Previously on Everyone Reeks, Carter and Luka perspired their way through the Congo helping the underprivileged and poor get medicated amid civil war. Shortly after Carter's return, word came to the ER that Luka had died. Mysteriously, women across the world did not self-immolate from heartbreak.
We fade up on the airplane set they used at the beginning of "Kisangani," although this one's almost completely deserted. Dr. John Carter is sitting in the middle of an empty three-seat row, reading his paper and listening to his product-placed Apple iPod: Now Helping Millions Flaunt Their Wealth In Third-World Countries. It was so thoughtful of Carter to shave, cut his hair, and de-puff a little just for Luka's corpse. That's devotion.
"You're sober?" a man asks, plopping down uninvited across the aisle. "You look sober." Carter glances up at him, annoyed. "I make it a rule to always land [sic] in Kinshasa drunk," the man says cheerfully, introducing himself as Steven Davidson. As they shake hands, Davidson appraises Carter and tries to guess which company sent him: Coke, Xerox, Shell. All strikes. To cope with his failure, Davidson orders another Dewar's from the stewardess. Alcohol is a wonderful coping mechanism. Stiffly and dismissively, Carter mumbles that he's on his way to Africa on a personal matter. "Not much competition for the seats!" chirps Davidson. "I guess the 'See A Brutal Genocide' tour package didn't sell very well!" Carter looks up at him with a cold smile, bristling at jokes about a situation he's cared about for three whole weeks and about which he knows almost nothing. Also, his travel agent told him that tour was sold out. Davidson exposits that he's going to Africa for his job at the American Embassy. Something tells me this information might come in handy later. Just a guess. Carter shares that his friend was murdered, and Carter's there to bring him home. "I'm sorry to hear it," Davidson says, chugging his Dewar's and acting as though the only thing he'd be sorry to hear are the words "Last call for alcohol."
When they get off the plane, Davidson tells Carter to get in touch if he needs to see a familiar face that doesn't belong to his dead friend. Carter contemplates jumping into Davidson's arms for a comforting cuddle, but instead nods curtly and strolls purposefully toward discovering his manhood. Again. He hands his papers to the Customs agent and glares balefully at the soldier clutching his gun. Camouflage is so last season.
"John!" a familiar female French-Canadian voice shouts. It's Gillian, welcoming Carter to Congo with Charles at her side. Sadly, John shakes Charles's hand, and then lets Gillian leap at him. She hugs him tightly, crying. Carter closes his eyes in pain. Either he loved Luka, too, or she's crushing his iPod into his ribs.
Gillian sniffles and smokes at an outdoor table while Carter quietly asks Charles for details. They don't know how this happened or what became of Patrique. Carter asks if the Red Cross located Luka's body. Gillian slams her hand down over her pack of smokes. "Excuse me," she chokes, flouncing away in tears. Charles whispers that there are ten thousand bodies, all killed in the last two weeks and stacked up in Kivu. Carter nods and clenches his jaw. He knows what this means: it's going to be a long and smelly slog toward finding his reason for being. Again. Also, time to roll the credits.
Inside a nice-looking building -- which basically means it has a floor and a ceiling and some cleanish windows in between -- Carter paces anxiously while Gillian slumps on a bench. "How much longer?" he wails. "It's the Congo. Could be days," she replies tiredly, eyes closed. "How are you feeling?" he asks. "Terrible," she moans. She's clearly hung over. I've so been there. Except, without the death of my hot Croatian boyfriend to fuel my drinking, so I guess maybe our situations are different. A man shows up who clearly knows Gillian and kisses both her cheeks. In French, she introduces this Andre to Carter, and Andre escorts them to his office.
Presumably, Andre is with the Alliance. Carter pumps him for information, and learns that no one really knows much, but the Alliance finally struck a deal with the Mai Mai to evacuate the living wounded noncombatants. With that, they got a list of the known dead and some personal items with which to identify them. Carter gulps. He's already coated in dirt and sweat. It's like it all springs out of people's pores the second they set foot on Congo soil. Not a ringing endorsement for the country's tourism trade: "Got pus? Prove it."
