Mathias said nothing at first. Then he offered a smile.
“Jack … you misunderstand. This is a new world. We –“
“Save it. The clock is ticking.”
Jack moved back inside the gate perimeter and activated the power. “Touch the gate, Mathias, and you die a second later.”
“What about my two men still inside?” Mathias asked.
“I’ll send them out when I see you and your group are on the far horizon.”
Mathias considered this, his chest heaving with congestion and pain.
“I will kill you one day, Dr. Calisto,” Mathias said quietly. “You are in defiance of God’s mandate.”
“And you’re fucking nuts,” Jack said, watching as Mathias’ apostates were breaking camp.
Half an hour later, Jack kicked out the two guards that Angela had drugged. He watched them trudge into the darkness toward Mathias’ small armada at the edge of the horizon, dimly lit by the rising dawn.
Walter flapped from inside the Dome to Jack’s shoulder.
Jack did not harbor a shred of hope that Mathias and his people wouldn’t come a calling again. He was sure they would. And he girded himself up to the idea that he may have to one day kill Dr. Mathias.
FOUR – EXODUS
As it turned out, it was nearly a week later that the first citizen of Ashwood rode up to Eden on her bicycle.
Aunt Sheila looked exhausted, but when she saw Jack, she fairly howled in glee.
“Doc! You’re alive!” she yelled, as she put the pedal stand down to support her bike. She took out a small dog from a basket wedged between the bike steering handles.
“Hello, Aunt Sheila,” Jack called out. “Don’t touch the gate, it’s electrified. One moment!”
Jack neutralized the gate’s power and he opened the gate entry door and allowed Sheila to enter.
Sheila touched Jack’s arm and just stared at him silently for a minute. “Horrible times,” she said at last.
Jack nodded, then glanced at the small dog, some kind of mutt he surmised, that Aunt Sheila held close to her breast.
“This is Scrubby, Doc,” Sheila said, holding the dog up in two hands.
Jack reached out to pet the dog, but Scrubby growled and nipped at him. Jack retracted his hand in pain, as Sheila chided the animal.
“I know you don’t feel good, Scrubby, but there’s no need for attitude,” she said to the ill-tempered mutt.
“I’m sure you’ve already seen the trouble element that has moved into the neighborhood,” Sheila said to Jack.
“What trouble is that?” Jack said.
“The monsters with their eyes,” Sheila said.
She was, of course, referring to the Stiffers.
"Oh, that trouble!" Jack said, not trying to be funny. Aunt Sheila was a twelve foot tall Rabbit Late For A Date. He was having a tough time adjusting to her presence here.
“Don’t get me wrong, Sheila, but why are you still alive?” Jack asked.
“Well, I saw the explosions in the distance and I averted my eyes immediately. I had read up on radiation a lot in the days before the End, and knew that I should find shelter as soon as possible, and not just the shelter provided by my house, which is built entirely of wood. I dashed to my basement, which is surrounded by thick brick. I had jugs of water down there, so I just stayed there until … well, until I could stay there no longer.”
She smiled at Jack. “And then I remembered your offer to come out and visit you. You did invite me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Jack said, smiling. “How is everyone else in Ashwood?”
"I think you're going to be a very busy host soon, young man," Sheila rambled on, fluffing her dress and petting the glaring dog. She did not seem to notice Walter on Jack’s shoulder.
"Oh?" Jack said yet again.
"Yes, quite. I was farther ahead than the rest, but they're coming. Some from town, others from the roads. So many cars on the roads. They just stopped, you know. All the electricity – gone – just like that! And the toilets, too!"
"Would you like to come in?" Jack finally asked.
"Well, only if you don't mind Scrubby here. He's not feeling too well. He's been upchucking for hours. To be honest, so have I. But when he's sick – it breaks my heart. Poor little booby!"
He gave a furtive look around the area, wondering once again how this addled old woman had escaped the slobbering attentions of the mutant Stiffers. But that is a question that could wait for later.
They both entered the Dome and Sheila turned to him in sudden confusion.
"Doc, forgive me, but for the life of me, I can’t remember your name," Sheila said.
“Jack. Jack Calisto,” he said.
