Transsender and the Wendigo

By Joan d'Arc

ProtoH8 is killing the bees and threatening human annihilation. Far away from the apocalyptic struggle, a promised utopia springs up. The cure is in the bee venom given at the Friends of Apis sanctuary, but once you get there, you can't go home.

 

The Kickapoo Nation of Kansas loses many members to the H8rs, a roaming band of killer humans with the disease. Wintu's father tells him to stay clear of Friends of Apis. And the H8rs, he says, are greedy Wendigo spirits coming for the casino gold. Their attacks have become deadly. Wintu must find his twin sister, Wenona, wherever she is, and take her home—wherever home is now.

 

Mix one part mythic thriller. One part magical realism. Streak with horror! Sit around the campfire and enjoy Transsender and the Wendigo. Integrating the magic of astral projection, telepathy, and telekinesis into a dystopian setting, Transsender is an updated retelling of the Kickapoo legend of the Great Spirit and Wisaka. It also stands as a cogent reminder of the monstrous treatment of indigenous peoples and a wake-up clarion of anti-racism and anti-slavery. (340 pages)

Joan d'Arc's SF / horror short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies worldwide. Her collection, Friends of Apis Radio: Fabulist Fiction Tales, has garnered multiple five-star reviews. Her fascination with Native American mythology influenced the story of Transsender. She is the past editor of Paranoia Magazine and Huntergatheress Journal. 

 

REVIEW:

"Post apocalyptic, sci-fi fantasy, spiritual First Nations. This was such a treat. We rarely get to read about the Kickapoo tribe. I just loved Transsender's surrealness. I felt like I was reading something out of Annihilation almost, that's how good it was.

 

When the Proto-H8 virus overwhelms the human population, many countries manage to close their borders and defend their people. The U.S. does not fare as well. The government all but disappears and the country becomes overrun with H8rs—rage-filled, uncontrollable people who ultimately succumb to madness. For those still left, it's complete chaos, and that's the case for the tribal people left in the Kickapoo Nation of Kansas.

 

Once in the sanctuary, Wintu uncovers a reality that is far crazier than he could have imagined. He must dig deep into his soul to connect with his spirit guide, in order to save his twin sister, his girlfriend, and his friends, not just from the delusions of a mad scientist, but from something far worse and ancient roaming the Friends of Apis sanctuary."

 

REVIEW:

"The novel modernizes the Kickapoo legend of the Great Spirit and Wisaka, fusing surrealism, sci-fi, and introspection. Populated by intricate characters, it explores race, slavery, identity, and the fusion of human lives with extraordinary elements. A chance encounter with an otherworldly intruder begins a series of gripping events that propel the narrative forward. I particularly enjoyed how the author weaves together complex plot points and events, giving each character their moment in the spotlight.

 

Resembling the malevolent Wendigo spirit, the H8rs symbolize greed and oppression, blending traditional and contemporary elements to reflect timeless struggles. The story adeptly explores race, slavery, and their impact on human lives through science fiction elements and analogies. It offers a compelling commentary on these issues without being preachy. Characters' struggles with identity and systemic influences prompt reflections on power, privilege, and oppression in our society."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Huntergatheress Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223673682

Joan d'Arc

Joan d’Arc’s short story collection, Friends of Apis Radio: Fabulist Fiction Tales, has garnered multiple five-star reviews on Amazon. Her science fiction / horror short stories have been published in numerous magazines, including Lovecraftiana, Schlock!, Existential Hologram, Other Worlds 2, Ruffles Repair and Ritual, Danse Macabre, and Huntergatheress Journal.   She is the author of two paranormal non-fiction books: Space Travelers and the Genesis of the Human Form and Phenomenal World and has published numerous articles on conspiracy, occult and paranormal subjects internationally.   She is the past publisher and editor of Paranoia: The Conspiracy Reader. Her book, Conspiracy Geek: Collected Writings and Interviews, compiles all of these articles and interviews in one place.   Friends of Apis Radio https://rb.gy/6bfsy   Conspiracy Geek https://rb.gy/6bfsy  

Book preview

Surreal Smoke Signals

A CRASH OF GLASS. THE long, tremulous howl of a screech owl. Wintu’s stocking feet dusted the floor, terror digging with half-dreamt claws. The family pictures on the wall raced by. His toes stopped at the threshold. Crouching, Wintu peered into the kitchen.

His heart was beating like a rabbit’s.

