Lead pulled the cloth mask off of his face and watched Terence twist smoke and fire out of a nest of desert branches.
“That day in Yucca, I recognized you from Vegas. That’s what kept me from gunning you dead,” Lead said.
Terence stopped his twisting and blew life into the embers. He tipped the smoking ashes into a crushed pile of tumbleweed. The dry brush exploded in the heat. Dust hung in the air and reflected the firelight, enveloping the ex-Preachers in a luminous cloud.
“That was a bad bit. If there’s a Hell, my place in it was earned that day.” Terence looked back at Lead. “What part did you play?”
Lead shook out his face mask, giving the dust back to the air. He spoke.
Plague and famine were long standing residents of Zona Refugee Camp Three. They took their toll daily.
Military tents housed survivors and uncollected corpses in numbers not significantly favoring one over the other. The fugees who had yet to join the corpses did not survive by will but by chance. They spent mornings and evenings staring at the razor wire perimeter, watching well-fed guards stand and chat and smoke. The fugees were waiting for the virus, or for their bodies to finish its closing cycle from lack of nutrition and clean water. The dead were sometimes recovered and discarded onto a funeral pyre south of the perimeter. The wrong wind brought the scent; the fugees grew accustomed to it eventually. The water of the nearby river receded in the heat, returning to primordial muck as the climate became less favorable. The water the fugees took was thick with grit; it killed from the inside out, with coughs of blood and vomit. Every few days guards distributed rations, but it was never fulfilling, there was never enough to eat.
Over time guards were rotated less, which meant less supplies and food. They too became leaner, like jackals. The guards’ uniform changed twice in the seven years of Leonard’s confinement. The first was subtle, the second, not so much. One day new guards arrived without the stars and stripes patch. They were in uniform, but the American flag was gone. A discolored rectangle on their shoulder marked the absence. No one mentioned it, no one asked, no returning guards carried it. Months later, the guards took to wearing silver crosses around their necks. The discolored patch was covered by the Zona’s crucifix-in-star. They started referring to each other as brother. The female guards vanished from rotation. Then the Inspection Committee came.
Leonard had grown tall in the camp, but his body was meager and his stomach was distended from malnutrition. His arms and fingers were long and thin, his chest sunk in contrast with his bloated stomach. The muscles in his limbs developed like rope close to the bone. Unlike many others, Leonard still could walk and stand, and for this reason he was escorted by guards to the inspection. Leonard was placed in a line with other young boys of passable health. A tent at the end of the line housed the Inspection Committee, whose job was to conscript boys into the service. The Committee was tasked with leaving those who were dying of the Rot or New Malaria or any of the plagues, and to take those of use and promise.
Leonard entered the tent and stripped off his soiled singlet. The inspecting guard shined a light down his throat and tapped his teeth with a metal pick. Another inspecting guard shined a light on Leonard’s testicles and anus, looking for telltale signs of the Blossoms. Leonard stood still and forced himself not to tremble until he was told to exit the tent.
Outside a young guard gave Leonard a loose-fitting pair of camouflage pants, a beige T-shirt, and white athletic shoes. Leonard dressed quickly out in the open. Another guard handed Leonard a .38 caliber police revolver.
“What’s your name, boy?” The gun distributer asked.
“Leonard, Camp Three, number 2305.” Leonard said.
He knew what the gun was and it frightened him. He shifted its weight in his hands and tried to find a way to hold it without appearing menacing.
The guard scratched Lead’s information in a large leather-bound book. He looked at Lead’s nervous shifting.
“Boy! Pocket that weapon!”
Lead shoved the pistol in his pocket and instinctively held his hands out.
“You’re now in Lead Group Two, number 2305.” The guard handed Leonard six bullets from a box sitting on his table.
“Hold still.”
The guard uncapped a felt pen and wrote LG2-2305 across Leonard’s shirt. Another guard escorted Leonard to the back of a pick-up truck where he waited with a group of hollow-eyed fugee boys. No one spoke.
They drove out of the fugee camp, north along the river to a town called Bullhead. In Bullhead, the boys were unloaded and marched into a circus tent. A one-armed guard directed them to banquet tables where they were served warm bread and soup. While they ate, a barber clipped their hair ragged and short. More guards came and collected the hair trimmings in plastic bags.
The pistol bulged uncomfortably in Leonard’s pants. He had loaded it during the truck ride. He had considered the shape and weight of each bullet before loading it into the tumbler. Each new item was wealth unimagined, magic.
At the end of their meal, a man with a long salt and pepper hair climbed onto the center banquet table. An enormous silver cross hung down the front of his red satin robes. He stepped over plates and bowls, but paid them no regard.
“Boys!” He said extending his arms to the heavens.
He jerked his head skyward and shook as if in convulsion, when he looked back at the boys his face was smiling with joy and rapture. His eyes showed wild and crazed. His voice boomed and echoed throughout the tent with strength inexperienced by the pitiful fugee boys.
“Boys! Thou art lucky! Thou hath survived the Apocalypse! Thou hath survived the Rapture! Thou hath survived the Plagues and the Viruses! God hath judged thee!”
