Storm of Locusts

Chapter 22

I wake up, lying on a cold concrete floor. My head’s pounding like a sledgehammer against my temples, and my mouth is as dry as the desert. I blink through blinding light blasting down on me and try to get my bearings. “What is the deal with these people and light?” I mutter, squinting to try to see around me.

“She lives,” comes a familiar surly voice.

“Rissa?” The Goodacre twin is here, flashing me a relieved smile that belies the annoyed tone of her voice. She offers me a hand, pulling me into a sitting position. Gives me a canteen, which I take gratefully. Her usually neat braids are wild and loose around her head, and a huge bruise covers the side of her face. “What happened?”

“I fought back. Until . . .” She holds her hand to the wound on her face. “I suppose it’s a bit of justice.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I run fingers gingerly across my neck. Feel the spot where they injected me with whatever they used to knock me out.

“Still better than whatever they pumped into you to put you to sleep. You’ve been out for hours.” She grins. “You must have scared the shit out of them.”

“Maybe they’re not used to clan powers.”

“Poor five-fingereds,” she says in a very good imitation of Mósí. “Didn’t know what hit them.”

“Speaking of, any sign of Mósí? Or Ben?”

“No. The Cat disappeared before they caught us. She’s out there. Somewhere.”

Well, at least that’s one bit of good news. If Mósí’s free, our chances of getting out of this place go up. Assuming she decides she wants to help us.

“And no Ben?”

She shakes her head.

I sit up straighter, shade my eyes, and take a good look around, wondering where exactly “here” is. Rissa and I are alone, and in a cage of some kind, thick iron bars on four sides of us, a concrete floor sloping toward the middle of the room. There’s a drain in the center. I can see other cages like ours along the wall. They’re all empty, but there are fresh stains on the cement. I can smell the lingering odors of piss and worse things. Empty meat hooks hang from the ceiling at various intervals, swinging idly. Massive steel tables take up most of the space. A room straight out of a fucking horror movie.

I look at Rissa, who gives me a tight terrified smile. I hadn’t noticed before, but her hands are shaking.

“He called this the Reaping Room,” I say, feeling some of that same dawning revulsion. “Is this a . . . ?”

“Body shop. That’s what this is. I’ve heard people talk about them, but I didn’t think they existed. But this sure looks like the real deal.”

“Cannibals?” I ask, the word thick on my tongue.

“No. A body shop harvests your organs, sells them to the highest bidder.”

“Harvest,” I repeat. I remember what the bilagáana man with the blue eyes said about sending me to the Harvest. This must be what he meant.

“I’ve heard they take everything,” Rissa says. “Skin, hair, organs. There’s a booming market for body parts. A man came to the All-American once. Approached Mom about getting into the business. But she turned him down flat. Reported him as a Harvester, and they ran him out of Dinétah.”

“Grace was going to get into the Harvesting business?”

“Never.” Rissa shudders. “Mom would never. But I learned a bit about it after that. Morbid curiosity, I guess.”

“So, what happens after you get Harvested?”

“Does it matter? We’ll be dead.”

She’s got a point.

I push myself to my feet. Pace around the cage, rattling the bars, testing their strength. “Any idea where we are? I mean, besides hell, generally?”

“Pretty sure this is Knifetown. It used to be one of those places Mósí was talking about along Route 66. ‘Come see the largest collection of knives in North America.’ That kind of thing. Now . . .” Her eyes travel over the cages, the surgical tables. “And Knifetown came up more than once when I was doing my research. I got the feeling it was infamous.”

“Great. So we’re prisoners of the most infamous body shop in the Malpais. Is that what you’re telling me?” I run my hands over my face, trying to think. “How far is that from where we were headed? That Mormon settlement?”

“Joseph City? Not far. Less than twenty miles. We were almost there.”

“Figures.”

“They wouldn’t help you in Joseph City,” comes a voice from behind us. We whirl to find the pilot from before, the one in the aviator’s cap with the bleached eyebrows and lashes, walking through a door marked EXIT in red glowing letters. “They’re scared of Bishop out in J City, just like the rest of them. If you’d stopped there, they would have just brought you here, only made a little trade in the in-between.”

“Who are you?” Rissa asks.

“Aaron,” I say, remembering what the man in the white shirt called him. “He took my weapons.”