Jagged glass glimmered in the window, the blood moon casting two shadows on the wall. A lanky silhouette moved in the darkness. Shifting, it made a terrible noise—the warbling shriek Wintu had heard in his sleep. Had a bird gotten into the house?

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

A H8r!

Fear grabbed his spine with icy fingers. The highway was a trek from the reservation—had this one walked all the way here? He’d heard talk of a couple of them out on Route 70 a month or so back. The tracker said he’d taken care of them.

Now the H8r stepped into the moonlight: Ratty clothes hanging from a bone-thin frame. Wisps of hair spiking from an angular, bald head. Wintu peered closer. There was blood splashed across the man’s mouth and teeth. Pa had said the Wendigo were cannibals. Here was proof.

The H8r rotated his head owlishly and shrieked into the shadows. "Poowee-eek! Awwk!"

The skin on Wintu’s neck prickled. There was no doubt the birdman was powered by the ancient spirit of Wendigo. He followed the birdman’s eyes into the room.

The second shadow was Pa’s. Standing six feet two, he was gonna pin the H8r down and wipe the floor with him. That H8r was in trouble!

The H8r’s steel post made a racket as he dragged it on the floor. Was he gonna use that thing on Pa? How could he sit side ring and not lend a hand? An idea began to settle in ... He’d get behind the H8r and bang him on the head with something.

Tomorrow he’d tell a brave story, and he, Wintu, would be in it.

Wintu crept in. Now the moon shuffled their shadows on the wall: Three souls tight in a tango. One step. Two. Going for three. Lifting his foot, he settled it on a sheet of glass. Crunch!

He sucked in a breath.

The H8r whipped around and glared straight at him. A pair of broken sunglasses dangled from his pocket. Blue-black bruises covered his cheeks. His mouth a black toothless void, he shouted, Boy! Lifting the steel post, the H8r pulled his arms back ready to swing.

"Poowee-eek! Awwk!"

Pa sailed across the room. There was a wet thud as the pole struck his ribs. Struggling to his feet, he wrestled with the Wendigo and stole the post from his grip.

Mine! The H8r spun, opened a drawer, and slammed it. Opening another, he picked out a sharp carving knife. Turning, he convulsed toward Wintu.

Wintu took a step back. Then another. His back hit the wall, the knife inches from his throat. Why was the guy so set on killing him? Swallowing hard, he stared into the man’s eyes. What was it like in there?

His father’s shadow on the wall caught the edge of his vision. The shadow raised the post high in the air and brought it down with a crrr-ack on the H8r’s head.

Blood misted Wintu’s face. The knife clattered to the floor. In the stretch of a life-and-death moment, the H8r stared into Wintu’s eyes. Beneath the rabid itch for mayhem—behind the insatiable hunger, a question lingered. What was the man trying to say?

He fell like a bag of bones, his blood pooling in a maroon halo on Mom’s clean floor.

Wintu stared at the grotty thing. Ghouls! Wendigo spirits! Curse of the White Man! He’d heard some strange names for them, but he’d never seen one up close. His throat lurched. Spinning fast, he upchucked into the corner and twirled back, hoping his father hadn’t seen the adolescent move. He was sixteen now and still sick at the sight of blood?

Pa was holding his stomach, a bloodstain growing on his shirt.

You got hit! Wintu pulled up a chair and helped his father sit. Got him a glass of water and leaned on the back of the chair. Is he dead? he whispered.

Can’t tell. Pa gasped as he slurped the water.

The floorboards creaked overhead. Wintu touched his father’s shoulder and whispered, It’s Mom and Wenona.

The H8r’s body left a path of blood as they worked him out the door and bumped him down the stairs. A puff of air rushed out of the man’s mouth as his back hit the street.

The sweet burn of apple wood floated from chimneys. The February wind gnawed at his skin. Wintu watched his father reach into his pocket and take out his lighter. His heart reeled. Was he about to—?

Pa handed him the metal pole. Take this. He might try to get back up, even with his head caved in. He lit the corner of the H8r’s shirt. Yellow flames crisscrossed his body, the fibers of his clothes curling to ash. Pa’s voice rose raggedly with the embers. We never eat the body of a Wendigo. No matter how hungry we are.

Wi-iin-tuu! His sister called him in a vibrato pitch.

He stepped away from the fire, the smell of crisping skin drifting into his nostrils. His pajamas offered no chance against the bite of cold, but now, if he stepped back to the fire, Pa might think he liked that smell.

