The Zona

by Nathan L. Yocum

  He took another sip. The teacup was brilliant white porcelain, thin as paper.

  “I’m also sorry to hear that your friend was robbed of his mortal life.”

  “Where…did you…hear…that?” Lead said between gasps.

  The Reverend frowned and placed the teacup back on the table; he lifted his left hand from under the table and placed it next to the cup. It was wrapped in white cloth, stained red and seeping with blood. For the first time Lead noticed how much paler the Reverend’s face was.

  “I heard it from the man who came through here following you to New Pueblo a few weeks ago. From the very same who came here last night and demanded that I release you to his custody. The same man who took my middle and ring finger for his keeping after I told him I had not seen you.”

  The Reverend lifted the teacup back to his lips.

  “The Crusader,” Lead said.

  “He said his name was Eliphaz. I told him that was not possible. Even after everyone changed their names, after the theocracy formed, they picked good Christian names. Jacob, Nathan, Lazarus, Matthew, Saul, Abel…no one would pick Eliphaz for himself. Don’t get me wrong, Eliphaz is biblical, but Eliphaz was a traitor, a nonbeliever, a villain. It was Eliphaz who mocked and scorned Job, who had done nothing to deserve his fate. You know what he told me?”

  “What?” Lead asked.

  “He told me Eliphaz was his father’s name, and then he took my fingers. He didn’t ask any questions after cutting them off. Just took them and walked away. I would have told him where you were if I knew, and he knew I was being truthful about not hiding you. I told him everything I knew prior to the cutting, but he took my fingers just the same. Not in malice or in rage, just to do it, I think. Why would God make a man like that?” Reverend Greek took another sip of his tea. “Why are you back here?”

  “I came to trade for food and water. I’m going to New Pueblo and I need supplies,” Lead said.

  “And what have you brought to trade, a man escaped from Purgatory can’t have much?”

  “I’ve brought this,” Lead said. He untied the broken pistol and set it on the table.

  The Reverend’s good hand caressed the .44 caliber.

  “You’ve brought me a broken firearm in exchange for precious supplies. This is not a very good trade, Preacher. Not to mention I count you part of the reason my hand is less two fingers. I’ll give you supplies, but you must repay the debt of my hand. I’ll make you a deal. Throw your broken gun away.”

  The Reverend drew a six-shooter from his jacket pocket. It was the same pit barreled .38 he had carried from Las Vegas to the end of his preaching days. It was the gun he and Terence had traded for food and water so many days ago.

  The Reverend placed the six-shooter on the table next to Lead’s broken gun.

  “I’ll give you your .38 plus ten rounds. That’s a hefty sum, goods whose value can be measured in scarcity.”

  “The gun won’t sustain me, all I want is supplies and the freedom to go on my way,” Lead said.

  The Reverend laughed. “Well said, Preacher. The gun won’t sustain you to New Pueblo, but the Crusader Eliphaz and his fellows won’t allow you to reach New Pueblo either. They are camped on the roof of that building.”

  The Reverend lifted his hand and the twisted man grasped it and pointed it at a building on the edge of the burn zone.

  “If they are keeping three-hundred sixty degree surveillance, then chances are you’ve already been spotted and they’re coming to kill us all. If they’re focusing south, and no one has traded your whereabouts for silver, then you are still unknown to them. Eliphaz told me he knows you. That he knows your soul. That you are going to return to the Highway Nineteen to bury your friend. He said the souls of sinners are to be read like street signs, and yours was no different.”

  The Reverend turned his face to the building.

  “There are three of them; they’ll be on the roof, where visibility is best.”

  The Reverend pushed the six-shooter forward with his incomplete hand. His face grimaced against pain both sharp and fresh.

  “You could surprise them. You could stop them from stopping you.”

  Lead picked up the gun, all six cylinders were loaded. Reverend Greek withdrew an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Four more rounds. You are now the possessor of every single .38 caliber bullet in all of Tucson.”

  Lead tested the weight of the gun. He rolled the cylinder against his palm.

  “I’m not a killer,” Lead said.

  “I beg to differ, Preacher,” the Reverend said. “It doesn’t matter if you are a killer or not. We live in the age of the killer. Killers are the only people left in the world. You’re a killer by the very nature of standing here, and if you don’t fulfill your duties as a killer, other killers will see that you cease to exist. Peaceful men don’t live anymore. Good men don’t live any more. We’re just winding down the clock until the Earth finishes us all off with weather and viruses or we finish ourselves with our own viciousness. But that’s all philosophical. You owe a debt. Eliphaz owes a debt. If you want supplies, I’ll see my debts be paid in full first.”

  Lead picked up the envelope and put it in the pocket of his suit pants. He placed the gun in his jacket pocket.

  “I’ll go to them and let God decide,” Lead said.

