Desert Angels

by George P. Saunders

  Another voice, equally as calm as Folton's, spoke from behind the biker.

  "Say the word, doc, and I'll put a bullet in his brain."

  It was Gleeson, and Jack could hear a trigger being cocked.

  Folton's eyes rolled eerily in their sockets, as if to spy on whoever was behind him through the back of his head. He made a growl and offered Jack a crooked, trembling smile.

  "He may get me," he said, "but I'd still get the kid."

  Jack made a noise that was more animal than human. In the strange glow of the Dome's spotlight, his eyes looked to be slanted and cat-like. He moved to his feet in a way that was more feral than man-like. He did not stop staring at Folton, who was getting more restless by the second.

  Jack raised his machine gun and pointed it at Folton. Folton cocked his gun; the old woman screamed and buried her face in the sand. The little boy, who was terribly sick, looked half-asleep in Folton's grasp. There was no fear on the child's face; just an expression of irritated weariness. Either shit or shoot, Jack imagined the boy thinking in child terms; just do it quick and let it be done with.

  Jack turned to the wire fencing about ten feet from where he was standing. There, leaning upright, was Folton's motorcycle.

  Folton followed Jack's gaze.

  Jack cranked the firing mechanism of his weapon and gave Folton a deadpan stare.

  "You sonofabitch," Folton whispered.

  Jack sighed and turned back to the motorcycle. Without looking at Folton, he began speaking.

  "You've got one minute to do several things, Folton. First, let go of the boy. Second, drop the gun. Third, get Old Killer and ride out of here." He lifted the machine gun a little higher and took aim. "After that one minute elapses, your bike is history. And so are you."

  "Bank on it," Gleeson echoed from somewhere behind Folton.

  Folton's eyes worked furiously. He began to tremble; not with fear, but with rage. He was going to lose. He knew it.

  And Folton G. Harrelson, an incipient priest (of sorts and only in his own mind) hated to lose at anything.

  "What about the kid? You gonna just let him bite it?"

  Jack didn't miss a beat.

  "You've got 30 seconds, Folton."

  "You're bluffing, asshole. You're not gonna let this kid die, you're –"

  "20 seconds," Jack said tonelessly, his eyes not leaving the motorcycle.

  A crowd of people had gathered behind Gleeson and the old woman near Folton. Most had heard the interchange between Jack and the biker; many were now gasping in surprise at Jack's apparent indifference to the life of the small boy in Folton's custody. Jim, Denise and Brandon watched near Gleeson; they said nothing. They were hoping, like Jack, that Folton would buy the bluff and capitulate.

  Which Folton did a second later.

  "Alright!" he yelled, abruptly releasing the boy.

  Gleeson, Jack knew, would have dropped Folton there and now, had he not spoken up fast.

  "No need for anything drastic, Gleeson," Jack said calmly.

  "Whatever you say, doc," Gleeson came back, clear disappointment in his voice over not being able to turn Folton's head into mush.

  "The clock's still ticking, Folton. Get on your bike and ride," Jack said.

  "I'll need water –"

  "Ten seconds!"

  "I don't have a chance –"

  "Nine," Jack said.

  Folton's face turned red as he screamed. "You're dead, scumbag. I'm coming after you!"

  "Eight," Jack said casually.

  Folton waddled for his motorbike and mounted it. He kick started it and throttled.

  "You ain't seen the last of me, you fuck," he snarled over the growl of the Harley's engine.

  "Three, two. . ."

  But Folton was gone a second later, weaving through the latticed layers of barbed wire surrounding the camp. The Harley whined from a growl to a whimper then diminished into the night.

  Jack lowered his weapon and turned to face the crowd of onlookers. No heads were nodding with approval or disapproval; there was only a stunned silence. Jack walked over to the little boy, who had gone back to his aunt and was now being hugged rather tightly by her. Jack looked down at the woman; he suspected that he would be momentarily berated in Spanish for his recklessness. But the old woman just reached for his hand and kissed it. She then returned to the more meaningful activity of smothering the small boy with hugs and kisses.

