The Zona Read online

  Eliphaz pushed through the bat-wing doors of the Xanadu Inn. He entered alone; his companions remained in the suburbs hunting for the ex-Preacher’s trail. Conversation stopped. The iron shod heels of Eliphaz’s boots clicked against hardwood floors. He strode to a table full of men eating from a platter of hard bread and cheeses. The men abandoned their feast at the sight of the Crusader, giving him free reign of the table. Eliphaz sat and motioned to his informant. The man was small and hunched, giving the impression that he was somehow part beetle. The right nostril of his nose was missing, a wound of syphilis or combat, one as likely as the other. Eliphaz set a roll of silver notes on the table.

  “He was in the neighborhood but not at the house. Thou led us to his horse and no better,” Eliphaz said.

  The informant eyed the silver notes and licked his lips, he wanted to reach for them, but was unsure what the Crusader expected of him. Eliphaz drew his Browning and pointed at the informant’s face.

  “Know this child, I know when lies are told to me and when sin is committed and had thee known better than what thee stated, thou’d be bleeding out on this floor.”

  Eliphaz tapped the toe of his boot against the floor for emphasis. The informant did not move, his survival instincts were keen, he calculated the odds of quitting this situation alive and richer, and his mind told him to remain still, hold his breath, and for the love of God don’t look the Crusader in the eyes.

  Eliphaz released the hammer. A small manic grin touched his lips. He waved his gun, beckoning the informant to come closer. The informant took a step and was suddenly grabbed and pulled by his collar. Eliphaz whispered into the informant’s ear.

  “Go now child and let thy peers know more notes are to be had by those who find the marks, and a redemptive death will be claimed by those who assist marks.”

  Eliphaz batted the roll of notes to the floor with his gun and released the informant. The beetle man let out the breath he’d been holding. He picked up the notes and pocketed them without counting.

  “I witnessed a young boy name of Philip riding hard out east end not an hour ago. Stands to reason a boy fleeing these parts does so with reason. Good information or not I’m sure your Holiness will pay fair bounty,” the informant said.

  The night winds added to the chill damp of the mine shaft. Terence dug a shallow pit and buried Lead to his neck. He could think of no other way to insulate the sick man from the cold. Lead woke in a half-conscious panic. He tried to reach for his chest but the sand prevented his arms from moving. Terence placed a hand over Lead’s mouth.

  “Don’t make a sound. They’ve sent the Crusaders.” Terence kept his hand over Lead’s mouth until he ceased to struggle.

  “Crusaders, the Church would not be so rash.” Lead whispered in disbelief. His mind reeled. Crusaders were the Church’s dogs of wars, sent to bring ruination on the heads of those who were too strong, too dangerous. They were the Churches arm against the armies of Satan. It must be a mistake that they’d been set to hunt this old mark. If they had, it meant that the Church had lost faith in Lead’s mission; that he too was out of favor with the Church’s holy influence. That he too might bear the Mark of Cain.

  “That don’t matter, son. I’ve seen them, they’re here.” Terence said. He stared out of the cave’s opening into the mouth of darkness.

  “We need to leave.” Terence said.

  Philip formed a cocoon of blankets around his body. He hunched in front of a fire just off of the road to Kingman. His fire’s light created an island in a vast black sea of cloud-covered night. The night’s creatures chirped and scuttled and made small noises unappreciable by men. Philip sat in a void that could have been the desert, or hell, or distant starless space for all he could perceive within the sightline of his camp. Despite the comfort of blankets and fire, his body shook in the bitter wind. He carefully placed a wire tray over the fire and set a coffee pot on it. Philip clutched the blankets to his body. Out west, past the California border, lightening flashed and reflected blue on Philip’s saddle and coffee pot. Philip said a prayer for good weather.

  From the darkness a small rock flew and struck Philip above the left eye. He cried out in mixture of surprise and pain. He touched his face and his hand came away streaked crimson; blood ran into his eye. Philip leapt to his feet, half blinded, and pulled a hunting knife from his belt. He leapt closer to the fire, a primitive notion for seeking safety.

