Desert Angels

by George P. Saunders

  “I don’t believe you’re wrong. It explains the Stiffers – if the shadows came into contact with anyone, their mutative natures would become more than just purely aberrational in the radioactive sense – they would also transform into fucksticks with no heartbeat, and the ability to walk and consume as evil entities that defied death – or double-defied death, if you will.”

  Jack looked down and sighed.

  “In some ways, the world hasn’t changed, it has simply shifted in terms of paradigm. There are still positive and negative forces, like those forces that comprise the magnetic glue which holds together the universe. Except now, they manifest themselves visually,” Jack said, sipping more wine.

  Laura thought about this and then reached for Jack’s glass, and put it on the desk.

  “Jack. If we had the luxury to wait … if we were back in the world … I’d say let’s take some time to get to know each other,” Laura said, her voice steady and clear. “But the world has changed. And I don’t know how long either of us has left.”

  Jack looked at her with admiration. He nodded and took her hand.

  “I know the feeling,” he said.

  Walter suddenly flew out of the open door to Jack’s quarters. Jack stood and then closed the door and looked back at Laura.

  “Time is precious,” he said.

  “Yes,” she nodded, and stepped toward him.

  Their kiss was far from gentle, their need beyond that of polite restraint.

  At least for this night, the horror of a strange new world would be kept at bay for a few precious hours of stolen joy.

  * * *

  Walter flew to every room in the Dome, restless and perturbed. For an hour, she flew non-stop.

  At last, she made her way to the lab where the Stiffer was shackled from either wall, both arms and legs of the monster, firmly bound by navy link chain.

  The bird flapped to one of the examination tables and stared at the Stiffer.

  Hello, little one, the Stiffer said – without moving its lips.

  Walter flapped in surprise, recognizing the Stiffer’s telepathic capabilities.

  “What are you?” Walter queried with her mind.

  I am like you. A creature of another world, far, yet very near, to this one.

  “That’s cryptic and unworthy of you,” Walter baited the thing.

  Not cryptic. Just accurate. I was born out of the hell fires of Man’s last war. Released, actually. Free now to –

  “To what?” Walter interrupted the thing.

  To rule, little one. To rule.

  “No, to destroy. I can sense it in you. You are a destroyer, a hater of all that is human and good,” Walter conveyed her thoughts with venomous rancor.

  There is little that is good in this new world. That is why I am here.

  She had to destroy it. Now.

  As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, Walter transformed into Angela. Which meant that Jack had fallen asleep (no doubt in Laura’s arms, Angela could not help but wince to herself).

  She looked around, and saw Jack’s .23 Glock lying on one of the dissection tables. Jack was always leaving weapons around the Dome, in every room it would seem, mainly out of absent-mindedness.

  Angela seized the weapon and aimed it at the Stiffer.

  You are an interesting hybrid, the Stiffer invaded her mind again.

  Part of you belongs in the world of Man; part of you belongs with me, the Stiffer continued infuriatingly.

  “No,” Angela said clearly, and then pulled the trigger to the Glock.

  * * *

  Jack awoke with a start at the sound of the distant gunshot.

  He glanced to his side at Laura, who remained fast asleep. Jack gently disengaged himself from her hold, and then ran out into the hallway.

  The shot had come from Lab C, he was sure of it.

  When he entered the lab, he found the Stiffer snarling in fury, it’s chest and abdomen bloodied, yet it was far from mortally wounded. Given the Stiffer’s undead characterization at the outset, Jack assumed the Stiffer would survive whomever shot it.

  He looked around and then ducked as Walter flapped past him and into the hall.

  “Walter, what the hell are you doing here?” he shouted out into the hallway.

  But Walter had already turned a corner and was nowhere to be seen.

  Jack considered the Stiffer once more, staring into its eyes.

  “You and I are going to have a nice chat tomorrow, big boy,” Jack said. “That is, if you’re capable of speech, which I doubt.”

  The Stiffer snarled at him and drooled some green shit from its mouth that Jack did not even want to imagine what the contents consisted of..

