Desert Angels

by George P. Saunders

  "Yeah," Jack mumbled and downed half a bottle of beer.

  Mornings were strange times for Jack; there was no paper to read, no radio to listen to, and emails were ancient history, the internet having evaporated on Blast Day; and, of course, no wife to chat with. There was only Walter, who cooed to him while he ate. Jack would often just gobble his beer n' breakfast and then head outside. But this morning he just stayed in one of the smaller kitchens and stared out the small porthole window at the desiccated landscape. There was very little movement; Gleeson and Brandon and a few others were wandering about, but Eden for the most part was still asleep or otherwise inactive.

  After breakfast, Jack moved back into his quarters. Walter followed, flapping on Jack's head. Jack reached for his shirt (the same one he had worn yesterday) and put it on. He began shaking his head.

  There was something about this day that was important. Not the barrage of blood tests he would take today (which was crucial, too). Something else. He had made a note of it last week. He looked at his watch and then a calendar on the refrigerator.

  And then it came to him.

  He had to laugh.

  Today was his birthday.

  "Well, isn't that special," Jack chuckled.

  Let's see, he thought, that makes me around forty-three years old. Practically an old fart, thank you very much.

  He meandered into the latrine and looked at himself in the mirror – something he hadn't done in quite awhile.

  The face that stared back at him belonged to a stranger.

  Maybe, he thought, at one time, he could have been considered, in the best of all possible worlds, reasonably attractive; certainly no Cary Grant, but not chopped liver, either. Angela, of course, had called him beautiful. A wistful sadness suddenly washed over him when he thought about his dead wife; he blotted the memory out of his head fast and continued to study the face before him.

  His hair was dirty and graying and his skin looked like it had just recently been shorn off of an elephant. Deep lines had formed along his jaw and his cheekbones protruded out so sharply that they threatened to tear through the rough, sand-blown flesh that clung to them. Angela, Jack realized, would probably not have recognized him had she been living. He didn't recognize himself now.

  Walter appeared in the mirror.

  "Don't say it," Jack snorted, feeling his neglected beard.

  You look like shit, Walter's eyes said anyway.

  Jack had to agree.

  "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," wrote Henry David Thoreau almost two hundred years ago. So true, Jack thought. So very fucking true. But there was hope, Thoreau had promised; Man need not be so miserable. Thoreau had recommended a life of total simplicity, based on a sublime communion with nature and, if possible, a complete divorce of oneself with society. Thus, Thoreau alleged, true inspiration and insight concerning the meaning of life could be achieved.

  Now that part was easy, Jack smiled into his reflection, noting with some satisfaction that his teeth were still in pretty good condition. We here in Eden are definitely off the beaten track. But please understand that we did not divorce the world; no sir, the world divorced us. Why, living out here is better than jerking off by Walden any day of the week. We've got it good here in Eden, Henry, Jack thought; all we do is eat, drink, vomit and shit. Can't say it's terribly inspiring. But, boy, it sure is insightful. Wish you were here.

  "Happy birthday," Jack said to his reflection.

  Same to you, the reflection answered back without sincerity.

  "Be kind to my hero," Angela has asked him.

  If only I could, Jack thought. If only.

  "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation," Henry David Thoreau had written.

  Jack looked at Walter's reflection in the mirror.

  "Let's go see how things in Walden are faring today," he said. Feeling more like a hundred years old instead of forty, Jack exited the latrine and walked toward the front door.

  * * *

  He hadn't seen it earlier, but there it was in plain view.

  Another letter from the Guardian Angel resting on his desk.

  "Birthday greetings from the Angel," he chuckled, reaching for the paper. Walter on his shoulder was silent.

  The letter was brief. More so than the other letters he had received from the Angel in the past.

  Hi, Jack.

  I have news. Her name is Laura. She's out there. And she's like you. Not sick. A day's drive north. She is the daughter of one Victor Talbot. You remember him don’t you? Renowned chemical engineer and physicist. He wrote a thesis about where in the United States one might survive a theoretical nuclear attack. He set up camp at a facility he also constructed fifty miles south of here. I do not know if he is still alive, but his daughter is. You must find her and bring her back to Eden. I do not know how I know this, but you must take my counsel on this mission to heart. Laura’s survival is critical. Yours always.