  A pistol report silenced the night creatures. A bullet tore through Philip’s calf, spinning him to the earth and sand. Eliphaz walked softly into the firelight, gun pointed at Philip. He circled Philip outside of reaching distance.

  Philip beheld his attacker’s Van Cleef and armored vest with his good eye. He recognized the Crusader and tossed his knife out to the darkness. He bit his cheek against the pain in his calf and put forth a brave visage.

  “I yield, sir! Why did you shoot me?” Philip said as he gripped his wounded calf.

  “Why? Why?” Eliphaz emulated Philip’s voice and laughed. He kicked Philip’s hands away from the wound and pressed the tip of his boot against it. Philip yelled out and tried to twist his leg away. Eliphaz pressed harder. Lights flashed in Philip’s vision, thunder crashed in the distance.

  “I’m going to let thou know a secret. It’ll save us both time and aggravation.” Eliphaz said. “God speaks to me. Not metaphorically. Not in my dreams or through fasting or prayers or any of that horseshit. God speaks to me just like I’m speaking to you right now, man to man, person to person. He comes down to earth and he…speaks…to…me!” Eliphaz pressed his foot harder to emphasize the point. Philip’s world was immersed in pain.

  “God and I talk. We spoke today. Guess what he said?”

  Eliphaz twisted his boot in the wound.

  “Guess what he said!??”

  Philip tried to answer, but the pain wouldn’t let him catch his breath. Eliphaz pulled back his boot. He spoke in a low, soothing tone.

  “Guess what he said?”

  “What did he say?” Philip said in desperation. His sweat shined in the fire light. He wanted to help, he wanted to talk, anything to ease the pain.

  “He told me that thou art a liar. He told me that thou art a sinner and a backslider and that lies spew forth from thy mouth like a child’s spittle. So I made him a promise. I told our Lord that I’m going to hurt thee until thou tells me what I came to hear or God tells me thou speakth true or both and if neither occurs I will deliver you unto him and let him be the bearer of your misfortune.”

  Eliphaz shot Philip in the foot and then kicked it mightily. A chunk of Philip’s boot holding the torn remnants of two toes flew off into the night. Philip loosed an animal scream beyond the range of what is sane and rational. His vision turned red and rain peppered the sand and everything became ethereal and unreal to him. Blood mixed with rain and fed the desert and scrub and life moved from one to the other as it always has. Eliphaz bent over the whimpering boy.

  “Let’s begin again,” he said in a quiet, friendly tone.

  “Shit!” Terence whispered again. He paced a tight circle in the mine shaft. Lead had long ago passed out and was mumbling in fever dreams. Terence thought about the Crusaders in Havasu. Crusaders were trained to track, investigate, interrogate. The world’s information was theirs to uncover. They would find his trail. He had to move, now.

  “Oh, wake up.” Terence pushed against Lead’s head.

  Lead woke swaddled in earth’s warm embrace. His mind swam and ached, the tracers had left his vision.

  “Can you walk?” Terence asked.

  Lead closed his eyes to stop the cave from spinning. He turned his head and vomited into the sand. Terence scooped mounds of dirt off of Lead’s body.

  “For the time being you are in my care. I won’t leave a hurt man to Crusaders. Can you walk?”

  Lead stood on one knee and pressed a hand to the cavern wall. His body was caked in dirt. Night air wisped cold through the mine. The wound on his shoulde
r radiated heat in contrast to the wind. Lead spoke a prayer of healing and pushed off of the wall. His legs wobbled like a new born animal. He took a step and then collapsed to the ground.

  “Shit!” Terence said again and walked out of the cave and into the night.

  Lead dreamt again of the Storms. His mother’s face loomed over him, yellow with sickness. He saw water turning streets into rivers fast and violent, powerful wind and shifting earth ripped apart buildings. People fled the buildings only to be consumed by the waters. All that death, images on a television screen watched while he sat next to his mother, who was ill and had not left their home in days and who would never be well again. Lead’s mind turned and he saw the face of the matriarch of the Jimson-eaters. He saw her wide bloodshot eyes transform into sparkling rubies while her followers hummed in the unseen distance.

