"MINOR THREATS"
Short Story by Simon A. Smith
Hoffer picks them up in the beater, an old Toyota flatbed from 2003 that traverses hills the way old dogs do steep staircases, with farts and whimpers and paralytic stumbles. He has a new one, a brand-new Tundra with 10-speed automatic transmission and touchscreen tuning that he bought with his recent real estate returns, but he decides to bring the other one instead. They listen to Hoffer’s CDs all the way up the mountain, mostly 70s metal like Motörhead and Black Sabbath, the stuff all of them worshiped in high school. Some of the tracks bring back memories for Syd, like the time he and Danny and Hoffer all snuck into the equipment shed during gym class junior year and pounded the bottle of Wild Turkey Hoffer stole from his dad’s supply. Afterward, they tried to go back to gym, but Syd couldn’t walk straight, and when it was his turn for kickball, he swung his leg too high, lost his balance, and fell flat on his ass. Danny and Hoffer laughed so hard they had to run to the bathroom before they pissed themselves.
Every time they hit a bump, another song skips, and Hoffer yells out, “Fuck!” In the middle of Ozzy’s anthem “Crazy Train,” Hoffer goes berserk. He pinches his cigarette in his lips, pokes his elbow out the window and howls. He thumps his fist against the roof and belts out the refrain.
“Mental wounds still screaming, driving me insane,” he wails. He whips both hands above the steering wheel, air-drumming like mad. “I'm going off the rails on a crazy train, I'm going off the rails on a crazy train…” but then the truck hits another pothole, and the CD skips for the last time. He grabs the wheel hard, wrenching them back onto the road. The player makes a popping sound, then a hiss, then dies out completely. “Fuck!” Hoffer yells.
The gears grind as Hoffer downshifts against the lengthy incline. He stabs the lever forward before yanking it straight down. Syd clenches his armrest. He stamps his foot against the floorboard and cringes.
“Aaaaaack!” Syd cries. The cab is so cramped that he has to sit with the gear stick between his knees. Every time Hoffer shifts, it knocks against the inside of Syd’s thighs, just below his crotch. It doesn’t help that Hoffer has to snicker about it too. “That’s not good. You gotta ease up, Hoffer. You’ll shred the clutch.”
“Oh, quit your whining,” Hoffer says. “I’ll be the judge of that. Old Battle Axe has been through much worse than this.”
Battle Axe was Hoffer’s nickname for the truck. He gave it the moniker a few years back after his wife, Sandy, divorced him, claiming emotional neglect and verbal abuse. She’d bought him the truck as a gift for their third anniversary. Before the year ended the marriage was over.
Danny sits against the opposite window and closes his eyes. He’d been in a somber mood since Hoffer came and got him early in the morning. Late last night he got the feeling that the trip was a mistake. He’d spent the last year trying to distance himself from Hoffer. Since the divorce, he’d become even more surly than usual. Back in high school he was considered a bully but now he was forty-two. What did you call a grown man who still treated people like dirt? Danny thought there ought to be a name for adults who still acted like that. He didn’t like the way Hoffer talked about the people he was supposed to love. Bad mouthing your ex-wife was one thing, but he spoke about everyone with the same childish cruelty, especially his friends. And you couldn’t confront him about it. That was out of the question. You couldn’t talk to him about anything. Take his thoughts on Battle Axe, for instance. Danny was feeling sorry for the truck and the way Hoffer treated it. It seemed almost callous to take a dying vehicle forty miles up grueling peaks and switchback curves just to hear it groan. He knew that he was being simple, feeling sympathy for a rundown machine as though it were alive, but he couldn’t help it. That’s what he was thinking. You could never talk to Hoffer about something like that. Maybe he actually thought of Battle Axe as the literal embodiment of his wife. Maybe he wanted to murder the poor thing, drive it straight into its grave.
