Desert Angels

by George P. Saunders

  "Oh, I got you!" Folton said, nodding in sudden comprehension. "I guess it had something to do with me being in the truck."

  Jack continued to feel glands.

  "I was thumbing down to Phoenix," Folton went on. "You know, going nowhere. Thinking of the seminary. This big old cement tow picked me up around Bakersfield; told me to hang out in the back of the rig. Well, there I am, kissing space with a lot of concrete. Damned uncomfortable, but lucky for me it was there. Maybe that's why old Killer and me is still walking around healthy."

  Old Killer, Jack presumed, was what Folton called his motorcycle. But Folton was probably right; with the truck and the concrete as insulation, much of the initial electromagnet pulse radiation was probably thwarted in its attempt to suck the life out of Folton's bike.

  "We might need that motorcycle. It could come in handy," Jack said, preparing a syringe of penicillin.

  Folton didn't say anything to that. He continued to ramble.

  "Yeah, those old boys in Washington and Moscow finally pulled the Big One. And some bad shit hath come down hard. God's will, I guess. Anyway, pal, I got news for you. Once the niggers get wind of your little party here, they're gonna tear you to bits. Spics, too. Fuckin' animals, all of them."

  Brandon walked away, clearly not liking Folton's company. Brandon, who's alter-ego could murder a dying Chihuahua and stuff it while simultaneously nursing a hundred people daily, despite his own painful illness was nervous around Folton. Which in turn made Jack nervous; for if Brandon was strange, then Folton was downright creepy. Perhaps Brandon left because Folton gave him a very bad feeling, as Folton was now giving to Jack; a feeling that said: Here was trouble. Here was a real dangerous problem.

  "You may not know it, pal, but you've got a little dick-licker workin' for you. Next to niggers and spics, those fagollas are the worst. Spelled out – and that's why God did this to us, if you get my meaning."

  Jack plunged the hypo of penicillin into Folton's arm. He then put down the syringe and looked at Folton.

  "You're a sick man, Folton. You've got what everyone else has around here and you'll probably get sicker. I'm sorry for that. I'm going to do my best to help you. But I've got to tell you straight. I don't want to hear your kind of talk anymore, not with these people. I don't give a fuck if you don't like niggers, spics or faggots. I don't give two fucks if you don't like me. We all pull together here. Regardless of whether we're black, white, brown or queer. You got me?"

  Folton chewed his lip, not looking terribly impressed with the longest speech Jack had given in a while.

  "I wanted to say that now. If you find anyone here offensive, you might as well leave. Because you're right. It's because of prejudice and hate and ignorance that got us where we are today. Here in Eden – I don't intend to let that kind of low-brow attitude run rampant. Do you understand me, Folton?"

  Folton snorted up what had to be a giant wad of sputum and then promptly swallowed it. Brandon came back to Jack's side, looking at the hulking biker sitting on the table. Folton had lost interest in Brandon. He had eyes only for Jack now.

  "You're a tough guy in here, Mr. Doctor."

  "I'm the boss here, Folton. All you need to do is remember that. Or get out."

  Folton studied Jack's impassive face for a moment, then smiled and shrugged.

  "Hey, it's cool. Hate, racism, all that other shit – fuck it! Call me a good guy." He extended his hand to Jack; Jack shook it, reluctantly. "Besides," Folton added, "Last time someone got kicked out of Eden, there was real hell to pay!" Folton winked at Brandon who continued staring and then laughed loudly at his own joke.

  Jack had a very bad feeling about Folton E. Harrelson. He suspected that there would be problems with the man at a later date. Unfortunately, he was to be proven right. And much sooner than he had hoped.

  * * *

  The next day, Folton had picked half a dozen minor quarrels with Gleeson, Jim Rosen, Denise and even crazy old Sheila, who was very difficult to make angry at all. Additionally, he had managed to gather around him over a dozen young men and women who seemed to agree with him about the general incompetence and unfairness by which Eden seemed to be governed - and by whom.

  Jack was informed of the trouble by both Gleeson and Jim Rosen.

