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?”