The three of them had taken the same camping trip to Mount Spokane the last five years in a row. Hoffer called it their “Red-Blooded Rendezvous.” He was always coming up with catch phrases for everything. The original intention was casual enough, a weekend getaway for a couple of old friends in need of some rest and relaxation. What it turned out to be, at least the last few times, was a maelstrom of drunken debacles that usually ended in injury. Last year Syd had his hand broken when he and Hoffer struck up a game of Mercy over the last can of Coors Light. Hoffer was kneeling on his spine and when Syd reached behind to get him off, Hoffer folded his fingers back so far they touched his wrist.
“I remembered to bring the First Aid kit this time,” Danny says.
Hoffer scoffs. He shifts into second gear and spits out the window. “Keep it in the truck,” he says.
“Yeah,” Syd says. “Come on. We got whiskey and marijuana. What do we need with band aids, aspirin?”
They always saved the adventure for late September when the weather was still warm, and the leaves were changing colors. Most of the trees up in the Selkirks were evergreens, but there were a few maples that turned bright red, and a couple shrubs emblazoned orange as nectarines. It had been a particularly hot summer, and the heat was not done with them yet. Even some of the pines were yellow at the bottoms, as though the sun had slowly baked them into submission.
***
They park in the gravel lot at the base of Quartz Trail and gear up for the trek. Though Hoffer is the largest one, he carries the smallest backpack. He likes to say that all he needs is his lighter and the four Bs – a water bottle, some beef jerky, bourbon, and a bedroll. Syd carries the rucksack with the tent inside, and Danny puts whatever is left into his duffel. It’s mostly dry clothing and spare shoes, which aren’t very heavy but bulky, and it takes him a long time to get all the zippers closed. When he is done some of the fabric is still sticking out the seams. It looks like an overstuffed pillow with the feathers spilling out. When he slings the straps over his shoulders, he trips and almost rolls onto the ground.
“Jesus!” Hoffer says. “You look like a broomstick trying to hump a buffalo.”
Syd laughs hard. “That’s exactly what he looks like,” he says.
“Screw off,” Danny says, “that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“That’s what you think,” Hoffer says. “If you could only see yourself…” He shakes his head, walks off toward the trail. Syd follows, laughing and belching close behind.
When they are far ahead of him, Danny snatches the First Aid kit and plunges it into his sack. It’s a miracle that it fits. Just before he runs to catch up, he takes a moment to absorb the grandeur of the scenery. It might be the last chance he’ll have to appreciate it without any agitation. It’s a beautiful day. At a quarter till nine the sun’s saffron center fills half the horizon. Its rays glisten gold in the trees. The shrill chirp of warblers rings out in the distance, sending friendly echoes chiming across the valley. Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweeeeeeet! Tall pines flank Pearrygin Lake far below like nature’s most perfect picture frame. Danny puts his hand over his heart and finds the pulse. He squeezes down, trying to clutch it through his chest, waiting until the rhythm slows and evens out. He takes one deep breath, holds it as long as he can, then trots off to join his friends.
Syd and Hoffer have already found their walking sticks. They lean heavy atop them as they take their first vertical steps up the jagged path. Danny can see how much huskier they both have gotten over the past few months. Hoffer had always been broad and sturdy around the shoulders. Danny once saw him buckle a refrigerator to his back and walk it up two flights of stairs by himself. But Syd had never had the kind of steely heft to his upper arms before. Hoffer called them his “delts” and “traps.” In January, Syd and Hoffer started going to the gym together. Hoffer convinced Syd to accompany him on his quest, “The New Years Yoke-Up” he called it. Danny was never invited to join, and for the most part he was glad. He didn’t want to spend his nights and weekends grunting under the weight of barbells and sweating through T-shirts. He had better things to do. In his free time, he liked making dinner with his wife and hanging out with his daughter who had just started taking dance classes at the Cannon Hill Studio in Manito. Hoffer and Syd could do whatever they wanted if it made them happy. It shouldn’t affect Danny, but somehow, he knew that it would. It wasn’t the everyday workouts that concerned him but the fallout that he knew awaited. It was only a matter of time before they started using his lack of muscles as another opportunity to disparage him and make him feel like a pariah. If Hoffer sensed a point of weakness in someone, he attacked it. This is why he was so good at Mercy, though with Danny he’d always played a mental version of the game.
