Chapter 3:

To Understand the Feral Ways of Nature

Whatever it was, Davies had never seen anything like it, so naturally, he pulled his gun.

Davies stood, watching the beast, gun cocked, wondering if it was going to do something, wondering if it was going to charge, wondering if it might spit blood in his eyes—he’d heard some of these wild desert beasts could do that. Thankfully, this one wasn’t very large, this spike-covered lizard; maybe three or four inches long, the size of a few fingers. But that’s no reason to take a chance, he thought. After all, how big is a rattlesnake? A scorpion? Hanta virus?! Radiation?!

The lizard had a funny shape about it. It was not a skinny lizard, as Davies thought lizards should be, long and lanky. This one had a wide midsection, flat and round. The creature moved in quick jerks, the miniature head of a dragon had a bothered look about it, as if the creature wasn’t afraid of Davies—but expected trouble nonetheless—which happened to be right on the mark. Davies wanted to catch it—but he couldn’t bring himself to get any closer. Who knew what crazy diseases it might carry, or how much exposure to radiation the little beast had suffered? He wasn’t used to such wild things with spikes on their heads. Bravely, he had already reduced the distance to a pittance; a mere four or five feet, as he leaned at the creature, gun at his side.

And what if it could spit blood? He wondered what lizard blood would do to him and thought of the great examples cinema and literature had offered over the years. Medusa’s corrosive blood ate through metals—even those enchanted by the Gods. The blood of the xenomorphs in Aliens ate through the hulls of starships. The blood of the Hydra killed Hercules. But Davies would not be dissuaded. He leaned closer to the lizard, which, in turn, slanted its head up at Davies, its mouth now hanging open in a silent hiss.

There was always the path of the coward, Davies thought. He could shoot its fat little body and examine its head, all dead and harmless. He could stare at those little dragon eyes for hours, studying the intricate spikes. He was a good enough shot, especially at this distance. The death of the creature would also reveal the dangerous aspects of its blood as it melted the rocks and filled the air with noxious vapors. But what if it wasn’t some abomination? What if nothing of that sort happened? Then, he’d have to eat it. After all, that was the code—in which case he’d want to shoot its head, so at least he wouldn’t have to eat the beady eyes, the crunchy little skull. If he shot its head, well, you can’t eat what isn’t there.

He pulled the gun up and sighted the lizard. Slowly, he lowered the gun and holstered it. Then, quick like an Old West gunslinger, he jerked the gun back up and pretended to fire. Bang, you’re dead. He smiled at his imagined success. I’m fast, he thought. Fast like a Vegas stripper!

But he didn’t know how fast the little bugger could spit. It might be pretty damn fast—maybe too damn fast if it knew it were in a showdown. Davies frowned. Could it hit him in the eyes from five feet? He imagined so.

Davies glanced about the greater desert. To his disappointment, he noted a distinct lack of tumbleweeds, no dry wind blowing the dirt across the cowboy boots and spurs that he wasn’t wearing, or pulling at a duster he didn’t own. Wasn’t this supposed to be the desert? Where were the tumbleweeds?!

He whistled that classic showdown music, the music always played in Western movies, right before the hero says “Draw.” Do-iy-oo-iy-oooo. Bwa, bwa, bwaaa.

After another minute of simply staring at the little beast, Davies lost his interest and almost retreated from the creature, allowing it a bit of room. He was about to step away when he remembered that he represented more than just himself. He was the incarnation of the majesty of the United States of America! How dare a champion of the Greatest Nation in the World give ground to a mere reptile?! He felt ashamed, and now that he recognized the grievous mistake he nearly made, he found himself in a bit of a quandary. He was stuck somewhere between moving back and thereby shaming self and country, moving forward and facing a mortal danger, and not moving at all—which was simply impractical, especially in the long run.

How far can a lizard spit? He wondered. Why had he never bothered to find out?! Was this the piece of vital information that would finally be his undoing?! Davies vowed to read up on local flora and fauna should he ever get out of this mess, should he ever return from these wastelands. Think, he thought. Think!

Eventually, the Private First Class decided on a diplomatic approach. He reasoned that in extreme cases, even the United States negotiated. Admittedly, there were unlikely to be any metals without a good battle—but if Davies could manage a negotiation, at least he’d get to keep his meager honor and perhaps his sacred life. “I suppose this desert is big enough for the both of us,” he said in his best John Wayne. He hocked up a mouthful of saliva and spit for good measure. That was American enough, he imagined—frontiers-ish even. Oh, but what he wouldn’t do for a nice loogie—or a wad of chew—but he had neither a cold nor tobacco. Not that he could properly spit anyway. Davies frowned. There were always so many more things he needed to learn! “You stay on that side of the rock, ya hear? And don’t do nothin’ creepy, or I’ll be obliged to show you out,” Davies said in his best roughneck.