The Wendigo spirit has left this body. The man is at peace. Reaching out, Pa took the pole from Wintu. You’ll get frostbite. Go on in with your mom and sister. Clean the floor. Put a sheet of plastic over the window. Make a pot of coffee. We will pray for his soul.

Wintu lifted his eyes to the silhouette of the tribe’s casino. Little fires flickered across his vision.

Surreal smoke signals.

How had this become their new reality?

Dead Man Pinball

WINTU’S FATHER TOOK to his bed the day after the attack—his head fevered and his eyes mad. Wintu flinched every time Pa called out a snatch of legend, a grim warning—a word that held no meaning outside of the terror that shot up his spine. Great Spirit and Wisaka will come!

His father was talking about the hero of Kickapoo legend, Wisaka, the Son of the Great Spirit, Kisiihiat.

Wintu heard Mom’s soothing voice. One day, Wisaka called down Buzzard and asked, ‘What’s it like at the top of the world?’ Buzzard took him up to the top of the sky.

After a stretch of silence, Pa joined in. Buzzard dropped him. It took ten days for Wisaka to fall.

Mom went next. Wisaka waved his arms and legs. Tried to stop himself from crashing. Then, he thought about it. ‘I shall turn into a hawk’s feather.’

He floated down ... into the hollow of a tree, his father murmured softly. Wisaka will come! Then Pa fell silent.

Wintu sat at the table across from Wenona. She was reading a book. How could she be so calm?

Mom came into the kitchen. She peered at the twins over her big-framed glasses, her golden-brown hair wreathed in braids around her head. She opened the closet and tossed her cardinal fleece throw around herself. Let’s pray the doctor comes soon. I’ll make some coffee. Blowing her nose on a tissue, she padded to cabinet, her slippers flapping on the floor.

She reached for the can on the top shelf. Measuring the coffee into the pot, her hands began to shake and spill the precious commodity onto the countertop.

Wintu came up beside her, standing nearly as tall. Let me do it for you. He took the measuring spoon from his mother’s hands, finished the pot, and added the water. It was the last can, and they wouldn’t be rationed more till next month, if any could be found in the casino storage.

Crinkling his brow, Wintu asked, Mom, I’ve been wondering. Is Wisaka a human or a god?

He’s the son of the creator god, Kisiihiat, she answered, peering at him. "He’s half-human and half-spirit. As a changeling, Wisaka has the power to change into any form."

But, Wintu asked, why does Wisaka do dumb things? What’s the lesson?

Mom answered, It’s about boundaries and rules—where you should and shouldn’t be.

Know your place, human! Wenona called out without looking up from her book.

Wintu tilted his head at his twin and smirked. But didn’t he turn into a bear and get stuck inside a tree for a week?

He did, Wintu, his mother answered warmly. In your life, you will recreate yourself so many times you won’t remember who you were right now.

Wintu grinned. "Have you changed?"

Oh, I have, Mom said. Very much so.

I’ve changed, he said, smiling. I want to talk to Pa forever. Wintu was anxious about keeping Pa in his sight. Can I go and see him now?

He just fell asleep, hon.

Do you need me to do anything, then?

She pointed at the messy pan that was soaking in the sink. I burnt the cereal. Can you scrub the pan for me?

Wintu picked up a scrub brush and scoured it clean. Then he scrubbed the sink, making a scratching racket. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Counting was the only thing that stopped him from retracing his steps: if only he’d gotten there a second earlier, or if he hadn’t been such a weakling, or if he’d gone for Pa’s rifle first. Or, the best one in the rotation—if he hadn’t woken up at all—as useless as he’d been.

Bad thoughts will get you nowhere good, Wenona said without looking up. The pages of her book made a crisp, flicking sound as Wintu sat in the chair across from her. They were chocolate-haired twins with the same amber eye color, a tiny brown birthmark under their right eye, and the uncanny ability to know what the other was thinking.

Mom called it twin magic. Pa said it was because the Great Spirit had tied their souls together in the womb. He’d tell the story to anyone who would listen. Wintu had been born several hours before Wenona. She struggled, the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. Wintu screamed hysterically as, inch by inch, the midwife turned the baby around. When his sister came into the world, Wintu stopped crying.

You did everything you could, Wenona said, seconds before her brother spoke.

I should have done something.

