The Zona Read Free

waft of stale air and body odor.  A fat, bearded man leaned against the frame.  An aura of ill-temper hung about him, a companion to his stink.   The man wore no shirt, giving Lead the overall impression of soiled and ill-favored cherub.
    “Lets see your silver, son.  I ain’t standing near this sun for no reason,” said Smith.  His teeth were yellow and slanted inward like a shark.
    Lead held forth his crucifix.
    “I come before you now as a vessel of the Lord and Savior to receive the information you so know and transmit.  Allow me entrance and give me the knowledge I need to spread the word of the Holy Trinity upon this, our inherited Earth,” Lead recited.
    Smith looked at the cross and Lead.  His eyes squinted in the light.  He scratched the hair on his bulbous stomach.
    “Come in, Preacher.  May the knowledge of man and the intent of our Lord and Savior purge our inherited Earth of sin and filth which brought us into these dark times,” Smith recited back.
    Lead walked into the Radioman’s home, a two-story survivor of the Storms.  It was a true house of the Broken Times with space and carpet and luxury now soiled by odor, dirt, and the habits of its resident.
    Lead followed Smith through the darkness of the lobby into a room sunlit by glowing, opaque plastic sheets.  The floor was composed of tile, still beautiful despite its many long cracks and years.  Smith’s radio sat on a kitchen counter.  Next to it was a metal basin and a faucet harkening to the days of automatic water.  In his mind’s eye, Lead saw water flow from the contraption, unending and unearned.
    Smith watched Lead stare at the basin and assumed he had a taste for things worldly.  His mind calculated odds and profits.
    “If you stand with any spare notes, Preacher, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement for you to pay bounty on contraband.”  Smith opened a cupboard and pulled down a cardboard box.  He beckoned for Lead to look into it.  The box held bottles of spirits and ancient picture books, once called magazines, laid open to pages of fornication and scantily clad women.  Lead’s stomach tightened at the sight of all the banished goods and sin.
    “Radioman, I suggest you turn over your contraband to the Havasu Parish or in the very least burn such items under the sun and in the presence of your Lord.  To keep these is a sin and an abomination.”  Lead said, keeping his voice cold and unexcited.
    Smith’s demeanor changed instantly.  He realized his miscalculation regarding the worldliness of Lead.
    “I apologize sir…er…Preacher.  If I have offended you with the sight of this…”  Smith stammered.  “After your work here has run its course, I will be sure to submit all to the Havasu Parish or burn it to ash.”  Smith forced his face to show no surprise or frustration; he smiled again, flashing those tilted, stained teeth.
    “It’s alright and unnecessary, Radioman, I’ll dispose of them.” Lead said.  He placed a hand on the box and the other to his chest, over the Van Cleef, a gesture serving as a reminder.
    Smith’s face kept its neutrality.
    “Of course, Preacher, I would be honored if thou would dispose of this contraband on my behalf,” he said.
    The two stared at each other in silence.  Lead tightened his grip on his Van Cleef; Smith shoved the box towards him and turned away.  Smith kept the fake smile on his face and continued as though nothing had transpired between the two.
    “Here is the information on thy hunted Mark.”  Smith said with increased formality.  He took chunk of cardboard from his pocket and set it on the counter.
    Lead slowly translated the markings.  The interpreting of symbols and letters had not been a strength in his training and any reading he did was performed in slow deliberation.
    The mark was in Yucca, domiciled in a hermitage alone amongst the sand and beasts.  Here was a man whose life had brought him to a shack in the middle of blighted earth,