  "That fat assed biker is about to mess things up good," Gleeson said to Jack in the lab, with Jim present, along with Brandon and Denise. Gus had wandered in as well, quiet as ever, and watchful.

  "By tonight, he'll have half the camp believing his lies. Some folks out there are about to picket you, doc," Denise said uneasily. She had known creatures like Folton in her past (had in fact, dated creatures like Folton in the past) and knew they were no damn good, thank you very much.

  "Bad apple, doc," was all Gus said and sniffed.

  "Yes, I should have seen this coming. My fault. Time to do a little fixing." He sighed and looked at the solemn faces before him. "Ron," Jack said at last to Gleeson, "pass the word to folks that a town meeting will be held today."

  In an hour, Eden held its first "town meeting." It would be the first time that Jack had addressed his struggling little community since its unannounced founding. Eden now had a population of four hundred and two. It had been four days after Gleeson's arrival, six days after Jim Rosen and the Carlsburg clan turned up, and seven days since Aunt Sheila, Brandon, Mimi and Denise appeared. Scrubby would have been an Edenite for seven days, had he lived.

  Two weeks had passed since the Guardian Angel had made its presence known to Jack; Walter had knocked on Jack's door just one day before that landmark event.

  Angela had been dead for exactly five years.

  And Blast Day had been exactly three weeks ago.

  And what do we have, Jack thought again and again, as he prepared to speak to Eden.

  Nothing much.

  Only Anatevka.

  * * *

  Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please," Jack had started out that morning. He was standing on some milk crates, which he had dragged out of the cellar. It was not the most dignified platform for a man of his position, Jack thought with some amusement, but it would do the trick until something better came along.

  Like all mornings in New Earth, this one was gray and cold and lifeless. Windstorms, hail and binding dust twisters would arrive later in the day. For now, it was just sublimely miserable, Jack thought. A perfect day for a speech.

  "You all know who I am by now. I'm afraid I still don't know many of your names yet. But in time, that will change. For now, it's only important that you know me."

  Folton E. Harrelson and a few staunch sympathizers slouched near the fence perimeter to Jack's right; Folton was chewing and spitting and dredging up sputem and watching Jack with an expression on his face that was still far from nice. Folton G. Harrelson, Jack now knew, would never be nice.

  "I've got to be straight with you," he continued. "We're in bad shape. I take that back. I mean, you're in bad shape. Many of you are sick; others are not so sick yet, but soon will be. You won't find any hospitals out there, or at least, any hospitals that are still functioning. And all of this isn't just going to go away. No one is coming to help us. My guess is that everyone else - or most everyone else is dead. Not only here but throughout most of the world."

  "What makes you such an expert, doc?" Folton yelled out; supporting grunts and yells followed from among his entourage, though they died quickly as Jack responded without hesitation.

  Getting our digs in early, are we now, Jack thought. Fine. Two can play the game that way.

  "Because I am an expert!" Jack shouted, his eyes trying to find every other eye in Eden. "Because I knew this would happen. Because I was ready and prepared when it did. And because I was prepared, many of you are still alive today."

  There was only silence after this. Folton spit, but said nothing further.

  "I'm talking to you all now so that you will know what's expected of you. We've got hard times ahead of us. I know you
all feel like hell, and I'll try to help you, but you've got to help me. I need your cooperation. And when I say cooperation, I mean pulling together to help each other out. We're like a family now, whether some of you like it or not. We're responsible for one another. No one person is more important than another. That may sound a little communistic, but it really isn't. We just don't have a choice. Without mutual cooperation, we'll become like those monsters out there. Just creatures, preying off the land, directionless. I for one don't want that. I don't think most of you do, either."

  Jack paused, looking out at the sea of heads below him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Folton fidgeting with a piece of barbed wire, pretending not to be too attentive to what was being said. Some of his fellow grumblers were in conference, though a few of them had broken away from Folton when Jack had mentioned the "hospital" situation.

  Jack nodded to Gleeson, who in turn, nodded to Brandon, Jim Rosen and Denise. They grabbed a few milk crates next to Jack and stood on one each.

