down and tried to whisper a prayer for healing. The hole in his face made garbled noises. The lower half of Eliphaz’s jaw, a lump of bone and muscle, lay under a nearby desk.
Eliphaz sat and listened for God’s voice. He sat listening for the word that would put him back together, the voice that would not fail him in his moment of need. Eliphaz died waiting for a voice in a school room in Tucson, Zona.
XV. Lead completes his journey
Lead woke in the hedge brush. Rough hands pulled him free and laid him out onto grass. Reverend Greek stood with his head in front of the midmorning sun. The light provided him with a holy aura of grace and tears streamed out of Lead’s eyes at the site of it. Warm water was pored into Lead’s mouth, across his head and the bleeding wounds on his torso and wrist.
“My friends tell me you’re hurt. I’m sorry for that, but I’m glad you accomplished what you set out for. Some men need to be culled from this earth and there’s no moral justification against it. Some men need murdering.”
Lead pushed away the man with the water. He sat up.
“We’re done talking, Reverend. Give me what I asked for,” Lead said.
Lead stumbled along the husks of cars along the blacktop, following the signs of the Nineteen. He stumbled through and among the husks and corpses of the old world. He walked through the day and night. His wounds soaked their bandages, his head throbbed. His left eye was swollen shut and would never regain sight, but still he walked on. Lead walked past buildings and gas stations, restaurants, and parks; all lifeless places. He walked along the endless highway, touching windows and windshields which shielded smiling corpses. He whispered prayers to himself. Blood loss and fatigue exacerbated his delusions. Sometimes Lead fell over, but there was always a car or overturned machine to cling to. He always found something to pull himself up with. Eventually, Lead arrived at the Jacaranda groves, at the trees with winged seeds. He sat hard on the blacktop. His jacket was heavy with blood. In the distance a solitary man walked towards him. Lead steadied himself by pressing his hand against the street. The man strode up to Lead and stood before him. The light of Lead’s vision was fading but he still recognized the man. It was the leader from before.
“Welcome to New Pueblo,” the leader said.
Lead looked up at the man. He looked past him to the Jacaranda groves and the Nineteen and mountains and horizon beyond. Lead looked down the highway to the place where Terence was gunned down, to the place where he had been captured. Lead looked to his hand and saw sparkling chunks of glass in the cracks of the road. He saw ants running around the cracks, infinitely small. His blood ran into the cracks, creating rivers for the industrious ants to perplex over. Lead smiled at the creatures, for he understood that there is no difference between them and us in our wanderings and labor. Lead smiled and bled and clutched the earth outside of New Pueblo.
Thank you for reading.
© 2011 Nathan L. Yocum
Curiosity Quills Press
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About the Author
Nathan L. Yocum is an author, teacher, and entrepreneur living in the jungles of Hawai’i. As a writer Nathan’s inspirations include Kurt Vonnegut, Cormac McCarthy, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Charles Bukowski, but admits that the list goes on and on. Nathan is also the editor-in-chief of
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