Oh Pure and Radiant Heart by Lydia Millet (shoe dog free ebook .txt) 📕

a battering ram they held up to charge through the crowd. But they were too fast, and there were too many of them. Ann’s ankle twisted on a rock and she stumbled and fell behind and then had to run to catch up, hobbling. She looked back at the top of the Airstream. Oppenheimer had stepped down.

The bus was packed. Ann craned her neck to see past the crowd to Szilard as they laid him on the unmade bed and stripped him of his jacket, exposing a flower of blood beneath.

—It’s in his arm!

—Just the arm!

—He fell on it when he fell!

The blood had spread to his chest but the bullet hole was in the flabby side of his upper left arm. Behind him were grimy plastic Venetian blinds. She saw Eugene on the library floor, and collapsed.

Each atmospheric test in Nevada, of which there were one hundred and twenty-six, released more radiation than Chernobyl.

—I’m going back to my post, said Big Glen. —You all take care of him. I got Oppenheimer.

He swept past where she was lying and the door of the bus crashed flimsily behind him. She blinked and looked at their backs bent over Szilard.

—You OK, sweet sorrow lady? asked Tamika, who stood beside her chewing on a swollen lower lip. Her eyes were glassy in a face decorated with gold harlequin facepaint. Long, clownish gold eyelashes dripped down her cheeks.

—An assassination attempt, croaked Szilard, his face white.

—I dunno, man, said Clint. —These ORV guys are trigger-happy. Plus it turns out they got a portable meth lab set up back over there. Probably just some asshole on crank. Tweaking.

—But it was right near my heart! Is that a coincidence?

—Oh man. I think his arm is broken.

—Get the reporters, said Szilard. —They should document this!

—Always thinking of the cause, aren’t you Leo, said Tamika fondly, and stroked Szilard’s good right hand, swaying back and forth from the waist. —Sweet sorrow man.

Szilard pulled his wrist away and flicked it irritably.

—Now they’ll have to run the story, said Szilard, and gritted his teeth as his sleeve was peeled down. —Ann! Are you awake over there? You do it! Get the reporters for me!

Through the crowds, pushing against shoulders though she was still heavy-headed and drowsy from fainting, she found a man with a camera on his shoulder trying to talk to Oppenheimer. The two of them were standing under the food tent facing each other, both of them jostled and crowded by fans, Oppenheimer trying to smoke a cigarette and drink beer and talk simultaneously. His arm was repeatedly jogged, the beer flying up the side of the cup and slopping over the lip onto his tie. She concentrated on the arm to keep herself focused as she pushed her way through to him. The fires were smoking and cinders floated up and past them and clung in people’s hair.

—Where’s Leo? said Oppenheimer urgently when they made eye contact. —I couldn’t find him!

—In the bus, she said. —The white one. He wants the media there.

—Is he OK? I saw him fall off. I was having trouble myself.

—He was shot!

—Shot with a gun?

—They said the guy was aiming for you, Oppie! said Larry. —This one ORV guy was boasting that he was gonna get Oppenheimer, he said turning to Ann, —but we haven’t tracked him down. Big Glen’s working on it.

—Are you with a news channel? she asked the cameraman, as the Megadeath teen elbowed past them carrying a mangy cat.

—Yeah. That’s Sharon, over there with the pink suit and the blond hair? She’s the reporter.

—Can you take me to him, Ann? asked Oppenheimer anxiously. —All the people make it hard for me to move by myself. They stop me, it’s impossible to—just get me over there, would you?

With Larry and the cameraman clearing a path through the people in front of them she held Oppenheimer’s hand and pulled him after her.

—I feel claustrophobic, he said. —Annie! Don’t leave me!

Then she heard something and they stopped walking and looked up into the sky. There was a helicopter descending, litter flying out from beneath it in a swirl. It was dark and wide.

It has been estimated that fallout from American atmospheric testing between 1945 and 1963 has caused or will cause fatal cancers in between seventy thousand and eight hundred thousand people in the U.S. and around the world. Soviet testing likely has yielded a similar number.

—Are you kidding me? The DEA? squeaked Szilard from his prone position on the bed.

They had retreated into the bus quickly, taking cover from the chopper. It was too big, big and loud, and who knew what it would bring.

Szilard turned to the cameraman. —Don’t film yet. This is private!

—The Dog Enforcement Agency? asked Tamika, musing gently. She stood in the corner of the bus kitchenette barefoot, holding a small potted cactus. On the top of the cactus sat a doll-sized cowboy hat.

—It’s like some kind of a raid, said Clint. —Guess they ran out of immigrants to persecute.

—You mean the Border Patrol? asked Tamika. —They’re so mean to those poor little Mexicans.

—I have nothing to hide, said Szilard. —Neither do any of us.

—Well, actually, said Clint.

—I mean, there are a few narcotics, said Larry. —I mean, not ours of course. Mostly. Nothing heavy. At least in quantity.

—Narcotics? asked Oppenheimer.

—See? said Tamika to Oppenheimer, sidling over and leaning against his side, drooping her head onto his shoulder with a dreamy smile. —It’s from Arizona. It’s really alive. It’s an actual real cactus. But it says Tombstone on it.

She held up the cactus in its souvenir pot.

—Ah? asked Oppenheimer, puzzled.

—Not the pizza, the Old West thing. This cactus pot? It’s very, very beautiful. Isn’t it?

—I wouldn’t go that far.

—Sweet sorrow pot.

—Are the DEA men coming in here? asked Szilard impatiently.

—How should I know? asked Ann.

—OK, take me outside. I need someone to carry me. Two people. I’m still weak. I could fall down. But we have to finish our speech, said Szilard. —And the webcast.

—The webcast?

—It’s being