Sheila nodded, then seemed distracted by something else, her eyes wandering lazily to the horizon. ‘Thank you, sir,” Sheila said in a soft voice. She looked at him and leaned in to him: “Do we know each other, young man?”
Jack was distressed to discern immediately that Aunt Sheila’s mind had been unhinged by recent events, now referring to him as a virtual stranger. She was either a victim to extreme radiation poisoning or was presently victimized by advanced Alzheimer’s. Her short-term memory was obviously non-existent.
“Scrubby likes you,” Sheila said, looking down at her dog.
Scrubby growled at Jack.
Jack was sure that Scrubby, in fact, did not like him. Jack was sure that while she talked, Sheila had not a clue that Scrubby was growling at him throughout the conversation. The growls, Jack felt, were easily translated. They underlined an intense, rabid desire to bite.
Such toothy desires were realized half an hour later, while Jack was treating Sheila for minor cuts in the lab. Sheila, despite the pretensions at prettiness, smelled of vomit and feces; she had not been kidding, Jack reflected sadly, when she said that she had been "upchucking a little."
"Oh, I guess he doesn't like you, doctor. I'm sorry," Sheila twittered sincerely, as Scrubby proceeded to attack Jack's leg.
Jack tried to ignore Scrubby's assaults; but the dog was unrelenting. Blood soaked through Jack's pant leg. He was not happy to notice that Scrubby's aim was getting progressively more accurate; nor was he thrilled to see that Scrubby was becoming less satisfied with striking parts of his anatomy beneath the knee. The dog began jumping, biting Jack's thigh. Scrubby seemed to sense his own prodigious advance. It was not long before Jack's crotch was under fire.
"Stop that, Scrubby," Sheila admonished with no great effort. She had begun to feel dizzy and she had vomited once already. Jack had administered a substantial dose of penicillin – though he was pretty sure that Sheila was only a few weeks away from death and that nothing, even concentrated antibiotics, would save her. He did not know then that Sheila was as tough as nails and would outlive much younger competition.
Scrubby continued to be a problem.
"Poor thing, he hasn't been himself," Sheila said.
"I see," Jack said, trying to be kind.
Five minutes later, Sheila was sedated. Five minutes after that, and three more future Edenites appeared at Jack's front door. Jack met them, with Walter still perched on his shoulder and Scrubby nipping at his heels. Two women, young and badly burned and one man, slim, about twenty years old wandered into the Dome. The two girls were crying. All three of them, Jack would discover, were as sick as Aunt Sheila.
It was appearing to Jack that the Guardian Angel's prophecy was being fulfilled. Company had definitely come a calling!
Scrubby seemed to like the three visitors, because he ignored them and continued his unrelenting attack on Jack's leg. Jack knew he would have to deal with the dog soon; he knew his pecker was the Milk Bone Scrubby was ultimately after. He knew that with time and chance on his side, Scrubby would eventually get the prize. Jack kicked at the dog, missing.
But dealing with Scrubby would have to wait. The two women and the young man needed immediate medical attention. Jack led them into the lab and told them to take o
ff their clothes. They complied, slowly and painfully.
"We're dying, aren't we?" the boy asked, looking at Jack with great brown lazy eyes.
Jack picked up a Geiger counter and pointed it in the direction of the two girls. The needle showed a millisevert reading well above the ceiling of permissibility for human survival. The need rested in a quadrant of blood red on the gauge – a dangerously high level of contamination indicated. Jack then pointed the Geiger at the boy. The needle remained at 100.
"You've all been exposed to a lot of radiation," he said, running the machine over the discarded clothes and frowning. "What you're experiencing are the initial symptoms of radiation poisoning."
"Which means we're dying," the boy said dully, standing in his underwear.
"Which means that you're lucky to be alive," Jack mumbled, feeling the boys swollen glands in his neck and wincing.
Scrubby continued to bite. Jack no longer felt restrained in kicking the dog. He knew that Aunt Sheila - now unconscious - would not protest. Walter flapped on Jack's shoulder, fighting for balance as Jack simultaneously examined his new patients and kicked Scrubby.
"You shouldn't hurt him like that," the boy objected.
