Notes from the Future: The Compound

June 24

Afternoon

I am being given a tour in preparation for indoctrination. Once a Rachel is allowed in to the Compound, she may not leave. Nice Rachel tells me this is the only way. They are not certain what to do with Max, because he is neither a Rachel nor an Ezekiel, having been neutered at an early age. The Prophet will decide, eventually, but the Prophet is sleeping right now. He sleeps all day in order to be at the roadblocks at night. He is guided by spirit to attend specific roadblocks and exact his toll. Everyone here is pretty, even the men.  Nice Rachel told me that many of the people here have been welcomed into the fold because they had revelations at road blocks and were guided by spirit to submit themselves to the Prophet. She told me this back on the mountain thing. She called it a Tor.

The Prophet doesn't know about the Tor. He's never been beyond the Garden. Nice Rachel and her two bearded Ezekiels have had to stage some large distractions to keep him from going through the Garden. I am amazed that there are so few who know about the Tor, but Nice Rachel explained it as we came back down the path.

"So many people here are new, and terrified, that they won't go anywhere outside of where they should be. Consider that before the earthquake there were thirty people here. Now we have over a thousand and the numbers are climbing," here she paused at the shed near the grape arbor. "From this point on, you're being indoctrinated. As long as you are being indoctrinated, you are safe. The Prophet does not Spread His Holy Wordseed with any women who have not achieved Full Rachelhood, and that could take months."

"I don't have months," I said. "I've got to get Edward and our car and get out of here."

"If he could walk, if he were conscious, I would say go now while the Prophet sleeps. But he's --" and here she paused again, then looked at me, eyes wide and a finger to her lips, leading the way through the grape arbor and back into the garden.

She shushed me because of the people coming into the garden from the other end. A tall thin lady with short grey hair, a short fat bald man and a very plain man of middle height who appeared to be made of boring. I found myself consistently forgetting he was there, even when he was looking right at me.  Sorry, a tall thin Rachel, a short fat bald Ezekiel and a plain, eerily forgettable Ezekiel. I keep forgetting.

The grey haired Rachel said, "A woman's place is under the Prophet, Rachel!" It felt like a smackdown, and I could feel Nice Rachel stiffen as we approached; but she smiled and her voice was pleasant.

"A woman's place is indeed under the Prophet, Rachel," she said. Stopping right in front of Iron Rachel, Nice Rachel smiled and looked directly into Iron Rachel's eyes. This was intense. Iron Rachel blinked and stepped back, suddenly, kind of like she'd been poked in the brain. We moved past them and the two Ezekiels with Iron Rachel looked confused. And scared.

Now I'm being given a "tour" and we seem to be slowly moving toward the other house on the property. I follow Nice Rachel's lead and allow one of her bearded Ezekiels to open gates for us and also to push me back against a fence at one point when Rachel breathes, "Watching." The Ezekiel shouts at me, "Your place has no place until the Prophet decrees! Your place has no place until the Prophet examines you!" Max is growling at him, but he ignores it. Then he takes my face in his hands and I think he's going to kiss me, but his thumbs are over my mouth. It's that fake kiss from, like, second grade. Nice Rachel whispers, "No hands," as I'm about to pretend to get into the kiss, and I let my hands drop to my sides. I only raised them a little. If we're being watched, I hope it wasn't noticeable. Nice Rachel is petting Max to calm him.

We look at livestock pens, we see an improvised schoolhouse set up in a pavilion-style tent, like something from a weird Puritan wedding school. The girls all hold hands with a boy and the teacher smacks their hands with a long, whiplike stick. She shouts, "None but the Prophet!" The kids drop hands. The girls are in tears, the boys look angry and conflicted. In one livestock pen, there is a little boy among the pigs. He is in white underwear, tidy whities -- but he's so dirty, that neither word applies. He is oinking and squealing, and I see him watching us from the corner of his eye. His skin, where not covered in mud and pigshit, is horribly sunburned.

Suddenly we are down a front path between small Birch trees and through a fancy oak and wrought-iron door, in a more Tuscan McMansion; just as large as the main house, but not as high on the hill. It's cool and dark in here, most shades closed. There is quiet conversation somewhere and the immediate beep of a heart monitor. Max's claws click elegantly on the Terra Cotta tile floors.

