BOOK THREE

THE DESERT OF HOPE or HALFWAY BETWEEN POINT A AND POINT B

(a book about people)

Chapter 1:

Under A Desert Moon

The air was light and crisp as it was still early out, but it would get hot today, miserably hot in a way only ethnic foods manage. There was no chance of relief either, not a cloud in the sky and not a chance of one appearing. Rain would be a direct act of God, and therefore, unlikely. Davies expected nothing less of the desert. A smile stretched across his face. He looked forward to a little suffering with expectant pride and triumph. There’s nothing like overcoming a little adversity, he thought to himself, except a really good ham and havarti on rye, of course. Ah, but it was too early to think about food…

Everything about Private First Class Davies was standard issue: his boots, uniform, pistol, food, gas can, water, waterproof matches, tan lines. Fresh off the assembly line, with fatigues, short hair, and the standard issue attitudes. He was strong, lean, young, and dumb. He didn’t think he was dumb, but like this—sporting ill-fitting aviator glasses, a goofy half-smile, his name on his shirt, and a thick smear of sun block over his nose—he knew he looked dumb.

Davies drove his Jeep recklessly, whipping it over the dry caked land at a crisp rate, especially considering the crappy condition of his path. There was no road for the Jeep to follow, only an expanse of desert stretching forth with nothing at one end and Vegas at the other. The Jeep was quite amiable to the abuse. It bounced and rocked over ditches and gulleys, the engine wailing as Davies accelerated out of arroyos and over the sides of hills. Tires ground into the dirt as he broke, going down the next slope, into the next dried out creek bed, only to once again floor the accelerator, and burst out of the depression with a vengeance. The vehicle knifed through the sparse vegetation, throwing bits of brush everywhere. The whole time Davies bore an aggressive, amused smirk as he bobbed his head to the angry music of the radio. The Jeep wailed and jerked as he slammed through a clump of brush. In the corner of his mind lurked the idea that Davies may be killing his only way out of the desert, but he managed to suppress his cautionary urges, and perhaps this mocking carelessness added to his euphoria. He was an excellent mechanic. Likely he could fix any problems—so long as they weren’t major.

Driving so aggressively was also keeping his mind off his mission: another damned pointless assignment. If Uncle Sam ever attended family outings, Davies would have realized he was nothing but a shyster, unwilling to do his own work, and always lying about what he really wanted from others. If Uncle Sam ever attended family outings, Davies probably would have hit him in the face, or tackled him into the dirt, instead of signing over four years of his life. As it was, Davies was contractually obligated to stand guard and watch for any unusual activity, out in the middle of the goddamned desert, miles and miles north and east of anything, at some degrees and minutes latitude, and some other degrees and high noon longitude. Somewhere about here, he decided, and smashed on the brakes.

He checked his coordinates.

Not quite, he thought, and started the Jeep once more.

Soon, he’d set up camp and watch the rocks grow until his C.O. ordered him to return. In the middle of an army base consisting of thousands of miles of lizards and tumbleweed, used for war games and live ammunition fire, Davies couldn’t imagine anything deserving protection, much less, anything he might have to fight off. Out here, the Army shot rockets into silhouette houses of nothing but ply wood. There were no good alien rumors spread about this base, no nut-jobs jumping the fences trying to spy skunkwork planes or other experimental technologies. Occasionally, there were tanks, firing rounds at older decommissioned tanks—but that was about as exciting as it ever got out at Fort McNamar.

Davies knew the real reason he was out in the middle of the desert, and would likely be out here for a good week or two. The real reason he was on this assignment was that his C.O. had it out for him. It wasn’t just paranoia that told Davies his C.O. had it out for him, either. Pendanski said it all the time. He said, “Smith really has it out for you,” and he’d give Davies a worried look.

Davies would always answer back, “No, not Smith! Me and Smith go way back!” in a perfectly sincere tone that never managed to fool Pendanski—though he might get one of the others. Pendanski and Davies had that in common: they were both smart asses, fluent in sarcasm.

But Davies was a practicing smart ass, where Pendanski was reformed. That’s why Davies was in the desert, sun glaring overhead, while Pendanski was back at base, stripping down his rifle, repeating the only poem anyone knew around here:

This is my big fucking gun,

There are many guns like it,

But this is my big gun…

Pendanski was the type of person you could depend on, the type of person you believe. He only lied when he had really good reason, which suited Davies just fine, because Davies would trust, would forgive a really good reason to lie. Lies are not always such bad things, Davies reasoned. He’d rather be around people that lied appropriately than those who unforgivingly always told the truth. What a brutal way to go about relating to others, he thought. When an off mood struck him, Davies would point out rather painful truths to truth-tellers in an effort to show them the error of their ways—but he found these people usually just sucked it up and redoubled their efforts to wreck the lives of others. That was the problem with people: always trying to fix other people in instead of doing a little work on themselves.

