Professional Documents
Culture Documents
By Joseph Bruchac
Years ago, seventeen-year-old Apache hunter Lozen and her family lived
in a world of haves and have-nots. There were the Onespeople so augmented
with technology and genetic enhancements that they were barely humanand
there was everyone else who served them. Then the Cloud came, and everything
changed. Tech stopped working. The world plunged back into a new steam age.
The Ones petsgenetically engineered monstersturned on them and are now
loose on the world.
Lozen was not one of the lucky ones pre-C, but fate has given her a unique set of
survival skills and magical abilities. She hunts monsters for the Ones who survived
the apocalyptic events of the Cloud, which ensures the safety of her kidnapped
family. But with every monster she takes down, Lozens powers grow, and she
connects those powers to an ancient legend of her people. It soon becomes clear to
Lozen that she is not just a hired gun.
As the legendary Killer of Enemies was in the ancient days of the Apache people,
Lozen is meant to be a more than a hunter. Lozen is meant to be a hero.
Coming September 17, 2013 from Tu Books,
an imprint of LEE & LOW BOOKS
$19.95 978-1-62014-143-4 Ages 12 and up 400 pages
Also available as an e-book
Learn more at leeandlow.com/p/tu.mhtml
Tu Books
Books
Tu
AN IMPRINT OF
AN IMPRINT OF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the authors 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 Kov
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.
95 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016
leeandlow.com
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
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bruchac, Joseph, 1942Killer 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 engineeringFiction. 2. HuntingFiction. 3. SurvivalFiction.
4. Extrasensory perceptionFiction. 5. HostagesFiction. 6. Chiricahua
Indians--Fiction. 7. Indians of North AmericaSouthwest, NewFiction.
8. Southwest, NewFiction. 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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Dreamer
red curtains, blood red. They are draped in such a way that
they seem to be moving. Thats because of the light reflecting
from the third wall, the one to my right.
That wall is covered with mirrors of all shapes and sizes.
Some of them seem to have come from a sideshow funhouse
from one of those carnivals that used to exist B.C. They distort
the shapes they reflect in bizarre ways. They catch and twist
the light cast by the candles and oil lanterns hung in front of
them. Look too long at those mirrors and you start to lose your
balance. This chamber may be the smallest of the rooms occupied by our overlords, but the lights, the mirrors and those
rippling vermilion curtains make it seem as if it has no boundaries in any direction.
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Bloodless
slight clatter as I shift gears when the road rises, are a comforting sound. Theyre almost like a song. The wind is in my face,
the scent of sage is in the air, and Im out from behind the
walls. And I can pedal this bike down the highway without
fear of being squashed by a boulder dropped by a Monster
Bird. I suppose I should be feeling good on some level. Aside
from the usual knot somewhere in my stomach that I always
get when I am sent out on one of these missions to killor be
killed. But theres something else disquieting this time. Two
somethings.
I stop at the top of the last bend in the road where I can
look back and see the old prison. I lift up the motorcycle goggles
127
Ive been wearing to keep the road dust out of my eyes. Maybe
I dont need them all that much. But I really love them. My
dad gave them to me. Hed liberated them from a museum
exhibit in a little ghost town only a week before we were taken.
His last gift to me.
I squint against the light, put a level palm across my forehead to shade my vision. The gates are still closed. Im not
being followed by anyone. Not yet, at least. But that feeling
that I may be followed is something Numero Uno. Partially a
result of my Power. Right now it is tugging at the back of my
brain and telling me to keep looking back. And partially because
I noticed the little group of men who were casually gathered
together at the far side of the exercise yard past the armory.
None of them were wearing armbands. And that was strange.
All but one of them were carefully not watching me as I left.
They were also making a point of not looking toward the
armory. Which made me suspect that was where they were
heading as soon as the gates closed behind me. To get geared
up and follow me?
But not yet. The gates stay closed. I sigh, lower my goggles,
shift my backpacka little heavier than usual because of the
weighty items at the bottom of itand then apply my feet
once more to the pedals.
And I begin to think about reason Numero Dos for my
disquiet. Snakes. I am less than fond of snakes. Thats a weakness of mine, I know.
128
129
lightand air, seeing as how the glass is all gone. A hill that
rolls down behind it. And a dried-up reddish brown yard in
front of where there had once been well-irrigated lawn. No
trees or big stones for anything to lurk behind as it creeps
toward me in the twilight.