  "Obviously, we're going to be pretty informal here. No Gestapo or anything like that," Jack said, and was pleased to hear a ripple of laughter from the crowd. "But by the same token, we need some kind of organization. So, if it's okay with all of you, I'm putting some folks in charge of certain camp operations. Most of you know who these people are."

  "What if it's not okay, doctor?" Folton yelled, and this time there was a more vociferous answer to such a challenge among his supporters. But in counting those among Folton's allies, Jack was pleased to see that two or three would-be mutineers had moved into the crowd and away from the spitting biker. Jack gave Folton a hard look.

  "I'll get to that in a moment, Folton. And don't worry," he paused, letting his words hang dramatically on the windless air, "you'll have your turn to speak."

  Folton hacked up a little green gem from his throat and spit over the fence. He looked back to Jack and smiled unpleasantly. Jack continued.

  "First, for those of you who don't know him, this is Ron Gleeson. Used to be the lieutenant governor of this state. And unless most of you are Republicans, you shouldn't be sad to hear that he's in charge of camp security."

  More laughter that quickly died. But, again, Jack was happy to hear that the mood was generally relaxed; from all indications, Folton's attempts at fomenting rebellion were pretty feeble. At least for now.

  "In other words" Jack said, "he's in charge of keeping things like those monsters out of our neighborhood." Jack waited as all heads turned to regard a Stiffer in the distance, weaving back and forth in place and staring toward the Dome. "As you can see so far, he's done a pretty good job of that."

  Everyone knew that Gleeson was responsible for the wire around Eden beyond the main gate– as well as the deadly booby trap inception program. He received hearty applause.

  "Jim and Denise have been helping Gleeson out. For those of you who have volunteered for drilling practice and patrol duty, you have my thanks – and the thanks of this whole camp. I'm sorry we have to be thinking in terms of defending and killing, but obviously there's no choice. These are hard times; for the moment, it's kill or be killed.

  "Though we've had no problems with them yet, we must expect looters at some time in the future. Primarily, this is why we need some kind of auxiliary defense crew. Those of you who are willing and able will be instructed in the use of firearms. God willing, the results of that kind of instruction will not be needed often; but if and when it does, I want you all to be ready."

  "Hasn't there been enough death?" someone yelled out from the crowd of tired and sick faces. "Why would anyone want to kill us now? For what reason?"

  "Because we have food and water here. Because we have medicines. Because we have women," Jack said.

  "We all smell and look like shit," a brassy young girl of about twenty-eight stepped forward and snorted. Her attitude was not so much defiant as resigned. "Who the hell would want to rape us?"

  Jack smiled as the modest roar of laughter subsided.

  "In some parts of the world, if you smell and have hair, you're a mighty tempting piece of candy," Jack winked at the girl.

  The crowd howled. The girl winked back at Jack and giggled. Folton sneered quietly near his part of the fence. Things were not going well, he could see that much. Even his own people were chuckling. He would have to show this tough fuck of a doctor what the score was, and let him know no one crossed Folton G. Harrelson.

  "I don't like the idea of any more killing either. But if you need one more reason to protect yourselves, I'll give you one." Jack was all business again as he stepped off of his milk

  crate. He picked up a very sick little boy, who was holding on to an old women's leg. The boy did not squirm or wriggle; he was too weak.

  "This is why we must fight," Jack said slowly.

  And this time the only sound that was heard was the distant gibbering of the Stiffer, who had grown bored with staring at Eden and began walking off.

  "I guess that's all I really have to say. Mainly, I want you all to rest. There's enough food and water here for you all, though we'll have to ration it. Sanitation is going to be a problem, but we'll do what we can. Gleeson will fill you in on that. Also, burials will have to be conducted with utmost care. That's also Gleeson's department. I'll turn you over to him in a few moments. I’m also sorry to urge a no pregnancy rule. Do what you must to keep this from happening; you’re all very sick from radioactivity exposure, and any births would surely involve complication and other maladies that would affect a newborn. These maladies would include cancer, deformity, autism, the list goes on. Any questions so far?"