The lizard blinked in recognition, seeming only to want the warmth of the rock. That is, it seemed to blink. Maybe it winked, Davies worried. Maybe it was a signal to a whole corps of fat lizard troopers. A cold sweat came over him as he realized this might be the General of a feral lizard army, and while Davies was distracted a whole troop of blood-spitters had flanked him! He imagined the wink was a signal for all the fat lizard troopers to jump out and spit him to death. He’d be caught in a crossfire with no where to run or hide! He realized that the radiation of the desert had mutated these desert creatures into uber-soldiers with a conniving intellect and a thirst for human flesh—some of the ol’ long pig. He had no doubt they’d keep the code! They’d gnaw his bones, and over the following days, as the Army hunted for his body, they would find nothing but a fat colony of harmless lizards—that was actually plotting to destroy this great nation! There wouldn’t be any left of Private First Class Davies, and although this in itself would be a great tragedy, it was simply the beginning of a greater invasion, the opening scene of the scariest movie never made: The Irradiated Lizards of Blood!

Davies always wanted to be in a movie, to play a part in some grand story, but he didn’t want to be the first victim, the death that inspires the heroes to investigate. “His name was Davies, and he was a good, smart soldier. One of the best,” he smiled as he imagined Pendanski’s first line. “Whatever got him musta been real big. Whatever got him musta been real nasty…” He could imagine it now. It’d go straight to video and in thirty years it’d become a wild cult classic!

That is, if the lizards were up to the task.

Knowing that he could not know, Davies felt there was no shame in giving ground to these beasts—but not without a truce in place! He stood at attention and announced himself to the lizard. “I am a representative of the United States of America, and any act of aggression against my person will be deemed an act of aggression against the United States itself! Know there would be swift and horrible retribution should I, or my Jeep, or my other supplies, come to harm!” Smart idea to throw in the jeep and tent, he thought. Can’t let the little bastards think its fair game to go after my MREs… Davies smirked, petulant in the face of the desert. He turned, leaving the General on his rock—a bit weary to do so. He walked in what he hoped was a confident and assured manner back to the Jeep. To think that this lizard might be some irradiated monster!

Davies shuddered at his renewed thoughts of radiation. Why was it that radiation always made other creatures more powerful and dangerous, bringing about an insatiable thirst for human blood—yet, with humans, it melted organs and incited the growth of additional, useless, and horribly painful appendages? Either that, or it warped the mind until one desired only to feed on the blood and brains of his fellow man? Thinking about it, Davies realized radiation itself must have a terrible grudge against people. Apparently, in discovering radiation, mankind had also royally pissed it off. Davies clenched his stomach, sensing an impending nausea. Perhaps he should do his best to forget about it.

Slowly, Davies offloaded his water, setting it in the shade of the jeep, so it would stay as cool as possible. Encased in thick plastic, the water was safe enough. The he moved his foodstuffs into the front seats, and laid his sleeping bag in the back. Though it might be a little cramped, it was the best way to stay out of reach of all the creepy crawlers.

Over the edge of the Jeep, Davies stared longingly at his water. There were only five gallons in the jug, and in a hot desert, that wasn’t going to last him long. Already he wanted a shower. Indeed, more than anything, Davies wanted a shower. The dirt of the desert had invaded everything—like radiation, like thoughts of radiation—and made everything itch to no end.

Davies cleared a spot and added a ring of rocks, then meandered about, and collected dried bits of shrub. The fuel was sparse and light. The fire wouldn’t last long. He shrugged. This place was so ugging hot anyway! He only needed a fire for propriety’s sake—but he still wanted a right, proper one, a regular barn-burner! He wanted a bonfire he could dance around! Of course, he also wanted war paint and someone to bang on deerskin drums...

He looked at the General who, unbeknownst to Davies, had snuck a good foot closer to get higher up on the warm rock. The sun had passed its zenith, and shadows were beginning to creep.

“You wouldn’t know about any trees, would ya?” Davies asked the lizard. He didn’t even get a blink this time. “I thought not. Hope you have a nice hole to crawl into, ‘cause I don’t share my bag with your kind.” He said with a false sense of superiority, knowing at once that this creature would survive out here in the desert better than he could. But in the real world, I would be the one that survives, he thought.

