The Zona Read online

  Leonard looked to see fugees shaking their heads, some mouthing “no.”

  “I’ll go by myself, and I’ll pull each building down, stone by stone, if I must. And I’ll kill each sinner with my hands, if I must. I will strangle the life of every sin-born man, woman and child, alone, if I must.”

  The red preacher looked into the eyes of the crowd.

  “But I’d rather have thee with me.”

  His gaze swept back across.

  “Every one of you with me stands for another building razed. Every one of you with me stands for another sinner’s blood let loose on the earth.”

  The red preacher’s face broke into a joyous smile.

  “I will see thee there, just like I will see thee in Heaven with our Father beaming down on us and saying we’ve made him proud!”

  The crowd erupted again in shouts and promises. Fugees fell to their knees and wept. They promised undying allegiance to the red preacher, to the provider of food and purpose, to this leader.

  The training changed after that. Sticks and clubs were added to the routine. The fugees practiced fighting from inside the beds of pick-ups like tournament jousters. They were taken into the Bullhead ruins and taught to destroy buildings; showed what walls were foundational and what walls were secondary and what kind of power could render stone and steel. They made explosives out of pipes and powder mixtures. The red preacher continued his weekly sermons, but now he spoke of Las Vegas exclusively.

  During Leonard’s third month in camp, the order came. Las Vegas was to be destroyed and guard units from the Eastern California and Utah territories were going to assist. The fugees were ecstatic. Food and training gave them a new strength and they were eager to prove their mettle.

  Exercising gave way to planning. Group Leader Jones was selected as one of the frontline drivers in an elaborate ceremony. He named Leonard and six other boys as his riders. The team was assigned a twelve-passenger truck with the roof cut off. In a separate ceremony, they named the vehicle Michael and from then on only referred to it by that name. It was now considered one of their teammates.

  Jones walked with his head held high. Guards who had not been assigned as drivers congratulated him publicly and held in secret jealousy and scorn.

  Leonard too felt pride in his selection to vehicle duty, in his designation as a rider. He took to cleaning his gun twice a day. He even shined and polished his bullets. He took to assisting Jones in the training of new fugees.

  The red preacher announced the plan in a private meeting for drivers and riders. Arizona would strike Vegas from the south, ignoring the suburban structures and focusing on the inhabitants and palaces occupying the region designated as South Strip, the Eastern Californians would strike from the west and focus on the region designated as North Strip, Utah Guard claimed responsibility for the destruction of the area designated as Downtown, which they would attack from the east. No armies would attack from the north so a path of retreat could remain clear.

  “Let the sinners run into the desert, God will claim them either way,” said the red preacher.

  Terence remained silent through the telling, but could not hold in his disgust at the mention of the plan.

  “Utah,” he whispered under his breath and spat into the fire.

  The days of reckoning came. Leonard and the other riders loaded up their Suburban. An older boy, Jet, was given an M4 rifle and titled Rider Protector. The army moved slowly north, those who weren’t honored as drivers or riders made the journey on foot. They moved as a human wave, riding a crest of dust that reached for the setting sun and painted the sky new shades of brown and olive. That night they camped in the ruins of Henderson.

  With the dawn sun they rode into Las Vegas. The front groups drove while foot soldiers ran their hardest to keep up. The drivers were much quicker than the foot soldiers and were the first into Vegas proper.

  Las Vegas was bright and crumpled, like an empty candy wrapper. The casinos stood without power or sound, covered in streaks of mud and grit, a gift of the elements. Even without power they stood as marvels of the last age. Their colors showed in bright contrast despite the dust and mud. Buildings bustled with life, like ant hills populated by survivors of the Storms and Plagues.

  Leonard shouted and pointed to a group of people huddled in front of what had once been a diner. One of the Vegas residents, a man with curly gray hair, looked up at the truck. Jet lit the M4 and cut him in half. The other residents scattered like mice. Jet pumped his fist into the air in victory. Jones swerved the Suburban and ran down a fleeing woman; blood spattered under the truck and coated two wheels.

