Nathan Yocum - The Zona

“God and I talk. We spoke today. Guess what he said?”

Eliphaz twisted his boot in the wound.

“Guess what he said!??”

Philip tried to answer, but the pain wouldn’t let him catch his breath. Eliphaz pulled back his boot. He spoke in a low, soothing tone.

“Guess what he said?”

“What did he say?” Philip said in desperation. His sweat shined in the fire light. He wanted to help, he wanted to talk, anything to ease the pain.

“He told me that thou art a liar. He told me that thou art a sinner and a backslider and that lies spew forth from thy mouth like a child’s spittle. So I made him a promise. I told our Lord that I’m going to hurt thee until thou tells me what I came to hear or God tells me thou speakth true or both and if neither occurs I will deliver you unto him and let him be the bearer of your misfortune.”

Eliphaz shot Philip in the foot and then kicked it mightily. A chunk of Philip’s boot holding the torn remnants of two toes flew off into the night. Philip loosed an animal scream beyond the range of what is sane and rational. His vision turned red and rain peppered the sand and everything became ethereal and unreal to him. Blood mixed with rain and fed the desert and scrub and life moved from one to the other as it always has. Eliphaz bent over the whimpering boy.

“Let’s begin again,” he said in a quiet, friendly tone.

“Shit!” Terence whispered again. He paced a tight circle in the mine shaft. Lead had long ago passed out and was mumbling in fever dreams. Terence thought about the Crusaders in Havasu. Crusaders were trained to track, investigate, interrogate. The world’s information was theirs to uncover. They would find his trail. He had to move, now.

“Oh, wake up.” Terence pushed against Lead’s head.

Lead woke swaddled in earth’s warm embrace. His mind swam and ached, the tracers had left his vision.

“Can you walk?” Terence asked.

Lead closed his eyes to stop the cave from spinning. He turned his head and vomited into the sand. Terence scooped mounds of dirt off of Lead’s body.

“For the time being you are in my care. I won’t leave a hurt man to Crusaders. Can you walk?”

Lead stood on one knee and pressed a hand to the cavern wall. His body was caked in dirt. Night air wisped cold through the mine. The wound on his shoulder radiated heat in contrast to the wind. Lead spoke a prayer of healing and pushed off of the wall. His legs wobbled like a new born animal. He took a step and then collapsed to the ground.

“Shit!” Terence said again and walked out of the cave and into the night.

Lead dreamt again of the Storms. His mother’s face loomed over him, yellow with sickness. He saw water turning streets into rivers fast and violent, powerful wind and shifting earth ripped apart buildings. People fled the buildings only to be consumed by the waters. All that death, images on a television screen watched while he sat next to his mother, who was ill and had not left their home in days and who would never be well again. Lead’s mind turned and he saw the face of the matriarch of the Jimson-eaters. He saw her wide bloodshot eyes transform into sparkling rubies while her followers hummed in the unseen distance.

Lead woke to find himself bound to a sled of palm fronds. Terence was dragging his body across the desert, through the darkness of night. Lead’s lower back was raw from rubbing against the sand.

Terence followed a rhythm. He sprinted a few yards, stopped, took in a few heavy breaths, and then sprinted a few more yards.

Lead looked up at the sky. The moon was projecting a ring onto the clouds. A light rain fell.

“Where am I?” Lead asked.

“Oh thank God,” Terence wheezed as he dropped the palm stems.

“You need to drink this.” He pressed his canteen to Lead’s mouth and tipped in water. The warm liquid hurt Lead’s throat, his eyes closed and his mind went back to dreams.

Terence took up the palm fronds and sprinted a few more yards. This was not the first time he wished for his body to be young again. As a younger man he could have run through the night and into the next day. He was too old and too tired and his back pain was only dampened by the distraction of the pain in his knees. Terence had been a strong man in his youth. He’d been a strong man in his life as a Preacher. He’d killed in the name of God, ended life at the word and command of the Church. He’d played a role at the razing and utter decimation of Las Vegas. He’d seen bodies staked and crucified to the luminous glow of neon lights.

Terence shook the image from his head and peered across the dunes. In the near distance, candlelight flickered in a cabin window. By the smell, Terence guessed it was the ranch house of a javelina farm. He took up the palm sled and dragged it a few more steps. Terence let go of the palm fronds and caught his breath. He pulled the cross from Lead’s pocket, having left his own in Cibola days past.

“Don’t go anywhere, Preacher.” He said to Lead’s unconscious body.

Pious Doland read by candlelight every night. Daylight hours provided no time for the enjoyment of books. The sun was for dealing with butcher merchants in Havasu, or tending his javelinas, or hunting woyote dens, or any of the other myriad tasks God burden men of farms and ranches with. Besides, reading books in the visible light of day might get people talking about Pious, questioning what it was that consumed his interest so.

Every night, Pious Doland lit a candle and read the old book he kept hidden under his bed. The cover was missing, but Pious knew they were plays by an English heathen named Shakespeare. He could tell the man was a heathen because some of his plays involved Jews or satyrs, but Pious didn’t care. The words were magical. They flowed with a rhythm that calmed his mind.

There was a knock on his door. Pious blew out his candle and flung the book under his bed. There was another knock, louder this time. Pious ran up to the door with his hunting ax in hand.

“Speak,” he called through the door.

“I come here on behalf of our Lord and Savior seeking sustenance and sanctuary” a man said.

Fear gripped Pious. That was the call of a Preacher. He eyed his living room for visible contraband. He didn’t see any, but he had no time to really search, to keep a Preacher waiting was to cast suspicion on yourself. Pious opened the door.

Terence stepped back and held up Lead’s cross to the farmer at the door. Terence judged the man before him. The farmer was not yet out of his twenties but his body was hunched and creased in a way customary of desert living. The farmer held a wood ax in front of himself like a walking staff.

“I come seeking sustenance and sanctuary,” Terence said.

The farm looked him over and nodded. “You’re welcome to my sustenance and sanctuary, Preacher. Be at peace in my homestead.” Pious propped his ax against a wall. “Let me get you food and water.”