Andre sorts through a large collection of plastic baggies until he settles on a familiar one. Sadly, he hands it to Carter as Gillian covers her mouth with a gasp. Carter stares at it uncomfortably; it's Luka's Alliance ID badge. Carter fights tears as he states that he wants Luka's body. Oh, Johnny, tell us something we didn't know...oh, wait, back. He wants Luka's body back. Andre shrugs that it might have to wait until the fighting stops. "How long?" Carter asks. "Days, weeks, months?" Andre doesn't know. He doesn't know much, but I guess he does know to refer them to the team in Kisangani that's been negotiating with the Mai Mai. "Debbie?" Gillian asks. Andre nods. "And some other name Heathen didn't write down because he's not a breasted potential love interest for anyone, and is therefore inconsequential," he replies. Then he refers them to Bob Chase at the U.S. Embassy, just so we can keep jumping through short scenes with new people.
Now, Carter and Gillian are at what looks like the two-story Congolese version of Melrose Place -- big pool open-air in the middle of a bunch of dwellings. This show would be so much better if Dr. Michael Mancini was here with crazy Kimberly. Can you imagine Kimberly trying to blow up the ER, or Michael sleeping his way through Susan and Abby and showing Luka what it means to be a real man-slut villain? Bliss. Carter casually asks who Debbie is. "She's with the Red Cross field office in Kisangani," Gillian replies. Then her face twists into a mischievous grin. "You'd like her. She's your type," she says. Husky-voiced, long hair, the lips of a water fowl? Hot. Carter snorts behind his unfortunate aviator sunglasses. "What's my type?" he asks. Gillian smiles enigmatically. "I shouldn't have left him out there," Carter pouts, appearing to change the subject but perhaps just delivering a subtle answer to his own question. "He didn't want us to stay," Gillian says softly. "Should've stayed anyway," Carter grunts. Gillian pushes off from the balcony. "Then you'd be dead, too," she says, leaving. Carter watches her go for a second, and then turns back and leans over the balcony, caressing Luka's ID badge with his soiled and loving hands. He's a heartbeat away from tucking it into his pants. Also, Luka's handwriting is apparently very neat and precise and feminine. I wonder if Goran Visnjic actually signed that himself or if it was some PA who then called her mother and screamed that her handwriting was going to be on national television. Because that's totally what I would have done.
Flashback. It's Twenty-Two Days Earlier, according to our old friend The Graphic Of This Bit Is Just Footage We Recycled From The Season Finale. We revisit Luka and Gillian kissing as she weeps, afraid to leave him. "Go, go, go," he whispers tenderly, brushing back the flyaway strands of hair from her long ponytail. Without looking back, she stalks to the car and gets in, hurt. Carter gives Fate a lapdance by telling Luka not to get himself killed. Fate tips him a C-note and rubs its hands together in glee. Luka watches them leave, and then heaves a sigh of relief at the simplicity of things when he's alone in the Matenda clinic, and goes back inside to tend to the little girl whose leg he and Carter amputated.
Bob Chase tells Carter that, because Luka wasn't an American, they might have better luck contacting Luka's home country's embassy. Carter sasses that Croatia probably doesn't have an embassy in Congo. Bob Chase is humbled by Carter's quick wit and, by now, his potent body odor.
Cut to Chase's office. "He was a close friend?" Chase asks. Carter pauses to perspire some more. "Yeah," he finally lies. "We've worked together for years, and we've totally nailed the same woman, so I guess you could say that we've been having indirect animal sex for at least a year." Chase sighs in acknowledgement of this, the oldest love story in the book. "The Mai Mai think foreigners are looting their natural resources, and that they're the enemy," Chase explains. "It's dangerous for Westerners." Carter's expression suggests that he had already arrived at this conclusion, what with the soldiers and the scowling and the screaming and waving of guns. Carter clears his throat and asks if they can set up an exchange for the bodies of the dead, as is often the custom. "They don't know about the Geneva Convention, Doctor," Chase says, stifling his laughter. "Most of them don't know about shoes."
Carter leaves, frustrated. Coming of age is not supposed to be this difficult, especially when it's the third or fourth time. Suddenly, though, he gets a brainstorm and asks the receptionist if one Steven Davidson is working that day.
"Act One: The Bureaucracy of Body-Recovery" continues in Davidson's office. "What did Bob Chase tell you?" he asks. "To be patient," Carter replies. Davidson figures that's pretty much all that can be said, and asks if Carter and Gillian have tried the UN or the Red Cross yet. "No, we've been bouncing around all day," Carter says, deflating a little. Davidson shifts in his chair and proceeds not to suggest vehemently that Carter use money to buy his way to Luka's body, wink wink, nudge nudge, no sir, he is not suggesting that at all.