  Chaos swept into Las Vegas like a thing living and hungry. The Zona’s cars and trucks swarmed the streets and alleys, killing those unfortunate enough to be outside. Small arms and rifle fire popped over the rumble of engines and the residents of Las Vegas fled to their casino shelters.

  From the east, helicopters swooped in and drowned out the sounds of slaughter. The copters fired missiles into casinos, showering the streets with glass and concrete. The residents of Vegas fled the casinos. The copters strafed the streets with machine guns, murdering residents and Zona soldiers indiscriminately.

  Jones jerked the wheel; a casino tower exploded overhead, showering the riders in debris. One of the copters changed course and pursued their truck.

  “Return fire!” Jones yelled to his riders.

  Jet fired at the copter. The gunships minis unleashed a stream of lead into the Suburban. One rider, Pots, collapsed gurgling and gripping his chest and face. Another rider, Ephron, erupted like a sack of blood. Jones wrenched the steering wheel and flung the Suburban over an embankment, catching air before landing in the first basement floor of a covered garage. The helicopter lost line of sight and turned away.

  Jones pulled the emergency break and skidded to a halt.

  “Fuck!” He yelled out over the sounds of war. “Fuck!”

  Jones punched the steering wheel and closed in eyes. The boys watched in silence as Jones took long deep breathes. He turned to the riders.

  “Head Count!”

  Leonard and the living riders called out their names. Pots and what remained of Ephron were thrown out. The riders winced as a missile smashed a nearby building and the earth shook. They trembled in fear and confusion. Jones forced a smile onto his face. He took control of his fear.

  “Alright boys, the Lord’s work seems to be well underway, let’s pull back to the southern troop line and let these anxious Californian bastards have their fill.”

  Leonard and Jet nodded, the other riders sat motionless. They were incredibly young and incredibly lost and coated with the blood of their friends.

  The Suburban roared back to life and Jones drove through the rear exit of the garage. He let a group of helicopters pass before crushing the accelerator. Refugees fleeing the burning hotels and casinos flooded the streets and parking lots. Tens of thousands of survivors ran in horror and were crushed by trucks or shot by strafing helicopters. Jet emptied his clips gunning down men and women who clung to the Suburban in a failed attempt to flee the carnage. In the western sky Leonard saw a thick white streak of smoke reach out to the morning sky before bending and reaching back for Las Vegas with five smaller streaks, like fingers of a handmade of cloud.

  Leonard pointed the smoke out to Jones. Jones was quiet for a second and then grinned over gritted teeth.

  “Oh no! Oh God no! This thing is over! Time for prayer, kids!”

  The Suburban screeched and rose to two wheels as Jones swung a hard left. A high pitch whistling filled the air and sky and drowned out the noises of copters and bombs and victims. Leonard gripped his ears against the whistling. The smoke fingers grew longer in reaching across the sky. Leonard pulled the pistol from his pocket and realized for the first time that he hadn’t fired a shot.

  The Suburban shattered a plywood barrier and promptly fell into a blast hole.

  “Get out!” Jones mouthed over the high pitch s
queals. “Get the fuck out and run!”

  The riders scattered in all directions.

  The whistling grew sharper. One of the smoke fingers touched a faraway building and the world was coated in white light. Everything shook and hummed. Leonard ran as hard as he could from the light. Another finger touched the ground and the world turned brighter. Helicopters were flung into each other, into the buildings, onto the ground. A vertical rain of glass and wood and the remnants of mankind took to the air. Leonard ran. Another finger touched the ground. Leonard closed his eyes as tight as he could but the light penetrated his lids. The light could not be dampened. Leonard’s throat was raw with screaming he neither felt nor heard. Another finger touched the earth. Leonard’s feet left the ground and he was carried with the rest of the debris, carried into darkness.