  Lead woke to find himself bound to a sled of palm fronds. Terence was dragging his body across the desert, through the darkness of night. Lead’s lower back was raw from rubbing against the sand.

  Terence followed a rhythm. He sprinted a few yards, stopped, took in a few heavy breaths, and then sprinted a few more yards.

  Lead looked up at the sky. The moon was projecting a ring onto the clouds. A light rain fell.

  “Where am I?” Lead asked.

  “Oh thank God,” Terence wheezed as he dropped the palm stems.

  “You need to drink this.” He pressed his canteen to Lead’s mouth and tipped in water. The warm liquid hurt Lead’s throat, his eyes closed and his mind went back to dreams.

  Terence took up the palm fronds and sprinted a few more yards. This was not the first time he wished for his body to be young again. As a younger man he could have run through the night and into the next day. He was too old and too tired and his back pain was only dampened by the distraction of the pain in his knees. Terence had been a strong man in his youth. He’d been a strong man in his life as a Preacher. He’d killed in the name of God, ended life at the word and command of the Church. He’d played a role at the razing and utter decimation of Las Vegas. He’d seen bodies staked and crucified to the luminous glow of neon lights.

  Terence shook the image from his head and peered across the dunes. In the near distance, candlelight flickered in a cabin window. By the smell, Terence guessed it was the ranch house of a javelina farm. He took up the palm sled and dragged it a few more steps. Terence let go of the palm fronds and caught his breath. He pulled the cross from Lead’s pocket, having left his own in Cibola days past.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Preacher.” He said to Lead’s unconscious body.

  Pious Doland read by candlelight every night. Daylight hours provided no time for the enjoyment of books. The sun was for dealing with butcher merchants in Havasu, or tending his javelinas, or hunting woyote dens, or any of the other myriad tasks God burden men of farms and ranches with. Besides, reading books in the visible light of day might get people talking about Pious, questioning what it was that consumed his interest so.

  Every night, Pious Doland lit a candle and read the old book he kept hidden under his bed. The cover was missing, but Pious knew they were plays by an English heathen named Shakespeare. He could tell the man was a heathen because some of his plays involved Jews or satyrs, but Pious didn’t care. The words were magical. They flowed with a rhythm that calmed his mind.

  There was a knock on his door. Pious blew out his candle and flung the book under his bed. There was another knock, louder this time. Pious ran up to the door with his hunting ax in hand.

  “Speak,” he called through the door.

  “I come here on behalf of our Lord and Savior seeking sustenance and sanctuary” a man said.

  Fear gripped Pious. That was the call of a Preacher. He eyed his living room for visible contraband. He didn’t see any, but he had no time to really search, to keep a Preacher waiting was to cast suspicion on yourself. Pious opened the door.

  Terence stepped back and held up Lead’s cross to the farmer at the door. Terence judged the man before him. The farmer was not yet out of his twenties but his body was hunched and creased in a way customary of desert living. The farmer held a wood ax in front of himself like a walking staff.

  “I come seeking sustenance and sanctuary,” Terence said.

  The farm looked him over and nodded. “You’re welcome to my sustenance and sanctuary, Preacher. Be at peace in my homestead.” Pious propped his ax against a wall. “Let me get you food and water.”

  “Hold on, good sir,” Terence said. “I have a man in my binding. I need to bring him in.” Terence ran back into the night.

  Pious watched the Preacher’s shadowed form in moonlight pick up another man and carry him back. Terence had tied Lead’s wrists together with what remained of his leather cord to help the illusion of imprisonment. He was not proud of his dishonesty to the farmer or any dishonesty from which he was the source, but between deception and death, Terence counted deception as the lesser. Terence returned to the cabin with his false captive.

  “This man is to be left alone. I will soon return. Please have food and water ready,” Terence said. He propped Lead’s unconscious body against a wall and tied his ankles together with braided palm fronds.

