Desert Angels

by George P. Saunders

  Perhaps, he concluded, there never would be.

  Aunt Sheila came waddling up to him, smiling. Scrubby, after four years, was still holding up well. It was a lasting testament to skill and imagination that Garbo and Brandon could have both been proud of.

  "How are we today?" Aunt Sheila asked, her hollow, sick little face somehow managing to give off a mad, happy glow.

  "Holding up, Aunt Sheila. How about you?"

  She seemed to think about the question for a second.

  "Oh, dying – but what else is new?"

  Jack stared at Aunt Sheila in wonder.

  "I'm back, doctor," she said with a sad little smile. "I was gone for awhile, but now I'm back. I hope you'll forgive me one day."

  "For what?" Jack asked, amazed.

  "For being a coward. For my escape."

  Jack could say nothing.

  "But it was hard, dear. Do you know that I had two boys and a girl?"

  "No."

  "They died in my arms. Killed by the war, by the sickness. They were thirty years younger than me. I lived, but they – " Aunt Sheila shook her head and picked a hair off of Scrubby. "Who decides who lives and dies, doctor? Or is it all just chance?"

  Jack swallowed hard. "I don't think it’s chance."

  Aunt Sheila nodded. "I think it's just life. Period."

  Jack said nothing.

  "Problem is," Aunt Sheila went on, "how do you survive life?"

  "I drink," Jack said immediately, not intending to be funny.

  Aunt Sheila smiled. "And I dream, doctor. And I try to have a sense of humor."

  "I'm afraid I don't have that," Jack said, smiling.

  Aunt Sheila walked off the porch and into the sand. "Too bad," she said.

  Aunt Sheila nodded sadly and then moved toward the new city of tents that Eden had become in the past few days. After a few seconds, she turned and winked at Jack.

  "You come by and have some lemonade now, y'hear?"

  Laura nodded, opened Angela's diary, and then shut it again.

  Suddenly, he was laughing.

  And he didn't stop for some time.

  ALL IN THE HOUSE

  THAT JACK BUILT

  EPILOGUE

  Laura stared out at the hazy sunset, enjoying a rare breeze that seemed sprinkled with a kind of alien freshness. For her, the world was not hideous and dead; life was too new for her to make any such judgments, or recall any such comparisons to anything truly hideous or truly beautiful. Exciting was what the world was, each new day bringing with it a sensation or person or question that needed to be explored fully.

  Brushing her hair back with her hand, she turned and regarded the Edenites working near the Dome. It had been over three weeks since the explosion; now, Jack, was allowing people to work again. It seemed silly to Laura to wash the Dome so often with the water pumped in from the nearby river, but Jack had been insistent. He also had insisted that all the people wash themselves as well. Laura couldn't imagine getting much cleaner, but she figured that Jack knew what he was doing.

  "Tired?" Jack asked, coming up from behind her and tickling her.

  Laura nodded, holding Jack's eyes for a long time. She did not fully comprehend the word "tired" for she had not yet learned the art of language. But she understood Jack's tone of voice, and it was a soothing, questioning and knowing tone he used now, one that made her feel sleepy and happy.

  What was there about those eyes, Laura wondered? For just a second, she thought they looked familiar. She was sure that she had never known Jack before they met inside of his house (she was still not exactly sure how she got there), but his face

  haunted her. Something about him, she mused to herself, smiling at him and taking his hand.

  Laura liked Jack; he was kind, patient, a little quiet. He could not explain how she could speak and understand his language, nor could he tell her anything about herself. One day, she knew, she would learn to speak the words that Jack and the Edenites spoke.

  When that happened, she would talk to Jack.

  And she would tell him that she liked him.

  * * *

  Jack smoothed the ground to Walter's grave with his hand and he straightened the little plaque jutting out of the sand. Laura crouched down next to him and mimicked the gesture, patting earth on the grave and making a fuss with the marker.

  Jack smiled at her. But Laura could see that his face grew serious as he looked back to the plaque.

  Laura reached out and touched his face – the first time that she could recall ever doing that.

  Jack turned slowly – and hopefully.

  "Laura?"

  He had never called her that before, Laura recalled, and she tried to imitate the word slowly. But only the incoherent, inexperienced sounds of a child rang out.

  Frustrated, she stopped trying, and focused on Jack's eyes.

  Then, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

  "Laura," Jack said again, though more to himself this time.

  "Laura," she repeated clearly and happily, surprising herself with the sudden burst of prodigy. "Laura, Laura, Laura," she echoed over and over again.

  When Jack kissed her, Laura smiled.

  Taking her hand, he lead her back down to the Dome and Eden.

  Jack did not see her, but Laura continued to mouth words.

  He did not hear her when she finally spoke again.

  "An-ge-la!"

  Jack was lost in thought; content that Laura was recovering her health. Perhaps one day, she would remember who she was.

  Tomorrow, Jack felt sure, she would learn to say his name.

  Because things change.

  As always.

  The End.

