Poole and Hatchet hadn’t seen one another in almost fourteen months. Poole greeted him with the amazement Hatchet expected, tugging at his long hair and rubbing his beard. Hatchet asked him if he could crash on his couch for a couple of days, at least until the weather improved. Poole told him he could stay as long as he needed and the two embraced and worked through the first awkward hour of the reunion with whiskey as Hatchet gave him his version of the incident that killed Johnny Buckney and his girlfriend. He showed Poole the gnarly deep scar on his deltoid where the bullet had found him.
I'm sorry it happened, Marcus.
They passed a pipe. Hatchet told him of his time in Mexico among the Sierra del Carmen Mountains, living in complete isolation, combating the paranoia of living in a land of ubiquitous violence. From the silent empyrean violence of the wilderness to the phantom cacophony of the drug wars raging night and day across the entire border. He told Poole of finding a pile of scavenger-ravaged corpses in a creek bed, a few of them the bodies of children. He had found a weapons cache in a cave from which he stole a tactical shotgun and ammunition that fit the 9mm he had taken from the Buckney home. He spoke of killing a feral hog for a week’s worth of meat, leaving most of it for the buzzards and coyotes. The respect he gained for the scavengers became his anchor. That perpetual cycle of life and death, he told Poole, they have nothing else and we’re no different; I started to realize that up on that mountain with that cougar and then Johnny and his girlfriend… real bullet wounds are just indescribable, Poole, I've never seen so much blood; I thought I'd never get it off me.
One morning, he told Poole, I was camping near some abandoned mobile homes about eighteen miles southeast of that place called Boquillas. There was a dry creek where I could park the truck and the way the hills sat, it was difficult to see it even by plane. Stayed there two weeks staring at the stars. The stars down there, Poole, they actually vibrate. The entire sky vibrates. Anyway, that morning, I decided to run this creek bed and went too far out and realized I had been running due north for two hours which meant I would be running uphill the entire way back. So, I’m pissed at myself and I climbed the highest hill to maybe get an easier angle of ascent which was a huge mistake. By the time I got to the top, my legs were jelly. I’ve never had my legs fail me, Poole. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. And my shoulder still hasn’t completely healed at this point. My parts just simply refused to cooperate. But I finally worked the cramps down and got rid of some of the wobbles in my thighs and I started walking. I don’t remember, it might’ve been thirty minutes, there’s a road, one lane, an old ranch road covered with grass and cacti. And while I’m walking, this truck comes sailing toward me out in the distance. Virginia plates of all things. I stopped and it stopped. I hadn’t seen a soul in over a week. I’m a fucking a fugitive, if not a murder suspect. I guess the fear was enough to coax my legs back to life and I started jogging again and veering off the road back toward the creek. Well this truck comes creeping up and pulls right next to me and this old white guy (a shock) calls out asking if I need water. I’m sure I looked like I might have had some hard luck with my bandages and my exhaustion. But I didn’t really think about that at the time. Well, there’s a girl in the passenger seat, a young Mexican chick, maybe sixteen, and she has this look in her eyes that I’ll never forget, Poole. I don’t know any word that can describe it. Like she had conceded something, like she had given up on something, almost the look the kids at the detention center would wear their first day in the pods but heavier, sadder. I just waved them on and found the creek bed and made it back to camp in a little pain but okay. Well, that evening, I’m up on one of the hills, searching for coyotes with my zoom and way the fuck out there, off any road, I catch sight of this truck again. And this time there are two other people. There’s just the truck, no other vehicle, and it’s parked. The old guy is out there and there’s someone wearing a cape, no shit, a cape and white and black make-up like those shitty Goth metal bands. The other one is on his knees, digging around on the ground with his hands or something and then I see him pull the girl up by the hair and he’s shaking her like she’s not awake. And her face is beaten to shit and she’s naked and she’s bleeding. And then I notice that both of these new guys are covered in blood from their chins to their knees.
Was the old bastard pimping her out?