Listen to me! Wenona enunciated her next words slowly. That thing crashed in through the window. You and Pa stopped it from getting at Mom and me. You took care of the problem while we slept. Don’t blame yourself for ... for anything that happens.

Wintu tilted his head in thought. Did that mean he shouldn’t blame himself if ... if Pa died?

He ... isn’t ... going ... to ... die! Wenona muttered, shaking her head.

The coffee pot made that gurgling sound as it finished the pot, and above it a heavy rap on the door nearly lifted Wintu out of his seat.

Mom opened the door and smiled. The wind was at your back!

Dr. Dodd set down his medical bag and hung his parka on the hook. These bomb cyclones coming down from Canada are brutal! He raked his hands across his gray hair, and then rubbed them together. It’s warm in here, though, Emma.

Uh-huh. We’ve got the generator going, she answered. Grant got it from his uncle when he passed.

You’ve got lights, unlike some on the reservation. He nodded. I’m sorry to hear about Grant.

Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor.

Dr. Dodd turned to Wintu. I got your note on my door. I’ve just returned from another house call. You said a H8r got in?

Wintu stood. Yes, sir, the guy hit Pa in the gut real hard with a metal pipe.

Mom pointed at the window. This is where he or it, or whatever we’re calling them, got in.

The doctor touched the plastic covering the window. They must be looking to come in from the cold. Time to start boarding up the windows, Emma.

Gosh! We’ll turn into the mole people, Mom said. Come. He’s this way. She led Dr. Dodd to Pa’s room, and they went in, closing the door.

Wintu paced back and forth, his heart pounding nearly out of his chest. Repetitive motion was the only thing that calmed him. He picked up the scrub brush and went around scrubbing the whole countertop.

You are driving me nuts, shitwonker! Wenona pulled the brush out of his hand and led him to a chair. They sat, touching knees, and stared at each other. It was a game they’d played when they were a few years younger. They called it Pictogram.

Wintu closed his eyes and hung his hands at his side. He let the incoming message flow over his mind. A picture came. He cringed at the sight and drew back. What was that? He tried to hold the gruesome image in the front of his mind. Okay. What’s in my picture?

Now Wenona closed her eyes and rested her hands in her lap. I can’t get it unless you hold it still, Wintu! Quit wobbling it.

He focused harder, beaming it nice and clear.

Oh, terrible! Wenona said. A shovel. She twisted her mouth. With blood on it?

Got it! Your turn.

Wenona closed her eyes and shook out her hands at her side. I’m getting a vague image. After a moment, she said, Got it! What’s in my picture?

He got flashing glimpses. Stripes. Black and yellow. As he backed his focus away from the image, the stripes began to wrap around a rounded body. Then he heard buzzing noises and saw white, translucent wings fluttering. Is it a honeybee?

You got it! Wenona laughed. We’re one for one.

I’m getting a little rusty at this, Wintu said, smiling for the first time in days. We should play it more—

Pa’s bedroom door creaked open and the doctor and Mom came out. The doctor shot her a glance. Emma, is it okay for me to talk in front of the twins?

Mom reached out and wrapped an arm around each of them. She blinked away tears and after a moment leveled her voice. We’d like the truth about Grant, so we can prepare for the future.

The doctor studied the three of them for a moment and delivered his news with a slow drawl. Grant has two fractured ribs, possibly three. I can give you Lidocaine rubs for pain and muscle relaxers so he can breathe easier. We should watch for pneumonia in the coming days. Then he stopped and fixed his eyes on Emma. I suspect he’s got some internal bleeding coming from somewhere. That’s not something I can fix.

Wintu felt a gut punch as if the H8r had hit him in the same place. The crazed look on the H8r’s face ran before his eyes, an instant replay that left no doubt it had been his fault. If he hadn’t stepped in, his father would’ve been able to take the H8r down by himself. Instead, Pa had to get between him and an iron pipe.

But can’t we get him to the hospital? The serrated edge in Mom’s voice sliced through his reverie. Wintu did a double-take and saw the agony in her face. Had she forgotten the hospital was down? The grocery stores were closed. The tribe had started doling out food from the casino’s freezers weeks ago. Wenona was staring at Mom strangely and had reached out to take her hand.

Dr. Dodd patted her shoulder. I’m truly sorry, Emma. I’ll show you how to keep Grant comfortable here for the duration.

Wintu was sure the duration was code for dying. He heard the doctor’s words as though they were pinging around in a coffin—binging off his dead bones—bonging through his empty skull. Mouth stitched shut.