"He's hurting me!" Jack raised his voice a notch, and kicked at Scrubby again. Scrubby sunk his teeth into Jack's boot and pulled.
"He's just an animal, you know," the boy sounded petulant. "Do you kick your bird when he bites you? Kicking things – be they animals or people – probably got the world where it is now!"
Probably you're right, kid, Jack mused. He wanted to add, but didn't: I wish this fucking dog could see it that way, too.
"Stick out your tongue," Jack snapped. Walter clucked.
Jack continued feeling glands, staring down mouths and examining eyes. When he was sure the boy wasn't looking, he delivered a quick kick to Scrubby. Despite the kick, which Jack had meant to be more frightening than painful, Scrubby persisted.
"What's your name, son?" Jack asked the boy, who was looking at him languidly.
"Brandon. What's yours?"
"Dr. Jack Calisto," Jack said, moving over to the two girls, who had thus far not said a word. They were clearly in shock.
Brandon, Jack learned, was twenty-seven years old and from San Francisco. Three years at Berkeley Medical School had convinced him that he did not want to be a doctor when he grew up; it was too demanding, he explained, and the responsibility was too great. In fact, he had never wanted to be a doctor in the first place; but his mother, who had died just recently, had made him promise that he would try. A gifted student, Brandon had indeed tried. But after three years of preparation for "doctorhood" (as he put it) he realized that such a destiny was not in the cards for him. Doctors were leaders, Brandon felt; like generals in a battle, wielding the weapons of knowledge and surgery against the demonic forces of pain and disease.
"I admire doctors, doctor," Brandon said to Jack. "But I could never be one."
Brandon explained that his disposition was simply too gentle; he was not a leader. And unlike Jack, not a warrior. Thus, he would not be a doctor. Yet Brandon knew that he wanted to help people. That much was very clear to him.
"So I decided I would be a nurse. Nurses are important, sometimes more so than doctors. Don't you think?" he asked Jack, who shrugged. Probably Jack thought Brandon was overestimating the value of nurses, though they were, he knew, very important. In a few days, he would know just how important nurses were, or at least a nurse like Brandon, who was to be Jack's right hand man in all clinic affairs.
Where medical school would never have the good fortune to benefit from Brandon's talents, a good nursing school surely would. Or so Brandon felt, as of about three weeks ago. Considerable research in the location and quality of nursing schools around the country had convinced Brandon that a place called the Ames Nursing Academy in Prescott, Arizona was the school for him; it was there that he would commence his "life's work," as he put it to Jack. He notified faculties at both institutions (Berkeley of his departure, Ames of his arrival) and packed his bags. He left the Bay Area twenty-four hours before it was blasted off of the map.
Broke, with no transportation or support from his only living parent, a father in Eureka, California (because of a "family difference," Brandon said) the future would-be-doctor-turned-nurse hitched his way down the state and into Nevada. He had met his two traveling companions just outside of Tonapah. That had been two weeks ago – just before things started blowing up.
"What about them?" Jack asked Brandon, as he lifted the chin of the nearest girl. She was no more than sixteen, pretty once and small. Her mouth hung open, like a hot dog's in a summer day; she smelled of vomit and week-old Kool Aid. He had missed it earlier (distracted by the prick-eating canine, he thought) but Jack now could determine that the girl he was examining was blind. The other girl was crying softly and biting her lip.
"That's Mimi," he said, his lower lip trembling. He suddenly hugged himself in pain. And then he began to cry. "She looked at the window when it went off. She –"
He didn't finish. Long, tortured moans of something between agony and horror racked Brandon's body.
Jack let Brandon cry; he knew there was nothing he could say to ease the anguish. He had tried that before with himself. There was no way to make the insanity go away.
"What's your name?" Jack asked the girl on Mimi's right. She was trembling and a single tear rolled down her cheek.
"Denise," she whispered back to him without enthusiasm.
"Is this your sister, Denise?" Jack asked.
Denise looked at Mimi and nodded. "No. Just a friend."
"We met in Tahoe," Brandon began again, sniffing and pawing at his nose, trying to get a handle on coherency. "I guess it could have been worse."
Jack nodded. "Yes."