  Someone began clapping. So did someone else. Gleeson joined in; finally, everyone was applauding. It was not loud applause, nor enthusiastic. But to Jack it was the most wonderful sound in the world. For him, it was a sound of validation.

  He had accepted the Edenites willingly enough. But until tonight, the relationship between the rest of Eden and himself had been wholly one-sided.

  Now things were different.

  He may have accepted Eden.

  But more importantly, Eden had accepted him.

  * * *

  Folton’s motorcycle gave out twenty miles outside of Eden, northeast of that position, at the height of mid-afternoon.

  “Fuck!” he yelled to the sky in fury.

  What was he going to do? That fucking doctor had consigned him to this shithole of a desert and rest-assured by rosy Jesus that anywhere else he landed would be just as shitty. His water wouldn’t last, and if he didn’t find food within a few days, he would be dead.

  He looked around himself, and then noticed the strange black shadow moving across the sands. Moving, as if with a purpose.

  Moving straight for him.

  He stared at the phenomena, not really motivated into any kind of immediate action. Folton’s intelligence, limited by radiation and a natural deficit in I.Q., did not perceive the shadow to be menacing, or a thing to be feared.

  The shadow approached him and then enveloped him.

  He shuddered in pain, and it felt like he was being electrocuted. A million points of pain lacerated his entire body, as if scorpions were stinging every inch of his body simultaneously.

  It lasted for about a minute and in that period of time, visions of swirling flame flooded his irradiated brain. Yet within that fiery image, there had been an unspoken order, an instruction.

  Go East. Find the one called Mathias. Rule him.

  Folton’s eyes widened and his pupils were now tinged with a glowing red color that would never be confused with conjunctivitis.

  He began to walk, abandoning his motorcycle.

  And then he began to run.

  Had he been clocked for speed, it would have been determined that he could now run at one hundred miles per hour.

  * * *

  Folton arrived to the small community known as the Children of Perdition Free. Men and women moved with lackluster energy, engaged in various chores, or just sitting on stoops or on porches of dilapidated shacks. Until they saw Folton come to a stop from his inhuman run, not one person had risen to take notice of his arrival.

  But as Folton’s features became clear to one and all – he was now well over seven feet tall, and his muscle development had increased to three times its original size. Folton’s arms resembled logs of twisted sinew, and blood-vessels strained against the skin. Folton’s head was now bulbous, distended, with part of his brain seeping out of his skull above the nape of his neck.

  Dr. Mathias walked out of one of the shacks, tucking his shirt into his pants. A young girl of sixteen was also zipping up her skirt and fixing her blouse. She hung onto Mathias as if he had the cure to cancer.

  “What is that thing?” the girl asked Mathias and the fear in her voice was palpable.

  “I don’t know, little wife,” Mathias said. “But daddy Matt is going to find out right now.”

  Mathias stepped away from the girl and the door to the shack and walked slowly toward the transformed Folton.

  “How can we help you, sir?” Mathias called out.

  “That is not the question to ask,” Folton growled.

  “Alright, Growl
ing man,” Mathias said, through a contemptuous smile, as he nodded to men gathering around him on either side. “What is the question to ask?”

  “The question to ask is how you can worship me,” Folton said in a distinctly alien voice.

  Mathias sized Folton up quickly as a nut job from the wastelands, over-exposed to radiation, and no doubt mentally unhinged. He would have to be liquidated, for the sake of the community.

  “That is out of the question, I’m afraid,” Mathias said. “We worship God –”

  Folton’s hand reached out in a blur of speed that the human eye never could have followed. Folton grabbed Mathias by the throat, and lifted him bodily five feet off the ground.

  “You and your people will do as I say, or I will kill you and them all within the hour,” Folton said.

  Mathias glared at Folton and nodded his head in the negative.