I take out the eighteen-inch pry bar Ive packed. Then,
holding it in my left hand, my .357 in my right, I insert it
between the front door and the frame. True, I could have
crawled through the space where the plate glass window once
looked out onto a verdant yard. But the chance of cutting
myself and being in an awkward spot halfway in and halfway
out when... well, you know. The lock pops free, but the door
sticks when it is part way open. One front kick does it, not
only opening the door but ripping it off its hinges to fall with
an echoing crash on the floor of the hallway thatlike the
other rooms in the houseappears to have been stripped of
everything valuable.
Honey, I call out, Im home.
No answering hellos, growls, or slobbery snarls. An excellent
start.
Its a ranch style, constructed on a slab since the bedrock
is too close to the surface to make a basement. So aside from
a possible crawl space overheadwhich I am not about to
explorethere is just one floor to check out before I start.
I contemplate how to do this. I reach back to the bag slung
over my left shoulder and pat its lumpy contents. I could take
132
out one of the party favors that Guy provided me for the
particular task I hope to accomplish at Dragoon Springs. Toss
one into the house ahead of me and then...
Nah. Too noisy. Plus I may need every one of the seven he
gave me at my ultimate destination tomorrow.
So I just grasp my .357 in both hands. I double check to
make sure the safety is still off. (Youd be surprised, Guy once
told me, how many people forget that one little detail until it
is too late and somethings teeth are lodged in your throat.).
Take a slow breath, start moving from one room to the
next.
My back is against the wall with the gun held ahead of me
till I reach each doorway. Its a long hall with one sharp turn
in it. Then I take a quick step and a half turn to face into each
successive room with the gun held ahead of me, ready to fire
at the center mass of whatever is lurking in there as my eyes
sweep from floor to ceiling, corner to corner.
Kitchen. Clear.
Living room. Nothing living.
Den with no denizen.
A trio of bedrooms. No Goldilocks, no three bears.
Three bathrooms without a single psycho in the showers.
Two-car garage with no cars within.
Nada.
Safe enough. But not a place I would want to spend the
night.
133
134
His smile gets even broader. Sure thing, little sister. That
makes sense. Bout as much sense as me looking like this,
hey?
Sit, I say, gesturing at the couch hes just reached.
Thought youd never ask, he says. He lowers his long,
lanky frame down onto the couch. And as he does so I notice
two things. Numero Uno is that his face has changed. He looks
younger now. His mustache is no longer gray, but black. Numero
Dos is that the overstuffed couch cushions did not give way
under his weight.
Gans, hed said. I hadnt heard it wrong.
Ayup, he says. Thats me. And as he says those three
words his voice changes. His accent is no longer that of a
cowboy out of one of those old western movies. Its as deep
and resonant as thunder coming out of the mountains.
My namesake spoke to the spirits. They visited her from
time to time, just as they visited all of our people who fasted
and prayed for help from those ancient beings. The gans. The
mountain spirits who have helped us now and then. In the old
days, back in the early twenty-first century, there were still
times when our people would put on the sacred paint, wear
the tall cruciform headpieces, and dance as the Mountain
Spirits.
But I havent been fasting. Or seeking a spirit guide. Or
have I?
The figure in front of me flickers, his shape blurs for a
135
136
137
in. The next thing the person huddled in front of that fire
knows, there are two clawed hands around his or her neck and
some very sharp teeth fastened in said soon-to-be-deceased
persons neck.
If that person is stupid enough to sit staring into a fire. The
proper place for a night fire is at your back when you are dealing
with such former (we assume) human beings. Ive heard theories about how they came to be. A virus, a genetic mutation,
a gene-splicing experiment that was meant to cure a certain
kind of immune-deficient disease that popped up a few years
before the Cloud and caused severe anemia. Or maybe it had
to do with some sort of old darker magic coming back after
the electricity was dampened.
For whatever reason, the result was the rise of the Bloodless.
And when they were set free by the chaos after the electronic
apocalypse, it turned out they could propagate more of their
kind. Getting killed is one thing, but it is way worse as far as
I am concerned to get turned into a creepy-crawly who only
comes out at night.
A lot of peoplemyself includedthink that maybe the
Bloodless have been around for longer than some think. Like
the vampires of legend, maybe they (or others like them in the
past) are the basis for such stories all around the world. Including among our Chiricahua people and the other original peoples
of this continent. And when electricity and bright lights vanished from the world, they were free again to reclaim the dark.
So why build a fire if it attracts them? Because they will
138
face into a toothy grin. He brushes his hair back from his face,
beckons with his hand. A hand whose fingernails are as long
and sharp as the claws of a vulture.
No. Fire too hot. Cool out here. Come out here, better
out here. Fire too hot.
