Chapter 4:

Born of Dust and Fire

Davies woke with a jolt, spooked and on edge. Something was out there in the desert, something big and noisy. His immediate reaction was to go for his gun. It was a slow creep, and it would be a trick to get it out of the holster without any sound—but he managed it nonetheless.

Gun in hand; Davies lay real still in the back seat of the Jeep, wrapped in his sleeping bag. Whatever woke him, let it think he was still asleep. Let it try to sneak up on him as he held his gun at the ready, and then, Bang! He’d put a big ol’ hole in its face!

Davies listened to the wilderness for any clues, but all he heard was the thumping of his heart, the sharp inhale and exhale of his breath, the blood rushing in his ears. Time ticked and Davies wondered what danger wandered the desert at this dark hour. Man-eating desert dogs and giant carnivorous lizards were improbable, despite the radiation. Without the gross involvement of nuclear spoilage, there wasn’t any wildlife he should fear in this desert, nothing so big that it required a gun, anyway. What was the biggest thing out here? The occasional coyote? A stout stick would surely do. Davies could probably get by on nothing but bravado. Coyotes are, after all, rather small dogs. Plus, Davies didn’t like the idea of eating coyote—and he couldn’t slough off the code just because some bitch spooked him out of a good sleep.

That wasn’t to say there couldn’t be some twisted, irradiated freak lurking about. He’d already decided irradiated abominations were not subject to the code, so he was fine with the possibility that he might have to shoot one in the face. But then, perhaps the danger was of the human element—delinquents having some desert shindig, imbibing peyote, smoking weed, and drinking beer out of cans. No doubt they’d be game for trouble, simply lucking across his campsite. He wondered if they’d be willing to barter, MREs for some marshmallows and chocolate—or better yet, night vision goggles for alcohol and hot dogs.

Davies shifted his head allowing himself a view of the desert. He searched for the telltale bonfire of desert revelers. Looking about, all he saw was the reddish glow of his own embers. Beyond that was the silhouette of shrubs and hills, but nothing more. Davies gave a sigh. Whatever had awakened him had either passed on, or it simply been imagined in the first place. He leaned back in the jeep, preparing to sleep once more, though he was understandably jumpy. It was a strange and wasted landscape before him.

Just as he relaxed, Davies finally heard what had made him wake in the first place. Worse than that, he felt it. Immediately, he knew two things. First, this danger was not some strange irradiated beast, born from human carelessness, that Davies might overpower with a bit of grit and courage. No. This threat was almost mundane in its commonality, as he was on military land. The second thing he knew was that he was going to die, as a long streak of light flashed overhead and careened into the desert sands perhaps a hundred feet off. BOOM!

Sand exploded into the air.

His heart sunk into his stomach, and adrenaline pulsed through his veins as his greatest fear enveloped him. He jumped out of the Jeep, then crawled under it. He could not believe what he saw! And yet, there it was! Another shell shrieked across the desert, flashed, and exploded into the dirt, closer than the first. BOOM! Artillery fire!

Davies knew he wouldn’t be safe under the Jeep, but his fear kept him cringing under the metal carriage. Despair washed over him, his stomach knotted, as he processed the ramifications of what he witnessed. His C.O. had set him up! John A. B. C. Smith had ordered him onto a firing range and told him to set up camp under some vague pretense of security and national interests—and now some no-rank bastard some fifty miles away was going to blow him into fingers and bone fragments with a Howitzer, thinking his jeep was just a cardboard mock-up! Sorry Ma Davies, your son died in a horrible training accident. Nobody was supposed to be out on the firing range…

Christ! He had to get away from the jeep!

…and what then?! He’d be stranded without the jeep! Better to die now and save the pain!

Davies decided he really didn’t like the idea of camping out in the desert anymore. Yeah, it was new and novel, but radiation, lack of the necessary junk food, and artillery fire had ruined everything! He cursed as he shrank back, unwilling to leave the relative safety of the jeep, as yet another shell shrieked overhead. EIEIEEIiRRIeiRrreRirrererrr!! BOOM!