***
By the time Danny reaches them, Hoffer’s already split from the trail and started in on his usual shenanigans. He flails atop a downed tree trunk with both arms spread and bounces up and down.
“Woo-hoo!” he shouts. He flaps his arms, treating the timber like some kind of launchpad for an enormous crane. Each jump brings with it another audible crack from the wood.
From where Danny and Syd are standing, the trouble is clear. The right half of the tree is sandwiched between the trunks of two large cedars, but the left side is mashed atop the edge of a slanted bank that appears to be slowly sinking into the mud. Twenty feet below sits the rocky mouth of a rapid river. The risk is classic Hoffer. Hoffer, the overgrown boy who refuses to adopt any quality he perceives to be a boring trait of the unbearably mature. For all intents and purposes, Hoffer is still the teenager who swerved into oncoming traffic during car races down darkened backroads or went sailing off house roofs into six feet of pool water after seven shots of tequila. While most men turn a gradual corner toward preservation around age thirty, Hoffer put the pedal to the metal and crashed straight through the barrier at full speed. And so, whether Hoffer notices the danger or not is either uncertain or immaterial altogether.
“Watch it, buddy,” Syd says. “You’re gonna break your neck and take the whole forest with you. We’re supposed to be preserving trees, not tearing them down. Right?”
“Oh relax,” Hoffer says. “People are worried about wildfires, not log walkers.” His knees wobble as he takes another shaky step across the plank. He’s about halfway to safety when he freezes.
“We’re all worried about your fires,” Danny says. He lowers his head, softens his voice. “Just ask Sandy.”
“Oh ho-ho!” Syd says. “Whoa! Okay, okay, let’s calm down.” He walks to Danny and places a hand on his shoulder. Danny shrugs it off.
“What did he say?” Hoffer roars. His volume alone is enough to bring the tree down. Syd and Danny look up just in time to see him sprint the rest of the way. One second after he reaches firm ground, the log plummets into the water with a loud splash.
Before Danny can run, Hoffer bounds down the slope, skates across some wet leaves, and pounces on him. He digs his hand into the back of his neck and squeezes. “What did you say?” he asks, panting in his ear.
Danny ducks and squirms, but he can’t get free. “I said what I said,” he says, but it’s hard to hear him over all the breathing and gyrating.
“Say it again,” Hoffer says. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Chill out!” Syd says. He grabs Hoffer around the waist and tugs. When he doesn’t budge, Syd squats, swings back on his heels, and throws his whole weight into it. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa!” he screams. Hoffer pops off him like a champagne cork. He scuttles backward across the dirt before catching himself against another tree.
For a minute, nobody says anything. Hoffer steadies himself and bores down on Danny with his stare. He’s got the look of a rabid wolf. Danny can’t face him. He rubs his neck, wincing and gazing off in the opposite direction.
“All right,” Syd says. “All right.” He adjusts the tightness on his backpack, refastening the clasp around his waist. “That’s enough. We didn’t come all the way up here for this.”
He finds his walking stick in some bushes where he’d flung it and heads up the trail. After a few more seconds, Hoffer releases his glare on Danny. He locates his own stick and falls in behind Syd. Danny watches Hoffer lumber up the path. He thinks about leaving, going back to the road and hitching a ride home from a stranger. He thinks about picking up the rock at his feet and hurling it at the back of Hoffer’s head. He thinks about all the anger and bitterness he’s been holding in for twenty-plus years. He kicks the rock into the air; sees it ricochet off the same tree where Hoffer was standing only seconds ago, and watches it tumble out of sight. He tries to let his rage go wherever the rock goes.
