Desert Angels (11 page)

As the months passed, Eden, for Gleeson, could never be
too
protected. Consequently, he brought his ancient knowledge of jungle deterrence to bear on its behalf. The result of Gleeson's diligence spoke for itself in terms of Eden's low casualty rate in battles with both Stiffers and Maddogs.

"That fence the only thing you're using to keep those things off?" Gleeson asked Jack a few hours after he arrived, staring out at the horizon where several Stiffers wandered listlessly about, looking Eden's way in frustrated hunger.

"For now," Jack said. "They come up to the gate every day, but there’s no way they can breach it. I haven't had the time to coordinate a 24-hour police action. Anyway, we've discovered that they're pretty slow. And not too bright. For the most part, we just keep our eyes open and flamethrowers full."

"You can't keep that up forever," Gleeson said.

"I know. I need ten pairs of hands, and I'm working on two, with just a few sick fingers here and there for help."

He was talking about Brandon, Denise and Jim – the only three Edenites who were really up to any kind of work effort at all. There was Gus, of course; but Gus worked his minor miracles in undisciplined and uncoordinated ways. Jack had given up trying to give him instructions regarding the sick; Gus would only nod, amble off, and ignore him. Jack forgave Gus, though; because Gus could stop pain.

Denise and Jim and a few others had organized a loose border patrol; they carried flamethrowers and whenever the Stiffers came too close to the camp, the monsters were treated to a barrage of flame. This kind of defense against the mutants was fine by day, (if not demanding for the border patrol) but it would not do as a form of permanent strategic policy. Jack had known this for some time. Gleeson perceived the problem immediately.

"Do you have dynamite?" Gleeson asked.

Jack looked up from his work, handing a syringe back to Brandon, who was standing nearby, listening.

"Sure. Timers, too."

"Gasoline?"

"Check. And enough wire to bankrupt AT&T. Or what's left of it."

Gleeson smiled.

"Mind if I help you out a bit?" he asked Jack.

"Not at all."

Gleeson helped out. A lot. In two days, a quarter mile out from its perimeter, Eden was surrounded by five thousand square feet of electrified barbed wire, tied into Jack's generators. Gleeson had also overseen the digging of trenches, wherein dynamite primed booby traps were buried. Everyone who was physically able got involved in the "booby-digging" program. Denise had been a landscape designer at one time and consequently something of an expert on grounds-keeping; she now acted as Gleeson's foreman. Mimi, whose vision had been partially restored, assisted Denise by acting as Eden's Water Girl, providing all those who worked with liquid refreshments as needed. When she felt like it, she would also sing. Jim would invariably join in, if he was around. Aunt Sheila, of course, continued to offer lemonade to anyone interested.

People seemed anxious for things to do; the alternative activity was to sit around and watch one another die. Work was the panacea the Edenites craved; it was the one thing Jack could give everyone in great, lavish abundance.

While Denise supervised most of the booby-digging, Gleeson found time to organize Eden's "army." Jim, also an ex-marine, rounded up fifty of the strongest men and presided over daily exercises and drilling. Jim deferred to Gleeson in all forms of instruction, since Gleeson had seen actual battle while Jim was only stationed in Saigon for six months as a singer with the USO. Drilling practice, of course, had to be kept at a minimum, since everyone, instructors included, suffered from radiation sickness. Even trench digging progressed in piecemeal fashion. Still, Eden was a humming, active hive; within its invisible boundaries, the spirit of hope and cooperation blossomed.

Eden was sick and exhausted, but by force and will, due largely to Jack and Gleeson's tireless energies, it survived; moreover, it had grown teeth. Anyone - or anything – unwanted within a mile of Eden's deceptively naked boundaries, was either instantly electrocuted or blown to bits.

We may live in hell, Gleeson would agree with Jack on many occasions. But at least hell had been made a little safer.

FIVE – FOLTON, THE GROWLER

There was still one more Special Type to arrive to Eden. And his arrival marked a watershed point for Jack in terms of just plain bad luck a-comin’ to town.

Folton G. Harrelson was one Special Type that Eden could definitely lose, Jack felt from the first moment he met the man. As it turned out, Folton was one of the first "defectors" in Eden. One of the first Maddogs, in fact.

