The Zona by Nathan Yocum Page B

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.