anything.”
Terence and Lead walked through the dunes next to the highway, past cars and trucks consumed by rust and dirt. The wind kicked up the earth and colored the air, making all things brown.
VIII. The Tucson Colony, a home for lepers and madmen
The border of Tucson was marked with burned-out house frames and punctuated with obliterated trailer parks. It reminded Lead of Kingman in its charred abandonment. Past the destruction, camp fires glowed and broke the evening black and attested to life in the town.
“We need to leave the highway now,” Terence whispered.
“Middle Tucson is a haven for lepers, resilient virals, and madmen. The Church dumped them here.”
Beyond the rows of buildings Lead looked to the bonfires and lit buildings. An inhuman whooping rode the night winds.
Terence pulled Lead’s six-shooter from his knapsack.
“In case there’s trouble you’ll want this.”
He handed the pistol back to Lead, handle first.
“You’re out of bullets.”
“I know.”
The gun felt comfortable in Lead’s hand, like the return of an appendage. He gripped the handle and felt its weight. He had relied on this tool for so long that it had become part him.
The ex-Preachers followed the edge of Tucson south, avoiding the noise and movement of the inhabitants. They lurked silently in the darkness. Lead clutched his gun and looked to the villagers circled in the fire light.
“We need to talk to them,” Terence whispered. “Without fresh water we won’t make it to New Pueblo.”
“What about plague?” Lead was worried. He had not forgotten his hard lesson about savage villages.
“No choice. We can’t live on cactus water. We need this.”
Lead followed Terence to the outskirts of a bonfire fueled by house lumber and furniture. His mind returned to the fire of the Jimson eaters near Havasu.
Around the bonfire stood men and women whose faces and bodies were cracked and twisted by mutation, radiation, and disease. They resembled the living dead; eating, speaking, and laughing in the flickering light. Faces stood without eyes, arms without hands, legs without feet. What skin showed was pocked and marred by sickness or scar. The villagers fell silent at Lead and Terence’s approach. Lead held up his gun, visible to the fire light.
“We mean you no trouble. We’re here on the Lord’s business,” Lead said. He rested his gun against his right thigh.
The nearby men stood up. Those who had hands clutched planks of firewood. One of them hefted a shovel. Terence stepped forward in haste.
“My friend misspoke. We are not here on the Lord’s business. We are men on our way south, looking to leave behind the Church. Let us pass without delay or violence.”
The man with the shovel approached Terence. He was dressed in dirty blue jeans and a red flannel shirt. Half of his face had lost shape and resembled melted wax illuminated by the camp fire. Thin arms held the shovel over his left shoulder.
“Look at these lovelies,” the man said over his shoulder in a strange, slurry accent.
“All dusty from the winds. Coming up from the sands like desert djinns. Who are you, rags?”
The man’s mouth twisted into a half smile, the disfigured side of his face remained solid, immobile.
“I’m Terence Wood, Terence the Dead if you recognize the name. This is Lead, he travels with me,” Terence said.
The twisted man’s face grew serious.
“We’ve heard of the Dead, but we hold none here. The ones passed through went south to New Pueblo or the grave.” His half smile returned. “What brings you to our gorgeous, God-given paradise, our Eden of monsters and half-men?” The man asked sarcastically.
“We’ve come to trade or barter. We’ll be headed south from here soon as we can,” Terence said.
“Good for you old man, we’re glad to trade. The Church won’t let a man who enters leave this camp. Says we’re unclean and they’re unclean, but that’s all bullshit. I say if God takes your life, in here is no more likely then out there.”
Terence nodded and held out his right hand. The leper let go of his shovel and shook Terence’s hand firmly.
“Be comfortable.” The man said and gestured to his seat near the fire. “Please, accept the hospitality I can give. I’m still human.” His face tightened in pain. “But please sit near my fire. Get comfortable. I’ll return with our representative and you can talk price and barter.”
The ex-Preachers sat on the ground and warmed themselves in the fire’s glow. Villagers stared at Lead and Terence with curious eyes. The men and women were horrifyingly misshapen, but something else separated them from the parishioners Lead was used to. He suddenly realized that they were not afraid. These men and women, bandaged, warped, and dying, creatures living in perpetual death had nothing to fear from the Church or gun.
Lead tucked his pistol into his jacket pocket.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” Terence announced to the villagers. “Thank you for the warmth of your fire and the comfort of this seat.”
Lead clutched the remnants of his trench coat closer to his body. The villagers continued watching the newcomers, making no noise. The man with half a face returned with an old ghoul, the obvious leader.
The ghoulish man was tall and lanky with a shock of white hair revealing his age in ways his rough horned hands couldn’t. He wore a black suit peppered with dust and sand. His black silk tie stood in contrast to a clean white dress shirt. The campfire’s light made the silk tie gleam. He faced Terence and Lead. A black silk cloth, the twin of his tie, covered his eyes. The blindfold also gleamed in the fire light. The leader’s face was a road map of burns and scars.
“I welcome you newcomers. My name is Reverend Richard Bell. Everyone here calls me Reverend Greek. You may as well. My associate tells me you’re here to barter.”
He held his right hand up in a welcoming gesture.
“I hope you find our accommodations to your liking, humble as they may be.”
Terence spoke. “We thank you for the hospitality. I did not imagine Tucson so civil and well ordered.”
“Aye, civil we are. We make the best of our abandonment and imprisonment,” Reverend Greek said.
“You’re prisoners of the Church, then?” Terence asked.
“The Church gives us supplies enough for survival. The Pueblo folk want nothing to do with our diseased, and we’re surrounded by miles of desert. We’re nature’s prisoners, not that I complain too terribly. We have food and water, and we busy ourselves with the care of the dying and infirm. A life of purpose and the means to continue it is more than I deserve.”
The man with half a face led Reverend Greek to the empty throne near the fire.
“What does that mean, Greek?” Lead asked.
The Reverend smiled. His smile was unnerving with his lack of eyes.
“It’s a type of people. They lived on an island on the other side of the world. Tan skin, big noses, kind of hairy, best warriors and philosophers for a big part of history. I’m Greek, or at least my ancestors were.”
The Reverend turned his face to the fire.
“What news do you bring of the world outside?”
“Don’t you have a radioman?” Lead asked.
“No, a radioman is too valuable to for the Church to risk on lepers and virals. We receive news from guardsmen sometimes, but most won’t come within speaking distance,” the Reverend said.
“My news isn’t fresh. The skirmishes with the Southern Utah militias ended a couple of months ago. Guards wiped out a few of large camps. There was talk in the Flagstaff Parish of pushing the Zona border north into Utah proper,” Lead said.
“Hopefully just talk,” the Reverend replied. “The Church would do well not to cross the border into Utah. The