***
For the bulk of their hike up to Snowberry campsite, Hoffer is in the lead. He tromps ahead, flattening vegetation and swatting branches with his stick. Syd takes the middle position. When Hoffer stops to tie his boots, Syd catches up and Danny trundles in behind them. Though they’ve been in sight of one another, it’s the first time in almost half an hour that all three of them have been close together.
Syd takes a seat on a tree stump. He gets his handkerchief out and wipes away some sweat from his forehead. Hoffer springs atop a large boulder and brims a hand over his eyebrows. He’s trying to see if he can locate their resting spot about two miles up the bluffs. Danny bets he can’t. The trees are too tall. They are so high that their points disappear between the clouds, as though they are hiding the parts they’d least like intruders to see. It’s a stunning panorama. To the west, the Cascade Mountains stretch across the distance, their thirsty brown and yellow tops appearing even drier against the blue sky. The buzzing of insects mixes with the yipping chorus of sparrows above. Nobody says anything.
Danny can’t take it anymore. He can’t understand why everyone is so spacey. It’s like they’re under some kind of spell. He wants to say something, but he’s always the one to break the silence. Finally, Syd speaks up.
“So,” he says, standing up from the stump. “Soooooo… How’s the wife and kids?”
Hoffer laughs. It’s obvious the question is meant as a joke to accentuate the awkwardness of the moment, but Danny doesn’t see it that way. He embraces the opportunity, starts right in about his daughter.
“Sofia is turning thirteen in about a month,” he says. “She’s at that age, you know, that time when Moms start bracing for verbal combat and Dads get geared up for war against pervy boys. It’s a tense time.”
“Oh yeah?” Syd says. “That sounds tricky.”
“It is,” Danny says. “She’s, you know, developing and everything, and she got her first period in July. It’s… It’s a lot. It’s a lot of uncharted territory.” He takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “There’s this one kid in her class, a big lug, and he tried kissing her, and she didn’t want it, and I about lost my mind. I’m on edge all the time – “
Hoffer hops off the boulder. The earth seems to shake under his mass. He picks a pinecone off the ground and rolls it in his palm. “The boys are the ones who should be worried,” he says.
“What?” Danny says. “Why would you say that?”
“Boys are the ones getting used and abused these days. The way girls are always teasing them and then dragging their names through the mud. Boys these days get attacked and cancelled for any old thing,” Hoffer says. “Girls are in control now, and they love taking dudes down. You give them a flirty look and they cry harassment. They are cruel, boy. It’s the males that need to be scared. Females will ruin your whole reputation, mess up your whole life, man.”
“Wow,” Syd says. “You’re something else.”
“What?” Hoffer says. “You know I’m right. You know that we men aren’t allowed to be men anymore. You may as well castrate us. We can’t even pee in the woods anymore without someone screaming about indecent exposure or public nudity or whatever the fuck it is.”
“That’s bullshit,” Danny says.
“Yeah,” Syd says. “Check this out. I’ll piss right here right now.” He unzips his fly and begins reaching inside his underwear. Hoffer chucks the pinecone at him as hard as he can. He aims straight for the groin.
“You son of a bitch!” Syd hollers. The pinecone caroms off his thigh and skitters across the dirt. “You little…”
And before Danny can say another word, Syd zips his pants back up and takes off after Hoffer. The two of them tear up the cliffside, scuffling and scrapping the whole way. The last thing Danny sees is Syd dive for Hoffer’s heel. He tries tripping him up, but Hoffer slips loose and hauls ass up the bank. Their impish laughter lingers a few seconds, then vanishes completely. Danny feels something sinister and stony crack open inside of him. He clenches both hands into fists, leans back, and opens his mouth. What comes out is the type of blaring shriek that sends birds scrambling from branches. The limbs quiver and settle. And still, all that remains is his own raving lonesomeness.