  For the moment, there were none.

  "I'll be checking in on you all regularly. The best thing you can do to help me is listen to me. I'm the doctor; you're the patients. Brandon here will be my assistant; any of you out there with any medical background at all are welcome to give me a hand."

  Jack let the little boy down he was holding. The child returned to the leg he had been clutching to. He found Gus in the crowd and waved him over; Gus, typically, was cooperative but never in a hurry.

  "And this is Gus," Jack said, as Gus balanced on a milk crate and smiled out at the sea of faces. "Next to Brandon and myself, this is the man you want to keep on your Christmas card list."

  More laughter; Gus apparently had a reputation – one that was most appreciated.

  "Now one last thing," Jack said, his voice just a touch harder now. "Because there are so many sick and wounded, and just so much food and water and medicines – and only one me – we do things my way around here. And my way involves only taking care of yourselves, listening to Gleeson or Jim or Brandon – and staying alive. That's all I ask. Anyone who feels they can run things better, speak up now – and then leave. I'll let you have your say – but I'm the boss. At least around here, anyway."

  Jack turned to Folton, who had stopped spitting and stopped chewing. A few loyal grumblers lowered their eyes and kicked at the dirt. The rest of the crowd turned toward Folton, too – waiting for something, anything, to happen. Folton returned the stare and decided that today was not the day to be a rebel. Not when the general mood was so downright unfriendly.

  “Folton, I said you would have your chance to speak,” Jack said. “I yield the floor to you.”

  Silence. Folton glared at Jack, but had lost the will to publicly hold court.

  "You're the boss, doc," Folton smiled benignly. "Like you said – for now, anyway."

  Folton ambled off, around the Dome and out of sight.

  "Good," Jack said. "Thanks for listening everyone. I'll turn you over to Gleeson now. He's going to tell you how we're going to make this nightmare a little more bearable."

  Jack stepped down off the podium as Gleeson began to speak. He walked back into the Dome as Walter flapped to his shoulder.

  "Well, would Winston Churchill have been impressed?" he asked the bird, grabbing a wing and pulling it. Walter clucked and snapped her wing back to her side.r />
  He was still worried about Folton. It was the second time the biker had backed off when he had a chance to fight. Jack didn't like it; he had the feeling that Folton was the kind that would strike from behind – or at night. Sometime when he couldn't be seen – and his chances for success were assured.

  * * *

  Folton did indeed, as they say, make his move at night.

  And perhaps his efforts in overthrowing Jack's present government would have succeeded had it not been for the Guardian Angel's timely intervention.

  Folton G. Harrelson struck just before midnight.

  And Jack found himself pulled from his sofa-bed onto the floor. He snapped awake, sweating and breathing in short nervous gulps.

  Walter was flapping around the room. Finally, the bird landed on a table and stared at him, her eyes frightened pits of black.

  Jack found the note on the floor, near his hand. Even before he read it, he knew that the Angel had returned. The message was short and to the point:

  Folton is on the rampage. Outside. Fast.

  Jack fairly flew for his AK-47. Even as he exited the Dome, he could hear the gunshots and the chorus of angry and alarmed voices.

  The Dome's only spotlight cast a strange orange glow on the sand; on the faces Jack was looking at, the glow took on contorted, demonic overtones. Perhaps the one face in particular that caught his immediate attention would remind Jack always of Satan incarnate.

  That face belonged to none other than Folton G. Harrelson.

  "You better stop right there, doc, or I'm gonna make this little fella's troubles go away quick," Folton said in a low, confident voice.

  Jack could feel his windpipe do the Crazy Twist. Folton had hold of a child, his meaty hands pulling hard against the youngster's throat. An old women was on her knees next to Folton, crying and praying, though what she said was too fast and unintelligible for Jack to make heads or tails of. Later, he would discover that the old woman spoke only Spanish, and the boy was her nephew. Jack recognized the child immediately as the little boy he had held that afternoon.