  The Reverend smiled broadly.

  “You do that, Preacher. You go to them and let God decide.”

  Lead entered the building through a bar-knobbed double door. Rusted remains of lockers stretched east to west, revealing the structure to have been a school before the world had ended.

  Lead gripped the gun in his pocket. It comforted him. He padded silently on the balls of feet down the western hall to a corner stairwell. Lead pressed the release bar of the stairwell door. The door’s click echoed up the stairwell and put Lead’s teeth on edge. He held the door and waited for the sound of alarm or gunfire. Everything was silent. Lead stepped into the stairwell and let the door click again behind him.

  The stairwell was shadowy and musty and spiraled on for five stories. The only illumination came from sunlight through cracked doors and an opaque ceiling dome that glowed auburn in the daylight.

  Lead crept up the stairs accompanied by long drawn out breaths and a hyper sensitivity to any noise. Every footstep and shift, no matter how muted, found purchase and echoed against the endless concrete. Lead climbed five stories and stopped at the roof door. He pressed his hand against it. The metal was soothingly cold. When he pulled his palms back the sparse light revealed outlines his hands had made in fear sweat. There were no voices in his head. No words, not God’s, not his own. Lead pushed the door open and stepped into the sunlight.

  The three Crusaders turned as the door flew open. Eliphaz raised his gun as though it had always been in his hand. Lead saw everything in slow motion. He stepped to the left and crouched, drawing his .38 in the process. Eliphaz was the first to fire. The barrel of his Browning flashed and a round tore through Lead’s left wrist. The force of the blow spun Lead flat to the ground. Lead fired his gun, and the Crusader next to Eliphaz collapsed with blood gushing from his neck. Eliphaz fired again, chips of cement exploded two inches from Lead’s face, blinding his left eye.

  Lead sprung to his hands and knees and fired a second shot, striking nothing. Lead rolled back into the stairwell as a Crusader bullet tore into his shoulder. Lead kicked the door shut and pointed his pistol at it. He counted the loud steps running towards him. A young Crusader kicked the door off its hinges and Lead opened fire. Four rounds punched through the young man’s body. He dropped lifeless in the door frame. Eliphaz stood in the doorway and lowered his gun. Lead knew all the rounds in his gun had been fired. By the look on his face, Eliphaz knew it too. Lead focused his mind. He pictured the rounds in the envelope in his pocket entering the chamber of his gun. He begged for God’s help, for divinity to reload his firearm.

  “Looks like you’re
going back to Purgatory, little Preacher,” Eliphaz said, stepping over the dead Crusader.

  Lead forced the image of the bullets from his mind. It was replaced by an image of the spiral staircase; he saw ledges and doors, a simple idea took root. Eliphaz took another step. Lead hauled himself to his feet and vaulted over the stair’s guardrail.

  Lead spread his hands and legs and flew through the air like a creature acclimated to gliding. He landed hard against the guardrail two stories below. Eliphaz yelled from his high ground. Lead flipped over the rail and landed on both feet, the forward momentum drove him headfirst through a door. Both the door and Lead collapsed into a sunlit hallway. Eliphaz’s boots pound the stairs above him. Lead pulled himself back to his feet and almost fell over. He was disoriented from his head striking the door. He took two uneasy steps and fell against a wall. Lead pushed himself off of the wall, the boot stamps grew louder. Lead swung open a classroom door. Inside, the classroom stood largely untouched by time. Rows of desks, a chalk-stained board and ornate bay windows with Venetian blinds gave the room an air of intellectualism. Lead picked up a desk and threw it overhand at one of the large windows. The desk exploded the pane of glass. Both shards and desk spun to the depths below. Lead sprinted to open window; Eliphaz entered the doorway behind him, gun spitting rounds through wood, glass, and flesh. A bullet punctured Lead from behind but he did not slow down. Lead grabbed a fistful of blinds and leapt through the window. The Venetian slats uncoiled in their mechanism as gravity yanked Lead’s body towards terminal velocity. Lead felt a tug of resistance from the mechanism and then it broke free. The uncoiled slats flapped in the wind and wrapped themselves around Lead’s twisting body and then all collided with the earth below. Lead fell deep into thick untended hedge brush, the blinds cloaked him.

  Lead fought to find his breath. The brush had broken his fall but the wind had been knocked out of him. Lead took quick panicked breaths. In the darkness he drew his gun. He pushed open the cylinder and expelled the spent cartridges against his leg, panting like an animal and fighting the black spots in his vision. From above gun fire popped and bullets punched holes through the blinds and branches around him. Lead pulled a bullet from the envelope and loaded it into the cylinder. Through the bushes he saw Eliphaz in the window above, leaning out with arm extended, bullets raining, and lips peeled back from his teeth. Lead locked the cylinder and drew the hammer back. He pushed his hand through the blinds and fired.