Hes talking faster now, being more insistent because hes
frustrated that I havent fallen for his line of crap. Or have I?
Hes closer than he was before and I dont remember seeing
him move. But I stay where I am.
His hands are trembling. His body is tense. But the fires
and my obvious resistance have discomfited him. His mouth
is slightly open now and I can see his sharp canine teeth. A
little line of saliva is creeping down the right corner of his
mouth.
I havent unholstered my gun. I could shoot at him, sure.
But shooting doesnt always work with the Bloodless. Unless
you hit them just right, a bullet goes right through them. Then
they just keep coming. And at the sight of a gun they move so
fast that getting off an accurate shoteven for meisnt a
certainty.
Plus, I wonder if hes alone.
Ive heard that they hunt in pairs, staking out their own
little portions of the nighttime landscape as their own.
The female of the pair may be somewhere out there in the
night behind him. Not behind me. My fire is too big for that
direction to be to her liking. Without the protective wall of
140
the fires Ive built the two of them would already be on me like
two mountain lions on a rabbit.
Tired, the Bloodless male says. He has moved a step closer
to me. That is not good.
Focus, girl.
Tired, he says again. You tired.
No, Im not. I hold hard to that thought.
He is grinning even wider now, all resemblance to humanity gone. Showing all his teethmore than the average human
mouth could hold. Toothy, I think. Ill call him Toothy. And
what should I call his as-yet-unseen mate who may be planning
to sweep in on me like a storm wind as soon as Toothy makes
his move? How about Mariah? Like that old, old song my
mother sometimes sings. They Call the Wind Mariah.
Tired, tired.
He takes two steps closer. Im awake. I see those steps.
Sleep now. Sleep, Toothy repeats in a growly whisper.
And my eyelids are feeling heavy, despite my attempts to
concentrate, to stay awake.
Another step, nearly near enough to leap.
I close my eyes. And as soon as I do so, that familiar stab
in the middle of my forehead comes along with his breathless,
ravenous voice.
Yes!
Timing is everything. I open my eyes just in time for my
feigned slumber to work. Toothy is in midleap as I lift my staff,
141
142
143
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dragoon Springs
144
5 miles
145
146
147
I scan the road Ive just traveled where it comes out of the
desert several miles back. Movement. Just coming into view
between the hills. And there they are at last, the ones following
me. Two, three, four, five of them loping along at a brisk
military pace. Following their leader, a big bear-like man wearing
a red armband. He stops and looks down. I know what hes
seeing. The tire treads of my bike in the sand that drifted over
the dip in that part of the road. His head starts to turn my way.
I quickly lower the scope and drop down out of sight. Did his
peripheral vision pick up a brief gleam of sunlight reflecting
from the lens of my scope? If so, maybe Ill get lucky. Maybe
hell think what he half-saw was nothing more than sun bouncing off stone. Or maybe not.
Crap! Everybody wants to get into the act. But not actually
everybody. Just one Overlord in particular. Only Diablita Locas
men wear the red band. The huge man leading them is the
head case everyone calls Big Boy. Boss of an outlaw biker gang
back when motorcycles still worked. Now Diablitas head of
security. I recognize him by not only his boxcar bulk but by
the two jagged lines of raised flesh across his right cheek. Plus
the signature machete hanging at his waist. Hes never without
it and uses it for you-know-what. I dont have to guess whose
head he plans to cut off with it this time.
Big Boy was a Chainer even before the coming of the Cloud.
Its surprising hes still alive. Chain isnt just addictive. It eventually kills its users, burns them out in a few years. At the very
end its like there are chains inside your body, wrapped around
149
you, being pulled tighter and tighter until your own bones
begin to snap.
Why are Big Boy and his crew after me? Perhaps there is
no logical reason other than that the Ones are always at odds
with each other. Sending a killer team after me would be one
way to thwart the Dreamers wishes. Done just to spite him?
Getting what he wants for herself? Take that prized mirror to
Diablita Loca, who can let the Dreamer know that she plans
to hang it among her trophies? Or maybe shell just have it
smashed to pieces in public?
Then again, it just might be that their job is simply to get
rid of me as soon as possible because I am being viewed as a
potential risk by the one who dispatched them on their mission.
Theyre obviously not backup for my mission.
So which will it be? Engineer my immediate demise or hang
back to see if I manage to retrieve that stupid mirror and wipe
out a baleful beast or two in the process? Then, if I am still
alive and ambulatory, ambush me on my way back?
Not that it matters in the long run to me which objective
they have been instructed to accomplish.
After all, either way, Ill end up as dead as alternating current.
150