  “That was a Minuteman warhead.” Terence said. “A goody someone pulled from one of the Utah silos. They must have had a survivor with a command code or someone smart enough to get around them. Nuked Vegas, wiped out California’s air force, and took out most of the Zona’s walking army. They won that war before we even knew there was a war.”

  Leonard woke under a pile of asphalt slabs. He opened his eyes. Flashes burned across his retinas. His ears rang in a pitch that muffled all sound and made the world seem distant. Leonard brought a hand to his ear and felt blood trickling down his neck. Three blast survivors ran past Leonard. They were coated in gray dust or ash, probably both. A long cloud followed them. Leonard pushed himself out the chunks of road and ran after them. He entered the cloud but the runners took no notice. Leonard ran in pure animal shock, following others who may know of food, shelter, help.

  The runners ran towards a group of Zona guards. The guards looked at the gray runners casually. One of the guards shouldered his rifle and opened fire.

  Leonard flung himself to the street, skinning his knees and palms. The gray runners twisted in a marionette dance as rifle rounds tore through their bodies. The dust cloud hung in the air as the last fell dead. The world was silent except for the ringing in Leonard’s ears, a ringing that would never completely go away. Leonard raised his head; one of the Guards prodded him with a rifle muzzle.

  “Show us your script, kid.”

  Leonard rolled onto his back and placed a bloody hand on his shirt.

  “Lead Group Two number 2305, don’t shoot!” Leonard yelled between deep jagged breaths. He looked into the guard’s yellow blue eyes. A thoughtful look took to the guard’s face.

  “We ain’t shooting none but Vegas and Cali folk today, kid. Don’t you worry.”

  The guard pulled Leonard to his feet.

  “Alright, you’re going to run south. That way.” He pointed. “Don’t stop, don’t scavenge. Utah just gave us the Fourth Horseman and if the wind shifts at all we’re all going to die slow and ugly.”

  Leonard got to his feet and ran.

  “The wind didn’t shift that day. I guess you could say God was smiling on us. Couldn’t you, Lead?” Terence said with a bitter smile.

  Lead looked into the fire. In his mind the survivors slowly ran past him, the dust and ash of their homes streaming behind them.

  “Why did we kill them? They were fugees like us. I don’t remember any of them putting up a fight.” Lead said.

  Terence’s grin left his face. “We killed them because we were told it was the right thing to do. We were told we had a debt to God that needed repaying. We killed them because killing them was supposed to be the answer.”

  Terence pushed a bark plate of prickly pears next to the fire. Lead watched licking flames loosen and split their skin. Terence pulled the plate back and peeled one of the fruit.

  “God’s doing or not, man’s wrath ruled the day, and I pray each night never to see another day like it.”

  The ex-Preachers ate in the silence of the desert.

  VII. The story of Terence and how he came to the Zona

  Terence and Lead spent nights crossing the desert. The moon was at the full end of its cycle. The clouds remained in the east. The night was illuminated by the lunar orb and stars and the occasional western lightning. Lead saw shadows in the distance, augmented by the traveling celestials, but he saw no demons or night spirits.

  Lead walked behind Terence, watching his feet shift through sand, rocks, and brush. They trekked swiftly through the night. In the dawn’s light, Terence made a lean-to with brush and a reflective tarp he’d scavenged from CRASS. They slept until the sun retired. The men saved their endurance for the cool nights.

  Lead’s body regained its strength. He was young and hardy and well-conditioned enough to keep in motion. He worried about his soul, about his severance from the Church. Through the silent nights he prayed for the Lord to understand and forgive on his day of judgment.

  When the sun rose on the third day of trekking, Terence announced they were out of water. He dug two holes in the sand and placed empty jars in the center of each hole. He motioned for Lead to help him lift a large boulder. They wrenched it out of the sand with straining backs and grunts.

  “Help me put this heavy bastard on top of that barrel cactus.” Terence said.

  Terence smiled through the strain, happy in his wisdom. They heaved the boulder against the cactus and smashed it into large moist chunks. Both men collapsed in the dust.