  He took his .23 Glock, and examined the firing chamber. Three rounds had been discharged. But, again, by whom?

  The Edenites as a whole slept in the lower levels of the Dome, or out in the open air, under makeshift teepees, and this was Jack’s restricted area where no one was allowed access without his presence.

  “The angel,” Jack muttered at last, looking back at the Stiffer once more. “You saw her, didn’t you, you ugly bastard?”

  The Stiffer was now eerily silent.

  But those eyes bore into Jack’s with steel-sharp acuity.

  Jack activated the combo lock and the lab was sealed. He should have done that earlier in the day, but he had been distracted by Laura.

  He headed back to his quarters and crawled into his bunk, holding Laura tight.

  He fell asleep within minutes.

  * * *

  When Walter transformed for the second time that night, Angela exited the Dome and sat on the stoop of the entrance, looking out into the huge yard area filled with tents. The Edenites were all asleep.

  She was still trembling from her encounter with the Stiffer, and the portent of its vitriolic and pestiferous communication with her.

  And then she saw the Light Storm moving past the main gate, and directly toward her.

  She stiffened as the lights suddenly stalled and remained stationary a few inches above the sand.

  Jack had earlier told Laura the lights were a collective intelligence; a hive entity that mysteriously occupied this world for no apparent reason.

  The Clouds generally came and went so quickly, she had not thought further about them, any more than she had done in the past whenever they appeared. She had dismissed them as nothing more than colorful, albeit puzzling, pieces of weird nature. She might very well have pondered the origins of the canals on Mars with more diligence.

  Part of you belongs in the world of Man; part of you belongs with me, she remembered the Stiffer transmitting again and again.

  Angela suddenly found herself surrounded by the Lights – enveloped by them. She closed her eyes. The sensation they provided, their presence, their fusion with her body … all felt oddly comforting.

  When she opened her eyes, the Lights were gone. She had felt momentary peace in their presence, but now felt only anxiety again.

  Walter imagined the Stiffer roasting over a spit; a mental picture she enjoyed outlining for herself in sizzling detail.

  Though well behaved (suspiciously so, she thought), the Stiffer was a presence that put Walter on edge. It's purpose was clear. It was here to destroy, to torture, to murder. She could see it; she believed Laura and Gleeson, all of Eden and Francis the Talking Mule could see it, too. Everyone and their pet rock could see it – except Jack. And he was the one that counted.

  A dark, swirling image of Jack trying to kill the Stiffer, as she had once tried, invaded her imagination. Of course, the Stiffer (even in a vision she controlled) was resistant to the idea and in protest began its own offensive against Jack. Only its eyes - those eyes from the deepest, hottest part of a volcano, the lifeblood to a hell more dank, more diseased, more fetid than any Jack could ever conjure up - served as weapons in the Stiffer's counterattack. It was all it needed. For suddenly she could see Jack being torn apart, limb by limb, his

&n
bsp; blood geysering in all directions from his body; a human pipe that had spontaneously sprung a leak. A picture of white agony, twisting, leaking, screaming. Throughout, the Stiffer only stared. Those eyes, working, watching, killing.

  Her Jack.

  Walter made a growling sound in her throat, obliterating the mental montage of violence.

  It would have to be destroyed, pronto. No more half-baked attempts would do. It was beginning to dawn on Walter that the Stiffer was no more a captive to Jack than she was; its ultimate purpose in allowing itself to be restrained obviously part of a blacker, deadlier plot that was far from promising for Jack Calisto's continued good health. Yet to attempt another act of execution (and perchance to fail!) could not be risked again. Not without the certainty that such an effort would deliver a satisfactory and conclusive payoff. She needed a weapon, a doomsday device that was completely Stiffer-proof.

  And she needed it fast.

  The Stiffer, she noticed with some irritation, had opened its eyes and was regarding her again. Languidly. A knowing predator that was but waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To rend. To devour.

  A weapon, she thought desperately.

  Or an ally.

