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.