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.
VII. The story of Terence and how he came to the Zona
