Hunted Past Reason (12 page)

"Doug, come on. Don't you believe in helping mankind lead a better life?"

"Not if
I
have to pay for it," Doug said stiffly. "Not if they just sit around on their asses, living off my taxes."

Bob drew in a quick breath. "Well, I'm not advocating a total welfare state either," he said.

"You work for your money, you keep your money," Doug said grimly.

"And not pay taxes?" Bob asked.

"Of course, pay taxes," Doug said irritably. "But not such high taxes that I'm paying for the lazy bastards who'd rather take it easy on welfare than put in an honest day's work."

"Well . . ." Bob nodded. "I don't disagree with you. But that's the trouble with our country. We can't have a real democracy until voters govern themselves, not expect politicians to take care of everything. As long as people avoid real involvement in the political process, that's how long politicians will run it badly. The voters don't really
want
honest politicians. They say they do but, by and large, they keep electing politicians who lie to them, tell them how much they're going to help the people. Has a politician ever spoken the truth and nothing but the truth? Some have. And they invariably lose by a landslide. What did Jack Nicholson say in that movie? 'You can't
handle
the truth.' That's pretty much the case with the electorate."

Doug was silent for a few seconds before he said, "When you planning to run for office, Bob?"

They both laughed so loudly that Bob felt a twinge of uneasiness, looking toward the spot where the black bear had been. The bear was gone though.

"Didn't mean to make a speech," Bob said. "The entire thing is simple though. The majority of people aren't self-responsible— certainly not in the political arena. So they keep electing politicians who disappoint them."

"That's for sure," Doug said, "fucking bleeding heart liberals. Trying to take away our constitutional right to own guns. Shoving affirmative action down our throats, giving jobs they aren't qualified for to spics and niggers."

Oh, boy, Bob thought.
Oh, boy
. What am I doing here with this man? Three more wonderful days in his company. Jesus.

"I know you don't agree with any of this," Doug said. "Let's just agree that most politicians aren't worth shit."

Bob nodded. Especially the politicians who believe what you believe, Doug, he thought.

Doug looked at him intently. It seemed as though he meant to continue the conversation. Then, instead, he stood. "We'd better move along," he said.

Both of them looked around suddenly at the sound of shots in the distance— two in a row, a pause, then two more. "Son of a
bitch
," Doug muttered angrily.

"A
hunter
?" Bob asked, appalled.

"
Sure
, a hunter," Doug replied angrily. "In a goddamn national forest too. If we run across him, I'll wrap his fucking rifle around his neck."

"I'll hold your jacket while you do," Bob told him.

There was no amusement in Doug's smile and Bob had the definite feeling that Doug
would
assault the hunter if they met him.

"Did you know that more than sixteen million hunting licenses are issued every year?" Doug told him. "Most of them to
idiots
. Two guys in a canoe were mistaken for a swimming moose by one of these idiots and both were shot, one of them fatally. Another idiot brought a dead mule into town, telling everyone he'd shot a moose. The mule still had its iron
shoes
on, for Christ's sake."

"That's incredible," Bob said, grateful that there was something they could agree on.

"Some farmer got so bugged by idiot hunters that he painted the word 'COW' on his only cow. Guess what? The fucking cow got shot."

10:52 AM

For a while, as they'd moved through the forest, weaving their way through a heavy growth of slender trees, Bob wondered if there was any possibility of them being shot by the hunter. Stupid bastard, he thought, coming into a national forest to shoot animals. He should be put in jail, the mindless idiot.

He'd felt uncomfortable, his skin almost crawling, as he walked, half expecting to hear a shot and feel a bullet tearing into his chest. Great way to end the "adventure," he'd thought grimly. Mrs. Hansen? Sorry to inform you that your husband was shot by a hunter while he was walking through the forest. His head is now on display above the hunter's mantelpiece. Visiting hours are one to five on Sunday afternoons.

He'd had to drop the dark fancy, then, in order to try to empty his bowels.

It hadn't worked at all, his system refusing utterly to cooperate. Stress? he'd wondered. Not enough water? No vegetables? No way of knowing.