The Jeep turned a bit, aiming for a dried-out clump of brush. Davies sucked in his breath and braced himself as the brush exploded against the Jeep, sending kindling and sticks through the air. There was a wide smile across Davies’ face as hormones thrummed throughout his body and screamed in his ears, “Live! Live!” He sensed the reckless invincibility of excess testosterone overtaking him and he loved it.

The Jeep slammed to a sudden stop as Davies ground down the brakes once more. Forward momentum pushed Davies heavily into his seat belt. Dust erupted from under the tires, sending a small cloud skyward; a signal to God. A screen of fine particles settled slowly over everything: clothes, hair, ears, and eyes. The driver blinked away the dust, an empty grin stretched across his face. He watched the cloud drift and disappear.

With a toothy grin and a suppressed chuckle, Davies exited the vehicle. He stepped around the Jeep, looking out at the terrain and up at the sun. He gave a whoop and holler, wondering if nature would answer back. The world was bright and happy, and Davies was on top of it!

He stretched across the passenger seat and pulled a map out from between the driver’s seat and the center console. Splayed over the hood, Davies tried to make heads or tails of his GPS, map, and compass. After much consideration and head-scratching, he eventually decided he was quite possibly very close to where he was supposed to be, and so, in the style that so infuriated his C.O., Davies decided he was most appropriately close enough.

Missing all the proper creases, Private First Class Davies folded the map and flopped it on the passenger seat. He pinned it down with his GPS and compass.

Davies stepped around the Jeep, inspecting his transport—the dirt accumulation, the brush stuck in the grill, the fact that it was surrounded by nothing but feral desert. The Jeep stood dirty and defiant against the glare of Nature, all machismo and hard lines against the bleaching light. He craned his head and glanced about, certain that there was nothing else out here that even hinted at human existence.

Davies spent a moment admiring the dead shrub in the grill. He liked this Jeep. It did not argue or question, it simply stood quietly awaiting its next command, an order that Davies would issue and execute. Davies liked that and noted he was not exempt from the trappings of power. Then, thinking of orders and power, Davies remembered he had to call in.

Hailing from the city, Davies had always questioned that such vast wastelands existed, the creepy red nothingness appearing in SUV ads and movies like Thelma and Louise. He’d seen the red and blue calendars of the Southwest, showcasing mesas, arches and burnt sunsets, but always secretly suspected they were little more than an artist’s fancy—like the Hobbit holes of the Shire, or the treetop dwellings of the Elves he’d witnessed on the covers of his favorite fantasy fiction. There was so much room in the desert and so little to fill it. There was a bush to his left, about four feet tall. There were rocks of all sizes. There was sand, sky, and heat—so much heat—but nothing soft or green, nothing that didn’t scream of the harsh conditions of the place.

The desert was various shades of brown and red, stretching on forever in three directions, with a dim line of mountains to the west. Despite the oppressive conditions, this place gave Davies hope. It meant the paradises, the glacial wastelands of Canada and Alaska, the Indian jungles, the islands in Corona commercials; they all must exist! He had new reasons to believe there really was a China, an Italy, even a Northern Africa! When he was as small as he could remember, the world was an infinite and strange place. Then he spent years in a building with strangers all his own age, and talked about how weird and wonderful the world was while locked in a staid and antiseptic box to the point that he didn’t believe it anymore. After which, he agreed to give up four years of his life in exchange for a chance to explore on someone else’s dime—mostly because he had so few dimes of his own.

Something shifted in the dirt. Davies didn’t even think about I. He acted on instinct and chased the small animal; a mouse, or squirrel, or whatever furry dweller would hide under the brush of the Nevada desert. The critter was fast and cut from side to side seemingly at random. Davies gave chase. He poked under bushes for the little animal and at several points only missed catching the little beast because he hesitated to touch it. He scrambled over the rocks and around bushes, peering through the roots and branches of shrubs, between the fissures of rock. The little thing trembled under his gaze, with big black eyes, short fur, and long hind feet. As he chased the beast from obstacle to obstacle, the little desert mouse grew tired, pausing longer among the stalks of bushes and under rocks, letting Davies marvel at its tiny body, before eventually sprinting to the next hiding spot. But Davies was only hunting for sport with no need of a trophy, and so he eventually gave up. After all, he did not want to harm—or even touch—the thing. Even if the creature didn’t carry the plague, or hanta virus, there was the code to consider. “Don’t forget the code,” Pendanski said to him back at barracks as Davies packed his gear.

Davies turned to his friend. “What code?”

“The Code of Necessity. If you kill it, you have to eat it.” Pendanski informed.

