The Zona by Nathan Yocum Page A

east.  No armies would attack from the north so a path of retreat could remain clear.
    “Let the sinners run into the desert, God will claim them either way,” said the red preacher.

    Terence remained silent through the telling, but could not hold in his disgust at the mention of the plan.
    “Utah,” he whispered under his breath and spat into the fire.  

    The days of reckoning came.  Leonard and the other riders loaded up their Suburban.  An older boy, Jet, was given an M4 rifle and titled Rider Protector.  The army moved slowly north, those who weren’t honored as drivers or riders made the journey on foot.  They moved as a human wave, riding a crest of dust that reached for the setting sun and painted the sky new shades of brown and olive.  That night they camped in the ruins of Henderson.
    With the dawn sun they rode into Las Vegas.  The front groups drove while foot soldiers ran their hardest to keep up.  The drivers were much quicker than the foot soldiers and were the first into Vegas proper.
    Las Vegas was bright and crumpled, like an empty candy wrapper.  The casinos stood without power or sound, covered in streaks of mud and grit, a gift of the elements.  Even without power they stood as marvels of the last age.  Their colors showed in bright contrast despite the dust and mud.  Buildings bustled with life, like ant hills populated by survivors of the Storms and Plagues.
    Leonard shouted and pointed to a group of people huddled in front of what had once been a diner.  One of the Vegas residents, a man with curly gray hair, looked up at the truck.  Jet lit the M4 and cut him in half.  The other residents scattered like mice.  Jet pumped his fist into the air in victory.  Jones swerved the Suburban and ran down a fleeing woman; blood spattered under the truck and coated two wheels.
    Chaos swept into Las Vegas like a thing living and hungry.  The Zona’s cars and trucks swarmed the streets and alleys, killing those unfortunate enough to be outside.  Small arms and rifle fire popped over the rumble of engines and the residents of Las Vegas fled to their casino shelters.   
    From the east, helicopters swooped in and drowned out the sounds of slaughter.  The copters fired missiles into casinos, showering the streets with glass and concrete.  The residents of Vegas fled the casinos.  The copters strafed the streets with machine guns, murdering residents and Zona soldiers indiscriminately.
    Jones jerked the wheel; a casino tower exploded overhead, showering the riders in debris.  One of the copters changed course and pursued their truck.    
    “Return fire!”  Jones yelled to his riders.
    Jet fired at the copter.  The gunships minis unleashed a stream of lead into the Suburban.  One rider, Pots, collapsed gurgling and gripping his chest and face.  Another rider, Ephron, erupted like a sack of blood.  Jones wrenched the steering wheel and flung the Suburban over an embankment, catching air before landing in the first basement floor of a covered garage.  The helicopter lost line of sight and turned away.
    Jones pulled the emergency break and skidded to a halt.
    “Fuck!”  He yelled out over the sounds of war.  “Fuck!”
    Jones punched the steering wheel and closed in eyes.  The boys watched in silence as Jones took long deep breathes.  He turned to the riders.
    “Head Count!”
    Leonard and the living riders called out their names.  Pots and what remained of Ephron were thrown out.  The riders winced as a missile smashed a nearby building and the earth shook.  They trembled in fear and confusion.  Jones forced a smile onto his face.  He took control of his fear.
    “Alright boys, the Lord’s work seems to be well underway, let’s pull back to the southern troop line and let these anxious Californian bastards have their fill.”
    Leonard and Jet nodded, the other riders sat motionless.  They were incredibly young and incredibly lost and coated with the blood of their