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Their hatchback pulled right up to the edge of the plot and when they cut the ignition things went first dark and then silent. A halfmoon hung against a low sky. Autumn chill.
On the passenger side a door swung open and a small flame ignited and then bobbed out with a hiss as it hit humid air. The driver sat hunched over the dash wiping his glasses with the hem of his shirt. Then he opened his door and unfurled his legs out into the night and flipped on a batteryfed lantern that he set on the car’s sloped hood.
He circled around to where the passenger stood leaned on one heel with his back up against the trunk.
Already? asked Hal.
You wouldn't let me smoke on our way up.
Not with all that formaldehyde in the back. I didn't want to risk a surprise cremation.
Might’ve saved us the trouble. Dave leered down over the lip of freshly turned earth and flicked his ash inside. You sure this one’s ours? Looks like someone beat us to it.
Yup. Paid in full over the phone. The groundskeeper offered to dig it up for free when I mentioned we were burying an old war hero.
Oh brother.
I know, I know. But look—if we don’t leave a paper trail and at least a few witnesses, people who can vouch for our handiwork, there’s no point in going to all this trouble.
Dave turned and shielded his eyes against the lanternlight. Scanning silently, right out to the treeless horizon. Headstones in drill-straight rows dropped their shadows like spokes.
C’mon, Hal said. It’s your funeral.
Yeah, alright. Let’s ditch the stiff and get out of here.
They popped the trunk and a sluice of dew rolled off the rear windshield onto the backs of their necks. Dave tipped out an old coffeecup from the stratum of roadtrip trash to stash his cig and put the cup on the roof and then pulled back a coarsehaired blanket covering a bulky mass they’d had to fold down the back row to accommodate.
Underneath was a blue polytarp bundled around something long and bent back on itself crescentlike. Ends wrapped tight with twine. Hal got up on the bumper with one knee and crawled halfway in behind it.
You pull, I'll push.
Roger.
It was still warm in the car and smelled like Speed Stick and frenchfry grease and embalming fluid. The tarp crackled as Hal bore down to unkink its midsection and then as he slid it lengthwise through the hatch where Dave waited stooped to shoulder the bundle's weight. After Hal scrambled out and took its other end they guided it down to a spot parallel to the grave and each stepped back to appraise what lay between them.
I dunno if we should leave him in there or what.
Probably not. Too conspicuous. Although sticking him straight in the ground isn't much better.
Natural burials are a thing. Maybe you’d be into that—you know, rugged Alaskan lifestyle, living off the grid...
Sure. Alaska.
...
...
So how do we do this?
Dave scratched at his jaw. We open up the tarp, he said, but leave him on top, then use it as a sling to lower him down.
That should work. As long as we make sure the tarp doesn’t get stuck down there.
Nah, I'll pull it out after. Like that trick with the tablecloth and dishes.
Both men took a knee and set to work pulling apart the knotted twine. Hal had his side halfway undone before Dave leaned over with a pocketknife to slice it clean through. They rolled the bundle a quarter turn to reveal its seam and then unspooled their cargo from its protective shell.
He was dressed in a faded green service uniform sans brass and his skin glistened in the weak light. Slumped over on his right flank with a darkly fetal irony. Still about six foot even. No beret. Dave toed him in the chest and he fell flat back, eyes pointed skyward but just as cloudy.
Lovely.
It seems like he’s not too banged up, at least. Or not more than when we found him.
Yeah. But I still think we should’ve left his hair alone. Last time I went that short was in basic.
No one’ll believe it’s you down there with a blond bob.
I guess.
His lips were parted bloodlessly as if anticipating the chance to speak. Hal looked up to see the same unbroken line of brow nose chin drawn up in negatives against a cutout of night.
I do think the mullet suits you better, though.
Good to know.
Each of them took two corners of the tarp and lifted. Up close you could tell which parts of him were missing or mangled: one ear bashed in, one glove loosefingered and stuffed with rags. A four-inch line where something ragged had lashed the side of his neck. They ferried him out over the grave until they were straddling either end of it, with Dave stepping around and back, letting his soles run aground to keep from walking into empty air.
Ready if you are.
Yup.
They let the tarp go slack and sink centerfirst into the earth. Hal crouched with it until the hole came up to his elbows and then dropped his side and listened as a pair of thriftstore jackboots hit bottom. He thumbs-upped at Dave and then Dave retreated from the edge so that the tarp slipped under and out and caught the wind like a sail.
