The Zona Read online

  We got to Barstow as the sun dipped into the horizon. The light refracted orange through a dusty sunset, and all was quiet except the hum of our engines.

  Unfortunately, our calm didn’t last. A horn blast cleaved the evening stillness. The blare echoed off of empty cars and buildings and drowned out our engines, and then Barstow came alive.

  Hundreds of men and women ran out of broken homes and buildings. I hesitate to call them men and women; they were caked in filth and rags and looked the very jagged edge of humanity. They were barbarians without leader or direction; they just swarmed us in a dead blind run over broken cars and debris.

  My riflemen did their work. They opened fire without hesitation. It was like firing into the ocean. The bullets did nothing. A man would fall dead to the ground and the crowds would implode around the body while others ran past. Each implosion was a collapse of hungry mouths and hands; they were eating the dead and wounded.

  I yelled for the vans to punch it. We bounced through the rubble and rocks, swerved around overturned cars. I waved my staff at the sky and yelled to God for deliverance. Rifle shots punctuated the mindless screams and that infernal horn and they just kept coming, and coming. One of the rear vans overturned and was overrun. I watched as those monsters pulled members of my flock from the shattered windshield and tore them apart. The van’s rifleman gave up on the attack and pumped rounds into his own people to save them from the barbarians. The scavengers stripped him of his rifle, his clothing, his flesh, all in a matter of seconds.”

  Reverend Greek spit again into the fire.

  “His name was Frank Holister. I found him on a roof in Inglewood eight years prior. He’d converted and took a wife in the flock. Her name was Elise James Holister. She was in that van. They had a little boy named Richard Bell Holister. He was also in that van.

  We didn’t turn back. We didn’t try to save them. We kept driving,” Reverend Greek grimaced in the dying firelight. “The human swarm consumed everyone and everything in that van and we fled. We took off and left them to a brief and horrible fate.”

  Reverend Greek was silent for a moment. The heat of the rising sun touched the back of Lead’s neck. In the distance, a steady thump signaled the start of the corn grinder workday.

  “We made it to Vegas the next morning. We drove into the part of the city once called the Strip. The hotels stood tall and intact, a monument of what was.

  Our road was soon blocked by the stalls of an outdoor market. The Vegas folk looked at us cautiously but no one rushed the vans. They looked fed. They looked like humans. We stopped near the market. A black man in a cop’s uniform approached us. He held out his palms to show he had no weapon. He explained to us that a lot of people lived on the Strip, but if we were looking for shelter, the Downtown area was still pretty empty. He explained how the market was for food and sundry traders, for people who hunted in the hotel stores and traded their wares with residents and other hunters. He showed us the operational town wells and warned us not to approach them armed. He introduced Vegas militia men who guarded the wells. He was a good man. His name was Anthony Jackson. The Vegas militia had designated him as an ambassador to new people, a sort of greeter for Las Vegas. It was his job to contact the new residents and direct them to a part of town that had room. Fifty-three of us arrived in Vegas. Anthony told us about ten-thousand lived on or around the Strip.

  We chose the Vesper Hotel, a golden twenty-story structure. The lobby was a massive casino floor of white marble, buttressed with red velvet walls. Slot machines, hundreds of them, were smashed open. Silver dollar coins coated the floor; whoever broke the machines left the money. I guess the destruction was done for its own sake.

  The children of my flock invented a game of who could throw the coins the farthest across those vast empty halls.

  From the roof of the Vesper, I saw the desert on all sides. Anthony followed me and my people up there. He told me the story of his people. He told me how Vegas was empty when he and division of the California National Guard came here years ago. The streets, the hotels, the homes, were full of dead bodies, dried out by the desert air and heat. They removed the bodies. They made room for a civilization.

  One of my flock spoke, a quiet young man named Joseph Barnes, who asked, ‘What about Barstow? Are we safe here from them?’

  Anthony gave a long silence to this. He looked us over. I’ll never forget the shake in his voice.

  ‘You went through Barstow?’ He asked.

  ‘They took one of our vans, and everyone in it,’ I replied.