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  About The Author

  George P. Saunders is the author of numerous science-fiction adventure novels, MARS, THE BRINGER OF WAR, MONSTER VICE, WHATEVER GODS MAY BE, and THE LAST ELF. GRAY AREA, his hard-boiled crime thriller was in the top 10 of the top 100 best-seller list on Amazon/Kindle from March until May of 2012. Non-fiction books include the international anomaly, THE ART OF WHORING-ADVENTURES IN PROSTITUTION, THE LAST HAREM and THE MAN BOOK. His recently produced and critically acclaimed contribution to the zombie-genre film world Mutant Vampire Zombies From The Hood, starring C. Thomas Howell is now in worldwide distribution.

  During his time as head writer for Military Films in the early 1990s, wherein he was the liaison for that company to the State Department to acquire combat footage from Desert Storm for production, and provide narration over picture, Saunders had the opportunity to work with the U.S. Marines, U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Air Force and with the invincible U.S. Navy Seals in Coronado, California. Saunders spends his leisure time, when not producing, directing, writing, or acting in feature films around the world, playing chess and perfecting his martial arts, 5-Animal Kung Fu. That is, when he's not enjoying a single-malt scotch, Glenfiddich being his favourite, in which event, he allows his mind to become his own private playground to nurture ideas for future books and screenplays. Saunders will be introducing his next novel PETER AT THE BAT in October 2012, a novel revolving around an ex-Navy Seal fighting domestic terrorism. Saunders lives in Beverly Hills, attempting to mesh in with the plastic beauty of the landscape, and failing miserably. More about Saunders may be gleaned on his blog at GeorgePSaunders.blogspot

  Follow George on twitter at: https://twitter.com/gpsaunders30

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  COMPLETE BOOK LIST:

  The following George P. Saunders books are available on Amazon Kindle. Click on the title to navigate to them.

  Gray Area – Mystery Hard-Boiled Adventure

  The Last Elf – Young Adult Fantasy Adventure

  Whatever Gods May Be – Science Fiction Adventure

  Mars, The Bringer of War – Science Fiction Adventure

  Monster Vice – Horror Occult

  The Art of Whoring – Adventures in Prostit
ution

  The Man Book – Humor For Men

  The Last Harem – Memoir of Aphrodite Dorian

  PETER at the BAT excerpt

  Action Adventure

  Coming in late October 2012

  JULY 4

  ONE YEAR AGO

  Peter Detroit's eyes blurred and watered without mercy. This was in part due to the smoke and acrid smell of spent explosives wafting in the air around him – but in much greater part due to the pain surging through almost every extremity of his body from either very recent gunshot inflicted damage or torture at the hands of lunatics that had kidnapped him several days earlier. All of the terrorists were dead – however, their effect on Peter Detroit would never diminish with time: his body would heal, but his mind and soul would be forever scarred.

  Just at this moment, though, both aspects of that pain had to be ignored … or at best, controlled. The danger around Peter Detroit, a one time Navy Seal, was still extreme – and imminent. Great tongues of fire lapped out of nearly every aperture of Peter's apartment complex – its windows, doorways, air-vents, all were awash with flame or smoke. The three C4 explosions ignited by the terrorists at ground level had caused a chain reaction surging upwards; several back-drafts were born on almost every floor, vaporizing wood and plaster. Peter's one-time home was now an inferno of swirling, white-hot death.

  Peter mentally tabulated the death toll from the explosions alone; his stomach knotted at the thought. Men, women, children, hapless victims – over a dozen, victimized by the madness of others. It could have been worse, he reflected, had he decided not to take action. Much worse.

  It could have been 9/11 all over again.

  But not this.

  We got the bastards. Oh, yeah. Yet…

  Here on the roof, the heat was torturous. Those hostages who had survived with Peter thus far – William Tetley and Stasha, along with a SWAT officer named Suji Ozawa – together, they sized up their options around them – and saw that the option factor was nil. Unless the fire was somehow miraculously contained in the next few minutes below them – or some equally miraculous avenue of escape presented itself fast – Peter and his companions would die. If there was good news to reflect upon at the moment, it was that indeed, the extremist group known as the Great-See-It, (in tandem with the Al-Queda cell led by Saddam Pussiti) had been terminated. There was, however, the problem of Pussiti’s survivors – the group of fanatics that coincidentally had decided to hold Peter Detroit's apartment complex hostage in tandem with the religious Great-See-Its that had already imprisoned and tortured Peter for almost a week prior. The terrorist group had been whittled down by more than half, thanks in no small part to Peter Detroit's expertise in such matters; but there were still survivors. And these survivors would not be easily liquidated.

  They, too, were here on the roof. Committed, if necessary, to their own self destruction (as usual) – but more committed still to one last heroic act against the great Satan America. The means of that act was at hand – and Peter knew that somehow, even at the risk of sacrificing himself and his companions – this act would have to be thwarted.

  The police helicopter that had been agreed upon by the Mayor of Los Angeles and the District Attorney, under advisement and authorization from the Special Anti-Terrorist Task Force of the FBI, teetered in the air above the Beverly Hills Apartment Complex; it was now attempting a landing that looked plain damn near impossible. The chopper was the concession the FBI agreed to, in exchange for the safety of all the remaining hostages. The ferocious updrafts of wind caused by the tortuous flames below caused the chopper to precariously buck and bounce in the air.