So naturally, as soon as Carter leaves, he borrows twenty thousand dollars in cash from his credit card. As if the Visa people would have allowed that. Strange, enormous transaction from Congo on the card of a man who's spent most of his life in the Midwest? Sure, why not! ["Was it Visa? I thought it was just a wire transfer from his big fat bank account back home." -- Wing Chun] A man counts it out at the bank window, still totally in full view of anyone who might have a hankering for dead rich white boy and some sweet green. "He's going to put that money in his pocket?" exclaims the teller in French. "Apparently so," Gillian grins, repeating the exchange to Carter. "Where else would I put it? In my shoe?" Carter says to the teller. Oh, Carter, that's just rude. You've already been told that they don't know about shoes here. As Carter tucks the envelope into his pants -- incorrectly assuming that desperate people won't break the trouser threshold if there's that much dosh in it for them -- Gillian warns him that carrying fat wads of money isn't safe in Congo. "It's not safe to carry that much cash anywhere, but I don't think the Mai Mai take travellers' cheques," Carter says blithely. Gillian gulps in amazement that he can afford to put that sum on his credit card. Carter sucks a little wind and ignores her, because his wad is for the benefit of Luka and Luka alone. ["And see, I thought he didn't say anything back to that because he didn't want her to know he had access to that much cash free and clear." -- Wing Chun]
Now, it's nineteen days earlier, according to The Graphic Of Reminding Everyone Through Flashbacks That This Man Is Smoking Hot. A restless Luka hears a convoy of trucks zooming through the brush, and gets up to investigate. He watches somberly as Patrique joins him, expositing that they are soldiers retreating from Kivu. "The Mai Mai will come again soon," he says. As the van passes, light hits Luka's face and shoulders, and he's wearing a tank top. He really is. Yum. Can't he wear these in Chicago? We fade to black hoping that a friendly nurse or set extra can cut the sleeves off his lab coat.
We return as Carter and company arrive in Kisangani. It's absolutely mobbed with people, most of whom are fighting each other for provisions. Carter's appalled. "More refugees come every day," Charles says. "The hospital is worse," Gillian adds. Amid all this looting, Carter, in his white flowing shirt and Top Gun shades, hops off the truck with a duffel and no one blinks an eye. Okay.
This week's weirdest moment comes up right here. Inside the clinic, Carter ducks into the makeshift trauma area. "Still working banker's hours?" he teases. Cut to Angelique: Her hair's in a sexy updo, she's gorgeously lit with a little makeup on, and above all, she glances at Carter with total bedroom eyes and purrs, "Hello...Doctor." Is this a porno? Titled with a naughty play on the words "Third-World Country"? I half-expect her to rip off her clothes to reveal crotchless undies and pasties. "Time to give another injection, Doctor," she would husk. "And this time, you can reuse the needle." What actually happens, though, is that the moment of sex-dripping dialogue completely passes. Angelique snaps back to business and expresses regret at Luka's passing. "How're you holding up?" Carter asks. "Doing what we can," she says. Excitedly, Carter throws his duffel bag on the gurney and dumps out all the things he brought: gloves, catheters, syringes, an old pulse ox machine, and to his especial delight, a microscope. "Where did you get all of that?" she asks suspiciously, traces of lust returning to her eyes. She's already thought of a thousand ways to use that scope that have nothing to do with her patients. "My hospital in Chicago donated it," Carter replies innocently. "And do they know they donated it?" she giggles. "More or less," he answers. Suddenly, a new employee announces they've got a ten-year-old with a gunshot wound, and she briskly asks if Carter wants to help. "I'm not a surgeon," he demurs. "Dominic's been assisting, he never finished sixth grade," Angelique retorts. Carter chews on this, finds that it tastes like self-satisfaction, and rips off his shirt to go help. The effect is far less titillating than that of Luka in sleeveless garb. It's like the show wants Noah Wyle to suffer in comparison.
Fade to a scene that took place seventeen days earlier, according to The Graphic Of Let's Cut Away From Carter's Fleshy, Pasty Arms As Fast As Possible. Luka checks up on a little boy, whose father hangs by his side. "You all right?" the father asks in a normal tone and accented English. "Just tired," Luka says, blinking hard and wiping his brow. He smiles that the boy is improving. "Merci, docteur," the father says. The second the actor switches into French, his voice rises several pitches and his enunciation is very precise. Not the most convincing acting.