  ‘There are no people in Barstow,’ Anthony said.

  His jaw got real tight, so you could see the muscles working in his chin.

  ‘No one in Barstow, but if an animal comes to us from the desert, we’ll shoot it dead soon as anything else.’

  Anthony drove a stare right through me. He looked to the flock.

  ‘Don’t go telling anyone you drove through Barstow. People here have funny ideas about that place.’

  Anthony left us to get settled in. We rifled our way past the hotel room mag-locks. More times than not the room had a body, sometimes two or three; dried husks of men and women settled into bed. We burned the bodies in the street. I said a prayer for each one.

  The basement of the Vesper was a kitchen of volume and expanse, like a warehouse. The pantry made my eyes water. Canned hams, bags of dry beans, any kind of canned fruit or vegetable, row after row after row. I saw that and knew the flock could live here, in this hotel, for years. We were safe. God’s prophecy had come true. We’d crossed the desert and been tested and found salvation.”

  Reverend Greek stood up from his throne and stretched his arms and legs.

  “Come, follow me to the shade. It gets so hot I can’t work my head right.”

  Reverend Greek limped around the ashes of the fire; nimbly avoiding sleeping lepers and debris. Lead and Terence followed him into a mission church. Reverend Greek felt his way to a couch in the reception lobby.

  “Not what I expected, being blind,” he said.

  “I always imagined I’d see nothing but darkness, black. Instead I see nothing but white. Why do you think that is?”

  Neither Terence nor Lead responded.

  “So, the condition of our lives was much improved in Vegas. The wells pumped clean water. The well guards demanded food for use, but there was so much food in the Vesper and all the other hotels that it was no loss for us to trade. The people in Vegas were friendly, mostly just wanted to be left to themselves, they were rattled by the end of the world and sought peace in response. The residents rarely fought, if they did Anthony and the guards would exile them, which was the punishment for most offenses. The guards would round up the offenders, give them a jug of water, some food, and send them north, east, or south. They never sent them west; never towards Barstow.

  Our daily lives eventually fell into routine. Every morning I gave a sermon on the roof. The flock created jobs for themselves. Some scavenged books and magazines, some acted as traders, and some foraged for food and supplies. We even had a team who appointed themselves beautifiers of the Vesper. They were equal part artist and janitor.

  Vegas residents intermarried with our flock, and our numbers swelled. Everyone was from desolation, a lot of people had lost family members to the storms or plagues or hunger. Vegas was quiet, peaceful, a place to rebuild lives. When I was a kid my dad taught me about the idea of utopia, a perfect society. Vegas after the storms was the closest thing to a utopia I imagine I’ll ever see.”

  “How long were you there before the attack?” Lead asked.

  “About a year and a half. We had no idea they were coming. There was a guy in town, Jack, who owned a functional two-way radio. He caught chatter about governments reforming in the ruins of the states. He told us about the Reformed Arizona Theocracy, later renamed the Zona, North and South Utah, the Peoples Republic of Northern California, the Colorado Colony, the Revised Confederate States. It didn’t matter to us.
Whatever was not within our immediate sphere seemed not to exist at all.

  Everything was broken; cars, planes, trains, cell phones, computers, television, they were just garbage. One of the beautifiers built a wall of flatscreens in the courtyard of the Vesper. He cemented them together in a twelve by twelve cube with screens facing out. It was impressive. Kids used it for shade on hot days.

  We didn’t think anyone would threaten us. The thought of war never entered my head. After the beating humanity took in the apocalypse, why would any man wage war? How can you justify the loss when there were so few of us left?

  I found out later that the states attacked Vegas to purge sin from the world. We were without sin, our society was pure and good, or as close to it as I can imagine. That slaughter filled me with a rage so all encompassing that I haven’t felt anything else since.

  I was on the roof performing a sermon when we heard the helicopters. I hadn’t heard the sound of a chopper in so long I assumed it was weather, but there they came, up the Strip, a swarm of black helicopters. Their engines churned and blades spun and the noise of it disturbed all peace far and wide.