The man paused as though waiting for applause. When none came from the bewildered fugees, he continued.
“He hath found thee unworthy with the rest of us to be taken in the Rapture, but worthy like the rest of us to inherit what remains! Thou art lucky to be given the chance to prove worth! Thou art the meek! Thou art the meek who shall inherit this Earth!”
His eyes swept the room, pausing to look into each awestruck face of each fugee boy.
“God hath graced us with his divine wisdom, and in that wisdom he has granted us the means for redemption. Thou will be redeemed! We shall be redeemed!”
The man threw his hands to the heavens.
“Redemption!”
The guards in the tent immediately threw their hands in the air and repeated the cry. The man shook his fists.
“Redemption!”
A few of the fugees caught on and slowly raised their hands.
“Redemption!”
The man was lifted off of the table by two stone-faced guards. The fugee boys kept their hands raised. Leonard’s belly was full for the first time in memory, tears rolled down his cheeks as a guard placed a small square of chocolate in front of him.
“I don’t blame you.” Terence said.
Lead covered his eyes.
“Don’t condescend to me,” Lead hissed. “Have you ever been so hungry? Have you ever so wanted for food, for purpose, for answers and direction?”
Terence looked hard at Lead. His answer was slow and deliberate.
“Yes, I have. Do not feel shame in what you say. Please go on.”
The days at Church Camp stretched to weeks. The fugees were separated into groups for living and training. Leonard was placed in Lead Group Two, which consisted of seven boys aged thirteen to seventeen. In charge of their group was a grizzled veteran everyone called Jones. The boys were from refugee camps all over the Zona, all with similar stories of hunger, plague, and abandonment.
Each morning Jones ran them through calisthenics. The boys were made to run around their dorm tent until the dust kicked up a slow cyclone; then they did stretches, push-ups, and sit-ups. Afterward they were given rations of broth and made to do the exercises over again. Those who did not complete the regimen were given no broth and were held out from the afternoon feed line. The fugee boys worked tirelessly to be fed. They were given two meals a day in addition to morning broth. The food made them feel like royalty. No one missed more than a meal during those first weeks.
Group Leader Jones showed them how to use their assigned weapons; how to field strip and clean. He pulled Leonard from the exercise regimen and showed him the trigger, the sight, the safety, and how to quickly reload. At night, Jones read to the boys from the Bible. He made hand gestures in the light of an oil lamp and the boys imagined they saw angels and spirits in the shadows. Jones told them stories of the old world and its evils. He took them to the crucifixion of the boy who had accidentally discharged his firearm. They watched the boy scream as the sun burned his face and blood dripped from his impaled wrists, to be swallowed in the desert dust. The lesson was not lost on them.
Leonard and the fugees grew stronger. They grew to love the guards who fed and commanded them, especially Jones. Once a week they stood in front of a stage with all the other fugee boys and guards to watch the red robed preacher testify. The guards referred to this as Group Meeting and the message was always the same; they were lucky, they should be dead or in Heaven, but God had both rejected them and saved them. The world had been destroyed by the storms and plagues, which had been brought by sin. Always the red preacher pontificated on the sins of man. Now was their time. They were the inheritors. The world was theirs to claim and the old mistakes could be righted. Redemption was at hand.
The routine went on unchanged for two months. Leonard was comforted by the structure of the day, in always knowing what was expected. During the Leonard’s ninth Group Meeting, the red preacher gave a new message.
“Thou art the survivors,” he said. “Thou art blessed in the Lord’s eyes if thy purpose is redemption and redemption is at hand. Children, the old world was a place of sin. The old world was a place of placation and disregard for right, for holy, for good.”
The red preacher thrust his right hand into the air for all to see. A black crucifix was freshly tattooed across his palm. It sweated blood.
“Children, thou will be saved and in claiming thy salvation thou will strike against the heart of the old world’s sin. Thou will be vessels of the Lord. Thou will be the flaming sword of Gabriel come to life in a swift fist that strikes the heart of the old world and all of its sin. Just north of us, children, just over the horizon lies the capital of sin, the city of sin, the gathering place for all that is sick and unholy, Las Vegas! Those old enough, those of us who were men before the Storms know without convincing. Las Vegas is the city of sin on purpose, the capital of whores, criminals, blasphemers, homosexuals, and race traitors!”
Leonard looked to the guards and fugees. They all watched silently, consuming the red preacher’s every word, held by the magic of his zealotry.
“Who wants to show God we’re grateful to be alive?”
One of the guards broke the silence.
“I!” Said the guard.
Then the others joined in. Slowly at first, but building upon faceless mob confidence. The voices of hundreds came together as a roar, the roar of animals.
“Who wants to earn this world? Who wants to claim this world!?”
The red preacher was no longer looking to the crowd. His face was lifted up and screaming to the heavens. The guards and fugees roared on.
“Who wants to tear sin asunder!? Who wants to tell the Almighty that we understand!? Goddamn it, we understand!”
The red preacher leaped across the stage waving his hands and shouting. The crowd had taken to chanting in rhythm.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”
The red preacher waved his hands at the floor, signaling for silence. The chanting died down.
“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.
“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.