“Nothing personal,” he says, his lips quirking in a sideways grin. He pulls a wallet-size pack from his pocket. Lays it flat in his palm and unzips it along the side. Inside gleam four sharp-looking needles. He pulls a long vial of liquid from the other side of his kit.

“I’m guessing he’s also the one who drugged me,” I say to Rissa.

“Again,” Aaron says, “not personal.”

“I took it pretty personally, Aaron.”

“Then you’re really not going to like this.” He holds up the vial to the light. “My sincere apologies for what comes next, but Bishop’s got guests tonight and he needs you both asleep until he’s done entertaining.”

“Asleep?” I ask, eyeing that needle warily. “Or dead?”

“What makes one ride the Malpais at night?” he asks conversationally as he sticks a needle into the top of the vial. He pulls the plunger, and we all watch it fill. “Everybody knows this is Bishop’s territory, and what comes through here belongs to Bishop. Too easy to catch something like you. You ladies don’t look that brainless. Are you that brainless?” He looks up at us, like he’s waiting for us to answer.

“Technically it was dusk,” I mutter.

His shoulders shake in what might be laughter. “Well, technically, you’re screwed.”

“Was that you flying that airplane?” Rissa asks.

Now he really does smile, showing a mouthful of silver teeth. “What gave it away? Was it the cap?” He touches a hand to his head.

“So, you’re a pilot?” I ask, trying to keep him talking instead of shooting us up with whatever is in that vial.

“I was a pilot,” he corrects me. “Before the Big Water. Shuttling tourists around the South Rim of the grandest canyon of all in one of those high-winged little Caravans. Nice little craft. I miss flying her.”

“We’re a long way from the Grand Canyon. How’d you end up here?”

He lifts a shoulder, noncommittal. “Lucky, I guess. Same as you.” He grins. “Now, where were we?”

“What would it cost us to get you to fly us out of here?” Rissa asks in a rush.

Aaron stills. Just a moment’s hesitation, but it’s there. “Neither of you ladies have that kind of trade,” he scoffs, his tone dismissive.

“I do,” Rissa says, her voice sweet as honey and just as seductive. “My family is Dinétah wealthy, not this Malpais gangland ghoul shit like your boss. You get us out of here, we’ll bring you across the border. Get you papers, make sure you’re set up real nice. Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips, eyes narrowed on Rissa. “Across the Wall? You’re not Diné,” he says suspiciously. “You got no sway over there on the other side.”

“Have you heard of the Goodacres?”

His eyes light up. He leans back against one of the big stainless-steel tables, crossing his arms. Rolls the needle between his fingers like another man might a coin. “Everyone knows the Goodacres. Cletus Goodacre was famous in the Harvesting business. A goddamn legend!”

I shoot a startled glance at Rissa. Didn’t know if they were real, eh? Never in the business. Mom would never, she said. But her older brother’s a goddamn legend?

She shifts uncomfortably, caught out in a lie. Embarrassing, but we both know our priority is getting out of here. My moral outrage can come later.

“You’re talking to Clarissa Goodacre,” she says, stepping forward, hands on her hips.

He looks doubtful at first, but slowly the knowledge seems to dawn. “The red hair. Should have known. Can’t be too many reds like you left in the world. But I always thought Cletus was part-Navajo,” he says. “Used to joke about being the same clan.”

“You’re Navajo?” I ask, surprised.

“You actually knew him?” Rissa asks.

“ ’Course. We all knew him. Until . . .” He makes a gesture, something to ward off evil. Curious. I’ve never asked Grace what happened to Cletus. How he died. I just assumed it was in the Energy Wars or in some horrible accident like her husband.

“So, are you going to get us out of here?” I ask.

He looks back to me. Hesitates, glances down at the needle still in his hand. “You’ll get me into Dinétah. Set me up, a wealthy man.”

Rissa nods.

“Exactly how much wealth are we talking?”

“Enough to make it worth your while. You knew Cletus, so you know that I’m good to my word.”

He taps the needle against his cheek. “Tempting. But if I get caught, I’ll be the next one in that cage.”

“You won’t get caught because you’ll come with us,” Rissa practically croons. “We make it to that airplane, no one’s catching us.”

I can see the greed practically shining from his eyes, in the way he twirls the needle between his fingers, contemplating. He swallows hard as Rissa swaggers forward, hips swinging in her fitted brown leathers. She leans folded arms against the bars. She’s close enough to reach out and touch him if she wants.

“So, what do you say, Aaron?” she drawls. “Want to be rich?”