The Zona by Nathan Yocum Page B

friends.
    The Suburban roared back to life and Jones drove through the rear exit of the garage.  He let a group of helicopters pass before crushing the accelerator.  Refugees fleeing the burning hotels and casinos flooded the streets and parking lots.  Tens of thousands of survivors ran in horror and were crushed by trucks or shot by strafing helicopters.  Jet emptied his clips gunning down men and women who clung to the Suburban in a failed attempt to flee the carnage.  In the western sky Leonard saw a thick white streak of smoke reach out to the morning sky before bending and reaching back for Las Vegas with five smaller streaks, like fingers of a handmade of cloud.
    Leonard pointed the smoke out to Jones.  Jones was quiet for a second and then grinned over gritted teeth.
    “Oh no!  Oh God no!  This thing is over!  Time for prayer, kids!”
    The Suburban screeched and rose to two wheels as Jones swung a hard left.  A high pitch whistling filled the air and sky and drowned out the noises of copters and bombs and victims.  Leonard gripped his ears against the whistling.  The smoke fingers grew longer in reaching across the sky.  Leonard pulled the pistol from his pocket and realized for the first time that he hadn’t fired a shot.
    The Suburban shattered a plywood barrier and promptly fell into a blast hole.
    “Get out!”  Jones mouthed over the high pitch squeals.  “Get the fuck out and run!”
    The riders scattered in all directions.
    The whistling grew sharper.  One of the smoke fingers touched a faraway building and the world was coated in white light.  Everything shook and hummed.  Leonard ran as hard as he could from the light.  Another finger touched the ground and the world turned brighter.  Helicopters were flung into each other, into the buildings, onto the ground.  A vertical rain of glass and wood and the remnants of mankind took to the air.  Leonard ran.  Another finger touched the ground.  Leonard closed his eyes as tight as he could but the light penetrated his lids.  The light could not be dampened.  Leonard’s throat was raw with screaming he neither felt nor heard.  Another finger touched the earth.  Leonard’s feet left the ground and he was carried with the rest of the debris, carried into darkness.

    “That was a Minuteman warhead.”  Terence said.  “A goody someone pulled from one of the Utah silos.  They must have had a survivor with a command code or someone smart enough to get around them.  Nuked Vegas, wiped out California’s air force, and took out most of the Zona’s walking army. They won that war before we even knew there was a war.”

    Leonard woke under a pile of asphalt slabs.  He opened his eyes.  Flashes burned across his retinas.  His ears rang in a pitch that muffled all sound and made the world seem distant.  Leonard brought a hand to his ear and felt blood trickling down his neck.  Three blast survivors ran past Leonard.  They were coated in gray dust or ash, probably both.  A long cloud followed them.  Leonard pushed himself out the chunks of road and ran after them.  He entered the cloud but the runners took no notice.  Leonard ran in pure animal shock, following others who may know of food, shelter, help.
    The runners ran towards a group of Zona guards.  The guards looked at the gray runners casually.  One of the guards shouldered his rifle and opened fire.
    Leonard flung himself to the street, skinning his knees and palms.  The gray runners twisted in a marionette dance as rifle rounds tore through their bodies.  The dust cloud hung in the air as the last fell dead.  The world was silent except for the ringing in Leonard’s ears, a ringing that would never completely go away.  Leonard raised his head; one of the Guards prodded him with a rifle muzzle.
    “Show us your script, kid.”
    Leonard rolled onto his back and placed a bloody hand on his shirt.
    “Lead Group Two number 2305, don’t shoot!”  Leonard yelled