Mom and the amputee hang out across the clinic. Luka gently sits down and explains that he's going to change the dressing. "I'll be gentle, little one," he whispers kindly to the girl. Suddenly, Gillian's voice crackles through the radio. Wait a second, if they had a radio all this time, why was there so much mystery before about Luka's whereabouts? Couldn't they have just radioed him? Whatever. It's over. I need to let it go. Luka picks up the call and listens as Gillian warns that fighting is intensifying to the east, meaning that the Mai Mai will indeed soon reach them. "You've warned Patrique what he's in for, right?" she worries. Luka frowns. "He's tough, he'll be fine," Luka replies. Let Patrique decide that. That's kind of a dick move, Luka, and not the naked kind we all want you to make. Luka quickly signs off to save the radio batteries and pauses to have a quick brood.
Mom interrupts him. "I want to give you something," she says. "It was a gift from my father." Luka tries to refuse, but she insistently hangs a silver crucifix around his neck, saying that her father was a good Christian just like Luka is. "I'm not a very good Christian," Luka laughs bitterly. "Of course you are," she soothes. "Only a man of God would be here." Luka's all, "No, really, you have no idea how many hookers I've bought, and then there's the guy whose head I smashed in, and the car accident...actually, sometimes, I'm kind of a dillhole." I know some people in the forums were a little offended by the heavy-handedness of the religious references, and I can see their point, but I don't think it was arbitrary -- it sounds like Christianity is a big part of this culture's way of life, so it's only natural that she'd say something like this. It's not as if there's a huge Muslim contingent here and yet the writers have chosen to ignore Allah in favor of the Holy Trinity. Although I'm also completely ignorant of these things, so let's all just have a Miller High Life and watch Luka sweat through his thin, thin t-shirts.
Gillian and Carter arrive at a Red Cross outpost in search of Debbie. They find her standing in a field, loading supplies into a dingy truck. "Debbie!" Gillian calls out, an expectant smile on her face. "Hey!" grins Debbie, hopping down and striding toward them in a big floppy hat. Mary McCormack, as Debbie, has blonde hair thrown into a messy ponytail, and a hard but pretty face that's an even cross between Julie Bowen, from Ed and Happy Gilmore, and Maria Bello, from Coyote Ugly. Coincidentally, or maybe not, both have played a love interest for Carter on this show. It would seem he really does have a type. Or a cloning machine. ["Speaking of which, ahem. I wrote that over three years ago." -- Wing Chun] And because subtlety has gone the way of Sandy Lopez on this show, we are actually treated to a shot of Carter slowly ripping off his idiot sunglasses, an impressed and appraising look on his face. He might as well have just taken off his pants. Debbie offers her condolences about Luka, and Carter explains that he thought Debbie and her team might be able to help get them to Kivu. He squats down closer to her level -- they're on a step or balcony of some kind -- and murmurs that Davidson told Carter money could buy him access, so he has a substantial wad to spread around. Debbie isn't impressed by his wad, and her eyes turn flinty. "I work for the Red Cross, Doctor," she spits. "Our safety is dependent on our neutrality. If [anyone] knew we were giving money to the enemy...we'd be dead, and I don't mean dead in the water -- I mean 'head mounted on a sharpened stick' dead." With a final reproachful glare, Debbie returns to her work. Gillian smirks. Carter stands up and shouts that he didn't mean to offend her with his assumption that money can cut red tape. But it's not his fault he didn't know how cutting works. See, when you're that loaded, you don't ever need to handle your own scissors -- the maid always does it. "You didn't," Debbie chirps. She mostly ignores Carter hereafter, and Gillian hastily thanks her and steers Carter away. "I told you she was your type," Gillian says. "What? Not at all," Carter protests too much. "Hey! Richie Rich!" Debbie suddenly shouts. Carter swivels. Debbie explains that they're negotiating to get into Kivu to rescue more wounded, and that she could use a doctor to help her out; if Carter comes, he might learn something about Luka. Carter thanks her. "Definitely not my type," he then mutters to Gillian. "Yeah, right," she snorts. I didn't know Gillian knew enough about Carter's life to make these generalizations, but I guess she's just been watching the show for nine seasons and has taken good notes.
Sixteen days ago, according to The Graphic Of Whee! We Can Count Backwards!, all the Matenda natives begin a walk toward whatever they think the safe town might be. "Are they coming?" Mom asks Patrique, worried. He nods. Horror washes over her face.