  Walter's thoughts returned to the Light Clouds. Perhaps the Stiffer had given her enough after all. If communication with the strange, glowing vapor was the only link to Jack's salvation - and possibly her own as well - then she would have to make an attempt at contact with the Light Clouds. At all costs.

  She closed her eyes, and in her mind’s eye, she could see the Stiffer was smiling, its eyes wide with hate and madness. Somehow, Angela thought, knowing exactly what she was thinking. A living Jack-O-Lantern, weary of holidays, ready for action.

  And Walter knew that time was running out.

  FOR DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER,

  AND EVEN THE WEARIEST RIVER,

  WINDS SOMEWHERE SAFE TO SEA.

  Charles Algernon Swinburne.

  ELEVEN – RACE AGAINST TIME

  Mathias stared out at the night in pain. Since his beating by the Growler – punishment for the failed attack on Eden - he had been unable to keep anything down and his bones ached horribly. The process of dying, he acknowledged miserably, was a bitch; being close to it so often of late did not improve his perception of it. Dying, Mathias philosophized further, was worse than death. It hurt more. And it lasted longer. At least the dead were dead, free of the eternal lights of agony that radiated through the body like determined ferrets, burrowing into every sensitive nerve, gnawing into vulnerable organs that were already unfairly preoccupied with fending off disease, radiation and malnutrition, tireless in their singular activity of nurturing pain.

  At least, Mathias took some comfort, the dead were at peace.

  But while he may have longed for death eventually, he did not want to die just yet. Not before Jack Calisto got what he deserved, good and fair. And not before he, Mathias, could see the "getting" get done proper.

  The Growler had ordered his people, the Maddogs, out on an expedition, far beyond the boundaries of the encampment once known as the Children of Free Perdition.

  It had yet to be explained by the Growler why such an expedition was required.

  Vomiting suddenly, Mathias prayed to whatever gods or demons still existed in the world, that he could hang on just a little longer. At least until the end of the week.

  Because that is when the Growler would attack Eden. Again.

  Maybe this time, they would win. Kick some Jack-ass, to coin a popular Growler slogan. He abruptly giggled and sobbed as he clutched himself in a renewed paroxysm of anguish.

  His body on fire, Mathias no longer cherished the notion of keeping Jack Calisto alive and "useful." Retching again, blood flooding his mouth, Mathias began to sob hysterically; puke and sobs took turns alternately in making his day just a little more memorable. His mind suddenly turned red.

  Fuck Jack and his miracle secrets of survival. And fuck the Growler, too, Mathias thought suddenly, feverishly, the hazy memories of being recently pummeled by his leader feeding traitorous notions. And fuck all these sniveling, stupid, cock-sucking, scum-sacks he lived without here; they deserved to rot and die as well. Like him. Fuck them all . . . but most of all, fuck Jack, for looking and feeling so great, for getting off scot-free, for being just plain Big Jack!

  In Mathias' degenerating brain, Jack had become the human encapsulation of Everything Fucked Up In The World Today. That Jack had remained untouched by the myriad of horrors Mathias was presently so enjoying, only supported this deranged notion more substantially.

  Like a rabid animal, Mathias was quickly approaching the leg-chewing stage of madness; hot, hysterical images of small beasts floundering in traps, devouring portions of their anatomy in order to escape, rushed through his broiling mind. He could actually feel the traps, the dull teeth of steel claws rending his pulsating flesh.

  Because that's what he was now, he thought desperately; a hot little, leg-eating varmint feeling like pummeled bat shit, about to go sublimely nuts.

  Because of that fucking, god-awful pain.

  Because of that fucking Jack.

  As if in validation of these hunches more vomit was produced, as timely as a game show bell, ringing out in victory.

  BZZZZ – yes, doc, you've hit that one right on the head. Because of that fucking-godawful-fucking-BigJack-fuck-who-looks-and-feels-so-great! You win a life-time supply of green stuff! And from Spidel we have –

  The vomit came in buckets; from some rapidly disintegrating part of a rational mind, Mathias marveled at the amount of puke stored within him. His guts, he concluded matter-of-factly, must be simply melting. Why, if the music lasted and the mood stayed fine, he could barf his way to madness indefinitely.

