Desert Angels (12 page)

"What makes you such an expert, doc?" Folton yelled out; supporting grunts and yells followed from among his entourage, though they died quickly as Jack responded without hesitation.

Getting our digs in early, are we now, Jack thought. Fine. Two can play the game that way.

"Because I
am
an expert!" Jack shouted, his eyes trying to find every other eye in Eden. "Because I knew this would happen. Because I was ready and prepared when it did. And because I was prepared, many of you are still alive today."

There was only silence after this. Folton spit, but said nothing further.

"I'm talking to you all now so that you will know what's expected of you. We've got hard times ahead of us. I know you all feel like hell, and I'll try to help you, but you've got to help me. I need your cooperation. And when I say cooperation, I mean pulling together to help each other out. We're like a family now, whether some of you like it or not. We're responsible for one another. No one person is more important than another. That may sound a little communistic, but it really isn't. We just don't have a choice. Without mutual cooperation, we'll become like those monsters out there. Just creatures, preying off the land, directionless. I for one don't want that. I don't think most of you do, either."

Jack paused, looking out at the sea of heads below him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Folton fidgeting with a piece of barbed wire, pretending not to be too attentive to what was being said. Some of his fellow grumblers were in conference, though a few of them had broken away from Folton when Jack had mentioned the "hospital" situation.

Jack nodded to Gleeson, who in turn, nodded to Brandon, Jim Rosen and Denise. They grabbed a few milk crates next to Jack and stood on one each.

"Obviously, we're going to be pretty informal here. No Gestapo or anything like that," Jack said, and was pleased to hear a ripple of laughter from the crowd. "But by the same token, we need some kind of organization. So, if it's okay with all of you, I'm putting some folks in charge of certain camp operations. Most of you know who these people are."

"What if it's
not
okay, doctor?" Folton yelled, and this time there was a more vociferous answer to such a challenge among his supporters. But in counting those among Folton's allies, Jack was pleased to see that two or three would-be mutineers had moved into the crowd and away from the spitting biker. Jack gave Folton a hard look.

"I'll get to that in a moment, Folton. And don't worry," he paused, letting his words hang dramatically on the windless air, "you'll have your turn to speak."

Folton hacked up a little green gem from his throat and spit over the fence. He looked back to Jack and smiled unpleasantly. Jack continued.

"First, for those of you who don't know him, this is Ron Gleeson. Used to be the lieutenant governor of this state. And unless most of you are Republicans, you shouldn't be sad to hear that he's in charge of camp security."

More laughter that quickly died. But, again, Jack was happy to hear that the mood was generally relaxed; from all indications, Folton's attempts at fomenting rebellion were pretty feeble. At least for now.

"In other words" Jack said, "he's in charge of keeping things like those monsters out of our neighborhood." Jack waited as all heads turned to regard a Stiffer in the distance, weaving back and forth in place and staring toward the Dome. "As you can see so far, he's done a pretty good job of that."

Everyone knew that Gleeson was responsible for the wire around Eden beyond the main gate– as well as the deadly booby trap inception program. He received hearty applause.

"Jim and Denise have been helping Gleeson out. For those of you who have volunteered for drilling practice and patrol duty, you have my thanks – and the thanks of this whole camp. I'm sorry we have to be thinking in terms of defending and killing, but obviously there's no choice. These are hard times; for the moment, it's kill or be killed.

"Though we've had no problems with them yet, we must expect looters at some time in the future. Primarily, this is why we need some kind of auxiliary defense crew. Those of you who are willing and able will be instructed in the use of firearms. God willing, the results of that kind of instruction will not be needed often; but if and when it does, I want you all to be ready."

"Hasn't there been enough death?" someone yelled out from the crowd of tired and sick faces. "Why would anyone want to kill us now? For what reason?"

"Because we have food and water here. Because we have medicines. Because we have women," Jack said.

"We all smell and look like shit," a brassy young girl of about twenty-eight stepped forward and snorted. Her attitude was not so much defiant as resigned. "Who the hell would want to rape us?"

Jack smiled as the modest roar of laughter subsided.

"In some parts of the world, if you smell and have hair, you're a mighty tempting piece of candy," Jack winked at the girl.

The crowd howled. The girl winked back at Jack and giggled. Folton sneered quietly near his part of the fence. Things were not going well, he could see that much. Even his own people were chuckling. He would have to show this tough fuck of a doctor what the score was, and let him know no one crossed Folton G. Harrelson.

"I don't like the idea of any more killing either. But if you need one more reason to protect yourselves, I'll give you one." Jack was all business again as he stepped off of his milk

crate. He picked up a very sick little boy, who was holding on to an old women's leg. The boy did not squirm or wriggle; he was too weak.