***
It’s another twenty-minute slog before Danny can even see the outlines of Hoffer and Syd in the distance. After that, it’s an added five-minute dash uphill just to get within earshot. He’d already twisted his ankle trying to scale a slippery set of buttes, and scraped his knee on some fucking shale, and he’d about goddamned had enough!
“Hey!” Danny hollers. “Yo! Wait up!” He trudges up the path, limping and huffing. One of his laces is untied and the boot nearly goes flying from his foot. His backpack is falling off and there’s a big hole in one of his jeans. From Hoffer and Syd’s perspective, it’s quite a spectacle.
“Hey there, Sport,” Syd says. He plants his stick in the mud and waits for Danny to reach him.
Hoffer’s a few paces ahead. He stops walking when he sees Danny bumbling toward them. He takes his backpack off and pulls a water bottle out. He unscrews the cap and takes a giant gulp.
“What the hell?” Danny says. It’s hard to hear him through all his wheezing.
“Damn, Daniel,” Syd says. “What’s the problem?” He removes his own backpack and leans it against a tree. He begins opening the bottom pouch.
“The problem is you guys abandoned me,” Danny says.
“Abandoned you?” Syd says. “What are you talking about?”
“I almost fell off a cliff about a quarter mile back,” Danny says. “I gashed my knee and sprained my ankle. I could have been really hurt, and neither of you would have ever known. Would you even go back and look?”
“Man, you are way over doing it. You need to chill,” Syd says. He crouches to remove something from the backpack. “All you’ve been doing is whining and bitching all day long.”
In an instant, Danny is on top of him. He leaps onto his back and tosses him against the tree. Syd’s head bounces off the bark, and Danny grabs him around the throat. He cups his hand under his chin and tries lifting him off his feet. Syd has no time to retaliate. He coughs and gags.
“What do you know about bitches and whiners,” Danny asks him, his voice filled with froth.
Syd tries answering him, but he can’t gather enough air. He chokes a few syllables out, and Danny lets up just enough for him to talk. “Okay, okay,” Syd says. Danny lets go. He takes a few steps back. “All right,” Syd says. He massages his throat, spits onto the ground. “Jesus, okay. Okay, Dan. I get it. I’m sorry, okay?”
Danny’s breathing races. His chest heaves in and out. Hoffer puts the cap back on his bottle. He’s been watching the whole time. His posture is calm, but his eyes are narrow and honed. They haven’t left him the entire time. Syd slides two granola bars out of the pouch and hands one to Danny. He accepts it without looking. Syd pats him twice on the back, then picks his stick up again and starts walking, this time slower and more mindful. Hoffer turns and heads out too. Danny stays close behind, his eyes locked on Hoffer.
***
The campgrounds at Snowberry are simple and secluded, which is why they like it. Around mile marker four, a clearing opens up and the land levels off. It’s bare bones – two picnic tables, a fire ring, and a small outhouse with a pit-toilet and single shower head. They erect the tent near sundown. The sky is orange and silver, and the stars are already visible above the clouds. The air is tepid and soft, and everyone’s in good spirits, even Hoffer, though he’s already going heavy on the bourbon and acting loopy.
Hoffer’s foot catches a root, and he lurches forward. A slosh of whiskey splatters the dirt. “Oops!” he says. “Just pouring a little out for all our dead homies.” He staggers over to Danny and dangles his arm around his shoulders. His weight sags against him. “That’s what the brothers say down in Hillyard,” he says. He smells of tobacco and mildew. This may be the fastest he’s ever seen him get drunk, which is saying a lot. “Don’t worry,” he tells Danny. “All my best homeboys are still alive.”
When the tent is done, they gather around the fire pit. Danny and Syd set up their folding chairs. Hoffer heaps the bags into a pile and tries it out. As soon he plops down, he topples right back off. They all laugh. Hoffer drinks directly from the bottle. They talk about starting a fire, but it’s too hot and too dangerous. Danny’s in favor, just for the ambience, but the notion is met with sneers.
“You chilly, honey?” Hoffer asks in a feminine lilt. “You should have brought an Afghan or cardigan.”