A dead man pinball.

Emma, the doctor said, after Mom passed around mugs of coffee to warm the chill from their souls. I’ve scheduled a meeting of the tribe for seven o’clock this evening. It’s important that you come.

She stared through him, an empty pall cast over her eyes. You don’t expect me to leave him alone, do you? Can Wintu and Wenona go in my place?

That would be fine. I don’t expect the meeting to last long. Dr. Dodd nodded at the three of them and went for his coat.

Wintu’s thoughts flew back to what Mom had said. They needed the truth so they could prepare for the future. Burning to know what this was about, he turned to the doctor, who’d just gotten his coat on. If there’s something we should know, why can’t you tell us now?

Wenona took a step toward the doctor. Yes, she said. You haven’t told us what this meeting is about—only that it’s important.

Dodd pulled his trapper hat down over his ears. It’s about the tribe’s future. He expelled a loud breath, his true fear now traced on his face.

"We’re losing the fight. If we don’t get out now, we’re all going to die."

Tourism Video

WINTU TAPPED ON HIS lifeless cell phone and threw it at the bed. Mom used to say he was mad at the world—where was the world now when he needed it? He put on a clean shirt, pulled on his fleece hoodie, and ran out to the community center to find Sentra.

She was waiting just inside the door. Taking her hand, Wintu peered into the heart-shaped symmetry of her face—framed by bronze hair fluming from a widow’s peak high on her forehead. Sentra had been the first person to stare into his eyes and not make him want to look away—the first to make him feel like he wasn’t being judged.

Tears welled in his eyes.  He opened his mouth to speak, and all that came was a gasp.

What is it, Wintu? She planted her green spirit eyes on his brown earth ones.

His pulse thumped in his ears. There were no words for this in his vocabulary. It took Wintu another moment to speak. Dr. Dodd came to see my father. I think ... he might be ... dying. His voice strained at the last word and he held his breath, pushing the tremors into the pit of his stomach.

Sentra hugged his neck tightly. I’m so sorry.

Wintu just wanted to pin this moment here forever. He buried his face in her hair, holding back the next part—the part the doctor said about the tribe’s future, about how they were losing the fight, and about how they should get off the reservation. It was too much to say. Dr. Dodd would have a better way to say it. He’d have a solution.

The tribe would do what he said. Wouldn’t they?

Hey, you two lazybones, grab a chair! Wenona ran by with a folding chair, her purple fleece hoodie hiding her red-rimmed eyes.

Her boyfriend Palodin rushed past. Tall and lanky, Pal’s hair was dyed in blue and black strands of varied lengths; some short pieces erupted from a tangled nest on top, and the rest draped his shoulders. A bright blue strand hung over his right eye.

The four of them unfurled their chairs and placed them together in a row. Sentra pushed Wintu’s long, brown hair away from his ear and whispered, So, now tell me. What’s up with your father? Sentra was studying to be a nurse and she liked details no matter how horrid, devouring any advanced medical books she could get her hands on.

Internal bleeding and broken ribs, Wintu whispered. He’s burning hot and won’t eat.

Does he have a rash?

Wintu shook his head, mumbling in low tones. No rash. He’s delirious. Shouting weird stuff. He clutched her hand, his eyes following Dr. Dodd as he approached the podium. Shifting uneasily in his seat, Wintu wondered how the tribe would take the news that they had to leave the reservation. But where would they go?

Earth to Wintu! Palodin reached around Wenona and knuckled his friend on the arm. Pal had a wide grin no matter the state of the world.

Wintu returned a half-hearted smile.

The microphone screeched. Dr. Dodd signaled the room to quiet down. The generator powering the community center hummed in the background.

Kickapoo members, thank you for coming. Up until now, the tribe has been able to stay put and defend the tribal lands, or even help the rare refugee who came seeking shelter, including myself. You started patrols, watched out for each other, as is the Kickapoo way. The doctor raised his voice, conveying authority. You’ve done everything you possibly could, but it is no longer enough!

Wintu panned around the community center, checking the pulse of the tribe. This seemed like a set-up for something. Suspicious glares cropped up as people uncrossed their arms and leaned forward in their chairs.

Marlin Brady’s youngest child was crying on her lap. She shouted from the back row. Do you have an update on the disease? 

