“Damn,” I mutter. “You didn’t say it was coming in that fast.”
We can hear the thunk of something hitting the roof loud enough to make me flinch. It sounds like a hail storm, but there’s no way it’s hailing. The weather in Dinétah doesn’t vary much from dry and sunny.
The sound of objects hitting the roof gets louder, more steady.
Ben hops down off the barstool and walks toward the back door, the one facing the trailer. There’re no windows in the All-American, so if we want to see what’s going on, we’re going to have to open a door.
“Wait,” I tell her. I reach around the bar to find a couple of Grace’s ubiquitous bar rags. Hand Ben one, and we tie them around our faces, covering noses and mouths. By now the sounds of the storm have become so loud I have to raise my voice to be heard.
“What’s going on?” Ben asks, her voice scared. We both flinch again as something heavy lands on the roof.
“I don’t know, but that doesn’t sound like a normal windstorm unless it’s tossing around boulders. You better let me do it.” I step in front of Ben, moving her protectively behind me. She grasps the back of my shirt in her fist, holding on. “I’m going to open the door,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice reassuring, “and we’re going to make a run for it. On the count of three. Okay?”
She pulls a little harder at my shirt, so I take that for a yes. It’s less than fifty feet to Grace’s porch. Whatever is raining down on us, we can make it.
I grip the door handle. “One . . . two . . .”
But I don’t get to three before the door comes crashing inward, forcing me to step back and almost knocking Ben, who’s too close to me, over. I reach back to steady her as a hulking figure fills the empty space. I catch a glimpse of the storm before Clive slams the door shut.
“What in the . . . ?” I whisper, awe in my voice, my eyes still staring beyond that flimsy door.
“Locusts,” Clive says grimly. He shakes his shirt out. Shudders as three insects fall to the floor. They are about an inch to an inch and a half long, a dull dusty-brown color, with the shimmering wings of a dragonfly and the long back legs I associate with a grasshopper. Clive immediately stomps on the bugs, crushing them under a heavy boot. The crunch of their carapaces is drowned out by the roar of the swarm outside.
Ben makes a choking sound as they splatter against the hardwood floor, and I’m not far behind.
“What in the hell is going on?” I ask.
Clive shudders as something huge thumps against the closed door. “That’s not a windstorm out there,” he says grimly. “It’s a locust swarm.”
“What are they?” Ben asks, her voice shaking. “Why are they here? Why are there so many of them?”
“All good questions,” Clive assures her. “But right now we’ve got to get back to the house with Rissa and Mom. The bar’s not going to hold up to this.”
As if to prove Clive’s point, something strikes the roof hard enough to shake a piece of the ceiling free. Plaster and Sheetrock rain down a dozen feet from us, and through the hole they leave, I can see daylight. Or at least the place I expect daylight to be. Because all I see out there is a dark cloud of living shadow.
“Not good,” I murmur.
We all watch as a single locust squeezes through the hole. And then another.
“Gotta go,” Clive repeats. He hands us each a pair of goggles, which we gratefully put on. “Tuck your shirts in too. Tighten your sleeves, if you can. And make sure those towels don’t leave any holes for them to get into. They stick to you”—the big man shudders again—“so move fast. They get in your hair, but there’s no way to avoid it. If one gets in your clothes, don’t stop. Get in the house and we’ll deal with it then.”
“Look!” Ben says. Crawling through the growing hole in the ceiling is what can only be called a giant. More than twice the size of the other locusts, it is at least four inches long, with iridescent wings and long spiked back legs. It swivels its huge head back and forth, mandibles snapping.
“Tell me that thing can’t actually see us,” I say, my voice high with a primal fear of crawling six-legged things.
“There’s no way . . . ,” Clive starts, but he drifts off as the giant locust settles its huge eyes on us. I swear it looks right at me.
“Run!” I shout, pushing Ben to the door. Just as the swarm breaks through the ceiling and the giant locust launches free.
Chapter 14
There are many times I’ve faced down monsters in my life. Frightening creatures that made my blood run cold. But there is something about insects, the mindlessness of the horde, that is particularly terrifying.
Ben screams, Clive curses, and I move.
Honágháahnii wakes. Time slows to the pulse of an insect’s wings, the sustained scream of a young girl, and between one beat and the next, my hand finds the throwing knife tucked in my moccasin. I release the blade, an impossible throw, that splits the giant locust in half. It breaks. Falls.
And then Clive’s wrenching the door open, and the roof is collapsing under the weight of the insects, and we’re running. Stumbling into hell.
The darkness is alive, clutching at our clothes, our hair, our skin. A million tiny claws, grasping, hungry. Honágháahnii shows me each creature clearly, a tiny individual nightmare, There’s so many that there’s nothing I can do but hold back the fear, keep moving, and try to shield Ben.
Ben stumbles. Trips on the stairs of the porch and goes down. I grab for her, yank her up by her shirt, but she slips from my grasp. The swarm seems to solidify around her, a blanket of unnatural blackness. I do the only thing I can think to do.
I draw Neizghání’s sword.
I lift it high, like I’ve seen him do a hundred times. And . . . nothing. The sword stays as it is, black obsidian on black wood, no fire. No lightning.
Shit.
But even without the lightning, it’s a powerful weapon, like a sharp-edged club.
I swing it. Cleave through the swarm. Again and again, until I can get to Ben. She’s struggling on hands and knees to crawl up the stairs. I reach down with my free arm and grasp Ben around the waist. Heave her up and throw her forward up the stairs. She stumbles to her feet, and then Clive is there, pulling her through the open door.
I jump the remaining stairs in a single leap, swing the sword one last time to clear my path, and tumble backward through the door. Clive slams it shut, and I hear the heavy smack of bugs against the wood.
Hands are on me, Rissa and Grace, knocking locusts from my clothes and hair. I hold my arms out, careful with the sword, as Grace whacks me with a long-handled broom.
“You’re clear,” Rissa says. I nod thankfully and hobble to the familiar chair by the sofa.
Ben’s sitting on the floor, sniffling quietly but generally holding it together. Maybe not holding it together well, but I can’t blame her. I’m not sure how well I’m holding it together and I’m used to the monsters.
Rissa and Clive are pushing furniture against the door to help it hold. And Grace . . . Oh, Grace. Rissa was right. Her mom looks frail, a bad tiding away from broken. But she’s got a pair of heavy black combat boots on, and she’s sweeping the bugs into piles and stomping them like she’s crushing grapes for harvest.