“You’re my boyfriend in the IAEA.”
“Right. One more thing. Could it be Siraj?”
“If we . . . they have a nuke and Bahir doesn’t know about it, then Bahir’s usefulness is definitely at an end. Ciao.”
The natural flora of Texas burns well. Our boots are soon streaked with black soot. In the distance a single tree stands naked and twisted, ghostly in the light of a nearly full moon. In places there are black hummocks of varying sizes. Closer examination reveals dead jackrabbits, coyotes, cattle, and a few horses. Lilith’s long hair is plastered to my sweat-damp cheeks. Because of the helmet I can’t pull it loose. I purse my lips and try to direct a puff of air, but I can’t get the right angle.
It’s not just the heat of a Texas night or the bulky lead-lined suit that creates my discomfort. I feel like my skin is crawling, prickling, burning. Even though I know the various radioactive particles aren’t actually penetrating my suit, I decide we’re not going to stay long.
We can’t get close to the former town of Pyote. We know it’s crawling with federal agents and scientists from the NRC because at my suggestion Bugsy had unlimbered a few hundred wasps before donning the suit. They have been scouting for us. What they’ve seen is a large crater, a handful of blackened buildings, and dozens of burning oil wells. Ironically, the grain elevator is still standing. Occasionally a National Guard helicopter goes thrumming by overhead, the wash from the rotors stirring the ash, searchlights sweeping across the devastation. So far none of them have spotted us, but it’s only a matter of time.
I become aware of a new sound over my helmet’s radio. It’s Bugsy’s teeth chattering. “Shit, this is what it looked like. In Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” A handful of his wasps crawl across the back of his gloved hand. They don’t look well.
“Exactly like it.” I pause for an instant, then add, “Only there were a lot more people and buildings in Japan.”
He turns so he’s facing me and we can see each other through the faceplates. He looks hurt and angry and very young. “You know what I mean. This is awful. People need to know about this. They need to see what one of these bombs can do. It’s been sixty years. Everybody’s forgotten.”
“You go, tiger.” But it’s all bravado. There’s a quivering in my gut like I’ve never experienced before. Such is the power of The Bomb.
Bugsy turns away. Shame is like a taste on the back of my tongue. This is his country, and someone has attacked it in a particularly horrible way. I lay a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m scared, too.”
In this direction we can see a plume of fire. The hot wind racing across the West Texas plains bends and dips the flames, revealing the black shadow of a pump jack. I wonder how long the steel can withstand the heat from the burning oil.
Bugsy points at the burning oil well. “Do you suppose that’s why they did it?”
“These fields are almost played out.” I shake my head. “There wasn’t enough oil here to make any appreciable difference.”
“Then why do it?”
“As a warning? Next time it will be Alaska or the refineries in the Gulf.” I put an arm around his shoulders. “We need to get out of here.”
I-20 runs right by Pyote. A portion of the interstate is now inside the federal cordon, so the vast emptiness of West Texas seems even emptier given the dearth of traffic. It’s also 1:20 A.M. as Bugsy and I stand in the coin car wash in Pecos hosing off each other’s suits. We’re on the outskirts of the town, which seems to consist entirely of fast-food joints, auto body shops, and junkyards conveniently located for the cars that can’t be fixed. Every small American town seems to possess this leprosy as if it were a protective asteroid belt shielding the core planet. Not that the center represents any kind of nirvana.
Once the suits have been sluiced off we climb out. The pungent reek of male sweat fills the still air. I’m hoping Bugsy’s stink is so strong that he won’t notice my particular musk. I can change the form, but my body chemistry remains the same, and men’s and women’s sweat smells different. I know from my training that we need to rinse off any errant particles that might have penetrated the suit so we turn the hoses on each other.
The water pours out of the hose at high pressure. I actually find the pounding soothing on the sore muscles in my back. My T-shirt and jeans cling to my skin. Behind my lids it feels like I’ve used eye drops made from sand. It doesn’t occur to me until I turn around that getting a soaking as Lilith will provoke quite such a reaction from my companion. Bugsy’s eyes are unfocused, and he’s sporting a gigantic hard-on that presses against the fabric of his wet trousers. I can understand why—when you’re faced with this much death the urge to life is strong. It’s also Bugsy. He doesn’t see much action. A man who changes into bugs at stressful or exciting moments would not be the ideal lover.
“You want to . . . ?” His voice is husky. “It would only take a few minutes,” he says.
“An excellent reason for me to say—no.”
A car glides past and I realize a fraction of a second too late that it’s a police cruiser. My gut clenches and I reach for Bugsy, but the cop has spotted us and we’re pinned in the glare of his spotlight. The lights start flashing, and he noses up into the car wash bay.
The cop is a large, shadowy form standing prudently behind his open car door. “What are you two up to?” The drawl is hard and suspicious.
I’m acutely aware of the Hazmat suits, and I can’t seem to think. Bugsy steps in. He is quick. I’ll give him that. “Uh . . . wet T-shirt competition. We’re practicing.” There’s a faint interrogatory rise to the words. I hope the cop misses it.
I also hope he’s a redneck and not a Baptist. He shines his flashlight on my chest. The leer dispels any doubt as to which camp he belongs. “Well, you two better get on out of here. There’s a bunch of Feds just down the road, and they’re detaining everybody who ain’t local—and some who are.”
“Thanks, sir,” Bugsy says. The cop steps back into his car and drives away.
“Good save,” I offer the compliment because I want to get Hive out of Texas, and I’m afraid it won’t be easy.
“You didn’t say anything,” Bugsy says.
“I was the prop.” I’m looking for the right approach when Bugsy makes it unnecessary.
“Can you get me home? I gotta write my blog.”
“And tell the world what?”
“That a nuke went off here.”
“Is that wise?”
“It’s the truth.”
I study him. He really doesn’t get it that sometimes—often—the truth is overrated. But I take him home to Washington, D.C.
I can’t believe I’m actually checking into the Best Western Swiss Clock Inn in Pecos, Texas. The walls are painted white with a green roof and an absurd clock tower rising from the center of the building. The nearest town to Pyote is Wick, but it lacks any kind of accommodation, and it is now behind the law enforcement cordon.
At first the woman at the reception desk tells me there are no rooms available, but I milk the British accent for all it is worth, with a hapless Bertie Wooster sort of demeanor. She loves it, and soon she loves me. I get a room. As I’m walking to the elevators I pass the ubiquitous wooden stand filled with flyers detailing all the wonderful things to do in Pecos. The Pecos Cantaloupe Festival seems to be most prominently displayed. Pity I’m here too late for that excitement. Another flyer shows a Schwarzenegger looka-like dressed as Conan the Barbarian. BARBARIAN DAYS! it announces, JUST 259 MILES AWAY IN SCENIC CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS. Yes, 259 miles, just a Sunday drive for a Texan. If there was gasoline.