  One of their numbers detached and hovered in front of the Sedgewick Hotel, north on the Strip. The chopper stood there for a moment, like it was in contemplation, and then its guns went off. I couldn’t hear the gunfire over the swarm’s cacophony, but I watched the muzzles flash and the side of the Sedgewick imploded and glass rain down upon the earth. The keepers of the Sedgewick fled out onto the street and were run down by men in trucks, who seemed to slip in during the distraction of the helicopters. They looked like ants and toy cars from where perched. It was ugly, a butchering. The Sedgewick held thirteen families, all survivors of the Plagues who had traveled together in caravan before they settled in Vegas. They joined the Vegas colony two weeks before my flock had.

  I looked back to my flock. They stood in still shock at the carnage. I broke the spell with a call to arms. I screamed and slapped and shook men and women alike.

  ‘Go to arms! Defend the Vesper!’

  I thought for certain they had come to take our beautiful city. I thought they had come for our food and buildings and our wells. I could not imagine they would kill us for some antiquated imagined debt.

  My flock took to action. The world had gone so bad for them, and then to find peace, and then to lose it again. They left me on the roof, swinging my birch Moses staff in the air, screaming commands to the wind. A helicopter took notice of us and flew over. It fired into the broadside of the building with missiles, punching holes across the front. The air filled with return fire of my flock, pops of rifles, the shouts of the wounded and dying, and glass, fucking glass raining to the streets from all those majestic shelters. The helicopter hovered and pounded the Vesper relentlessly. I strode to the edge of the roof and pointed my staff at the helicopter, willing it to fall apart. It just kept tearing into our beautiful building, with all of my people inside. I shook my staff at the sky and yelled at God. I remember that. I yelled at God. I thrust my staff at the helicopters strafing the families on the Strip and swung it to the one hovering just below me. I commanded the Lord to strike these murderers from the sky, to smite the slayers, to slay them!”

  Reverend Greek wheezed and fought to clear his throat. His face darkened and his hard breathes turned into a ragged cough. He slumped over the side of the couch and let his lungs regain the air to breath. Terence and Lead watched the Reverend. They both were lost in the memories of Vegas, in the memories of the roles they had played.

  Reverend Greek gripped his bench and pulled himself into sitting position.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I asked God to smite the helicopters and the trucks, to destroy the machines of war. Of course my wish was granted in the worst possible form, you know what happened next.”

  “The nukes,” Lead said.

  “Yes, the nukes,” Reverend Greek said.

  “I shook my staff at the helicopter and yelled to God and the sky was suddenly illuminated. The chopper was washed in a light so white and pure that it was literally the last thing I ever saw, or rather, it’s the only thing I see anymore.

  The helicopter crashed against the side of the Vesper, it screeched and twisted and dropped out of the sky. A scorched air blew against my face and everything rumbled and vibrated. I dug my staff into the ground and leaned against the winds.

  Another explosion took me off my feet. I spun directionless in the air; the skin on my face and arms tightened and blistered. I was flung into a stairwell and struck my head.

  I awoke to silence, nothing. There were no noises from my flock, or from helicopters or guns or bombs or trucks or anything but wind. The wind whistled in the stairwell and through broken panes of glass and across the desert, ignorant of what was and what became.

  I picked myself up. My eyes saw nothing but pure white light. The skin from my hands and face felt torn off. I imagined pink sun burnt flesh. I was sore to the touch of air. To my surprise, the staff was still in my hands. I used it to guide myself down the stairs, over human bodies and rubble. As I said, the hotel was silent, everything was silent. I found my way to the pantry and locked myself in. I ate canned food. I drank from our water barrels. I sat and thought, and sometimes I slept. Nobody came for me. I stayed in the pantry for a long time, eating, drinking, and thinking for days and days and days. Eventually I grew tired of sitting and listening for ghosts. Apparently, the destruction was complete. I packed food and water, and I walked away.

  I traced roads with my staff. I traveled south, guided by the heat of the morning sun. I walked for days. I walked in the sun and through the night. Eventually I came upon the town of Needles. Quiet men took me in. I didn’t speak so they assumed I was mute as well as blind. They couldn’t tell if I was viral given my eyes and scars, so they restocked my supplies and sent me on my way. I followed the roads and the sun and eventually came here. I give leadership to lepers and virals. Once a week I give a sermon. That’s it. That’s my story. So you tell me, in Vegas, were you soldiers or were you people?”