When Danny doesn’t laugh, Hoffer reaches over and ruffles his hair. “I’m just joshing you, big guy,” he says. “I don’t care. I really don’t care at all.”
Danny thinks about snapping back at him. He could give him shit about getting hammered so fast. Why didn’t they just use the heat from his sodden, fire-red face, how would that be, huh? But it’s a rotten idea, and so he drops it.
For a few minutes everyone is quiet. Other than the sound of Hoffer slugging whiskey and Syd lighting cigarettes, it’s silent. The sun goes down a little more and the crickets start trilling. Danny goes to grab another beer out of the cooler, and when he returns, he has something on his mind.
Syd notices right away. “What is it, Dan? You look like you want to say something.”
“How’s the real estate, Hoffer?” Danny asks.
“It’s fucking beautiful,” Hoffer says. He leans back against the rumpled bags and takes a long drag from his cigarette. When he’s finished, he flicks the butt into the brush where it continues to smolder. Syd and Danny exchange looks, but they don’t say anything. Syd has been crushing his out and dropping the filters into empty beer cans but not Hoffer.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Syd says. “You’re a real mogul now.”
“How’s the community holding up?” Danny asks. “I know that section was hit hardest by the riots.”
“It’s holding up,” Hoffer says. “It’s got no other choice.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it,” Syd says.
“That’s actually very telling,” Danny says.
During the summer of 2020, while the whole world was caving in and shutting down, Spokane was no different than other cities around the country. Stores were looted and cars torched. Hillyard, being the poorest neighborhood, was ravaged. Some of the churches and clinics were still being rebuilt. The aftermath was a time for grieving and, for most people, a time of great misery. That’s when Hoffer stepped in. For him, it was a moment for striking. He and the rest of the opportunists bought up all the foreclosed properties that were abandoned due to violence or illness, and over the last several years they'd been making a killing, renting them back to the same desperate people who had left and were now trying to come back.
“How do the residents feel about your…” Danny wants to say ‘intrusion’ or ‘barbarism’ but he can’t do it. “About your presence? How do you get along with them?”
“I try not to have my presence felt at all,” Hoffer says. “The less I’m there the better. I’m one of those investors-from-afar, you know? Just call me an invisi-vestor, a uh, invisible-ester…” but he doesn’t have the sobriety to string the pun together.
“That’s disappointing,” Syd says.
“You should be earning their trust, their respect,” Danny says.
“Look at that moon,” Hoffer says. He launches upright. Some of the whisky spills again. Of the full pint, only one-third is left. His cheeks have changed from rosy red to sickly white. There is a vacant quality to his eyes. He tilts his head back and howls. “Ah-woo! Ah, ah, ah woooooooooooo!”
Syd and Danny search the sky for any sign of a full moon, but there is none. Danny thinks he sees the outline of something dim and partial forming to the east, but nothing full, and Hoffer’s screeching was aimed in the opposite direction. The sound must have aroused some of the wildlife because suddenly, a baby cub ambles into sight. It’s about thirty feet away in the dusky light, brown and fluffy, almost cuddly in its miniature dimensions. It pauses when it sees them. Danny and Syd stay seated but Hoffer, who is already on his feet, goes galloping right for it.
“Hey there buddy,” Hoffer says. He has the bottle outstretched, as though to offer it a chummy swig. “You’re a cute little guy, aren’t you?” When he’s close enough to touch its snout, it rears up on its hind legs. It doesn’t look like a baby anymore, with its huge belly and mammoth paws.
“That’s a grizzly bear,” Syd says. “Hey, Hoffer. Come away from there. That’s a grizzly!”
“How can you tell?” Danny asks.
“See it’s snub nose and small ears?” Syd says. “It’s got a little hump in the back too.”