The doctor raised his voice so he could be heard in the back. ProtoH8 is a bacterium similar to meningitis. ‘Proto’ means the first of its kind. ‘H-8’ stands, of course, for hate. He tapped his forehead. It damages the prefrontal cortex, releases the neurotransmitter that causes anger, rage, paranoia—you name it—every emotion that would drive a person to harm neighbor and family.

The feisty old man, Mr. Towhee, raised his cane at the doctor. Sure, them H8rs are full of evil spirits, but they’re human! We can beat ‘em if we hold out steady!

Towhee, please! The doctor ruffled his gray hair with agitation. The ecological stress of this disease has pushed ration upon ration on the tribe. It has affected bee populations and killed plant life. We can’t grow enough food on the land even if we could spare the men and women we’ve put on the patrols!

Bull crap! Martha Snow called him out. The Kickapoo can walk and chew gum! Even as hunter-gatherers, we farmed beans, squash and corn.

Mr. Towhee raised his cane at Dr. Dodd again. Our ancestors were driven to this land by yours. We’ve survived many generations in spite of what your people have done to us.

The gray-haired history teacher, Mr. Kootenai, waved his hand and stood, his back stooped over with arthritis. The room was quiet. Excuse me, Mr. Towhee, but I don’t think the blame game is helpful. He presented his open palm toward the doctor. Dr. Dodd, I know you didn’t call us here just to tell us we’re doomed. Do you have a solution?

Other voices chimed in, shouting, Yes! and Let’s hear it!

The doctor leaned into the microphone. I only meant to reaffirm the seriousness of the situation. Maybe I’m beatin’ around the bush, afraid what I’m about to suggest may shock some of you. His steel-blue eyes grazed Wintu as he unveiled his proposal. I believe the only course of action is to abandon the tribal lands and seek shelter with the Friends of Apis.

Wintu could only guess he’d heard the final words correctly: Friends of Apis? Was it a place? How far away was it? He was pulled out of his thoughts by a loud tapping on the microphone.

The doctor’s voice grew more upbeat. "You see, there’s some good news buried in all this bad. The Friends of Apis sanctuary has taken in many species of wildlife. Their medical center is named after the species, Apis mellifera, which we know as the honeybee. They’ve developed a treatment from the bees’ venom, and we’re all invited there to accept the bees’ gift."

Wintu was reminded of the Ojibwa tale of Waynabozho and the Great Flood. The people at Friends of Apis had saved the animals and the bees. Wouldn’t Pa love this story? He peered around the room at the faces he’d known his whole life. Maybe, if the disease was stopped, they could survive and rebuild. As his excitement grew, a soft murmur began to spread—ideas being shared seat to seat and across the aisle.

Mr. Towhee slammed his cane against a folding chair, the crack of metal rattling Wintu’s nerves. The old man shouted in a gruff voice, If these so-called friends have a cure, why do we need to leave here to get it?

A reasonable question, Dodd said. You see, once you’re cleared of the disease, you must remain at Friends of Apis. I’m told the reinfection rate is high for those who’ve returned home. The doctors are trying a new tack. Friends of Apis would be your new home.

A rumbling hum rolled across the room, building tension as it moved. Sentra clamped Wintu’s hand. Palodin held Wenona a little tighter. A few people got up and headed for the door.

The doctor turned on the TV and pushed in a disk, snarling at the group. Sit down! Stop grumbling. I’ve got a quick video about the status of the world. Afterward, we will hear from the group themselves. The whole thing will only take—I have timed it—four and a half minutes of your valuable time.

The news reporter in the grainy video was dressed in army fatigues and a military-grade gas mask. Fires blazed in the city behind him. Guns fired in volleys. It is with a sense of urgency that I bring your attention to a matter of grave import. The outbreaks of ProtoH8 in America have reached critical mass in large cities. This highly contagious bacterium has now spread to the European Union.

The camera zoomed in on an angry mob wielding metal pipes, clubs, bats, and guns. Then the video flashed through a jumble of apocalyptic scenes. Cities reduced to rubble ... People running from flaming buildings ... Wild zoo animals roaming city streets, entering alleys and doorways ... Vultures feeding on the carcasses of animals, honoring their final role in the food chain.

Wintu noticed there was no news logo at the bottom of the screen. Was it a home video of some sort? Almost like a commercial, another video began. It showed a white family sitting at a picnic table spread with fruits, vegetables, meats and drinks. The mother and father beamed at their abundance and turned to each other.

