in my mouth. Bushes whacked up under the frame.
Mahoney remained hunched over the wheel, his face lit up by the dashboard’s greenish glow. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” His voice possessed the mad certainty that the leaders of doomed polar expeditions must have held.
The path kept eroding. Soon it was only the phantom of a road; the woods loomed. Stones pinged off the frame. Branches yawned over the trail, raking the windows like skeletal fingers.
The van hit a lip. Metal shrieked as we bottomed out. I was thrown forward, shoulder striking the passenger seat before I slumped to the floor, dazed. Dunk helped me back onto the seat.
“Buckle your seat belt, man.”
But we weren’t moving anymore. Mahoney mashed the gas pedal, snarling through skinned-back lips. The wheels spun until the sound of smoking rubber reached the pitch of a gut-shot animal. Steam boiled from under the hood. Mahoney climbed out, stumbled in front of the headlights to survey the damage.
“We’re here,” he said, as if this had been our destination all along. He popped the van’s back doors and flung out an army surplus tent, a blackened cooking grill, sleeping bags.
“You boys find some firewood,” he said merrily. “Beat the ground in front of you, though—snakes out at this hour.”
We explored the clearing that fringed the woods.
“Wait!” Mahoney called us back, removing a collapsible Buck knife from his pocket. After considering us at length, he handed it to Dunk. “Just in case,” he said.
“I already got one,” Dunk said, showing Mahoney the Swiss Army knife he always carried.
Mahoney pressed his knife into my palm. Warm from his flesh, the brass fittings greased with sweat.
We picked our way through the trees searching for sticks. An owl nested on a low branch, eyes shining like lanterns. The darkness of Dunk’s hair blended with the blackness under the trees; he seemed as much a part of this wilderness as the owl. I fit my thumbnail into the groove on the Buck knife and pulled it open. The blade clicked smoothly into place—I could smell the oil in the mechanism. Moonlight played off the tiny hairline abrasions along the blade where Mahoney must’ve sharpened it on a whetstone.
When we returned from our mission Bruiser Mahoney was sitting cross-legged, assembling a tent in the van’s headlights. One of the tent poles was bent at a broken-backed angle in his huge hands. Growling, he flung it into the bushes.
“Goddamn Tinkertoys.”
He managed to get one tent up before the van’s battery conked out. We built a ring of rocks and heaped wood inside. Mahoney doused the sticks with turpentine and lit a match.
“Phwoar!” he cried as the flames roared up.
Sap hissed and knots popped in the burning wood. Mahoney reached for a beer but the case was empty. He stood up the way a baby does—hands braced in front of him, walking his heels up to meet them—and shuffled to the edge of the woods. He pissed for a minor eternity—his urine sounded
heavy
, as if threaded with molten lead; I imagined it flattening the weeds and snapping twigs.His body swung around and he returned to the van, hunting through it. He sat back down with a bottle of white liquor and a big silver handgun.
“I won it in a bet,” he said. “Or I lost a bet and had to take possession of it. I forget now. We might need it tonight.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You think we’re the only creatures out here?”
As the night wore on, Mahoney was coming to resemble an animal himself. I peered through the flames at this shaggy man-beast fumbling with a loaded pistol. He looked like a bear trying to play the piano. The cylinder popped open. Bullets fell into his lap. He pinched them between his fingers and thumbed them back into their holes, then took crooked aim at the trees.
“Bang,” he whispered.
He handed me the bottle. When I hesitated he said: “Your father never gave you a belt of rum? It’s pirate medicine, son.”
Whatever was
Mahoney remained hunched over the wheel, his face lit up by the dashboard’s greenish glow. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” His voice possessed the mad certainty that the leaders of doomed polar expeditions must have held.
The path kept eroding. Soon it was only the phantom of a road; the woods loomed. Stones pinged off the frame. Branches yawned over the trail, raking the windows like skeletal fingers.
The van hit a lip. Metal shrieked as we bottomed out. I was thrown forward, shoulder striking the passenger seat before I slumped to the floor, dazed. Dunk helped me back onto the seat.
“Buckle your seat belt, man.”
But we weren’t moving anymore. Mahoney mashed the gas pedal, snarling through skinned-back lips. The wheels spun until the sound of smoking rubber reached the pitch of a gut-shot animal. Steam boiled from under the hood. Mahoney climbed out, stumbled in front of the headlights to survey the damage.
“We’re here,” he said, as if this had been our destination all along. He popped the van’s back doors and flung out an army surplus tent, a blackened cooking grill, sleeping bags.
“You boys find some firewood,” he said merrily. “Beat the ground in front of you, though—snakes out at this hour.”
We explored the clearing that fringed the woods.
“Wait!” Mahoney called us back, removing a collapsible Buck knife from his pocket. After considering us at length, he handed it to Dunk. “Just in case,” he said.
“I already got one,” Dunk said, showing Mahoney the Swiss Army knife he always carried.
Mahoney pressed his knife into my palm. Warm from his flesh, the brass fittings greased with sweat.
We picked our way through the trees searching for sticks. An owl nested on a low branch, eyes shining like lanterns. The darkness of Dunk’s hair blended with the blackness under the trees; he seemed as much a part of this wilderness as the owl. I fit my thumbnail into the groove on the Buck knife and pulled it open. The blade clicked smoothly into place—I could smell the oil in the mechanism. Moonlight played off the tiny hairline abrasions along the blade where Mahoney must’ve sharpened it on a whetstone.
When we returned from our mission Bruiser Mahoney was sitting cross-legged, assembling a tent in the van’s headlights. One of the tent poles was bent at a broken-backed angle in his huge hands. Growling, he flung it into the bushes.
“Goddamn Tinkertoys.”
He managed to get one tent up before the van’s battery conked out. We built a ring of rocks and heaped wood inside. Mahoney doused the sticks with turpentine and lit a match.
“Phwoar!” he cried as the flames roared up.
Sap hissed and knots popped in the burning wood. Mahoney reached for a beer but the case was empty. He stood up the way a baby does—hands braced in front of him, walking his heels up to meet them—and shuffled to the edge of the woods. He pissed for a minor eternity—his urine sounded
heavy
, as if threaded with molten lead; I imagined it flattening the weeds and snapping twigs.His body swung around and he returned to the van, hunting through it. He sat back down with a bottle of white liquor and a big silver handgun.
“I won it in a bet,” he said. “Or I lost a bet and had to take possession of it. I forget now. We might need it tonight.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You think we’re the only creatures out here?”
As the night wore on, Mahoney was coming to resemble an animal himself. I peered through the flames at this shaggy man-beast fumbling with a loaded pistol. He looked like a bear trying to play the piano. The cylinder popped open. Bullets fell into his lap. He pinched them between his fingers and thumbed them back into their holes, then took crooked aim at the trees.
“Bang,” he whispered.
He handed me the bottle. When I hesitated he said: “Your father never gave you a belt of rum? It’s pirate medicine, son.”
Whatever was
Similar Books
