Nathan Yocum - The Zona

Lead stumbled upon the outskirts of Tucson at the dawn of his sixth day out of Purgatory. As before, the dilapidated structures were alive with the shifting and shuffling of lepers and virals. Lead walked down a street of dirt and blacktop rubble kept clean and pressed by the constant influx of hooves, wheels and feet. He arrived back at the church that had briefly housed the ex-Preachers. Lead stared hard at deformed faces peering out of windows and doorways.

“Bring me Reverend Greek.” Lead demanded to the invisible crowd. He hefted the broken .44 and shook it.

“Tell him Lead is here and has goods to barter for food and water.”

A man with half a face exited a building. Lead recognized the twisted man from his last visit to Tucson.

“The Reverend thought you may be returning, please follow me, quickly.” The twisted man sprinted into an alley between the church and another building. Lead ran after the man, ducking clothes lines and weaving around trash heaps to keep up. They left the populated part of the city and went into an area long ago reduced to rubble and black char. The Reverend sat at a plastic lawn table, sipping tea. Lead caught up to the twisted man and stopped, heaving at the effort of running so fast.

“Welcome back, Preacher. I’m sorry that you did not reach your destination,” the Reverend said.

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.