  “Ah, a demonstration of power is needed,” Folsom said softly and chuckled.

  Folsom threw Mathias to the ground like a rag-doll and then reached out for two men on either side of him. He grabbed both men by their necks, and slammed their skulls together with such force and impact that the brains of both victims literally popped out of their skulls like grape pulp from their skins.

  Folton then lumbered after another man who charged him with a pitch-fork, snatched the would-be weapon from the man’s grasp, and eviscerated his attacker with the three prongs of the garden tool. Intestines and abdominal fluid painted the ground as people screamed from the watching crowd.

  Three remaining men pulled out pistols, but Folton was faster than their drawing speed, and with one swipe of his hand, he sliced three throats so deeply that each head barely remained attached to the body to which it belonged.

  The whole murder spree took less than twenty seconds.

  Folton then proceeded to kick Mathias to within a hair’s length of death, while the rest of the Children of Free Perdition watched on in horror.

  After five minutes of savagery against him, Mathias cried out for mercy in the form of a question: “What … shall … we … call you… oh, holy one?”

  It came out strangled and agonized, but to Mathias’ credit, the question was phrased articulately.

  Folton stopped his punishment and smiled down at the bleeding pulp that was once the proud leader of the Children of Perdition Free.

  “Ah, now there is a good question, my little maggot,” Folton said in a deep voice that sounded like it came straight from hell. “What was it you called me a few minutes ago? Growling man? I like that,” Folton said, nodding to the people around him watching the barbarism inflicted on their spiritual leader.

  “Henceforth, I shall be the Growler, Dr. Mathias. And your people will be called my Maddogs.”

  Mathias stared up at the Growler and nodded in pain.

  “So it shall be, Growler,” Mathias said.

  “What is it you want of us, your children, Growler?”

  “I want Dr. Jack Calisto dead. To that end, we shall put our purpose and strength of zeal to the task.”

  It was the first bit of good news Mathias had heard in quite awhile. Though he was now subservient to this mad man called the Growler, they shared a common purpose.

  To kill Jack and to destroy his Eden.

  For that, he would sell his soul to the devil.

  In fact, by embracing the Growler’s will, that is exactly what he had done.

  SIX – THE PASSAGE OF TIME

  What do we have?

  Nothing much.

  Only Anatevka.

  So it goes, Jack thought, so it goes. The incident with Folton that night had brought Eden closer together. Among the few Folton adherents, none seemed interested in further prospects of insurrection. In time, these rebels (mainly teenagers) became Eden's staunchest defenders.

  No one, Jack included, expected to see Folton ever again.

  Folton, however, would keep his promise; he would return to haunt Eden. But he would return not as Folton G. Harrelson, one-time Hell's Angel and maybe-priest. In time, Folton would be known to Eden only as The Growler. And though he would be wholly unrecognizable to the Edenites in months to come (due to mutation and an insidious power infusion of undetermined origin), The Growler's appearance with his hoard of Maddogs – the remnants of Dr. Mathias’ cult - would always draw up comparisons to Folton G. Harrelson. In short, The Growler would be associated with everything bad for Eden. Folton G. Harrelson included.

  The Growler and the Maddogs would not be a problem for several months following Folton's departure from Eden. Consequently, Eden had time to prepare and get stronger. Which it did, to a small extent. Jack fed people mega-doses of antibiotics and vitamins; Jim and Gleeson drilled Eden's militia. When the Growler and the Maddogs did eventually attack, they encountered a well-organized, well-defended opponent, albeit one that was in constant pain.

  Eden stopped growing after the third month following Blast Day; no more survivors appeared out of the desert. Jack was not surprised. Daily, violent wind storms lashed at the land while giant tornadoes moved across the horizon. Nighttime temperatures dipped below the freezing mark; even at high noon, the mercury never rose above fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Hail, rain and snow were an everyday occurrence. Eden spent much of its time huddled in the vast cellars that housed Jack's generators; crowded as they were, however, the cellars were extremely warm. Thus, hundreds of Edenites, that would have otherwise died of exposure from the fierce elements without, survived.

