the cattle guard that marks the edge of my property.

  “Take care of the old man,” I tell my dogs, as the jeep rattles its way over the metal grating. They bark a happy farewell before turning back toward the trailer. Hastiin pulls out onto the road and turns us west.

  “So how far to Asááyi these days?” I ask. “I hear that road’s shot to shit.”

  “Half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” I ask, incredulous. “It’s eight, ten miles tops. Your jeep can’t go any faster than that?” Granted the road isn’t much more than a winding suggestion up the side of a mountain and down into the canyon and drought has pockmarked the red earth with massive potholes, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t get there in half the time Hastiin suggests.

  “He drives like an old man,” the Thirsty Boy in the back remarks cheerfully. I glance back. He’s young, fifteen. Sixteen, maybe. Hair in a traditional bun, nice brown eyes. Somebody’s kid brother. No, check that. Now that I’m closer, I can see. Somebody’s kid sister.

  “A girl?” I ask Hastiin. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Hastiin frowns. “Just ’cause I don’t like you much, Hoskie, doesn’t mean I don’t like women.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m the best tracker in Dinétah,” the new girl says. “He had to bring me if he wants to catch the White Locust. He didn’t have a choice.”

  “I thought I was the best tracker in Dinétah,” I say.

  The new girl’s eyes get big, and I give her a smile to let her know I’m not serious. Turn in my seat to get a good look at her. That almost bony frame, the crooked nose, the dimple I can see clear enough on her cheek, but that Hastiin hides behind his scruff of a beard. I turn back to Hastiin. “You’re related, aren’t you?”

  He grumbles something.

  “Speak up, Hastiin.”

  “He and my mom are cousins!” the girl says. “Brother-sister, Navajo way.”

  I used to think Hastiin was a hard-ass, one of the grizzled mercenary types that had seen it all and learned not to give a shit. Granted, he was always a dick to me before Black Mesa, so I might have been biased. But these past few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time with the man, and I’ve learned that underneath that rough exterior is a bit of a softie. I’m starting to appreciate him, and I think he feels the same way. I won’t ask him though. He’ll just deny it and demand that I crawl through a field of prickly goat’s head to prove how much he doesn’t care. But it doesn’t mean I can’t tease him.

  “Our tracker’s got a point about your driving, Hastiin. Why don’t you let me drive?”

  “Why don’t you sit there and look pretty, Hoskie?”

  “Why don’t you retire while you still can, old man?”

  Hastiin’s niece makes a choking sound. He looks back in alarm. “You okay?”

  “No,” I say, “she’s not okay. She’s dying, very slowly, because it’s taking too long to drive to Lake Asááyi.”

  Hastiin snorts, amused at my dumb joke. The jeep jerks forward as he presses the accelerator. I don’t even crack a smile. Like I said. Softie.

  We make it to Asááyi in under twenty minutes.

  Chapter 3

  “What are we up against?” I ask, sliding out of the jeep parked at the edge of the lake. My moccasins kick up swirls of red dust. Around us stretch the red and white striated cliffs of Bowl Canyo
n. Pine trees dot the sides of the rock face, incongruous spikes of determined survival in a world made of hard surfaces and callous time. Long before the Big Water, before even the Diné became the Earth-Surface People that we are today, this part of the world used to be the floor of a great sea. The bilagáana scientists call that continental shift geology. We Diné don’t disagree exactly. We find the same strange ocean-born fossils in our rocks, the same signs of a world before ours, foreign and unfamiliar. We just attribute the current face of our homeland to different sources.

  “Have you heard of the White Locust?” Hastiin asks me as he comes around the back of the jeep.

  “Not until your niece mentioned her. Him. They?”

  “He’s the leader of a group that call themselves the Swarm. You can blame your boy for that,” he says, digging around in the back of the jeep. My boy. He means Kai. He pulls out a bullet-resistant vest and throws it at me.

  I catch it. “I need body armor?”

  “Ever since his storm cloud’s been hanging over Canyon de Chelly”—he points with his lips in the direction of the sacred canyon even though we can’t see it from here—“people have been getting crazy ideas. End of the world. Beginning of the new world.”

  “Isn’t the apocalypse a little ‘been there, done that’? I mean, didn’t we just have a massive world-destroying flood? Earthquakes? Wars? What, did they miss the memo?”

  The new girl laughs, and I give her a grin. Either I’m getting funnier or apocalypse jokes are low-hanging fruit.

  “Put the damn thing on,” he says when he sees I’m not strapping on the vest. “I fully expect these people are armed to the teeth.”

  “You do remember I’m fast, don’t you?”

  He frowns. Hastiin hates when I bring up my clan powers. Most of the time he pretends I don’t have them. The rest of the time he’s relying on me to use them to get us out of a jam. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that I can’t turn them on and off when I want to. They come on their own schedule, usually when I’m personally in danger, and leave just as abruptly when the adrenaline spike that drive them fades.