  Terence spoke.

  “We were soldiers. I would ask for your forgiveness, but it is not required. Just know that our acts were the acts of men lost and hungry, and no more a dangerous thing exists than men who are lost and hungry.”

  Lead sat silently. His mind listened to memories of helicopters firing upon his truck and friends.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  The Reverend was thoughtful and somber.

  “I don’t bear a grudge against either of you. Any payment for sin is between you and the Lord. I’m sorry to bring old memories better forgotten. Let’s trade goods. If you’ll be traveling in the night you can sleep in this church.”

  “Offer the man your gun, Lead,” Terence said.

  Lead pulled the pistol from his pocket and reluctantly placed it on the table in front of the Reverend.

  “We offer this for water and food, we don’t have anything else,” Terence said.

  Reverend Greek traced the gun with his fingertips. He felt its grip and pocked barrel.

  “Oh my,” the Reverend said. “You must be a couple of hard cases.” His hand brushed what was left of rawhide grip. “At least one of you is a Preacher, was a Preacher, or killed a Preacher.”

  “We,” Lead began but was swiftly cut off.

  “Don’t tell me,” Reverend said. “I don’t want to know. I’ll take the gun. I can give you supplies for a couple of days, which is all we have to spare so there’ll be no haggling.”

  Reverend Greek hefted the gun and rolled the cylinder between his hands.

  “We don’t have any bullets to give,” Terence said.

  “I didn’t ask for any,” Reverend Greek replied.

  The Reverend stood and pointed the gun up to the church ceiling with a straight arm. He pulled the trigger and listened to the dry click.

  “Like I said, you can bunk here; your supplies will be rounded up and left at the door before suns
et.” Reverend Greek licked his lips. “You’re going to New Pueblo, right?”

  “Yeah, what do you know about it?” Terence asked.

  “They turn away any of my people who wander too far south. They want nothing to do with the virals. I don’t know where they are exactly, just that they appear in the wind and turn us away. They don’t offer barter, don’t socialize, most of my colony thinks they’re magic folk; spirits or such,” Reverend Greek said.

  “Does the Church know about New Pueblo?” Terence asked.

  “If they do it’s not by our doing. Like I said, most Church guards don’t want to get close to virals. Anyway, it’d hardly be kind of us to give away the knowledge of a people so secretive,” Reverend Greek said.

  “Where do they turn your people away?” Terence asked.

  “They show up down the Highway Nineteen. Follow it south. The signs are there, the cars are still lined up and it’s easy enough to follow.”

  Reverend Greek put the gun in his pants pocket.

  “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

  Reverend Greek exited the church in his slow deliberate manner.

  IX. The southern walk near what was once Mexico

  Terence woke in time to catch the setting sun. He stretched and witnessed rays cut through the church which holes which were once windows. Lead already lay awake on a nearby pew.

  “Time to go?” Lead asked.

  “Yeah,” Terence replied.

  “Do you think New Pueblo will welcome us?” Lead asked.

  “I don’t know.” Terence replied.

  “I assumed you’d been there,” Lead said.

  “I never said I had. I heard about it from a man I found near Phoenix some years back. He said he was scavenging farm equipment and got himself waylaid by road agents, probably Purgatory guards. I was on an unrelated hunt for a mark and just happened upon him in the desert.

  I tried to save him, but he was too far gone with infection and dehydration. The road agents strung him up to a Joshua tree. Its thorns riddled his back. I cut him down, pulled him off the thorns and gave him water. He was too weak to stand. We both knew he was gone for this world. I stayed with him until he died and buried him at the foot of the tree. Before he passed, he spoke of New Pueblo, how they lived the old ways. How only the good are tolerated there, whatever that means. They live outside the shadow of the Church, hidden in the hills and brush. He told me they were south of Tucson, in the fields near Nogales on the border of what used to be Mexico.