  Eliphaz let go of his gun, it hung limply against his chest, held always by its leather cord. He looked down at the blinds and hedge brush thirty ought feet below. He wiped his face and looked astonished at the blood coating his fingers. Something was missing, something was wrong. His thoughts returned to Lead, six shots, Preachers don’t carry reloads. His mind grasped the error of his logic while his blood spread out onto the floor. Eliphaz sat down and tried to whisper a prayer for healing. The hole in his face made garbled noises. The lower half of Eliphaz’s jaw, a lump of bone and muscle, lay under a nearby desk.

  Eliphaz sat and listened for God’s voice. He sat listening for the word that would put him back together, the voice that would not fail him in his moment of need. Eliphaz died waiting for a voice in a school room in Tucson, Zona.

  XV. Lead completes his journey

  Lead woke in the hedge brush. Rough hands pulled him free and laid him out onto grass. Reverend Greek stood with his head in front of the midmorning sun. The light provided him with a holy aura of grace and tears streamed out of Lead’s eyes at the site of it. Warm water was pored into Lead’s mouth, across his head and the bleeding wounds on his torso and wrist.

  “My friends tell me you’re hurt. I’m sorry for that, but I’m glad you accomplished what you set out for. Some men need to be culled from this earth and there’s no moral justification against it. Some men need murdering.”

  Lead pushed away the man with the water. He sat up.

  “We’re done talking, Reverend. Give me what I asked for,” Lead said.

  Lead stumbled along the husks of cars along the blacktop, following the signs of the Nineteen. He stumbled through and among the husks and corpses of the old world. He walked through the day and night. His wounds soaked their bandages, his head throbbed. His left eye was swollen shut and would never regain sight, but still he walked on. Lead walked past buildings and gas stations, restaurants, and parks; all lifeless places. He walked along the endless highway, touching windows and windshields which shielded smiling corpses. He whispered prayers to himself. Blood loss and fatigue exacerbated his delusions. Sometimes Lead fell over, but there was always a car or overturned machine to cling to. He always found something to pull himself up with. Eventually, Lead arrived at the Jacaranda groves, at the trees with winged seeds. He sat hard on the blacktop. His jacket was heavy with blood. In the distance a solitary man walked towards him. Lead steadied himself by pressing his hand against the street. The man strode up to Lead and stood before him. The light of Lead’s vision was fading but he still recognized the man. It was the leader from before.

  “Welcome to New Pueblo,” the leader said.

  Lead looked up at the man. He looked past him to the Jacaranda groves and the Nineteen and mountains and horizon beyond. Lead looked down the highway to the place where Terence was gunned down, to the place where he had been captured. Lead looked to his hand and saw sparkling chunks of glass in the cracks of the road. He saw ants running around the cracks, infinitely small. His blood ran into the cracks, creating rivers for the industrious ants to perplex over. Lead smiled at the creatures, for he understood that there is no difference between them and us in our wanderings and labor. Lead smiled and bled and clutched the earth outside of New Pueblo.

  Thank you for reading.

  © 2011 Nathan L. Yocum

  http://bit.ly/nathan-yocum

  Curiosity Quills Press

  http://curiosityquills.com

  Please visit http://curiosityquills.com/reader-survey/ to share your reading experience with the author of this book!

  More Praise for The Zona:

  “It did not surprise me to learn that Nathan Yocum, author of The Zona, is an award-winning screenwriter. As I was reading this, his debut novel, I could not stop picturing it as a movie. (I will honestly be very surprised if it isn’t optioned, especially with the popularity of dystopias generally and the upcoming Hunger Games specifically!)”

  — Taryn, Bookwanderer Reviews

  Fans of The Zona should be sure to check out more titles from Curiosity Quills Press:

  • For paranormal mystery in the highest levels of US Federal Government, search for The Department of Magic by Rod Kierkegaard, Jr.

  • For excellent cyberpunk-fueled dark sci-fi, look for Shadow of a Dead Star by Michael Shean

  • For a high-concept action-packed technothriller, seek out The God Particle by Rod Kierkegaard, Jr.

  • For lovers of detective noir with a horror twist, look up Michael Panush’s Stein & Candle Detective Agency series

  About the Author

  Nathan L. Yocum is an author, teacher, and entrepreneur living in the jungles of Hawai’i. As a writer Nathan’s inspirations include Kurt Vonnegut, Cormac McCarthy, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Charles Bukowski, but admits that the list goes on and on. Nathan is also the editor-in-chief of SpecLit Masters Magazine, an eZine featuring the best in new speculative short fiction, as well as an award winning screenwriter for Catbrain Film Factory. His first novel, The Zona, was published via Curiosity Quills Press in February, 2012.

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