  Signed, the Guardian Angel.

  "Holy shit," Jack whispered.

  Five minutes later, Jack had rolled the Humvee out of the lower garage area.

  "Shopping day?" Gleeson called out from outside the main gate.

  "No," Jack winced, feeling the lump rising.

  "Special mission?"

  "No. But I'll be gone for a day or two."

  He looked at Gleeson, who was just staring at him.

  Jack saw the message in the other man's eyes. It said: if you die, we die. Don't leave us. We need you.

  "I'll be back in two days, no more. I promise."

  Gleeson nodded and sighed.

  "I've got those tests to run today. Do you have my victims?"

  "Just one today."

  Jack shrugged. "That'll be fine."

  Gleeson turned to go.

  "I'm going to be careful, Ron. I've got to do this."

  "Take a couple of men with you," Gleeson said quietly, still walking away. "I could go –"

  "No," Jack interrupted, "you're too important. Eden could survive without a doctor for awhile. But not without it's general."

  Gleeson sniffed at the compliment. He kicked at the dirt, not looking at Jack.

  "Trust me," Jack said, then climbed into the Humvee which he’d not used in a year, and turned on the ignition. Battery power was still good. The vehicle would be ready for the journey to come.

  Gleeson nodded once more then walked off.

  * * *

  Jack had never told Gleeson or anyone else in Eden about the Guardian Angel.

  He never would.

  Gleeson had not pressed further as to the nature of Jack's journey; for this, Jack was most grateful. He was not in the mood for lengthy explanations.

  Lengthy, unbelievable explanations, at that.

  Jack sat in the Humvee and read the letter once more. He had not heard from the Guardian Angel in six months. He thought that she had simply vanished into the ether of this new world’s mysterious nature.

  My God, it's back again, he thought.

  Bearing gifts and tidings of good will.

  Jack chuckled.

  There it was in black and white: another human being (if the Angel was to be believed); a young woman.

  Alive. And out there.

  "Bleeding time," a voice announced.

  Jack looked up from the letter at Brandon. The young man appeared particularly sick today; he obviously had a fever and was fighting back a tremendous urge to throw up.

  "Take the day off, Brandon," Jack said. "I'll handle the Bleeding."

  Brandon weaved in place and nodded.

  "Okay," he said and turned to go. "Have a good trip," Garbo abruptly added, a little petulantly, Jack thought.

  The message was the same as it had been from Gleeson: you're going out there to die.

  "Thanks," Jack whispered, though he knew Brandon and Garbo had not heard him.

  "Bleeding" was the morbid term Eden had given to Jack's daily ritual of extracting plasma specimens from the people to ass
ist in his research, the ultimate goal and fervent hope being that Jack might one day discover a cure – or at least a retarding agent to the insidious disease that was killing them all. Jack had conducted such research for over two years, in which time he had found nothing helpful in saving the Edenites from an assuredly slow extinguishment. Radiation poisoning could not explain the offshoot of this other disease, which he had isolated as a kind of blood cancer, but could not be attributed to fallout completely.

  Walter flapped on Jack's shoulder as the man moved into the lower chambers of the Dome. The laboratory was enormous; Jack's construction of this particular room clearly showed great care and a sense of largesse, more so than any other part of the lead structure, including his own living quarters. Here, Jack felt safe; for amidst the extensive equipment and vast arsenal of medical paraphernalia, Jack felt that a piece of civilization still lived within these walls, insulated and preserved by his own careful initiative and foresight. Here, things made sense. Here, he could think, work and. . .remember.

  Walter flew to a familiar ledge, designed by Jack especially for this purpose. When Walter first arrived, he had annoyed Jack by flapping about, breaking beakers and dishes, desperately in search of a comfortable spot to roost and watch Jack. Seeing the problem (but only after some minor, yet aggravating damage) Jack took action. Now, safely elevated above all breakables, Walter could sit or sleep for hours while Jack labored away in search of a miracle.