In his tent, Luka is sleeping, his skin pale and beaded with more sweat than usual. Patrique tries to wake him, but it's hard. "We have to go," he says frantically, shaking Luka, who rolls awake foggily. "You have a fever. Malaria?" Patrique gasps. "I'm fine," Luka repeats. "Why wake me?" Patrique blurts that the Mai Mai started burning Matenda, and that they need to flee.
Everyone is now living a Creedence Clearwater Revival song and running to the jungle. Later, a bad moon will rise. Explosions rock the landscape behind them as they trek deeper and deeper into the trees. Everyone's laden with whatever belongings they could grab; Luka is carrying the little amputee, and Patrique has the sick boy. Suddenly, they all collapse to their knees as gunshots pepper the air. Luka breathes heavily.
Carter's riding in the truck flatbed, with Gillian and Debbie in the cab. "You were hard on him," Gillian reproaches. "Who?" Debbie asks. "John," Gillian prompts. "He's cute, don't you think?" Debbie groans at this. "Not again. What was the last one -- the surgeon from Atlanta? Turned out he had a wife and kids," she snorts. "So?" teases Gillian. You know, Gillian's not helping her case here by acting like she doesn't much care for things like fidelity. I'm not one of her detractors and even I'm kind of bored by her whole "What happens in the Congo stays in the Congo" attitude. Debbie allows herself a laugh, though, and we see an oblivious Carter bouncing along merrily in the flatbed.
In the jungle, rain buckets down on the beleaguered refugees. Luka is shivering, at once freezing and feverish. Patrique tries to medicate him, but Luka barks that Patrique should save the drugs for the sick little boy. Patrique loyally perches to Luka and holds his own damp shirt over their heads, trying to protect his friend from the rain. Aw, Patrique rocks. Luka shivers convulsively. My, he is wet. Rrowr.
When Carter's posse arrives in Matenda, the clinic is basically a blackened shambles. Debbie and Gillian gape. Carter goes from zero to popped-forehead-vein in roughly one second. "You guys burned the clinic to the ground?" Carter shouts at the two soldiers standing guard. He winds up and kicks the ruined wood in fury. Gillian and Debbie are now watching him, intrigued by his outburst, and possibly wondering why the trigger-happy soldiers haven't plugged his belligerent ass. "[If] you guys keep burning down hospitals, where you gonna go when you get shot, huh? Where you gonna go when your mothers get sick?" Carter screams, in a right snit. Sure, but without doctors, they aren't hospitals, so his point's totally moot. I think Carter just likes to rail against things. He's a kettle of rage, just like all little boys trying to grow up for the tenth time. Suddenly, Charles yells at Carter from a tent across the way. As he stalks over to Charles, Carter glares pointedly at one of the soldiers, who turns to shoot ocular daggers at Carter's back. He's thinking, "I'm rubber and you're glue, dicksmack." I know Carter and Debbie and Gillian are there under the Red Cross banner and supposedly have some sort of amnesty, but really, it's not very clear why the soldiers are letting them walk around freely, screaming and kicking, when they're perfectly happy to shoot ten thousand other people.
The aforementioned tent is disgusting. Its white canvas walls are stained with blood, which has also crusted on the floors. A lone sandal lies in the middle of the room. Carter bends down to pick it up, letting it dangle absently from his finger as he surveys the foul room. "Many people died here," Charles translates. "They took the bodies to Kasese. [The soldier] thinks they're still there." Debbie looks affected as Carter covers his face in grief. He's tired of this neverending cavalcade of "K" names: Kinshasa, Kisangani, Kivu, Kasese. He resolves to buy them a few extra vowels. We fade to black wondering how many Gamma's estate can afford.
Morning in the jungle is a smoky one, with plumes shrouding Luka as he huddles near the ground. Patrique nudges him awake. "Where is everyone?" Luka mutters. "They left," Patrique says. "Didn't want the Mai Mai to find them with us." Luka corrects, "With me, you mean." I don't get why Luka would be less safe here than Carter, who's been throwing hissyfits at armed soldiers. Maybe it's the Red Cross thing, or that Luka's been helping the wounded against whom the Mai Mai are fighting. I'm not entirely clear. Basically, the Mai Mai are bad fucking news, okay, and don't you forget it. Patrique produces some quinine and, over Luka's objections, proceeds to administer it through IV. Luka realizes that the mother and her daughter are still there, and yells at the three of them to leave while they still can. "Leave me the radio and take them to safety," he insists. But they don't have the radio. Plus, Patrique thinks it should be safe at the clinic by now. Luka listens to this with ever-paler skin and the shakes.