Something moved. Out among the craters of impact, something swayed, rocked, and slowly stepped forward. It was large and tall, and stood near the last impact sight. The last shell must have shaken it up, as it seemed dazed and unsure of its surroundings.

Initially, Davies thought it was some coyote or perhaps a wild horse—but no—the figure was bipedal. Shifting around, confused, the form was human… or mutant... And why would some idiot wander about in the middle of the desert during live artillery fire?! Why wasn’t he under something? Noting it was indeed a man, he concluded this was probably another unpopular PFC, sent to secure his own demise.

It was hard to do the right thing—which in this case would be to stay under the jeep and pray with a fervor—and so Davies did the opposite. He stepped out from under the Jeep and shrank from the stars. He expected at any second a shell would drop right on top of him, shattering his tiny existence. Game over. All done. Time to pay the tab. Davies seized on the rush of adrenaline and fear flowing through him. He ran forward, eyes wide, waving his arms. “Hey, hey!” he called out, as another and another shell shrieked overhead and crashed to the ground. BOOM! BOOM!

The figure stopped and turned toward the new impacts. He seemed to shrug as he turned away. Artillery didn’t phase him—but seeing Davies did. He stood stalk still, though Davies could see him just fine as he seemed to give off a faint glow. He realized that maybe the artillery wasn’t meant for him, but perhaps this irradiated freak. He stopped in his approach and considered running back to the jeep. At least he still had his gun in hand.

With a slow step, the stranger walked forward, curious to see someone else in the middle of nowhere. “You shouldn’t be here,” he called to the private.

This was an obvious truth and not what some abomination might say to lure him in, so Davies took a cautious step forward. It was the sort of tentative walk used in mine fields, and almost matched by the slow gait of the stranger, though his slow step seemed to signal that it was all such a bother. The stranger teetered in a manner that suggested not only simple exhaustion but hopelessness to boot. Davies wondered if this idiot knew what kind of danger they were in, then figured the man knew all too well, as if he was suicidal, as if he was out here on purpose.

Davies reconsidered his rescue effort. What if he succeeded? It would not be much fun to be stuck in the desert with some fruit basket that was always looking for an opportunity to off himself. Talk about a buzzkill! Here he was; having a wonderful time suffering the desert, worried sick by radiation, when along comes company—morose company—and suddenly, Davies is on suicide watch.

Ugh! Suicide was so drab, so self-involved and narcissistic. If this wanderer was suicidal, he’d undoubtedly be career. He was definitely an officer. As he got closer, Davies noticed not only was this guy an idiot, he was a stark naked idiot—with a touch of a reddish glow. The only thing this stranger wore was the dust of the desert—which didn’t hide a dang thing! This precarious introduction was emphasized by another shell shrieking overhead. BOOM! Light flashed, revealing far too much.

The stranger stopped. He was still a good twenty feet away. Initially, it didn’t appear the stranger was going to say anything. He looked about, as if he suddenly didn’t want to talk to Davies at all, as if he might bolt, as if he was deciding on possible escape routes. Yet, the stranger didn’t run. Perhaps he realized there was nowhere else to go. As far as he could tell, the whole world was dirt and dying shrubs. Furtive, the stranger called out to Davies. “You got some water? I could really use a drink right now.”

Davies didn’t answer the stranger. How could he? The situation was simply impossible! Artillery was raining down on them, and this man couldn’t think of anything other than simple thirst!

The stranger spoke again, “Water?” he asked with a drinking gesture. “Do you have water?” He turned to the side and muttered to himself, “Probably doesn’t speak a lick of English…” Strangest thing of all was that this glowing wanderer seemed familiar. There was something about him, perhaps in the eyes and facial structure, something Davies recognized.