  Gleeson arrived about five minutes later, holding hands with a small girl. Jack spotted the hunchback with the child and frowned. He looked pointedly at his second.

  "I told you, no children!"

  Gleeson, tired, poker-faced, just sighed.

  "There are no children here, doc."

  Jack froze, then looked at the girl. Gleeson was right, of course. The girl smiled at him then coughed.

  "Hi, Doctor. Want my blood?" she asked good-naturedly.

  Oh boy, Jack thought.

  He tried hard not to smile, and failed.

  "What's your name, honey?" How old was she, he wondered vaguely. Seven, eight?

  The girl coughed again and wheezed.

  "Rebecca."

  "Rebecca really wanted to come today, doc. She's asked to for awhile. And besides," he paused, looking down at the child and patting her softly on the head, "it's her birthday."

  "I'm eight years old," Rebecca chirped.

  The corner of Jack's eye caught Walter's small figure on the ledge, looking down at the company with interest. For one hysterical moment, Jack thought the bird was eavesdropping. It was a silly notion, he admitted; but he couldn't shake it.

  Walter's black eyes seemed to be downright conversational.

  Don't mind me, Jack old friend – just catching the breeze. Wanted to see how you were going to handle this one.

  Jack brought his attention back to Rebecca.

  "Happy birthday, Rebecca," he replied hoarsely, realizing that this child had never known anything more than pain and sickness, would never see anything else except sand and horror, and would never hope for anything better than a speedy death.

  Gleeson turned to go.

  "It was a good idea, Gleeson," Jack spoke softly.

  Gleeson only nodded, but did not turn around. Jack led Rebecca to a chair and sat her down.

  Walter watched from above.

  * * *

  The last dinosaur.

  That's what Jack reminds me of, sometimes; a dinosaur, or a buffalo; alone and the last of his kind.

  I can see things better now.

  Poor Jack. The little girl will die in a week. She's dying now from something in her lungs. An off-shoot malady of the mystery disease that lingered far longer than mere radiation poisoning. I won't write him about her. He needs to concentrate on –

  Laura.

  * * *

  "Want to hear a secret?" Jack asked Rebecca after Gleeson had left.

  Rebecca nodded enthusiastically, her sick little face lighting up.

  "It's my birthday, too," Jack said.

  "Really?"

  "Really, really."

  "How old are you?" Rebecca asked.

  "Old," Jack said, meaning it.

  Jack had deftly inserted the needle into the child's arm in such a way as Rebecca had not been aware of it. He only needed one tube of blood; he had finished in a matter of seconds.

  "Are you going to make us better, Dr. Calisto?"

  The question floated out of the girl's mouth and directly into Jack's heart like a hot poker. He pulled back from his microscope, after seeing the expected decrease in white corpuscles in Rebecca's blood sample. Such an observation corroborated to every other specimen of every Edenite he had thus far examined and the implications were dismal. Still, with an effort, Jack managed a smile and looked at his curious patient.

  "I'm sure going to try, Rebecca."

  Rebecca just stared at him. Suddenly, Jack felt like the biggest fibber this side of Blast Day. For one ghastly moment, he thought he could see a penetrating understanding in the girl's eyes; an understanding and an accusation that seemed to say, 'you're lying to me, doctor. We're all going to die. Except you.' But then, just as quickly, Rebecca smiled at him, apparently happy with the response. She turned her head to regard the watching Walter.

  "Is he sick, too?"

  Jack looked up at Walter briefly, then again returned to the microscope.

  "Nope. Tough as nails, that one. I don't know how, but he's fine." Walter's invulnerability to radiation was definitely something Jack did not want to think about at the moment.

  "Maybe he's a magic bird," Rebecca offered.

  Jack offered the doctor's smile once again.

  "Maybe."

  He sealed off two more vials of Rebecca's blood and put it into a refrigerator. Rebecca, quiet now, watched in fascination. Jack felt as if he was being studied, judged. Another ridiculous notion (and wasn't he full of them today?) that just wouldn't run along and play.