Debbie argues with Carter about going to Kivu. She complains that it's ten miles from where they are, and Luka's dead, and she's sorry, but it was nice of her just to get Carter this far. Carter wants to take a vehicle once they're done for the day and return it by morning. "No!" shouts Debbie. "And don't make me regret bringing you!" Carter's undies knot themselves a twentieth time, and he stalks over to Gillian to take his mind off the confrontation. Gillian is holding the hand of a trembling native woman and speaking gently to her. "She's afraid she's pregnant," Gillian tells Carter. "She was raped. They all were." The camera pans down a long line of scared, huddling women, and Carter's face registers the impact of this woeful sight. Gillian mournfully points Carter toward a pod of wounded people who need his help. Carter bends down to speak with someone, and spies something in the distance. His jaw drops. "Gillian!" he screams. He uses the French pronunciation of her name, which sounds so utterly stupid and pretentious coming from him. "Gillian!" he repeats, sprinting to the side of a man and his son -- the same ones who were with Luka in Matenda, and who fled with him and then left him in the jungle. Carter correctly identifies them, having helped them himself once, and Gillian frantically asks in French if they were with "the tall, handsome" doctor. He nods. Gillian translates sadly that he's saying, "The Mai Mai came."
Patrique carries the amputee toward the clinic, Luka shuffling along behind him, propped up by Mom and hooked up to a bag of quinine. He's waxen and almost delirious. "I think they have gone," Patrique says. Those five words suddenly band together and take a huge chunk out of his ass: Mai Mai soldiers begin silently trickling out of the jungle, weapons drawn. Patrique notices them in his peripheral vision and feels the bite mark on his behind. "Keep going," he hisses firmly. More and more soldiers silently advance, coming at them from all sides and out of the clinic. "Halte," one of them growls. Patrique urges them to keep walking. "I said HALT," the man shouts again in French. Luka stops, peers out of one eye, and groggily tries to introduce himself as the doctor. This wins him a knuckle sandwich. Well, good. He's sick. He needs to eat.
Carter sits on the ground, leaning against a wall while listening to his iPod. It's totally Doctors With iPods Week on NBC -- Zach Braff had one on Scrubs, too. Maybe digital music makes you a better person. Debbie appears and offers him a beer. "It's warm, tastes like formaldehyde, but it's wet," she smiles. Carter grins and holds up the bottle he's already clutching. Debbie settles down across from him and peers curiously at his iPod. "What is that fantastic piece of technology?" she asks. "It's an Apple iPod. It plays digital music and stores thousands of songs. It's the best MP3 player on the market today," Carter replies. "That is truly remarkable," Debbie gushes. "That's going to revolutionize the way I listen to music."
With that advertising out of the way, there's some banter about whether Carter likes the Dixie Chicks. Carter expresses his feelings by, as the closed-captioning says, blowing a raspberry. This is enough to put me off fresh fruit for a long time. Debbie miraculously doesn't slap him for this needless discharge of spittle. "They just left him there, in the jungle?" she asks. Carter nods. "The Congolese are afraid to be found with them," he explains, lamenting that the man didn't know anything more concrete than that. Then, he asks a really insensitive question. Pointing at the guards, he says, "Do you ever get worried they'll get bored and start shooting?" Debbie stares at him for a second, ostensibly wondering if anyone would miss him if she throttled him and curious whether that iPod would fetch anything decent on the black market. But she decides to behave. "I don't think about it. And if I did, I'd never leave Seattle," she says. Carter bites his lip bitterly and laments that he, as a well-informed individual, never knew anything of the crises in the Congo before his own trip here. God, we already went through this. His eyes are open. He is a bigger and better man. His voice is deeper. That downy hair on his chest has given rise to something thicker. He's got girth now. All of this, we know. He did it already. How many times can one person come of age? Good lord. "Nobody at home gives a damn what happens out here," Debbie agrees. "There's no oil here," Carter says. "Millions are being slaughtered and we're too busy...eating Happy Meals." And buying iPods, eh, Carter? Shut up. ["Obviously you're not eating enough Happy Meals, because you don't look all that happy to me." -- Wing Chun] Debbie studies him silently and then asks what Carter's doing here. "You don't seem the type," she observes. Carter is amused and wants to know what the type might be. "Macho adrenalin junkies and save-the-world peacenik freaks," she replies. Carter cracks up. "Which one are you?" he asks. "Which one do you think?" she fires back. I'm not actually sure. Carter contemplates the question, and then admits that he's not entirely sure why he's there. "I've been seeing this woman," he begins. "She's great...but it ain't good. For her or for me." Debbie nods with apparent sympathy, although I half-wonder if she isn't bored of people throwing themselves into danger for the selfish sake of finding themselves, so they can return to their plush lives with a greater sense of accomplishment and never come back again. "It's simpler here," Carter concludes. "People need help. I can help them." Debbie blinks, and Carter apologizes for rambling, ascribing it to fatigue. Debbie orders him to get some rest, then nonchalantly offers to take the truck to Kasise in the morning to see what they can learn. Carter gives her one of those deep nods that is supposed to look respectful, but ends up looking smug and condescending.