  To believe that other people outside of Eden could survive Earth in its presently tortured state was unreasonable. Jack did not expect to see anyone else aside from the Edenites for the rest of his life, save for the Maddogs and the Stiffers. Even his fears concerning looters diminished; he would be properly amazed when the Maddogs began attacking Eden in earnest. But by then, Eden would be well enough fortified to resist any attacker, save an armed division of tanks and assault vehicles.

  Which, fortunately, the Growler and the Maddogs did not come close to possessing.

  Through it all, rain, sleet, gloom of night and Special Types, Jack worked. And Eden worked alongside him. Somewhere, Jack suspected, the Guardian Angel was working, too; watching over him, no doubt. Waiting to save him again, if necessary.

  And still it was hard.

  People in Eden continued to get sicker and continued to die.

  Like all tragic victims and heroes, Jack knew that there were no happy endings. Angela knew that best of all. Jack could help Eden - a little - but he could not save it.

  What do we have, he wondered again and again.

  Nothing much.

  Only. . .

  . . .if only. . .

  SEVEN – ANGELA

  Another revelation.

  She's out there.

  The last woman on Earth.

  And not far from Eden; in fact, about fifty miles south.

  In a way, I'm happy. . . for Jack. But in another way, I'm feeling very strange about the matter. Of course, I will have to tell Jack about her.

  Laura.

  Jack's dreaming again. I can always tell when he is because his mouth moves and he makes sounds. It is not a good dream he's having. He looks sad. Well, he always looks sad, that's true – but I would think that at least in a dream, he might be a little happy.

  I'll bet Laura would make him happy.

  I'll write him about her tonight. I haven't written to Jack in a long time, mainly because he gets very strange after he receives one of my letters. I don't think they make him happy, even though I say nice things and tell him I'm his friend.

  Somehow, I think he'll be glad to know about Laura.

  * * *

  Jack opened his eyes.

  Walter pecked at his lip, making him jump.

  "Ow, goddamit that hurts," he growled, jolting upright and sending the pigeon flapping awkwardly to a nearby stool.

  "What do I look like, a pincushion?" Jack snarled again. But then he looked outside and realized that it was
well into the late morning. He had drunk too much again and overslept. Walter, Jack knew, was just doing his job as a living alarm clock - though he probably didn't even know it.

  "You just like to piss me off, right?" Jack said, giving Walter a surly look.

  Sure do, Walter's eyes said. The pigeon began to cluck and dance in place.

  "Alright, I'm up."

  Too much booze, and too many dreams. Jack rubbed his eyes and reached for some aspirin. Bayer to the rescue. Two pills tumbled out of the plastic bottle, the last ones. Jack frowned and remembered a commercial from a million years ago.

  "A recent survey of doctors revealed that Bayer aspirin would be the choice among them if they were to be stranded on a desert island. . .

  How nice, Jack thought venomously. Wonder what a survey among these gentlemen (if they were still alive) would reveal as to what they would recommend for an extended stay in hell?

  Well, ahem, certainly not Tylenol. Or Advil. And no can do with Buffrin, either. Gosh, that's a good one, Jack. You really got us stumped on that –

  Shut up, Jack told his soggy brain. Always a bear in the morning. Just take the god dam pills, get up and start your day.

  "Right," Jack said and stood.

  He had been dreaming of Eden again, back in the beginning. Had things really changed that much, he wondered. No, he decided. They hadn't. Folton was gone and so was Scrubby. But that was the only difference, really. Eden was still sick and troubled. Tough and persistent, but still just barely hanging on.

  By any other name, Anatevka to the very end.

  Walter continued cooing. Jack dressed and began breakfast with a Bud light and some oatmeal, no milk. Had to watch the cholesterol level, after all, he thought. We are what we eat, you know.