When he'd gotten back to Doug, he was about to speak when Doug, pointing at him, said, "There's a scorpion on your pants leg."

Bob stiffened, looking down. The scorpion was almost four inches long, clinging to his trouser leg.

"Don't hit it," Doug said quickly.

"What?" Bob looked at him worriedly.

"Flick it off, flick it off," Doug told him. "If you swat it, it'll sting you."

Bob swallowed dryly, reaching up slowly to remove his corduroy cap. Gritting his teeth, he slapped down at the scorpion. It took two slaps to dislodge it; it scurried away into the brush. "Good God," Bob said.

"No big deal," Doug told him. "They're all around."

Super, Bob thought, imagining a giant scorpion crawling into his sleeping bag at night.

"Any luck?" Doug asked.

At first, Bob didn't know what Doug was talking about. Then he did. "Well, I'm lucky the damn scorpion didn't sting me on the ass," he said. "I wasn't lucky about the rest. I'm probably constipated."

"You bring an enema with you?" Doug asked.

"No," Bob said, frowning. "You never mentioned that."

"Well—" Doug shrugged. "You'll probably have trouble crapping. It usually happens; especially the first time out. Inhibition if nothing else. Not used to shitting in the woods. Try drinking something warm when you wake up."

I'd love to if you'd
let
me, Bob thought.

"Anyway, a few days of constipation won't kill you," Doug told him.

"I guess not," Bob said.

"You burned your toilet paper, didn't you?" Doug asked.

Bob nodded. "To a crisp," he said.

"I forgot to tell you," Doug continued, "if it's uncomfortable squatting, dig your cat hole on the opposite side of a log and use the log as a john seat, or dig the hole where there's a small tree with low branches you can hold on to while you're taking your crap."

"Trying to take my crap, you mean," Bob said.

"Yeah." Doug grinned. That seemed to genuinely amuse him. My compassionate wilderness guide, Bob thought.

Now he had managed to work himself into a steady pace, maintaining the same distance behind Doug, across meadows and through the forest. Doug must have taken his comment to heart, because it wasn't all uphill now. He was able to walk almost without feeling the blister on his foot, the aching in his side. His eyes went partially out of focus as he moved. He lost track of time, his mind going blank.

Then, up ahead, Doug stopped abruptly. "Jesus Christ," he said; it was close to a snarl.

Bob walked up beside him to see what Doug was looking at.

Lying sprawled among the small trees was a doe. There was a dark hole in its side, blood oozing out of it and trickling down its tawny flank to stain the dead leaves it was lying on.

Bob started forward to look at the deer more closely, gasping in surprise as Doug reached out and grabbed his pack, yanking him back. "What—?" he said.

"It could still be alive," Doug told him. "If it kicks you, you'll be sorry."

"Still
alive
?" Bob looked at him, appalled, then turned to look more closely at the doe. He caught his breath, seeing a slight movement of breathing on its side. "Jesus Christ, it
is
still alive," he said in a sickened voice.

"Yeah," Doug said. "Stupid fucking hunter. Four shots and all he can do is wound it."

Bob looked at him in disbelief. That's hardly the point, is it? he thought.

Then he looked back at the wounded doe, groaning as he saw the dazed fright in its eyes. It was trying to get up but couldn't, barely stirring on the ground.

"What do we
do
?" he asked, his tone pained.

"What do you mean, what do we do?" Doug said irritably. "Put it out of its misery, what else? What would you suggest, taking it to a vet?"

Bob drew in a deeply shaking breath. He knew Doug was right but it angered him the way he was expressing it. "Yeah," was all he could say.

Doug looked around, grimacing. "Shit," he muttered.

"What?"

"I need a rock to hit it on the head," Doug said, sounding more aggravated than concerned.

Bob swallowed dryly. Need a drink, he thought. A
drink
? he assailed himself. Is that all you can think about right now?

"Let's find one then," he said. He started to move around, searching for a rock.

He hadn't gone more than a few yards when he heard a loud, thudding noise and the blood-chilling sound of the doe crying out in shocked pain. Twisting around, he saw Doug standing over it, holding his golak. He'd struck the doe across its neck, cutting in so deep that blood was pumping from the gash.