  "Doctor Calisto?"

  "Yes, Rebecca?"

  "Why do we have to die?"

  Jack froze, both hands on the refrigerator door for support, not daring to turn around just yet. He swallowed hard and felt his palms begin to sweat, the visible turncoats to his will. He brought them to his lab smock self-consciously, hoping that Rebecca wouldn't notice.

  Nice shot, little girl; as they say, a clean hit. You must meet my friend the Hound one day.

  At last, he faced the child, ransacking his mind for a convenient lie; an evasion that would make things nice and tidy and mess free.

  Anything but the truth.

  Jack looked into Rebecca's eyes. Suddenly, the lies died, not even making it to the starting gate of his lips.

  Why, sweetheart? You asked the million dollar question. Because life is fucked, because your mommy and daddy and I belonged to a generation of idiots who blew up the world and murdered you. Happy? Because nothing in life is fair, least of all its duration, of which you, sweet thing, will enjoy only the briefest of stints.

  It was harsh, but it was true and Jack wished desperately he could scream it out, if not to Rebecca, then to whatever perverse god or universe had allowed his world to be massacred, leaving him alone with the dubious joy of trying to pick up the pieces and continue living. And saving (or trying) to save those who were unsalvageable.

  He did not tell this to the little girl in front of him. He did not, for want of a better word, have that kind of courage.

  "Everybody dies, Rebecca. Sooner or later."

  Rebecca shrugged, smiling, but clearly not happy with the answer.

  "Not everybody. You won't."

  "I'll die one day, too."

  "But not soon," Rebecca countered with astonishing speed and sobriety. Jack's legs felt like rubber; the attractive notion

  of taking a meat axe to Gleeson for subjecting him to this kind of interrogation swirled lovingly in his head.

  No, Rebecca. Probably not soon. This old world is having too mu
ch fun kicking me in the balls and watching me turn purple; just no time to die at the moment.

  "I hope not," he replied lamely. At the moment, he was thinking just how lucky dead people were.

  This time Rebecca didn't smile. And once again, Jack thought he saw the look – the look of accusation, the one that said, 'you're full of it, Jack; you know it, I know it, and they know it. Fess up, Jack – you're lucky – and we're goners.'

  "Dr. Calisto?"

  Would it never end, Jack wondered numbly.

  "Yes, Rebecca."

  Rebecca, eight years old today, terminally ill and weighing a pathetic 45 pounds, whispered in a voice filled with tears:

  "I don't want to die!"

  Jack stared for what seemed an eternity, swallowed the basketball in his throat, then picked Rebecca up and hugged her.

  * * *

  When she left, Jack threw his very first tantrum.

  He was careful ahead of time to protect the most important equipment and to secure the fragile glassware that preserved thousands of blood specimens to the needy Edenites; only after the last beaker was stowed and the last centrifuge covered did Jack Calisto proceed to lay ruin to his laboratory.

  Walter watched in stunned horror, staying well above the air space of flying articles and furniture, which Jack flung wildly, weeping and screaming as he did so. The histrionics were brief and exhausting; with a deficit of breakables at his disposal, Jack eventually just collapsed on the floor like a child and sobbed. After a time, he lifted his head and looked at Walter. His eyes were red, bleary pits of misery. He had hurt himself during the thrashing about, and was bleeding; Walter could see that it was a small injury, extending from the base of his wrist around to the top of his hand. A superficial cut, but still, it needed cleaning, and as far as Walter could tell, Jack was making no effort to help himself.

  Able to bear no more, Walter fled the lab. Jack didn't even notice.

  The Black Hound was back again in force and this time, he did believe, the old mutt just might get him. There was nothing he could do to save Rebecca; he had known that for months, accepted it with the cold certainty of one who was accustomed to observing death regularly and conceding victory to it unflinchingly. Other children had died in Eden before her; he had tried to save them, too, and felt bad when those efforts proved futile also. Rebecca was no different than those tragic losses. So he told himself with practiced clinical aloofness. Just another casualty to war, another statistic tabulated in the great unofficial logbook of Earth's post-mortem.