  Yessireee, dying's a bitch.

  At some point, he lost consciousness. This was good, because when he awoke, some of the pain had diminished (though never enough to give him hope that it might one day just disappear completely); certainly, all of the nausea had vanished. He was lying in his own filth, a mixture of feces, barf, blood and urine, but this was not offensive to Mathias' course sensibilities; he knew that with the company he was keeping of late, his wardrobe would not be too harshly criticized. In fact, he distinctly recalled that within the higher social circles he frequented, Essence of Barf'n'Blood was really quite the scent these days; Eau de smell-like-shit.

  Everyone but everyone was wearing it.

  Except Jack, of course.

  Mathias monitored his pain level. It seemed to be at an all time low (a temporary reprieve, he knew); but at least it wasn't driving him loony-tunes.

  After all, he had to keep his sanity – if nothing else.

  He had to think. And thinking was important.

  For it allowed him to dream.

  Dream of the day Big Jack would drink beer no more.

  Kick ass.

  The Maddog camp was pitched and scattered across the sands; the spot of ground Mathias was occupying was furthest out from the camp center, on its periphery. Beyond that point, lay open desert. Yet somewhere nearby, Mathias savored knowingly, was a wonderland of opportunity. A place of dreams. Filled with goodies to play with; party favorites that could spell doom and damnation for Big Jack. With the lessening of pain, visions of Jack being vivisected danced through his brain like mutated sugarplums.

  Somewhere on the dead wind that always seemed to smell of something charred or rotting, (though these days, Mathias could never tell if it was simply himself that wreaked) – a sound formed. Mathias listened, his face in the sand, his body curled into a ball.

  An irregular clanging noise chimed metallically, like some eerie bell forever tolling out of tune; maybe, he imagined, it was a forgotten sentinel; a lighthouse for the damned to steer surely and safely across hell.

  Maybe.

  Mathias continued listening.

  A sign, perhaps, blown by the wind off a gate. A sign that read STANNON AIR FORCE BASE - RESTRICTED AREA. Mathi
as closed his eyes and imagined. Yes, that was more like it. Not so farfetched. There were no such things as ghosts, anyway. The peaceful dead, remember, doc? His fever was rising again, and he could detect his limitless supply of barf-fuel churning promisingly in his stomach.

  The military outpost he had known of for years, the armory that once belonged to the Stannon Air Force Facility, was out there, buried in sand and concrete, waiting to be used, to be reactivated by those who knew how to do so. Tanks, rockets, grenades, all the toys of war that the Maddogs needed to crush Jack Calisto were only a few thousand feet away. Tomorrow, all of it would belong to the Growler's dwindling army.

  And that would even the odds quite nicely with regard to Big Jack. The promise of things to be, made Mathias feel a little better.

  Mathias turned around suddenly, hearing the sand around him sift with the approach of some unseen entity. There was no moon left, nor starlight (he remembered suddenly that the moon and stars had disappeared on War Day two years earlier and had never returned) and only the distant glow of dying campfires from the Maddog entourage flickered dimly through the thick sludge-like darkness.

  "Who's there?" Mathias tried to sound his most unfriendly, though what came out of his mouth was garbled and filled with sand, barf and congealed blood.

  The sand continued to slide and crack as something drew nearer. Mathias first thought of Stiffers; if this was the case then he knew he could kiss it good bye now. By the time anyone heard him screaming, he would be half eaten; by the time anyone (had they cared to do so) actually come to rescue him, the vampire that had been dining so pleasurably on him would be miles away. But the movement ahead of him was rhythmical, steady, patient; qualities which didn't quite fit into characteristic Stiffer behavior. In any case, whatever was approaching, did not feel especially compelled to respond to Mathias' question, unintelligible as it may have been. A fact that was not lost on Mathias for a moment.