  “Can’t drink the liquid straight out of the pulp, it’s bitter poison. Takes more water and sick getting out of your system than it puts in. Killed more cowboys than the pox.”

  Terence cut the cactus pieces into smaller chunks and tossed them into the holes with the jars. He covered the holes with folded plastic sheets from his pack and dug the edge of the sheets into the sand. He then dropped pebbles into their middle, making the sheets dip towards the mouth of the jars.

  “The sun will cook the water out of the cactus, plastic will drip it into the jars. It’s clean, or cleaner at least.”

  Lead crawled under the lean-to. He hadn’t spoken much since the telling of Las Vegas. Terence squatted next to the shelter and drew shapes in the sand.

  “How long did you Preach for the Church?” Lead asked.

  Terence thought in silence before speaking.

  “Don’t suppose that matters; maybe twelve, thirteen years. I stopped counting birthdays and regular days.” Terence looked to the rising sun. “You know I was in the guard. When the states broke up I stuck to it and accepted the new boss. Got born again. How about you, you Preach long?”

  “No.” Lead picked at the torn sleeve of his trench coat. “After Vegas I was put in a bible camp outside of Flagstaff. I kept the uniform shirt and pistol and they knew me for a veteran. I was assigned to guard the perimeter and keep out heathens. None came. The call to Preacher service didn’t come ‘till maybe two, three years ago.”

  Lead snapped a twig between his fingers. He looked past the edge of the tarp, to the morning sun.

  “I’ve killed a lot of men, a woman too.”

  “I know,” Terence said. “That’s the service.”

  “I don’t know how many I’ve killed in total, maybe twelve.” Lead’s voice trembled. “I haven’t been preaching long, but I can’t remember all the faces of the men I’ve killed or detained, or who got away.”

  “They don’t retire us,” Terence interrupted. “In earlier days, Preachers worked together or at least knew each other. Church later realized we needed to be kept separate. Never knew a Preacher to leave service in any way but death or disappearance; at least it was that way when I knew Preachers.”

  Terence shifted his back to the sun. “Preacher’s retirement is at the end of a mark’s club or under another Preacher or Crusader’s blanket. Make no mistake; you did right in following me out here.”

  Terence laid his head under the tarp. The wind flung a plastic bag through their campsite.

  “Do you know how many you put under the blanket?” Lead asked.

  “No. Lots though. Not all my killings were put under blankets. I was a shooter in
the guards. I’ve killed more than I can remember, more than what’s right for any man. I’m guessing a lot more than you.” Terence closed his eyes. “My soul is rolled up so there ain’t a way out of it. If I had another fifty years of saving men I couldn’t break even with the destruction I’ve wrought.” He looked at Lead’s back.

  “I remember the first. Most nights if I remember my dream, it’s about that first killing. A man is not the same after he has killed another.”

  Terence told his story.

  The last year of San Diego was similar to the past years of San Diego in its wealth and splendor. People existed in beauty and opulence, except for those who were indigent; they settled for living near beauty and opulence. Highways stretched through miles of neighborhoods marked with greens and ocean views and weather that range from great to almost great. This was Terence’s home. He lived in an apartment a few blocks from Balboa Park, and a short walk from the zoo. He owned an annual pass to the zoo, which he and Christine, his wife, used almost every weekend. They walked the paths, weaving between tourists, to watch polar bears, orangutans, Meer cats; not so much there to observe the animals, but to be young and together and in love. When John, their son, was small they’d rent him a stroller. When John grew bigger, his child legs carried him through the zoo and park until he turned tired and cranky, then Terence would perch him on his shoulders and carry him like a Czar through the bird and monkey habitats. Some weekends they camped on the beach, or in the eastern mountains. The adventures were often repeated but never grew dull in their repetition due to the company. Their family was one held together in honest love.

  Their apartment was a one-bedroom on the bottom floor of a three-story art deco building. The walls were painted white; the rooms furnished and trimmed in bamboo and sea green. Johnny slept on a racecar bed in the living room next to the kitchenette.