  “This man is powerful sick, and as you can see, his appendages are bound. I want your word that in my absence you will not harm him. There will be no need to harm him.”

  “You have my word, Preacher,” Pious said.

  “The Lord thanks you,” Terence replied. He smiled as the old words left his mouth. For a moment he missed the pomp and authority of being a legitimate Preacher.

  Terence left the farmer’s home and took up his palm frond sled. The trail of this rig was unmistakably easy picking for well-trained Crusaders. The drizzle of rain ended too promptly, the winds were too weak, nothing in nature favored the cover of his ingress. Terence dragged the fronds behind him and ran towards the distant hills.

  Lead woke from fever dreams and found himself on a dry floor wrapped in a woolen blanket. A man with an ax hefted in both hands stood over him. The man stared with eyes like cracked river pebbles, misshapen and red.

  “I recommend you not move, stranger,” the man warned.

  Lead let out a strangled cough. He struggled against the rawhide and palm cords, but found no strength. His body ached and radiated fevered heat.

  “Assist,” Lead whispered.

  “No, Goodman,” Pious spit and wiped his mouth. “We’re just gonna wait here for the old Preacher. You need to sit still.”

  Pious was anxious about the book under his bed. Was it hidden? Was it visible? What if the Preacher came back and discovered it? In his mind he swore to God that if his heresy escaped detection he would bury the book in the desert sand. He would leave all things unsavory and walk a path righteous with the Lord.

  “I’m here on behalf of our Lord and Savior.” Lead whispered and turned back to the darkness.

  Terence abandoned his sled in a hillside crevice. He split a palm frond and swept his footsteps. He felt ridiculous using the old trick, but now was not a time for innovative thought. The Crusader’s presence was imminent and the night’s obfuscation was closing. Old tricks traded for time and time traded for rest and nourishment and the hope of an actual escape.

  Terence swept the path.

  Pious lit a mesquite fire in his big-bellied stove and considered his problems. Would the wounded man need food? What about the Preacher? If Pious gave from his feedbox, would he have sufficient meat for trade? Was the old Preacher really a harrier; a thief in disguise? This was not the first time Pious wondered if the old man wasn’t some sort of road agent. He banished the thought from his mind. Any road agent falsely using the crucifix was hunted and eliminated with all the prejudice and might of the Lord and Church. It was one of the few laws everyone knew aside from the Commandments. Pious once saw a false Preacher sentenced near Quartzite Parish. The parishioners hung the scallywag from a Joshua tree and let the sun and buzzards carry out the
sentence of execution. No rope or blanket, just three days of screaming and rocking and looking to unforgiving eyes, for the parishioners watched in shifts and none gave aid. The scene had left an impression on Pious.

  The farmer took three javelina steaks from his salt box. The steaks were bundled in plastic bags of the type floating throughout the desert, accompanying tumble weeds in travels blind and chaotic. He placed the steaks in a battered stainless skillet and set them to sizzle on the stove’s hot plate. Pious retrieved a water pitcher from his pantry.

  The prisoner had not moved. The smell of fried pork filled the cabin.

  Terence entered Pious’ home without knocking. His right hand clutched his four-barrel pistol behind his back. Pious was startled and sloshed water on the cabin floor.

  “If you don’t mind the inquiry, sir, where were you?” Pious asked.

  The farmer set the pitcher down and gripped the frying pan with a false casualness, as if checking the meat required Pious to handle the metal and keep a sightline with Terence. His body tensed in a way both visible and animal. The old Preacher realized the threat and responded in kind. The click of the pistol hammer echoed off the close cabin walls. It was an unmistakable sound and issued a threat more credible than any words Terence could muster.

  “Men are trailing me and mine. They would take our lives, opportunity given. I set a false trail.”

  Terence and Pious spent a moment of stretched time staring at each other, regarding small and dangerous motions. Pious gripped the skillet. Terence gripped the pistol. Pious twisted his face into a disingenuous smile and released the panhandle.

  “Please sit and eat,” Pious said.