It sure looked like it. And the old guy and the cape are arguing and it’s getting pretty heated, this jackass in the cape juking at him and kicking dirt at him. Out of the blue, like he was appointed to do so by some kangaroo court, the cape pulls out a pistol and shoots this Mexican chick in the face. I’m not shitting you.
Jesusfuckingchrist.
The old guy goes to limping across the fucking desert. No way. The ground just reaches out and grabs him. There’s just no way this old bastard is going to make it ten feet, too many blood thirsty plants. But the cape and the other boy are in eachother’s faces now. The other guy is wiping pieces of brain off his cheek and throwing them at the cape. The old guy is crawling now. Finally, the cape levels the gun on his partner and lets him have it. He’s screaming and spitting and he goes over and grabs the old man by the ear and drags him into the mess and starts ripping the old boy’s clothes off.
What? You’re making this up, Hatchet.
It gets worse. Let me finish. So I couldn’t help myself… I grabbed the guns and started running.
You’re stupid.
You would’ve done the same thing, Poole.
I seriously doubt it.
You did it for me.
That’s different.
I know you, man. So I’m running but my legs just won’t do it. They just refuse to do it. I had punished them too much that day. By the time I get there, I’m limping. I’m in pain. I’m scared shitless, trying to keep my breathing quiet. Well, the truck is gone and I find the girl. Her head is just gone, a black stain on the rocks. But the old man has disappeared. I looked at what was left of her, Poole, and I began to get angry. My thoughts wouldn’t let go of that face she gave me from the window of that truck. She had no inclination to call out to me, no will to cry out for my help. Would I have done anything for her if she had? But that’s the wrong question, isn’t it? The question should be, Why didn’t I do anything?
Your dumbass was right there. You were doing something.
But she was gone. I should have done something right then. Right when the old fuck offered me water. Regardless of whatever shape I was in—I had the pistol on me—I could have done something. How could I justify using this stupid gun to protect myself but the last thing in my head when it needs to be is protecting someone else?
That’s vigilantism, Hatchet.
It’s protection.
I don’t care. That’s a slippery slope, brother.
I understand. But down there in the hard hot center of it, it sure felt like I had failed her. I honestly got very close to a breakdown, brother. It got ugly up here. Hatchet tapped his forefinger against his temple.
I'm sorry it happened, Marcus.
They passed a pipe. Hatchet told him of his time in Mexico among the Sierra del Carmen Mountains, living in complete isolation, combating the paranoia of living in a land of ubiquitous violence. From the silent empyrean violence of the wilderness to the phantom cacophony of the drug wars raging night and day across the entire border. He told Poole of finding a pile of scavenger-ravaged corpses in a creek bed, a few of them the bodies of children. He had found a weapons cache in a cave from which he stole a tactical shotgun and ammunition that fit the 9mm he had taken from the Buckney home. He spoke of killing a feral hog for a week’s worth of meat, leaving most of it for the buzzards and coyotes. The respect he gained for the scavengers became his anchor. That perpetual cycle of life and death, he told Poole, they have nothing else and we’re no different; I started to realize that up on that mountain with that cougar and then Johnny and his girlfriend… real bullet wounds are just indescribable, Poole, I've never seen so much blood; I thought I'd never get it off me.