A young girl rose from the table holding a bright-red apple. The camera zoomed in on her face. Her blonde hair gleamed in the sunlight and her teeth showed bright white as she exclaimed, Come for the cure! Stay for the friendship! Taking a young boy’s hand, the girl ran with him into a canopy of fruit trees. The camera panned out, showing apple orchards, and beyond that, tiered gardens, flowing streams, lines of red barns, cows and sheep in pens, and horses running in corrals.

A cartoon honeybee appeared on the screen. She had large eyes and a tiny, red mouth. Black and yellow stripes rounded the body. Her wings flashed in milky, changing hues. Thick, black lettering above the smiling bee spelled out, Friends of Apis.

As the image faded, Wintu realized it was the bee from Pictogram. He felt his twin’s gaze pulling him.

Wenona raised an eyebrow and tugged her lip into an Elvis sneer.

We don’t know a whit about these people! Mr. Towhee had hobbled halfway down the aisle and was raising his cane at the doctor. Who the hell are they?

On the other side of the room, the teacher, Mr. Kootenai, stood again, projecting his voice into the gathering. Time and again, the government took Kickapoo land, settling us on smaller and smaller tracts each time. They had a funny word for stealing—it was treaty! After a burst of booing, the teacher began again. They broke up the Kickapoo tribe, scattered us to three winds, and our group settled here in Kansas. It took many generations of hard work to make a home on this land.

The room grew quiet—all eyes pinned on the snow-haired history teacher as he pivoted his time-chiseled face. "Friends, the Kansas Kickapoo were once ‘those who walk the earth.’ Now we are ‘those who hold down land.’ We have our homes, businesses, schools, farms, water plant, casino, and outreach programs. If we take this bait from whoever is offering it—and that’s the big unknown here—who’s to say we will ever be able to return? He peered around and wagged his head sadly. And what, my friends, would be left of the things we’ve put our Kickapoo heart and soul into?"

A man across the aisle shouted, This is biological warfare!

We’re being disappeared! a woman hollered.

Wintu squirmed in his seat, his eyes darting between the people in the crowd. He’d seen the H8r who climbed into their window and attacked Pa. He’d seemed human and had even spoken, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous killer. He wanted to describe his fear up-close and personal, but his throat tightened as he pictured the face of the H8r swinging the pole at his head, the hate in his eyes as he held him at knife point, and the insane screech that came from his throat as his tongue waggled in his dark, toothless mouth.

There was a quick motion to his right. Palodin stood and pointed at Dodd, his voice rising above the crescendo. This is sovereign land! The government gave the Kickapoo this home after kicking us off our lands five times! Now, someone’s pushing us out again, and with what—a tourism video?

A woman nearby rose up and shouted, Well, it’s not gonna fly this time!

What happens to our community? Wenona stood and yelled out above a backdrop of whistling and jeering. Gone in a flash like it never existed? Like we all got up one day and vanished into the clouds?

Wintu spun his head at Sentra, saw her flushed cheek, and felt her leg rub his as she stood. Friends of Apis? How do we know they’re really friends? she shrieked, her whole frame shaking. "What happens when we get there, and they’re not?"

Her words brought the house down. Now everyone began turning up the volume on their thoughts, each voice straining to be heard above the others.

Dodd tapped the microphone, the loud thumps thrumming the air. Calm down! Please! A lull moved slowly across the community space. As many of you have heard by now, Grant Quinn was brutally attacked by a H8r in his own home! A big man like Grant, trying to defend his family, is now struggling for his life!

They are coming, the doctor said calmly. I wanted you to know there’s a safe place to go where there are no H8rs. His eyes searched the rows of faces as he took on a more measured cadence. "If you stay here you will succumb to this disease, whether you are infected yourself or murdered by someone who is. Even if you fight them off, you will slowly starve to death, as the bees die and the animals leave this dead land one by one. People, the Friends of Apis place is your only hope of survival."

Dread hit the pit of Wintu’s stomach. This choice would have huge consequences. He wondered what Pa would say when he relayed the news. He had to get his hands on that video.

I’m giving you an out! The doctor’s index finger stabbed the air. I am leaving tomorrow morning. You can follow me if you’ve got a car. There’s room for a few in my van. If you arrive past six, you’ll miss your chance.

Dodd pulled on his fur hat and lurched to the door.

Sentra was lost in thought as they stacked the chairs in the back of the room. Wintu squeezed her hand and looked into her face. The way it circled down to a pointed