A CONFEDERATE CAJUN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
                               Sony-Louis Rollando

The desert sun beat hard from the west. In my right hand, I held an 
Ithaca SA-50. Not standard issue, but I prefer a little surprise. To my 
left, Gary surveyed the area with binoculars. He pocketed them, and 
pulled out an old pair, with glass lenses and no electronics.

"Looks like the zone caught up with us. Does it grow?"

"Could be. Full moon tonight."

I looked at my wristwatch -- a mechanical one, for in the zones nothing 
else worked reliably. Above the watch was a wrist calculator. There are 
no mechanical analogs to that. I punched in 3 + 2. It came up 7.12159. 
We were definitely in the zone. Half an hour ago, 3 + 2 equalled 5. I 
sheathed my gun. At best, firearms in a zone don't work at all. At 
worse, the decreased burn rate builds pressure slowly and explodes the 
weapon.

We went back into the small cave. Gary slept three hours, and I kept 
watch. I saw one snake.

It was 2045. In the east, President Iroff had finally signed the Lee 
Treaty, though the war between the states had really been over with for 
nearly a decade. Not my problem anymore, though. Not since I moved to 
SoCal. I'd been with the Pendleton Franchise for 8 years, and the 
Confederate Army for three years before that, and was just beginning to 
have second thoughts about spending my life as a career soldier. Or 
ending my life as a body shield for whatever renemage tries to earn 
extra pesos hiring out to the Franchise.

No mages here, fortunately. Just a real mental jack who'd decided he 
could hide from the law in a technodead zone. Hell, he'd of been safer 
staying in San Diego. Even then, the law didn't give a damn about some 
minor murderer. All the wigs wanted was to make sure no one thought a 
dead zone was a free zone.

So here I was. Somewhere in the Anzo Borrego. I loosened up with the 
katana before handing the watch over to Gary. In three hours, we moved 
on. I've been meaning to ask a naturalist why there are no dead zones on 
a beach.

Two sleeps later, we found our first trace of him. At first we thought 
he was being clever, setting an obvious trail to lead any one following 
either astray or into a trap. So we move along real careful, like, for 
an hour. Turns out he's not clever, just an idiot. I heard a saying once 
about mad dogs and Englishmen. I've never met an Englishman, but this 
guy was a total cake. Swapped spit one too many times with the dragon. 
He's living in a fucking cabin in the center of a small, flat valley, 
sun baking the rocks like a natural microwave.

Still thinking this guy can't be that crazy, but wondering what it does 
take to systematically track down and kill only redheads whose names 
begin with G, I set up my bow. Adjusted the scope, a mechoid, of course, 
for the estimated distance, and waited underneath an overhang.

In the vids, this is where two soldiers always manage to solve their 
existential problems in a down-home, philosophical discussion. Fuck 
that. In the middle of the desert, it's hot, it's dry, the sun stares 
down like an ancient angry god, you don't feel like thinking, let alone 
talking.

So he comes out, probably to take a leak, the poor slob. One arrow and 
he's down, the next, he's good as dead. Gary looks on with the 
binoculars, and tells me when it looks like he's stopped breathing. We 
don't bother to check the body until nightfall. It's not worth leaving 
the cool, and you never know -- he may be faking it. From 300 feet it's 
hard to tell with old optics. But if he lays there in the sun all day, 
it won't matter what he's faking.

The moon rose before the sun disappeared. We came out of hiding, went 
into the little valley, checked the body. He's dead, no doubt. Peek 
inside the cabin, which is still holding in the day's heat, and there's 
nothing there. We left.

At the top of the valley's side, I turn around to take one last look at 
the sucker. And stop. The body was gone.

Shit. Like the old chummer used to say, just when things can't get any 
better, they gotta get worse.

Gary saw the same thing. He swore as well. It meant we were going to 
have to track the bastard, or whoever stole him, down. The hot day was 
fast becoming a cold night.

The calculator no longer worked at all. We climbed about fifty feet 
higher than we were, and surveyed the area. The full moon lit the desert 
almost as well as the sun, but our binoculars showed no one nearby -- no 
person, no animal larger than a lizard, the only sign of humanity the 
fruitcake's cabin.

The door swings in the breeze, but I don't feel anything up here. The 
air has that humid, kind of damp, fleshy feel. You've never been in heat 
until you've been in Louisiana in August. Or the Yucatan, I suppose, in 
whatever passes for boiling there. Or even West Africa, from what I've 
heard. But I believe I'm babbling.

And I was. But momma set me right. She always did, that silvery smile, 
bright red hair. But that was the neighbor-girl-next-door. Daddy came in 
from the wars and set his briefcase down, but I couldn't see him over 
the din of the trivideo set. It wasn't for nothing they called us 
inseparable, my sister and eye. Red blood in my I, and a song in my 
heart.

Obviously, something was wrong. Far wrong and way cool. I thought I 
heard thunder in the distance, but it was Gary slapping me back to 
reality. Which wasn't an easy trip with the whore-whore-horehounds 
blowin' in the wind. I steeled myself against his mind, obviously the 
fruitcake's mind was still here in the dead zone, trying to infect us 
with his madness.

Or, perhaps not trying at all. Only a mindless life force, a shell, a 
lifeless mind trapped in the moon, to fade as the moon fades to 
nothingness.

I crouched, and saw the stars, and felt the ground again. Now there was 
a cold wind, and an odd smell in the air.

Gary kicked at someone. The kick should have sent his opponent tumbling 
over the edge. Instead, there was a slurping noise, and I saw his toes 
exit his opponent's back, straight through the liver. A hot smell 
exploded into the air, sun-boiled meat. Gary tried to hold back his 
nausea, and lost. It occurred to me that it was too bad he wasn't a 
redhead, then without thinking I drew my sword and hit whatever it was 
he'd kicked. I saw the thing's face, and it was the nut, and he was 
dead, but he clawed at me anyway. His mouth hung open, and his tongue 
lolled out one side of it.

My sword had cut deep, and I yanked it out, as he clawed at me again. I 
rolled back, and realized why video adventurers always had a shield. 
Steaming water poured out the wound in its side. Gary pounded its back 
with his staff. It staggered forward, but kept its eyes on me as I swung 
the sword back and chopped off his head.

It staggered forward, still clawing, and I thought we were fucked, when 
it just stopped, swooned, and fell. I could still feel the ripples of 
the life force in the air, but it had lost its power.

We didn't rest until we reached the horses the next morning.