One morning, he told Poole, I was camping near some abandoned mobile homes about eighteen miles southeast of that place called Boquillas. There was a dry creek where I could park the truck and the way the hills sat, it was difficult to see it even by plane. Stayed there two weeks staring at the stars. The stars down there, Poole, they actually vibrate. The entire sky vibrates. Anyway, that morning, I decided to run this creek bed and went too far out and realized I had been running due north for two hours which meant I would be running uphill the entire way back. So, I’m pissed at myself and I climbed the highest hill to maybe get an easier angle of ascent which was a huge mistake. By the time I got to the top, my legs were jelly. I’ve never had my legs fail me, Poole. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. And my shoulder still hasn’t completely healed at this point. My parts just simply refused to cooperate. But I finally worked the cramps down and got rid of some of the wobbles in my thighs and I started walking. I don’t remember, it might’ve been thirty minutes, there’s a road, one lane, an old ranch road covered with grass and cacti. And while I’m walking, this truck comes sailing toward me out in the distance. Virginia plates of all things. I stopped and it stopped. I hadn’t seen a soul in over a week. I’m a fucking a fugitive, if not a murder suspect. I guess the fear was enough to coax my legs back to life and I started jogging again and veering off the road back toward the creek. Well this truck comes creeping up and pulls right next to me and this old white guy (a shock) calls out asking if I need water. I’m sure I looked like I might have had some hard luck with my bandages and my exhaustion. But I didn’t really think about that at the time. Well, there’s a girl in the passenger seat, a young Mexican chick, maybe sixteen, and she has this look in her eyes that I’ll never forget, Poole. I don’t know any word that can describe it. Like she had conceded something, like she had given up on something, almost the look the kids at the detention center would wear their first day in the pods but heavier, sadder. I just waved them on and found the creek bed and made it back to camp in a little pain but okay. Well, that evening, I’m up on one of the hills, searching for coyotes with my zoom and way the fuck out there, off any road, I catch sight of this truck again. And this time there are two other people. There’s just the truck, no other vehicle, and it’s parked. The old guy is out there and there’s someone wearing a cape, no shit, a cape and white and black make-up like those shitty Goth metal bands. The other one is on his knees, digging around on the ground with his hands or something and then I see him pull the girl up by the hair and he’s shaking her like she’s not awake. And her face is beaten to shit and she’s naked and she’s bleeding. And then I notice that both of these new guys are covered in blood from their chins to their knees.
Was the old bastard pimping her out?
It sure looked like it. And the old guy and the cape are arguing and it’s getting pretty heated, this jackass in the cape juking at him and kicking dirt at him. Out of the blue, like he was appointed to do so by some kangaroo court, the cape pulls out a pistol and shoots this Mexican chick in the face. I’m not shitting you.
Jesusfuckingchrist.
The old guy goes to limping across the fucking desert. No way. The ground just reaches out and grabs him. There’s just no way this old bastard is going to make it ten feet, too many blood thirsty plants. But the cape and the other boy are in eachother’s faces now. The other guy is wiping pieces of brain off his cheek and throwing them at the cape. The old guy is crawling now. Finally, the cape levels the gun on his partner and lets him have it. He’s screaming and spitting and he goes over and grabs the old man by the ear and drags him into the mess and starts ripping the old boy’s clothes off.
What? You’re making this up, Hatchet.
It gets worse. Let me finish. So I couldn’t help myself… I grabbed the guns and started running.
You’re stupid.
You would’ve done the same thing, Poole.
I seriously doubt it.
You did it for me.
That’s different.
I know you, man. So I’m running but my legs just won’t do it. They just refuse to do it. I had punished them too much that day. By the time I get there, I’m limping. I’m in pain. I’m scared shitless, trying to keep my breathing quiet. Well, the truck is gone and I find the girl. Her head is just gone, a black stain on the rocks. But the old man has disappeared. I looked at what was left of her, Poole, and I began to get angry. My thoughts wouldn’t let go of that face she gave me from the window of that truck. She had no inclination to call out to me, no will to cry out for my help. Would I have done anything for her if she had? But that’s the wrong question, isn’t it? The question should be, Why didn’t I do anything?
Your dumbass was right there. You were doing something.
But she was gone. I should have done something right then. Right when the old fuck offered me water. Regardless of whatever shape I was in—I had the pistol on me—I could have done something. How could I justify using this stupid gun to protect myself but the last thing in my head when it needs to be is protecting someone else?
That’s vigilantism, Hatchet.
It’s protection.
I don’t care. That’s a slippery slope, brother.
I understand. But down there in the hard hot center of it, it sure felt like I had failed her. I honestly got very close to a breakdown, brother. It got ugly up here. Hatchet tapped his forefinger against his temple.
Edit 12.15.2018