Survival in the real world… Davies found himself thinking about the contradiction in that idea. This desert was the real world, raw and unshaped by human hands. His world was the strange wonder with its cubed mountains, laced with caves, water in pipes running everywhere. To survive here in the desert, one had to have cunning and skill, instinct and insight. In the world Davies knew, one had to have a credit card and a four-digit pin.

But Davies loved his strange paved world of electrical outlets and processed food. Where else was nature such a marvelous gift, the trees and grass of the parks, the birds wheeling and tumbling overhead? In the wild, nature was everything. It was good and bad, life-affirming and deadly, the law of the jungle, where might makes right. It was still there in Davies’ world, hidden under layers of social custom, the niceties of modern civilization, the function of law. Yet, nature had notable effects on the artificial world of man. Weather played perhaps the most obvious role in urban life—but nature by no means stopped there. Davies’ world was built on top of the natural world, with the ants and cockroaches crawling under the door. Perhaps human innovation had muted the power of raw nature, but in no way had humanity managed to cancel or erase nature altogether. And how could they? Humans themselves, with their highly evolved thought process and complex digestion were natural systems in and of themselves, built in accordance to natural law. Even the “artificial” mountains of man were subject to physics and chemistry and all the other sciences that served to interpret the language of God, Nature, or Whatever.

Davies set about making a fire and energetically cussing at all the little stickers the scrub presented. As the small fire began to crackle, Davies thoughts turned from nature to that which is most unnatural: hot dogs. Not that he liked hot dogs. He despised the cruddy wiener food and barely considered it edible, but he still knew their worth. There was a magic about hot dogs and campfires. Hot dogs were a bridge, allowing one to traverse the gap between the natural world and the contrived world of strip malls and automobiles. For one, he could offer them to the General in a show of kinship. Perhaps he might win over the feral creatures of the desert, so they might assist him in his mission. Who better to help guard the unguardable expanse of desert all about them? But Davies didn’t even have any buns, or ketchup to coat them. He hoped the gods of recreational outdoorsmanship would forgive him for his inability to offer up the proper sacrifices. He promised to make it up, to cook up extra hot dogs and fling them about the desert in an attempt to appease the wild animals; and, in kind, their feral gods. Then, he’d burn marshmallows and muck his face over with so many charcoal-coated s’mores, in the ancient rite of gorging that dated back to the beginnings of man, when man was still wild and uncouth, and believed in gods like Bacchus and Dionysus.

If only he would have stopped on the way.

There was a gas station not far off base, maybe seventy miles back, where he thought to take a detour. What were the chances some backwater gas station didn’t have all of these necessary provisions? It was six, maybe seven hours there and back over the rough path Davies traversed, meaning, if he traveled the straight road and refused to stop halfway—and halfway again, as he was wont to do—he could possibly get there and back in less than three! He decided he’d go for some proper camping grub in the morning. He thought he should do it now, but he already had a fire. Why not wait until tomorrow, when he’d be bored? Plus, it was against direct orders to leave this place, which meant returning to the gas station should be done in the full light of day, when anyone could—but nobody would—notice. Davies made a mental note: tomorrow = marshmallows.

Having made the necessary plans, Davies smiled and sat before his slight fire, wondering what would possibly come next. It was only dusk, way too early for bed. The General was no use, as he’d moved off the rock, scampered over the dirt in search of the gods only knew. Probably hot dogs, Davies mused. Now, it was just him, Private First Class Reginald Davies, surrounded by dirt and sky, sitting on the caked ground, regarding the bit of heat and light in front of him. He had never been in such a wild, lonely place and couldn’t believe how quiet it was.

Davies resolved to understand it, to be one with this feral setting. Yes. He needed communion with nature. But how, he wondered, does one goes about contacting the gods of earth and air especially without—well—ritual sacrifice?! Yet he knew there was nothing for it. He had no hotdogs and he simply refused to sacrifice his jeep.

Davies stood and collected more twigs to burn. He watched the fire, which Prometheus stole from the gods, and hoped that would give him the inspiration he needed. The fire was still raging when Davies decided to crawl into the Jeep, into his sleeping bag, and be inspired from there. He watched the fire and stared up as more and more stars slowly appeared overhead. Where did they all come from?! There weren’t nearly so many in the city!

Closing his eyes for a while, Davies listened to the crackle and hiss of the flame. He sat for a long time, thinking nothing in particular, staring at the fire, or maybe the stars, or maybe at nothing at all. He watched and wondered at everything about him, thinking he could get used to this. Then, before he meant to, he fell asleep.

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