Folton arrived three days after Gleeson. He was dressed in black leather from head to toe, with a bandana coiled around his head and a skull and cross-bones riding cap above. He did not walk or crawl into Eden, as most of the Edenites had done; as Jim and his people had done to the tune of forty miles (mean time from Carlsburg to the Dome). Folton had ridden right into town on a shiny Harley Davidson chopper motorcycle. He weighed as much as big Jim, though Folton's bulk consisted of years of hard doughnut and Miller consumption whereas Jim's impressive girth could be attributed to natural bone and muscle development. Folton, however, lacked Jim's altruistic disposition in spades; in fact, Folton was not a nice person, (whereas Jim was) though he had sincere aspirations to
be
a nice person. One day. Or so he informed Jack in the clinic.

"Yeah, this war fucked up my plans good, man. You're gonna think I'm high when I say this, but I was gonna enter the seminary before the shit hit the fan. Be a priest and all. I could'a done it, too," Folton rambled, looking at Brandon, who was assisting Jack (as always) with quiet devotion. Folton's look to Brandon was
not
friendly and definitely
not
nice.

"Really?" Jack said, not buying the story for a minute, but not really caring if it was the truth or not. He was concentrating on Folton's glands, which were the most enlarged Jack had felt on
anyone
to date.

"Fuckin' A! You see, I got tired of my sinful ways. No shit. You know, I was a Hell's Angel for a dog's spell. I did some bad shit. Y'know?"

"Hm," Jack mumbled, preparing a syringe to extract some of Fulton's blood with. "Your motorcycle. How did it survive the blast?"

"The what?" Folton asked.

"When the war started, all of the cars died. Most of the electricity disappeared. Batteries wouldn't work," Jack said, not feeling like getting into the specifics of what electromagnetic consequences had been wrought by thousands of hydrogen bombs exploding in the atmosphere. Folton, Jack assumed, would never understand. "How come your motorcycle is still working?"

"Oh, I got you!" Folton said, nodding in sudden comprehension. "I guess it had something to do with me being in the truck."

Jack continued to feel glands.

"I was thumbing down to Phoenix," Folton went on. "You know, going nowhere. Thinking of the seminary. This big old cement tow picked me up around Bakersfield; told me to hang out in the back of the rig. Well, there I am, kissing space with a lot of concrete. Damned uncomfortable, but lucky for me it was there. Maybe that's why old Killer and me is still walking around healthy."

Old Killer, Jack presumed, was what Folton called his motorcycle. But Folton was probably right; with the truck and the concrete as insulation, much of the initial electromagnet pulse radiation was probably thwarted in its attempt to suck the life out of Folton's bike.

"We might need that motorcycle. It could come in handy," Jack said, preparing a syringe of penicillin.

Folton didn't say anything to that. He continued to ramble.

"Yeah, those old boys in Washington and Moscow finally pulled the Big One. And some bad shit hath come down hard. God's will, I guess. Anyway, pal, I got news for you. Once the niggers get wind of your little party here, they're gonna tear you to bits. Spics, too. Fuckin' animals, all of them."

Brandon walked away, clearly not liking Folton's company. Brandon, who's alter-ego could murder a dying Chihuahua and stuff it while simultaneously nursing a hundred people daily, despite his own painful illness was nervous around Folton. Which in turn made Jack nervous; for if Brandon was strange, then Folton was downright creepy. Perhaps Brandon left because Folton gave him a very bad feeling, as Folton was now giving to Jack; a feeling that said: Here was trouble. Here was a real dangerous problem.

"You may not know it, pal, but you've got a little dick-licker workin' for you. Next to niggers and spics, those fagollas are the worst. Spelled out – and that's why God did this to us, if you get my meaning."

Jack plunged the hypo of penicillin into Folton's arm. He then put down the syringe and looked at Folton.

"You're a sick man, Folton. You've got what everyone else has around here and you'll probably get sicker. I'm sorry for that. I'm going to do my best to help you. But I've got to tell you straight. I don't want to hear your kind of talk anymore, not with these people. I don't give a fuck if you don't like niggers, spics or faggots. I don't give two fucks if you don't like me. We all pull together here. Regardless of whether we're black, white, brown or queer. You got me?"