"This is why we must fight," Jack said slowly.

And this time the only sound that was heard was the distant gibbering of the Stiffer, who had grown bored with staring at Eden and began walking off.

"I guess that's all I really have to say. Mainly, I want you all to rest. There's enough food and water here for you all, though we'll have to ration it. Sanitation is going to be a problem, but we'll do what we can. Gleeson will fill you in on that. Also, burials will have to be conducted with utmost care. That's also Gleeson's department. I'll turn you over to him in a few moments. I’m also sorry to urge a no pregnancy rule. Do what you must to keep this from happening; you’re all very sick from radioactivity exposure, and any births would surely involve complication and other maladies that would affect a newborn. These maladies would include cancer, deformity, autism, the list goes on. Any questions so far?"

For the moment, there were none.

"I'll be checking in on you all regularly. The best thing you can do to help me is listen to me. I'm the doctor; you're the patients. Brandon here will be my assistant; any of you out there with any medical background at all are welcome to give me a hand."

Jack let the little boy down he was holding. The child returned to the leg he had been clutching to. He found Gus in the crowd and waved him over; Gus, typically, was cooperative but never in a hurry.

"And this is Gus," Jack said, as Gus balanced on a milk crate and smiled out at the sea of faces. "Next to Brandon and myself, this is the man you want to keep on your Christmas card list."

More laughter; Gus apparently had a reputation – one that was most appreciated.

"Now one last thing," Jack said, his voice just a touch harder now. "Because there are so many sick and wounded, and just so much food and water and medicines – and only one
me
– we do things my way around here. And my way involves only taking care of yourselves, listening to Gleeson or Jim or Brandon – and staying alive. That's all I ask. Anyone who feels they can run things better, speak up now – and then leave. I'll let you have your say – but I'm the boss. At least around here, anyway."

Jack turned to Folton, who had stopped spitting and stopped chewing. A few loyal grumblers lowered their eyes and kicked at the dirt. The rest of the crowd turned toward Folton, too – waiting for something, anything, to happen. Folton returned the stare and decided that today was not the day to be a rebel. Not when the general mood was so downright unfriendly.

“Folton, I said you would have your chance to speak,” Jack said. “I yield the floor to you.”

Silence. Folton glared at Jack, but had lost the will to publicly hold court.

"You're the boss, doc," Folton smiled benignly. "Like you said –
for now
, anyway."

Folton ambled off, around the Dome and out of sight.

"Good," Jack said. "Thanks for listening everyone. I'll turn you over to Gleeson now. He's going to tell you how we're going to make this nightmare a little more bearable."

Jack stepped down off the podium as Gleeson began to speak. He walked back into the Dome as Walter flapped to his shoulder.

"Well, would Winston Churchill have been impressed?" he asked the bird, grabbing a wing and pulling it. Walter clucked and snapped her wing back to her side.

He was still worried about Folton. It was the second time the biker had backed off when he had a chance to fight. Jack didn't like it; he had the feeling that Folton was the kind that would strike from behind – or at night. Sometime when he couldn't be seen – and his chances for success were assured.

* * *

Folton did indeed, as they say, make his move at night.

And perhaps his efforts in overthrowing Jack's present government would have succeeded had it not been for the Guardian Angel's timely intervention.

Folton G. Harrelson struck just before midnight.

And Jack found himself pulled from his sofa-bed onto the floor. He snapped awake, sweating and breathing in short nervous gulps.

Walter was flapping around the room. Finally, the bird landed on a table and stared at him, her eyes frightened pits of black.

Jack found the note on the floor, near his hand. Even before he read it, he knew that the Angel had returned. The message was short and to the point:

Folton is on the rampage. Outside. Fast.

Jack fairly flew for his AK-47. Even as he exited the Dome, he could hear the gunshots and the chorus of angry and alarmed voices.

The Dome's only spotlight cast a strange orange glow on the sand; on the faces Jack was looking at, the glow took on contorted, demonic overtones. Perhaps the one face in particular that caught his immediate attention would remind Jack always of Satan incarnate.

That face belonged to none other than Folton G. Harrelson.

"You better stop right there, doc, or I'm gonna make this little fella's troubles go away quick," Folton said in a low, confident voice.

Jack could feel his windpipe do the Crazy Twist. Folton had hold of a child, his meaty hands pulling hard against the youngster's throat. An old women was on her knees next to Folton, crying and praying, though what she said was too fast and unintelligible for Jack to make heads or tails of. Later, he would discover that the old woman spoke only Spanish, and the boy was her nephew. Jack recognized the child immediately as the little boy he had held that afternoon.

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.