They stop talking when they see Hoffer hunch down and get in what looks like a wrestling stance. He sets his feet shoulder-width apart and bends his knees. He jabs his hands out and curls his fingers. They all used to wrestle in high school. Hoffer was the best. They can’t tell if he actually means to fight the bear or if he’s playing around, but it doesn’t matter because a second later the mother grizzly comes blitzing out of the woods and tackles Hoffer to the ground in one ferocious blur.
“Holy shit!” Syd yells. He scrabbles up on top of his chair and huddles into a ball. Danny follows suit, sucking his knees to his chest. Now, the roles are reversed. They are the babies, but there is nobody coming to rescue them.
The sounds are terrifying – horrifying yelps from Hoffer followed by gnawing, digestive snorts from the bear. Syd covers his ears and closes his eyes. Danny watches. The bear’s body envelopes Hoffer’s like it isn’t even there. All he can see is her humongous chest and arms consuming what lies beneath it. It thrashes and mauls until all other noises have ceased, and it has worn itself out from its own brutality. She circles his body, careless in the way she steps on his head, then waist and feet, what’s left of them. The fur is crimson and sticky around her mouth.
Danny hears Syd, coiled and murmuring in his chair. He watches as the bear makes another circuit around Hoffer’s flayed form. She never takes her eyes off him. The cub is gone. And maybe, because she knows it’s safe now, or because she can sense the regret in her victim, she turns and shuffles away. Her frame, the size of a small car, slinks off through the trees.
Syd still hasn’t looked. He sways and mutters in his chair.
“It’s okay,” Danny says, placing a hand on top of his. “It’s over now.”
***
There are still a few beers and cigarettes left. It’s been years since Danny had a smoke, but he feels now is an acceptable time to indulge. Syd hands him one and lights it.
“Looks like Hoffer’s finally burned out,” Syd says, exhaling. He uses the fingers with the cigarette tweezed inside to point at the spot where Hoffer’s old butt had simmered and flared out.
“Thank God,” Danny says. “We don’t want that catastrophe on our hands.”
“Guys,” Hoffer moans. “Guys, I need help. I really need your help.” He’s managed to drag himself closer across the rocks. His arms are covered in blood. There’s a tear down the front of his leg from ankle to hip. All the flesh is gone. What remains is nothing but slivers of bone. Half of his face is missing, peeled and purple. His clothing is still there but torn to pieces, like it’s been run through a paper shredder.
“You’ll be okay,” Syd says. He takes another drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke out. “You’ve got all that whisky inside of you to keep the infections away. You’ve pickled yourself, remember? What did you used to call it? Oh, I remember. You made yourself into the Pickled Paladin.”
“That’s right!” Danny says. “I forgot about that. That’s one of my favorites.” He tries inhaling the cigarette, but it’s been so long he almost forgets how. He keeps getting the smoke in his eyes and nose, and he can’t stop hacking.
“But I’m cold,” Hoffer says. “I’m really really cold.” His teeth chatter. One of his eyes, the left one, looks like it might just roll right out of the mangled socket.
“Oh, come on,” Danny says. “You’re overreacting. Cold? It’s not cold out here. Indian Summer,” he says. “Here, let me check the temp.” He licks his index finger and raises it over his head. “It’s gotta be seventy-five, seventy-six degrees. That’s not cold.”
“Yeah, come on, Hoffer,” Syd says. “What, you’re a doctor now? A meteorologist? You’re fine.”
Syd and Danny chuckle. Hoffer is in and out of consciousness. He lays flat on the dirt, motionless.
“I’ll put a jacket over him,” Danny says. He walks to the tent and retrieves one. He drapes it over Hoffer’s upper body and takes a seat back in his chair. “There we go,” he says.
“That’s nice of you,” Syd says. He holds his empty beer can up so that he can toss his finished butt inside. “Want another?” he asks.
“Why not,” Danny says. Syd plucks two more out of the cooler and cracks them open. They sit silently for a while, drinking and thinking.
The night is almost pitch black now. They can see Hoffer’s shattered contours laid out in front of them, a few cottonwoods beyond, but after that it’s pure darkness. The stars are big and twinkling up above.