In the clinic, Luka, Patrique, and a whole line of other prisoners are kneeling on the hard floor, their hands over their heads, wrists tied. Luka shivers convulsively. It's deadly silent around them but for their collective ragged breathing. "She still in there?" Luka asks. Patrique's eyes flicker toward the tent. "Yes," he whispers. A bearded man down the row hears English and rejoices in his luck. "Please. I speak no French. Do you know what they're going to do with us?" he begs. Patrique answers that the soldiers are waiting for someone to arrive and direct them. "I'm a geologist," rambles the man. "I'm not involved in the war. I'm only here for rocks." He smiles hopefully, pathetically. He is clearly toast. No one introduces an innocent, friendly, trapped character in the last fifteen minutes of a show if the person is actually going to live.
A truck screeches to a halt, and Patrique narrates that it's carrying more soldiers. A Mai Mai strolls out of the tent, making a big show of hiking up his pants and zipping up his fly. And I don't think it's because the tent is a spacious new men's room. Shortly thereafter, other soldiers drag Mom out of the tent and dump her limp body to her daughter, who's cowering in fear. The daughter embraces her weak, violated mother, and Patrique flinches. "They are coming," he whispers as soldiers draw near the clinic. When they enter, they drag the first man in line off to the tent. Luka is listing from front to back, unable to maintain his balance. A gunshot shocks them all upright. The geologist moans. "They are coming back," Patrique hisses, frightened. Luka closes his eyes, and we cut to black with the very real fear that Patrique is going to get killed, which sucks, because we love Patrique, and Patrique loves Luka, and that's something we have in common.
Remember when Carter had twenty thousand dollars in an envelope? And remember how he's strolling around the Congo with an iPod and a wad of cash, looking like a walking bulls-eye, and yet hasn't gotten so much as harassed? Whither the reality, TPTB? Whither, indeed.
Why, hello, Land Rover, The Official Automobile Of Volunteers Trying To Save The World In Ravaged Countries. We pan up from the logo to the sight of Debbie and Gillian enjoying a Carter sandwich as the former drives them to Kasise. "Damn, Gillian, how can you smoke this early in the morning?" crabs Debbie. Gillian raises her eyebrows and continues sucking on her filtered pleasure stick. Carter asks Debbie why she changed her mind about making the drive. "Come a hell of a long way. Least I could do is help you get the last few miles," she replies gruffly. Gillian's lips twitch into a faint smile.
They traverse rough terrain up to the town, parking in the center of the burned village. "What was this place?" Carter asks, gesturing to the torn up building housing the dead. "A school, I think," Debbie replies hollowly. Gillian covers her mouth in a fit of nausea, and fearfully tells Carter that they don't have to continue. Carter ignores her and resolutely approaches the little door.
Fade to the line of prisoners, now fewer in number and relocated to just outside the tent. Their captors tear off their sandals. I guess they do know about shoes. Patrique and one other man are being slapped repeatedly upside the head and to the ground; Luka rocks from his illness as the soldiers tear off Luka's ID tags. No clue why he's remained otherwise untouched, except that possibly the Mai Mai respect a pretty face when they see it. "Are you religious, Patrique?" Luka asks. "I was raised in the church. Catholic. I used to go twice a week with my mother." Patrique gets a faceful of dirt. "It was beautiful," Luka continues. "I liked the music, the singing." Apparently I need to go to Mass in Croatia, because every church I've ever been to sings hymns like they're dirges. A total joy void. Patrique comes up from his latest date with dirt and asks, "Do you still go?" Luka shakes his head. Patrique takes another trip to mother Earth. "I stopped when my children were killed. I couldn't believe in a God that would allow such a cruel thing to happen," Luka trites. Haven't we already been here? Hasn't Luka already come to grips with God and hasn't Carter already come of age and blah blah blah? My feet are getting blisters from all this retreading.
