Robert Stone - Dog Soldiers

“He’s lucky he’s dead,” Marge said.

“They say the world is coming to an end. They say that’s why it’s so fucked up.”

“Wishful thinking,” Marge said. “The world will go on for a million years.”

At the mention of a million years, Converse nearly fell asleep at the wheel. He caught himself in time and kept them on the road.

As they drove farther, the hills were lower and dryer — before long there were no more oaks to be seen and no more yellow grass. At last, the land was flat on both sides of the road, and they came to a grassless plain of mesquite and creosote bushes that stretched northward to the brown rims of the mountains. The outer ridges were steep and spired, capped with wind-worn fantasies that gave jagged edge to the horizon line. After several miles, they came to narrow tracks crossing the paved road. The tracks led northward into the emptiness, toward the ridge.

Converse stopped the car and climbed out. There was no one in sight, no other cars on the road in either direction. He leaned his folded arms on the square hood and put his head down.

“Listen to it,” he said, when he had raised his head again, “it’s incredible.”

Marge shook her head impatiently.

“What?” she asked, almost pleadingly.

“The silence of it,” he said. “It comes out of nothing to nowhere.” Marge got out and looked down the line of tracks. “He’s walking out there.”

“I don’t believe it, do you?”

“Yes,” she said. Converse got back in the Land-Rover. “O.K. then. Let’s get him.” She walked back to the vehicle and looked down at him in pity.

“Look,” she said. “You could have gotten out. You were driving — you could have gone to a bus stop. You could have stayed back at that filling station.”

“Don’t trifle with me,” Converse said. “We’ll see if he’s out there. We’ve got nothing better to do.”

She got in.

“He’ll have the dope.”

“I daresay he will. And you’ll like that, won’t you? Because you can use some.”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Converse said. “You must know whether you need to get straight or not. Everybody knows that.”

“I want to get straight.”

“Just give me a little reinforcement,” he told her, “that’s all I require.”

He held the Land-Rover as close as possible to the tracks. Ruts and sinks that were insignificant to look at sent them off the seat. The road behind them became invisible; they dodged black ore-bearing rocks and ocotillo shrubs with whiplike branches.

“You want to get straight and you want to pick him up.”

“I have to,” she said.

“Don’t you want to?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want. I have to.”

“So we’ve reached the level of inchoate need,” Converse said. “That’s the level we’ll work on. That’s where it’s at.” Marge looked at him impatiently. “I told you, you didn’t have to come. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m tired.”

It had become very hot inside the Land-Rover. Converse opened his shirt.

“Jesus, you’re a drag,” she said. “The way you are now.”

Converse was not offended. He increased his speed as his familiarity with the nature of the ground increased. He wondered what the way he was now was like. A short time later, Marge covered her face with her hands.

“It’s insane. They’ll get us for sure out here.”

“There’s nothing out here,” Converse said. He was not certain what he meant by it There was sand, and wind whipping the creosote and the shrouds of the jeep. There was the risk of cracking up. All real. He felt as though he had awakened from sleep to find himself driving within his own mind.

“It’s a lousy place,” he told Marge. “It’s no place to be.”

“I haven’t been this scared ever,” she told him.

“Probably physical. The mind-body problem extended.”

“Please stop talking shit,” she begged him.

The grim brown wall of the ridge grew larger before them.

“I see something,” Marge said.

Because of the dips, Converse kept his gaze on the ground immediately ahead. At length he caught a glimpse of something blue beside the track. It had metal parts that the sun glinted on. He slowed as they came up to it.

When they got out, Marge started to run. Converse left the engine turning. Following her, he saw that it was Hicks beside the tracks. There was a rifle slung across his shoulder and a pack on his back. One side of his body was covered in dried blood; one of his hands rested on the rail. Some bluebottle flies had gathered over the wound under his arm.

Marge stood looking at him and then ran back to the jeep. She came back carrying a canteen full of water.

“He’s in shock,” she said softly.

“No,” Converse said, “he’s dead.”

He walked over, looked down at Hicks, and at the mountains beyond. They were miles and miles away. It was incredible to Converse that he had carried so much weight so far. Lifting the flap of the pack, he saw that the dope was inside.

Marge started to sit down on the rail, but it was hot and she rose from it quickly. She sprawled on the white dust, brushed the bluebottles from Hicks’ side, and cried.

Converse watched her. For all her wastedness she looked quite beautiful in her tears. He might, he thought, if things were different, have fallen in love with her again right there. He was not without emotions and it was very moving. Real. Maybe even worth coming out for.

He looked around him at the blanched and empty land to see what it was he felt. Fear. Sparkling on the gun metal, twinkling in the mesquite. A permanent condition.

Marge swayed in her grief; the wind that stirred the dust blew her hair and molded her skirt to her body. When she stopped crying, she lifted the flap of the backpack and scooped some of the dope from it with the sleeve of her jacket. She picked up the canteen she had brought and went back to the Land-Rover.

Converse came and stood over Hicks — in a moment he found himself trying to brush the flies away. He had seen so much more blood, he thought, than he had ever thought to see.

Marge’s teared eye measured the liquor in her needle. Converse watched the throb of blood rise in the tube.

“We lost him,” he told Marge.

She was bent at the waist; she rested the top of her head on the seat next to her.

“He wasn’t the only one. Sauve qui peut .”

When she did not straighten up, he became concerned.

“Marge?”

She came up out of it. “Marge, can you see me? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “We have to go, baby. We can’t stay and grieve or we’ll be just as dead as he is.”

She seemed less pale, her eyes less dull. She made a sound in her throat.

“Marge?”

“Does it matter?” she asked him with a smile.

Converse considered her question.

“I don’t know. But nobody’s replaceable.”

“John,” she said, “you are so full of shit. Honestly — you’re a bad guy.”

He had begun to pace beside the sputtering jeep, turning on his heel.

“We came after him, for Christ’s sake. I’m really going to try not to regret it.

“In the worst of times,” he began to tell her, “there’s something.”

“Ha,” Marge said. “There’s smack.” She watched him pace in bewilderment. “In the worst of times there’s something? What?”

“There’s us.”

Marge laughed.

“Us? You and me? That’s something?”

“Everybody,” Converse said. “You know.”

“Sure,” Marge said, “that’s why it’s so shitty.”

Converse shook his head and walked back to where Hicks lay. It was a difficult point to make in the circumstances. He hunkered down beside Hicks and wondered if he would have understood what it was that he sought to say.