“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 squeals. “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.”