Folton chewed his lip, not looking terribly impressed with the longest speech Jack had given in a while.

"I wanted to say that now. If you find anyone here offensive, you might as well leave. Because you're right. It's because of prejudice and hate and ignorance that got us where we are today. Here in Eden – I don't intend to let that kind of low-brow attitude run rampant. Do you understand me, Folton?"

Folton snorted up what had to be a giant wad of sputum and then promptly swallowed it. Brandon came back to Jack's side, looking at the hulking biker sitting on the table. Folton had lost interest in Brandon. He had eyes only for Jack now.

"You're a tough guy in here, Mr. Doctor."

"I'm the boss here, Folton. All you need to do is remember that. Or get out."

Folton studied Jack's impassive face for a moment, then smiled and shrugged.

"Hey, it's cool. Hate, racism, all that other shit – fuck it! Call me a good guy." He extended his hand to Jack; Jack shook it, reluctantly. "Besides," Folton added, "Last time someone got kicked out of Eden, there was real hell to pay!" Folton winked at Brandon who continued staring and then laughed loudly at his own joke.

Jack had a very bad feeling about Folton E. Harrelson. He suspected that there would be problems with the man at a later date. Unfortunately, he was to be proven right. And much sooner than he had hoped.

* * *

The next day, Folton had picked half a dozen minor quarrels with Gleeson, Jim Rosen, Denise and even crazy old Sheila, who was very difficult to make angry at all. Additionally, he had managed to gather around him over a dozen young men and women who seemed to agree with him about the general incompetence and unfairness by which Eden seemed to be governed - and by
whom
.

Jack was informed of the trouble by both Gleeson and Jim Rosen.

"That fat assed biker is about to mess things up good," Gleeson said to Jack in the lab, with Jim present, along with Brandon and Denise. Gus had wandered in as well, quiet as ever, and watchful.

"By tonight, he'll have half the camp believing his lies. Some folks out there are about to picket you, doc," Denise said uneasily. She had known creatures like Folton in her past (had in fact,
dated
creatures like Folton in the past) and knew they were no damn good, thank you very much.

"Bad apple, doc," was all Gus said and sniffed.

"Yes, I should have seen this coming. My fault. Time to do a little fixing." He sighed and looked at the solemn faces before him. "Ron," Jack said at last to Gleeson, "pass the word to folks that a town meeting will be held today."

In an hour, Eden held its first "town meeting." It would be the first time that Jack had addressed his struggling little community since its unannounced founding. Eden now had a population of four hundred and two. It had been four days after Gleeson's arrival, six days after Jim Rosen and the Carlsburg clan turned up, and seven days since Aunt Sheila, Brandon, Mimi and Denise appeared. Scrubby would have been an Edenite for seven days, had he lived.

Two weeks had passed since the Guardian Angel had made its presence known to Jack; Walter had knocked on Jack's door just one day before that landmark event.

Angela had been dead for exactly five years.

And Blast Day had been exactly three weeks ago.

And what do we have, Jack thought again and again, as he prepared to speak to Eden.

Nothing much.

Only Anatevka.

* * *

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please," Jack had started out that morning. He was standing on some milk crates, which he had dragged out of the cellar. It was not the most dignified platform for a man of his position, Jack thought with some amusement, but it would do the trick until something better came along.

Like all mornings in New Earth, this one was gray and cold and lifeless. Windstorms, hail and binding dust twisters would arrive later in the day. For now, it was just sublimely miserable, Jack thought. A perfect day for a speech.

"You all know who I am by now. I'm afraid I still don't know many of
your
names yet. But in time, that will change. For now, it's only important that you know me."

Folton E. Harrelson and a few staunch sympathizers slouched near the fence perimeter to Jack's right; Folton was chewing and spitting and dredging up sputem and watching Jack with an expression on his face that was still far from nice. Folton G. Harrelson, Jack now knew, would never be
nice
.

"I've got to be straight with you," he continued. "We're in bad shape. I take that back. I mean,
you're
in bad shape. Many of you are sick; others are not so sick yet, but soon will be. You won't find any hospitals out there, or at least, any hospitals that are still functioning. And all of this isn't just going to go away. No one is coming to help us. My guess is that everyone else - or most everyone else is dead. Not only here but throughout most of the world."