"Oh, Christ," Bob said.

"Oh, Christ, what?" Doug demanded. "It had to be done, didn't it?"

Bob drew in another trembling breath through his nostrils, a shudder running through him. "Yes," he conceded. "It had to be done. I just don't know how the hell you were able to do it."

"What would you do if you were alone here?" Doug asked.

I will never be alone here, Bob's mind reacted.

"Just leave it?" Doug challenged.

"I don't know," Bob answered. "I just don't know. I've never been exposed to such a thing."

"Well, think about it sometime," Doug told him. "You never know what you might come up against out here."

I will never
be
out here again, his mind answered.

"Well, I admire your ability to do what you did," he said. "It's . . . very brave in a way. The poor thing
did
need to be put out of its misery and you did it."

"You could never kill anything, could you?" Doug said; once again— Bob was getting used to it by now— it was more a statement than a question.

"Doug, I just don't know," Bob said. "It's never come up."

"Well, I killed
men
in Vietnam," Doug told him. "Lots of them."

Bob sighed heavily. "I guess you had to," he said.

"Damn right," Doug said. "Those little gook bastards were everywhere."

Bob nodded, feeling a sense of uncomfortable ambivalence about what Doug was saying. He didn't believe in killing anything; Doug was right about that. But then he'd never
had
to kill anything and hadn't the remotest concept of whether he could or not. He just hoped to God the necessity never came up.

"You want some venison for supper?" Doug asked casually.

"What?" He looked at Doug incredulously. "You're planning to
butcher
it now?"

"Oh, come on, Bobby, grow up," Doug said. "The deer is dead. It's going to get eaten by something— a bear, a mountain lion, who knows? For that matter, we'd better move on before something picks up the smell of its blood and comes charging in, looking for lunch. You want some venison or would you rather just stick with your little chicken à la kings?"

Doug, if you don't stop insulting me, I'm really going to get pissed, Bob thought, tensing.

"Let's just move on," he said curtly. "I don't want any venison."

"Suit yourself," Doug said. He wiped off the blade of his golak on the deer's flank and put it back in its sheath. "So let's be on our way."

As they continued on into the forest, Doug said, "You didn't go to Vietnam, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, that's right, you had psoriasis, didn't you?" Doug said. His tone was close to mocking.

"I didn't
ask
to have it, Doug," Bob answered coolly. "It's genetic. And I didn't make the rules about what constitutes physical rejection by the army."

"Yeah, whatever," Doug said disinterestedly.

12:02 PM

We have to stop for lunch soon, I am
starving
, Bob thought. He had eaten an energy bar, a cookie, and a small apple but it had only delayed his hunger. He was getting ravenous now.

He was about to speak when Doug stopped ahead and pointed upward. Bob looked up through the foliage and saw a large number of big birds circling in the sky.

"Vultures waiting for us?" he suggested.

Doug didn't react to the attempted joke. "Hawks," he said. "A storm is coming."

"Oh, great, that's all we need," Bob reacted.

He saw Doug sniffing exaggeratedly. "What do you smell?" he asked.

"The ground," Doug said. "It always smells odd before a storm."

Bob inhaled as deeply as he could through his nose but couldn't tell if the smell of the ground was any different. For that matter, he had never smelled the ground at all. Was Doug pulling his leg? He wouldn't be surprised.

"Take off your cap," Doug said, removing his.

"Why?"

"Just do it," Doug told him.

Oh, shit, Bob thought. He took off his corduroy cap. "Yeah?" he said.

"Does your hair feel thicker?" Doug asked.

Bob had to chuckle at that. "That would be nice," he said.

Doug laughed. "Your hair
is
thinning a bit, isn't it?" he asked, he said.

" 'Fraid so," Bob answered, looking at Doug's thick shock of black hair. Although he was sure that Doug dyed it for professional reasons. And maybe ego reasons too; no way of knowing.

Looking up again, he noticed now a huge towering cloud in the distance. "Oh, that looks ominous," he said.

"Cumulus nimbus," Doug informed him. "Thunderhead cloud. We could be in for a real storm. We'd better find us a place to stay dry."