Another man gets dragged into the tent, past Mom and her child, who are still huddled right outside the flap. "It's hard to feel the Holy Spirit's presence on a day like today, huh?" Luka says. A gunshot pierces the air. up is our ill-fated geologist, who right now is realizing not only that he's screwed, but the full absurdity of the fact that he's getting killed over a few little pointless pebbles. "time I'm totally just sticking with bowling," he thinks. Luka apologizes to Patrique for not forcing him to leave. Suddenly, Patrique shouts out to the soldiers that they're doctors, and this is their clinic, and I think he tries to explain that they could be of service. A soldier promptly shoots him in the face for his trouble. No! Patrique! But why don't they care that Luka was sitting there yammering for ten minutes? Oh, wait -- contracts. Right. Patrique falls backward and Luka shudders. Mom and her daughter begin sobbing.
The last few lines of Luka's prayer run over the shot of Carter, Gillian, and Debbie arriving into Smoking Town Set #43. They're led to a strange building, inside which they see Mom and the amputee. "Le prêtre," the soldier says, pointing to a figure slumped in the corner, covered by a blanket. Carter runs to the body and rolls it over, and a golden ray of sunshine comes through the slats to light up Luka's face in a very heavy-handed piece of symbolism indeed. Gillian exhales for the first time in about two weeks when they realize Luka is actually alive.
Debbie drives everyone back to the base camp. Apparently she's the only one who doesn't get to attend the party in the flatbed: Mom and her daughter are there with Luka, Carter, and Gillian, who has her boyfriend's sick and unconscious head resting in her lap. She strokes it tenderly. Mom touches Carter and says, "Thank you. Thank you!" Carter nods tiredly, again crossing the line into smug, which is one of Noah Wyle's more annoying acting traits -- I'm never sure what he's aiming for, but he too often hits only smug, condescending, or pompous.
A plane awaits Luka as he's unloaded from a van on a stretcher. Carter greets him happily. "How are you feeling?" he asks. "Terrible," Luka grins. "Where am I going?" Carter wheels him to the plane. "Home," he says. "Where's that?" Luka asks. "America," Carter replies, expositing that a medical transport plane is waiting in Kinshasa to take him back to the States. "Expensive," Luka smiles. "I know somebody who knows somebody," Carter shrugs. He then produces a letter and presses it into Luka's hands, instructing him to give it to Abby when he sees her. Carter has decided to stay, which wins a big smile from Gillian. "If she asks, just tell her..." Carter begins, then he shrugs. "Tell her I was lost and now I'm found," he concludes merrily. And the episode's called "The Lost." And Carter was lost. Just like Luka. Do you get it? No, but do you? Then, Luka does the one thing Carter's been hoping for since this debacle began -- since he first fondled Luka's ID badge way back at Kinshasa Melrose Place. Beckoning for Carter, Luka palms the back of his friend's neck and kisses him on the cheek. That either means that Luka's grateful, or that Carter's been marked and will be assassinated by the mob in the couple of days. Gillian smiles tenderly at this most delightful of mysteries, and they load Luka into the plane.
Carter, Debbie, and Angelique watch the plane take off. "Back to work," Angelique decides curtly, walking to the driver's side of the truck. Debbie stares off into space. "You really don't like the Dixie Chicks?" she asks. "Everybody likes the Dixie Chicks." Guess she didn't see that Entertainment Weekly cover. They must not get that periodical in the Congo. Carter shrugs, "Everybody?" Debbie hops into the truck as she retorts, "Everybody with any taste." Oh, God, she even sounds exactly like Abby. Seriously, if my eyes were closed, I'd have thought that was Maura Tierney. I guess Carter really does have a type: women with slightly mannish voices.
Carter gives the plane one last glance as it disappears into the blue sky, and then hops in the truck, which drives off into the sunset, which has appeared out of nowhere. How very convenient. I guess Mother Nature is a fan of the show.