He gave them all injections, sedatives to let them sleep. The two girls were out in a few minutes; but Brandon wanted to talk. The drug was taking effect, but there was an urgency in his voice; as if to sleep now and lose the sound of his own voice might promise that he would never awake again.
"What happened? Jesus Christ, what happened?" he asked, crying again, his eyes searching Jack's for answers Jack didn't have.
"Nuclear war, Brandon."
Brandon nodded his head. "I never believed – you know, that it would, that they would do this. Not in the 21st Century. Jesus, this is Cold War stuff. Russkies versus us. Makes no sense. Maybe it was one of those limited things, you know?"
Jack went to check Aunt Sheila. "No, it's everywhere. I've tried to reach every major city in the world. Not even a peep."
Brandon stared at the floor. He had stopped crying. Now he began to yawn. "Everyone I know. Dead. Everything I planned, all the things I wanted to do . . ."
And finally, he fell asleep.
Scrubby barked and bit Jack again.
Jack lunged at the mutt and caught it by the scruff of the neck.
"Outside, my friend," he snarled, as Scrubby growled and whined.
After he deposited the indignant Scrubby outdoors, Jack returned to the lab.
He found Brandon sitting up on the table, staring at him.
"Hello, handsome," he said.
And with that, Jack decided that Brandon was ready to be admitted to the ranks of the Special Types.
* * *
Jack went over and checked the syringe which he had used to deposit the sedative into Brandon's body. For an awful moment, he thought he had poisoned the young man. Brandon was smiling and, if Jack wasn't mistaken, flirting with him.
"Brandon's gone, honey. Just me now," Brandon spoke in a very bad falsetto.
Jack searched for Walter; the pigeon was on a favorite ledge, squatting and watching. Jack cleared his throat.
"And who are you?" Jack had to ask.
"Brandon's better half, scrumptious. Call me Garbo."
Oh boy, Jack thought.
"How do you feel, Garbo?"
Brandon/Garbo began to cry. "Horrible
. And I'll bet I'm a sight, too!"
Jack just stared.
And then Brandon was back.
"Oh, God, she was here, wasn't she?!"
Schizophrenia, Jack determined immediately. "Yes," he said.
Brandon looked suddenly afraid. "I know, you think I'm crazy. But it's not me; she does it to me. I can't get away from her."
"Garbo, you mean," Jack said calmly.
Brandon nodded. "She's a good woman, doctor; but she doesn't behave. Are you going to make me leave?"
Jack saw the terror in Brandon's eyes; in the world before the war, Brandon had probably not lead a very easy life.
"No, I'm not going to make you leave, Brandon. You and Garbo can stay."
For one brief, frightening moment, Jack thought Brandon was going to leap forward and try and kiss him. But he didn't; he just let out an enormous sigh, one a little larger than the one Jack let out.
"You're about to get that education in nursing, friend," Jack said. "Think you're up to it?"
Brandon smiled broadly.
Realizing a dream at last.
* * *
An hour later, Sheila awakened. She discovered that the lab had become more crowded since last she had seen it. Fifteen or so people had discovered Jack and Eden and now lay on the floor or on tables or on cots. Most were badly burned. All suffered from severe radiation poisoning. Two people, an old man and a six year old girl died in the first half hour after they had entered Jack's clinic. There was nothing that Jack could do to save them. They had died before he had even been able to examine them.
When he discovered them dead, Jack had cried.
He felt suddenly helpless (a feeling he would come to know well in the future, yet never get used to). But this tragedy did not slow him down; he pushed himself harder than ever. He worked furiously, moving from body to body, dispensing medicine, blankets, food, whatever was needed. Everyone seemed to be in shock; there was no conversation in the clinic, no quiet rumble of discussion as to who Jack was, or where it was they had arrived, or how it was that Jack had survived the bombs and the radiation. The future Edenites that Jack was treating simply allowed themselves to be taken care of by him, mostly in silence. They had seen too much in the past few days; many could not accept what had happened. Aunt Sheila, Jack guessed, was one of those who had retreated into safer corners of insanity rather than stare into the raging abyss of reality. He couldn't blame her one little bit.
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