“I want to apologize about earlier,” Syd says.
Danny sips his beer. “For which part exactly?”
“That stuff about Sofia and nasty boys. I should have acknowledged it. They can be total beasts.”
A burp bubbles up from Danny’s gut. He pounds his chest. “What made you think of that?” he asks.
“I was thinking about Heather,” Syd says. A hush overtakes him. He slumps low in his chair. “The truth is, she told me some awful stories recently, and I’m not sure why I was pretending that she didn’t.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Rape stories,” Syd says. He drops his head, unable to face Danny. “I guess it happened in college.”
“It happens way too often, and when it’s your wife like that, it really stings. Be glad you don’t have a daughter.”
“Heather is someone’s daughter.”
“That’s true,” Danny says. He puts his hand on the back of Syd’s head, which is still lowered toward his lap. “That’s really true.”
Hoffer’s torso begins to twitch. His eyes open and a shallow groan escapes his lips.
“Syd? Danny?” he says. His voice is dry and raspy. “Are you still there? I can’t see.” His eyes are open but cloudy. One of them is not where it’s supposed to be.
“We’re here,” Syd says. “You’re okay. We’re still here.”
“I need to get to the hospital,” Hoffer says. He hoists himself on one arm and tries to move, but it’s no use.
“We’ll drive you in the morning,” Danny says. “It’s late. We came here to relax,” he says. “Get some rest.”
Hoffer’s arm gives out and his body crumbles to the dirt. His right cheek lies flush against the ground as he speaks. “You know,” he says. “I would never hurt any trees. I used to plant trees in Audubon Park when I was a kid. My mom used to take me. I don’t think you guys knew about that.”
“There there,” Syd says. “We understand, don’t we Danny?”
“That’s fine, Hoffer,” Danny says. “We get it. Just take it easy. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“My mom’s birthday is next weekend,” Hoffer says. “You remember mom, Lola?”
“We remember,” Syd says.
“Sure,” Danny says. “Lola. Nice lady. She used to take us to Dairy Queen after baseball games.”
“I was going to pick some flowers,” Hoffer says, but that’s all he can get out. A strand of saliva drips from his mouth. His foot shakes one time, and then he is motionless.
“There he goes,” Syd says. “Now he’ll sleep.”
“Yeah,” Danny says. “He needs that. We all do.”
Danny reaches into his duffel bag for his flashlight. “I could use some illumination. It’s so dark out here.”
“Yes, sir. There’s no light pollution up here,” Syd says. He draws in a deep, cleansing breath and releases it.
Danny’s hand brushes the first aid kit jammed at the bottom. He moves it aside and dislodges the flashlight. He flicks it on, casting it over the tent. “That’s better,” he says. “We should turn in soon.”
Syd takes one last chug of his beer and crushes the can. “You know Hoffer didn’t burn Sandy’s house down,” he says. “I know that for a fact.”
“Is that right?” Danny says.
“Yep. I know the chief of the fire department personally. He told me they did a thorough investigation, and they were certain they found the cause. Sandy fell asleep with a lit joint in bed. I think she must have been embarrassed.”
“I’m sure she was.”
“I’ve known for months,” Syd says.
“I figured,” Danny says. He sweeps the flashlight high above the trees, far off into the chasm.
“We should really go to bed,” Syd says. “We have a big day tomorrow.”
“We sure do,” Danny says, and switches it off. “Let’s get some shut eye.”
But neither of them moves. They aren’t going anywhere, and neither are any of the other nocturnal species hiding in the gloom. Mount Spokane, with its half-bald summits, seems distinctly climbable in shadow form. Nothing is going anywhere. That idea passed long ago. Danny looks at Hoffer’s fractured, frozen silhouette. It appears almost ecstatic in its final thrust for salvation. The drive home will be so much quieter.
OMG. jaw dropping. so good
That was GREAT ❤️