cracked. Lead whipped around, throwing off flies and making the chair dance three-legged. A crash broke through the cacophony of buzzing. The boards under his feet cracked and fell into gaping blackness. Lead and his chair were swallowed into the hole.
Lead dropped into the crawlspace beneath the cabin. He landed in mud fed from the old drippings of the Hall of Gluttons. He squirmed in retreat through the muck. He flexed his body against the chair, which groaned and cracked against his straining muscles. Lead flexed his body again. The chair back snapped and Lead’s ropes loosened. Lead pulled himself from the mess of knots. He crawled through filth, head pounding. In his hand he kept a chair leg, still connected to the chunk of seat; a weapon.
Lead pulled himself out from under the Hall of Gluttons and stood. His naked body was coated with human waste. His toes clenched the long crab grass under his feet; before him stood the razor wire fence separating Purgatory from the Zona. Lead bit his tongue against the urge to yell out in joy. He fought the urge to scratch the filth covered skin from his body. Lead gripped the chair leg and pegged his way up the fence. His toes found purchase in the chain-links. The higher he rose the less he smelled the hall, the less he smelled his own body, the fresher and tastier the air became. From the distance alarms sounded and men shouted. Air horns pierced the early evening landscape and the voices of men were soon accompanied by the yowling of hounds.
Lead focused on the fence. Slowly he ascended, driving the chair leg into the higher and higher links. Lead lifted himself up to the bushel of razor wire. In some other world rifles fired and bullets severed links near his hand. Lead balanced himself and shoved the chair leg against the razor wire. A space grew between links and the deadly bushel. A bullet cut the edge of Lead’s ear. He squeezed through the new space and tumbled to the earth.
Lead was embraced by loose sand. A bullet kicked up the grit next to his face. In some far off place Lead knew that his ribs and back and legs hurt, but his body was numb. He rose to his feet and loosed a wild scream at Purgatory. Lead turned and ran into the desert. He was outside, he was free.
XII. The Pima desert is a land of sand storms and rare sanctuary
Lead ran barefoot against the backdrop of a burnt orange and bruised sunset. Rifle shots peppered the sand and dogs barked with men, and all of it focused and pursued Lead; it all belonged to a world Lead was no longer a part of. He had detached, dissociated. He felt no pain, or rather, that which created pain inside him had broken. He looked at the brilliant setting sun and bolted south, towards Tucson, towards New Pueblo, towards the grave of his friend, Terence Wood.
Lead’s bare feet carried him over sand and rock and brush. From the southern horizon loomed an enormous sandstorm, charging up from the Pima. In the far distance, black-robed guards poured out of Purgatory gates astride horses. Lead ran with strides like leaps. He tilted his head and bounded through the storm wall and into the blinding miasma of howling wind and earth.
The interior of the storm was otherworldly; an alien atmosphere populated by tornado worms and air that could only be ingested through gritted teeth. At the storm’s edge, horses whinnied and bucked and threw their riders, for sometimes animals show wisdom beyond the want of man. Black robes whipped like bats wings and guards struggled to control their beasts, to find fellow guards, to flee the storm before they were consumed like the escaped sinner had been. The storm swelled and reached across the desert into Purgatory. It scoured the structures and swept sand into the pit of men more dead than alive. The residents of Purgatory, freemen or not, fled for cover and more than one contemplated mans’ futility in the face of nature and the unquenchable wrath of God.
Lead shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted through fingers. Every attempt at vision was thwarted by grains of sand inevitably peppering his eyes. Lead waived his chair leg like a blind staff and continued short steps against the storm’s winds. Sand tore at his bare skin and scoured off much of the filth he’d carried from the Hall of Gluttons. His feet stubbed against rocks and cactus as he stumbled first without sense, then without direction.
Lead pushed on against the storm. All sense cut away, he saw nothing, his ears filled with the ubiquitous howl of wind, he felt nothing but sand against his skin and rocks at his feet. Lead was alone.
A dark image peered before him, a shelter against blinding sand, a black obelisk jutting from the earth. Lead knelt against object and cleared the grit from his eyes. It was a limousine, flung upside down and half-buried in earth.
Lead leaned against the body and propped his back against black glass. Above him the sandy winds ebb and flowed. Lead put the hand against the window. It was warm and smooth in a way alien to his touch. He pressed his face against it but saw nothing through the heavy tint. Lead swung his chair leg, the window imploded and little shards of glass like rice scattered into the dark unknown.
The air inside the limo hung thick with death, like a mausoleum. Velvet upholstery crumbled in Lead’s hands as he pulled himself into the shelter. At the back end of the limo, just visible at light’s edge, sat a body mummified by time.
Lead crawled to the mummy. Its skin had converted to leather, snug against skull and hands. The mummy was clothed in a lavish business suit, dress shirt and a blue silk tie; all items Lead recognized from magazines he’d seen. It was the uniform of rich and important men, men of influence who had won and then lost the physical world.
The corpse’s left hand was fused to a revolver. Tiny glass bottles littered the floor around the body. Lead touched the man’s cheek. The skin rasped like tree bark, the eyelids hung low over empty sockets. The back of the man’s skull was an absent and obvious victim of the revolver.
“Why’d you swallow your muzzle?” Lead asked.
He pulled the gun out of the man’s hands, fingers snapped and rolled and were lost in the compartment. The piece was a hulking .44 caliber, coated in rust and patina. Lead thumbed the hammer, but it was fused to the frame and would not budge. He laid down the gun down.
“This car was yours. This gun was yours, why did you snuff your own light?”
Lead turned from the corpse, the passenger compartment was lined was storage bins. Lead opened one and three water bottles fell out. Lead opened another and found bars of chocolate and bags of peanuts. Another compartment held tiny bottles of spirits, cans of soda, and more bottles of water. Lead’s heart raced; here was a bounty of food and water, sustenance to battle his rampant hunger and thirst. Lead piled his bounty in front of the corpse and bowed his head.
“I thank you, and God thanks you. I pray that you are in Heaven, and that I may someday meet you and thank you for what you have left behind,”
Lead greedily devoured the candy bars. He drank one of the bottles of water. Lead lay uncomfortably with a full stomach. The winds outside whistled through the shattered wind, grit sprayed across the opening. His eyes grew heavy and his mind drifted to dreams.
When Lead woke, the wind was still whistling and a pool of sand had grown through the shattered window.
“I have to go, sir,” Lead said to the corpse. “Please forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
Lead took a deep breath and started stripping the clothes off the corpse.
The suit jacket and pants hung on Lead’s body. Malnutrition gave him the look of a man succumbing to illness. Thankfully, a belt of fine, black leather was still attached to the pants. Lead pulled the belt tight and cut a hole with a collapsible corkscrew he’d found in the pants pocket. The corpse also wore ornate dress shoes, stiff and cracked with age and natural decomposition. Lead removed them carefully and slipped them over his bare feet. They fit, though the low cut and thin soles were not ideal for the desert.
The corpse’s shirt was threadbare and stained. Lead tore off a sleeve and ripped it lengthwise to the cuff. He wrapped one end around the handle of the broken gun and covered the useless hammer and cylinder. He then threaded the neck tie through the trigger guard and tied the ends behind his neck, like a Van Cleef.
Lead cut out a leather seat cover and used it to bundle the remaining food and water. He exited the