Davies was amazingly uncomfortable and unsure just where to look. He kept his right hand just above his pistol to comfort himself as he turned back to the Jeep. “Yeah, water,” he began with a nod. “And I got a spare pair of pants that shouldn’t be too big for you...” he said over his shoulder. He took a step toward the Jeep.

Another shriek and bang of modern warfare arched overhead and slammed to the ground right in front of two. The Jeep jumped with the impact. It took Davies a second to recognize what had happened. From forty or fifty miles away, some pickle-neck had nailed Davies’ Jeep. BOOM! Grats on the bullseye—asshole.

A shiver ran up his spine as doom rattled through his frame. Reality sank in, and Davies felt like crying. “DAMN YOUUUS!” he screamed at the sky. It was all too much: radiation, blood-spitting lizards, and a distinct lack of necessities; followed by howitzer shells, a glowing naked man, and the destruction of his beloved Jeep! Emotions welled over this latest catastrophe. His abuse of the vehicle had drawn him closer, as even violence breeds familiarity. He ran to the smoldering Jeep. “DAMN YOUS GUYS!”

The stranger only shrugged.

If another shell didn’t kill poor Davies, wandering the desert with the suicidal naked man probably would. Smoke and dust drifted over the Jeep, hiding the fact that the entire front half was nearly a foot too low. The wheels were bent out and the axle rested heavily on the ground. The front end of the Jeep was simply crushed, split where the shell had impacted. Anger replaced grief. A fire burned inside Davies, a fire demanding blood for blood, or in this case, blood for radiator fluid. Davies would have his revenge. Someone would pay dearly for this. Some pickle-neck, fifty miles away, high-fiving his friends on a kill shot... When he learned who did it, Davies was going to punch someone right in the face!

As he approached, Davies realized a long, low shriek came from somewhere inside the Jeep, the sound of trapped agony. It was the soul of the Jeep, echoing Davies’s despair! He stuck his face over the driver’s side door, reached for the jankie nobs of a bent and abused radio that broke off in his hand—but only after they made the noise so much worse.

The stranger fumbled through a mess of items, pulled a tire iron from the back of the Jeep, proceeded to the passenger door and jerked it open. With grim determination the stranger hefted the iron and brought it down on the radio. “BrEieIzzSsEiekSKSsieEEKcck!!!….” The dreadful squealing intensified. The tire iron rose and fell in quick succession as the stranger smashed the radio into oblivion. The wailing died, and the stranger turned back to Davies with a tire iron in hand. PFC Davies stared at the stranger as his hand crept to his pistol. The stranger turned, shrugged, and tossed the iron back into the Jeep.

Davies regarded the stranger. He was so pitiful, standing there, naked, begging for water. He was so pitiful, and yet, strong and spooky as he smashed in the radio. He stood there with shoulders set wide—and yet dejected; as if he could take on anything—though it wouldn’t be worth the bother. He looked as if the world had picked a fight with him and he had grudgingly decided to win.

Davies pulled his attention from the stranger long enough to dig through his supplies. He found some pants, mostly because the author doesn’t care to write the story of a man wandering the desert, naked. Let him wander, the author said, but if we shall be forced to watch, let us not be distracted from the rest of the story by cheap nudity. Slowly, deliberately, the stranger pulled the pants over his naked legs. The pants were a bit long, but fit on the stranger’s hips fairly well. This was really good, as Davies only had one belt and needed it himself.

Now wearing camouflage pants, the stranger turned to Davies. “Water?”

Five gallons of water sat only a few feet from the rear of the jeep, completely untouched by the Jeep’s death. Davies hoisted the container and propped it on the back bumper. “Go slow,” he said. “That’s all the water we got.”

The stranger didn’t bother with a cup. He held his mouth under the spigot and drank slow, allowing only a trickle out of the jug. Suicidal or not, at least the stranger was considerate. Davies silently thanked the stranger for his conservation. Without the jeep, who knew how long they’d last—especially once the sun came up.

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