“I’m going to Las Vegas.” The red preacher said in a whisper, just loud enough for the crowd to hear.
“I’m going to Las Vegas to purge its sin. I’ll welcome company, but if I have none, I’ll go alone.”
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.