Pendanski was from Wyoming, and by virtue of such a rural upbringing, he was the final word on all things wilderness. It did not matter that he lived in Cheyenne, or that the first time he left the state was on the bus to basic training. He had camped at lakes, in the woods, and near streams in his time growing up, and knew far more of country life than Davies could imagine. He’d seen, even been in barns, though he had nothing to do with their operation or upkeep.

Armed with the code, Davies couldn’t see the rodent as exceptionally good eating—which isn’t to say his mother couldn’t do something quite astounding with it. She’d have all the right spices and would know the proper way to prepare potatoes for the side. With little more than a mouse, his mother could craft a masterpiece. But Davies was not his mother and he hadn’t packed a stew pot. Forget the mouse, he told himself—and so he did.

After chase, Davies found himself turned in circles at the bottom of a ravine. He looked around and felt a surge of panic. His heart raced as he stared all about. The Jeep was gone! The Jeep was his anchor to the real world, with its people and machines. Should he lose the Jeep, this desert would suck him under. Davies looked down the long line of the arroyo, as the dry channel turned left on one side and right on the other. The reds and browns bled into the azure sky as waves of shimmering heat washed off the ground. His forehead was drenched in sweat from heat and exertion—and now from anxiety. Before him was nothing. There were no restaurants, corner stores, no public sanitation. There was only dirt and heat; which threatened to consume him, body and soul, and leave his bones bleaching in the desert sun. He realized he would not eat the mouse—the mouse would eat him.

Davies took a deep breath, forcing away his mild agoraphobia and stepped slowly up the bank of the dried creek. He kept his eyes on the dirt, until he reached the crown of the rise. Raising his head, a deep sigh of relief escaped his lips as the Jeep appeared no more than ten paces away. Seeing the Jeep, Davies felt all his ties to greater world, and despite the fact that he loathed a good deal of them, he relaxed in their strong grip. Remembering his responsibilities, he stepped to the Jeep and took up the radio. He hoped Smith might simply order him back, now that he’d driven all the way out here. Now that he’d broken a sweat. Mission complete. Return to base.

He called over the speaker, “Rogue Leader to Echo Base, Rogue Leader to Echo Base, come in.”

The radio crackled in response, “Echo Base to Rogue Leader, any sign of life?” It was Pendanski—and he'd picked up on the Star Wars reference immediately.

Pleased, Davies uttered the next line of dialog, “Negative. There isn’t enough life on this ice cube to fill a space transport.” Whenever on the radio, Davies and Pendanski spent as much time as possible quoting Sci-Fi. At times the conversations could be extremely sketchy to follow, making sense only to those with a vast knowledge of all things screen, both good and bad, large and small. He’d cackled the first time he had the courage to bring up Ice Pirates and was delighted to learn that not only had Pendanski seen the film, he’d even managed to make it to the end (a feat that few have endured). Yet, the world of cinema was so rich and expansive that at times neither Davies nor Pendanski had any clue what the other was quoting. This never bothered Davies or Pendanski, because—along with laughing and learning really bad dialogue from one another—this wasted a lot of time. To Davies, time was worse than worthless. He had three years to waste before time was once again useful. In three years, time would be his once more, but until then, time was the enemy.

“Where are you?” Pendanski asked.

“North and east of Vegas.” Davies answered, “A lot north and a little east. I’m preparing for my vision quest, to become a man among men, but I have a little problem.”

“And that would be...?”
”Do you know how to distill peyote?”

“Like they did in Young Guns II,” Pendanski said.

“Yeah, but they never shows the process; the how to make it, and from what. One second they’re talking about the drug, and the next, they’re simply doing it, sipping peyote in front of a fire, puking, and tripping balls.”

He could hear Pendanski nodding. “Hollywood usually skips the vital details.”

“If only there was another vast store of such accurate and interesting knowledge…”

“You mean, like a library?” Davies asked.

“Yeah, fuck books,” Pendanski answered.

“You have any idea what cactus I use, that is, assuming there’s more than one kind…? Is it one of those super tall with arms, like you see in the cartoons, because I don’t see any of those.”

“Saguaro?” Pendanski replied. “No. You’re looking for something small that barely grows out of the ground. And you don’t use the cactus, just the flower.”

“One of the little ones? You mean like the ones they sell in grocery store floral departments?” Davies replied. “Is this just a waste of gas on my part?”

“Yeah, but you got to get them to flower, and that means you have to not water them properly,” Pendanski pointed out. “Out in the wild, they just do that.”

“Is this blooming season?”

“I dunno,” Pendanski shrugged. “You say you’re north of Vegas?”

Davies smirked. “What is it with you and my location? I’m in the middle of a big fucking desert,” Davies stated.

“I’m trying to figure where in the desert.”

“North,” Davies stated once again.

“But how far?” Pendanski continued. “Are you clear up by where they did all the testing?”