In moments we are down a hall and in a room and there is Tad. Hooked up to machines, tubes in his nose, a saline drip -- everything. Max sees him, too, starts wagging his tail all over and doing the anxious dog dance.  I see Nice Rachel seeing me see everything, and we make eye contact. She's a nurse! She has to be. I glance back at Tad and she pushes me lightly on the right elbow, taking Max's lead from me as I pass. I am at Tad's side, looking down at him.

He is pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Heart rate is slow. I want to touch him, kiss him. Nice Rachel has moved to the foot of the bed, where she has taken up a clipboard and has bent her head over it, as though reading intently. Her eyes, however, are on me. The Ezekiels move toward the door, flanking it; I see one glance up significantly, and I follow his gaze. A camera. I glance back at Nice Rachel. She saw me see. She says, "They are watching everything. You cannot touch him, it would tell them that I am not indoctrinating you and we would all be killed."

I can't take my eyes off of Tad, all I want to do is brush his hair from his forehead. I want to make sure he's okay. His breathing is so shallow. "Is this my fault?" I ask.

"No," she says. "You can't have given him six shots of Morphine. He would be in a coma. He's just unconscious. I know you think you gave him that many, but we're searching your car later to retrieve any syringes so I can take a look and see what you did give him."

"Why is he like this, if not from what I injected?" I ask. My vision is blurring from tears.

"I think he's in shock," her voice is kind and gentle. "His left leg is broken, his knee is dislocated, he has severe burns, he's dehydrated and was deeply, deeply stressed when he lost consciousness. How --"

"Wait -- what?! His leg is broken!?" I can't help being loud. I am upset. 

Nice Rachel's eyes get wide and she looks toward the door. The Ezekiel on the left cocks an ear out the door, then shrugs, shaking his head. Nice Rachel exhales, looks at me and asks quietly, "How long before we met you on the ridge did his leg break?"

I think back, and it's all so fuzzy. It seems like it was days ago. "I think four hours, tops. Maybe two, maybe three. It's hard to remember clearly," I tell her. She nods, actually reading his chart now.

I study him again in the silence. He didn't look this bad when he almost died of pneumonia in 2003. Nice Rachel, watching me, moves to the other side of his bed and brushes his hair back from his forehead, stroking his face and combing her fingers over his scalp. I am so grateful someone is touching him, and at the same time I am enraged that it's not me. I almost reach out. She inhales once, quickly, and that involuntary reaction from her is enough to remind me of the danger. I look at her, and she glances at Tad, nodding her head toward him. I understand: talk to him.

For a second I don't know what to say. Then it comes.

"Don't die on me," I whisper. "I'm not as strong as you think I am; the way you write me in stories is not really me. I need you, Tad. I need you in order to appear as strong as you paint me, because my strength comes from resisting you. I know it's stupid, but -- sorry. I'm okay.

         I'm okay.

         Okay.

         If I'm ... pushing back against you, I find my strength. And you're -- such -- a pain in the --

         ... I'm okay. I'm sorry, I --" and I have to stop and breathe for a long time. I need him to hear this. He's not in a coma. He's just unconscious. He needs to hear these words. I'm at a loss, shaking with tears, afraid of what the camera will see.

Nice Rachel moves suddenly around the bed, near me, grabbing Tad's left foot, calling the two Ezekiels to come help her. They move near and stand close to her, kind of hovering over his foot. She looks at me, raises her eyebrows.

Suddenly I see: they are blocking the camera's view.

I touch his hand. He's so alive, even like this. I touch his face, I stroke his dirty hair behind his ears. I want to crawl into the bed and snuggle him. He is always talking about the healing power of snuggles. I want to heal him forever right now, and before I know it words seem to fall from my mouth.

"Edward Hightower, I need you healthy and awake. Max needs you healthy and awake. Your family needs you healthy and awake. But I am the one who matters most. You stay here, in this world, Mister. You stay and heal and recover so you can backpack the JMT with our sons. John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt would not approve of your current status, so you need to stop fucking around in this bed wake up!"  I'm yelling a little by the end, and I realize this, glancing at Nice Rachel and the Bearded E's, but their eyes are alight. 

I think they liked my little speech.

Max liked it, too, apparently. He leaps onto the hospital bed, planting both front paws full-force into Tad's crotch. Tad gasps in his drugged sleep and his heart rate leaps. We wrestle Max off the bed, but not before he licks Tad's face barks three times. We hear footsteps approaching.