  Peter felt sorry for the courageous pilot attempting the landing on the roof; should he be able to control the craft sufficiently to even land the chopper, Peter suspected that the three terrorists on the other side of the roof would kill him instantly – contrary to earlier promises otherwise. Saddam Pusseati, leader of the terrorist faction in question, and his people were desperate now – the rules of negotiation had been obliterated. They had a mission to accomplish, and there was no longer room for compromise.

  Shit, Peter thought.

  If he just had a direct shot at Saddam; Saddam was the key. If he could kill the bastard, surprise and stun the other terrorists into momentary inaction, it might give him a few precious seconds to somehow think of a way to effectively neutralize the remaining fanatics before they could board the chopper and carry with them their deadly cargo: two U.S. manufactured hand held Stinger missiles.

  A wave of nausea rippled through Peter as he thought about this last, unacceptable scenario. For if the terrorists were successful in getting airborne - with the Stingers on board - then they would surely have enough time to target the Federal Building only a mile away, per their original mission objective. Even if they missed that target, the destructive potential of one or both of the Stingers – each specially armed with a crude, nuclear timing cap – would be catastrophic.

  If only there wasn't so much smoke, Peter thought.

  If only he had a clean shot . . .

  A lot of ifs, Peter admitted to himself in a microsecond. Perhaps too many.

  The chopper swerved drunkenly a hundred feet overhead. Other police choppers circled hundreds of yards away, mindful of earlier terrorist instructions not to dally too close to the apartment complex, lest more hostages be murdered at Saddam's discretion. Of course, the police were now unaware that, again, thanks to Peter's involvement – all the hostages had escaped terrorist custody; there was nothing technically holding back a complete, unbridled retaliation against the fanatics ... except the knowledge that they could do so now with complete impunity.

  Peter glanced over at the SWAT specialist, Ozawa. The man's radio mike had long ago been ripped from his headset, thanks to an earlier altercation with one of the terrorists. Consequently, there was no longer any direct contact with the myriad divisions of law enforcement below and above; Peter and his comrades were completely on their own, cut off from the rest of the world below.

  The one horrible - albeit necessary option - remained. Peter glanced down at the Walther pistol in his hand. He had two rounds left. There was the choice of destroying the helicopter as soon as it hit the ground. At this range, Peter felt sure he could shoot the gas tank, rupture the fuel cage – and send the helicopter again sky high, this time in a deluge of flame. The pilot would die. Surely, one or all of the terrorists would die. And in this close proximity, balls to the walls odds in favor – one or all of Peter's small, battle-worn people would expire from the resulting conflagration.

  It was an option. A lousy one. But the tacit challenge was there, as clear as writing on the wall: The lives on this roof sacrificed to save the greater population of Los Angeles, targeted by one ore more nuclear-tipped Stinger missiles.

  Peter weighed the potential decision. Counted to five.

  There was still time. Damn little, but still enough to try one last, daring move . . .

  The helicopter was down to 50 feet above the roof. The terrorists remained concealed behind the opposite fire exit bunker. Peter glanced behind himself; William, the SWAT officer and Stasha lay snuggled up against various parts of the concrete roof divider, out of the terrorist line of fire. Flame began to geyser out of two of the hook-shaped metal air vents. Not a good sign. The fire in the complex was rapidly spiraling upwards. In five minutes, the roof would be awash with flame. And then all decision-making on the part of zealot and hero alike would be rendered immaterial.

  Peter's mind finished the rolodex of options. He moved.

  As soon as he broke into the run across the wall divider, a splatter of automatic gunfire snapped at his feet and to his side. The terrifying flash of the terrorist weaponry blazed to his front and to his right. Peter kept his eye on a cement embankment, cursing loudly as he bee-lined for it.

  He dived. And felt a sting of pain in his leg. Peter recognized the feeling – yet another bullet that had invaded his body. Numb
er three today. He screamed to the sky above, fighting off the agony of sheared nerves and tissue. If there was a plus to this latest wound, it was that he could forget about the other two bullets in his right side and left shoulder, now several hours old.

  He had gained ground. Thirty feet away, and concealed, were Saddam and two other zealots. Armed. But within striking distance. Peter had scored a vital first down; but a touchdown is what he really needed. And fast.

  The chopper continued its frenetic descent, bobbing up and down, side to side, like some drunken insect.

  Peter considered the new set of options ahead of him - and the other factors against him: Fire, heat, smoke, another wound, loss of blood - and strength - a helicopter landing, three terrorists, and two Stinger missiles. Time was running out. But Peter knew that his last move would have to take place once the chopper was on the ground. Not before.

  Fire and smoke billowed around him, heat rising a degree every second or two. Peter allowed himself a precious few seconds to wonder; wonder about the future.

  Would he be alive one hour from now?

  Would he be alive one year from now?

  One year.

  An eternity.

  The world sizzled and burned; the air on the roof became toxic – and the chopper came closer to the ground. The conditions for human survivable were merciless, unacceptable, irrevocable.

  On these harsh terms, Peter Detroit waited.