“What testing?” Davies felt a shiver of fear creep over him. He had a feeling he knew what testing.

Pendanski gave a nervous chuckle. “The nuclear testing. Remember? Oppenheimer and the first bomb?”

Davies scoffed. “Oppenheimer is mutual funds, you goon. You’re thinking of Einstein.”

“Trust me, it’s Oppenheimer,” Pendanski replied. “Einstein is the mutual fund.”

But Davies wasn’t listening anymore. He was considering what was already said. Was there radiation about? Deadly radiation?! Davies had watched far too many movies with mutation, nuclear winter, and radiation poisoning at the heart of the plot to ignore such a threat. He cringed at the idea of his skin sliding off his body like an over-sized jacket. He had what Pendanski mocked as an unrealistic fear of all things nuclear—but Davies maintained it was completely realistic. After all, even Superman was haunted by radiation, as kryptonite was irradiated fragments of his home world…

“Report, Private!”

It was no longer Pendanski on the other end of the line. It was Colonel John A.B.C. Smith. Davies grinned up at the sun. He was all alone, nobody for a hundred and fifty miles; which meant his C.O. could not put him on latrine duty, or at least that he couldn’t enforce it. For affect, Davies stood at attention and put on his serious face, then spoke slow and clear. “Sir, I have met with minimal resistance in my advance across these territories, all claimed in the name of his noble majesty, His Imperial Highness, King and God of East and West…”

Smith cut in. “Davies, what in the hell are you rambling about?!” Like Davies, Smith was slow and deliberate with each word. Davies figured Smith spoke slowly because Smith had to deal with so many idiots and smart asses and rarely anybody approaching normal. After all, Smith was career military. Smith was also from the South, the land of charm and grace, which Davies found interesting. Any grace and charm John Abraham Bartholomew C Smith’s upbringing may have bestowed—well—the Army certainly managed to beat it out of him.

“C” Smith. That was another thing about him. Nobody knew what the C stood for. It must be terribly embarrassing. Could it be Chad, Cassius, Consuelo, Constantine, Clay, Caleb? There were plenty of embarrassing C’s to consider. Despite endless speculation few felt they could imagine anything worse than Bartholomew, so they assumed they must be wrong. Little did they know that the C stood for nothing. His full and proper name was John Abraham Bartholomew C Smith. His mother and father simply couldn’t agree on a name beginning with C, and so, in a deadlock, had simply agreed to make his fourth name nothing more than an initial. Why they found it necessary to give the boy four names on top of a surname is another mystery altogether.

Davies blinked at the harsh light of the desert as he glanced about once more. “Sir, I do not see how the acquisition of these lands will help fill the boundless coffers of His Majesty. There’s nothing out here but dirt, which last I heard, has very low trade value, since there is such constant supply and limited demand. Even should we find ore, there’s no wood to stoke the fires, and no natives to bend to the grueling work of purifying the metals. Therefore, my first inclination is to find some heathen king and sell him the land at inflated prices. Afterward, if we should discover something and want the land back, we can simply depose him at the low, low price of a modern war, all supported by tax and tariff, of course…”

“Davies! Dammit! Shut up!”

Davies envisioned the veins on Smith’s forehead puffed and fierce, his face turning ever so slightly purple. “Just doing my part to confuse the Commies, sir,” he said, saluting for effect.

“I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP!”

There was a long pause as Smith inevitably remembered to breathe. Davies pondered the silence that must be the comm room. He smiled. Yes, a pointless victory he would pay for repeatedly, but, oh, what fun!

Finally, Smith managed to ask another question, “Are you in position?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“It sure took you long enough,” Smith muttered. “Hold there until further notice,” he ordered.

Davies heart sank. In the middle of the desert, under a baking sun, what besides heat stroke was there to hold for? He figured Smith had sent Davies out here on a day trip, to get him out of his hair for a bit. But to stay out here…? “Sir, there’s nothing out here, sir.”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Smith barked.

“Sir, permission to speak freely,” Davies replied.

“No, God damn it! You wait out there until you know what you’re waiting for. Understood?”

“Sir, is this a test?”

“No, shitworm, this is not a test! You need to guard the site! You’re in the middle of the goddamn desert, and there’s nobody within a hundred miles of you! DO NOT FUCK THIS UP!”

The line went dead.

Davies set the receiver on the seat and contemplated what he’d been told. Secure the location? From what? Davies wondered if he should fuck up on purpose and realized since there was nothing out here for him to actually guard against, he would have to be particularly brilliant if he was to pull that off. Unsure how to properly undermine his commands, Davies decided to forget them altogether. He would simply wait until he was ordered back—and in the mean time, he’d look for ways to put a pickle in Smith’s ear. What the Private First Class did not know was that someone was indeed heading for his location, and that this trespasser was bringing destruction in his wake.

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