There we go.
Let me help you with that before it flies off. Hal looped a wide circuit around the gravesite and grabbed onto a fistful of tarp that whipped and bucked in his face.
Thanks.
They pulled the tarp taut and folded it up in tandem like those flag ceremonies Hal had seen on C-SPAN as a kid, minus the triangle part at the end. Dave tossed it into the trunk and got his coffeecup off the roof and fished his cig back out before climbing under the raised hatch on all fours.
You brought shovels, right?
Just one, I think. Had to ditch a few things to make room.
Hrmm.
There was the sound of a heap dislodging and Dave emerged in reverse, pulling the shovel behind him, then drove its tip into the ground so the handle stuck straight upright. Unlit half-cig clamped between his teeth.
We can take turns, he said.
Yeah, but hold on. Shouldn’t we say something first?
Say something?
You know. Like a eulogy or whatever.
Oh. I guess. Dave paused to consider. All this stuff’s kinda foreign to me.
You’ve never been to a funeral before?
Not civilian.
Fair enough. Well... maybe you could play Taps instead?
Too bad I left my bugle at home. Dave pulled a Zippo from some unseen pocket and dipped his cig into its flame until a thin trail of smoke poured out. You first. Show me how it’s done.
Alright. Give me a second to think.
Hal angled himself towards the hole. Letting his gaze get pulled down into it. It was hard to tell with the heavy shadows resting at its bottom but he thought he could just barely see the crook of an elbow bent way back.
We're here today, or tonight, really, to mourn the loss of... uh, a man, a brother, a son, now departed to the great beyond. None of us know exactly what the great beyond is like, of course, or if it even exists, but as a wise man once remarked: The journey doesn't end here. Death is just another—
C’mon. Even I know that’s some bullshit.
What else am I supposed to say? There were half a dozen layers of management between me and Liquid. I barely knew the guy.
Liquid? Dave tapped his ash into the dirt. I thought this was supposed to be my funeral.
Th—Snake! Don't be so morbid.
You're the one who said we have to put on a convincing show. So convince me.
A lazy wind was kicking up the smell of damp pine and exhaust. Hal stood there cracking his knuckles with both hands balled up against his chin. Eyes closed. Really thinking this time.
Okay, he ventured. How about this: we're here tonight in memory of Solid Snake. Who was a man and a brother and a son, but he was a legend, too. And legends never really die.
Dave stood silent.
Well, don't get me wrong. He did actually die, him and countless others, back when that tanker went belly up. It's a miracle we managed to recover his body.
A real miracle, huh.
But his essence, his story—that hasn’t gone anywhere. It lives on in all of us. And even though some people might try to tarnish his story, to paint him as a coward or a traitor, it’s only because the truth poses a threat to their own agendas. Because the truth is that Snake died in the line of duty, died a hero, protecting the world from insidious forces that most of us had yet to even witness. Like he’d done so many times before. The protecting, I mean.
...
He sacrificed everything he had to serve the greater good, for our collective benefit. Without even flinching. So we owe it to him to keep the truth alive. And to finish what he started.
This is starting to sound like an Arlington ceremony after all.
Is that bad?
Dave made a noncommittal noise. Twin streams of smoke curled out from his nostrils into the night.
You don't like it.
I didn't say that.
No, it’s okay. I got a little carried away with the hero stuff. But I can try to switch gears.
Don't worry about it.
I want to get this right, though. So there’s the man, the myth, and now back to the man—and that's who I really knew, at the end of the day. He was... an early riser. Self-sufficient to a fault. Placed second in the ‘04 Iditarod.
That was just a qualifier. In the real thing I barely cracked top ten.
Placed top ten in the '04 Iditarod. He had every Creedence album on tape. He's the only guy I know who still buys tapes. Bought.
...
He was a bad liar and a worse cook. Better at GoldenEye than any of the geeks I went to school with. Generous in that quiet way where you wouldn't even notice until it was too late to say thanks. Cleaned up nice if you gave him a reason to.
...
He was a man of his word. He wasn't afraid to admit when he was wrong. I never once saw him panic, or lose his temper, or go to bed without socks on. And when he listened to you it felt like he was the first person to ever try, to really hear what you had to say.
The lanternlight flickered.
And, uh, I'm gonna miss him.
...
That's it, I think. Your turn.
Alright.
Hal stepped back and let Dave take position at the head of the grave.
There was once a soldier who always did his job. Followed orders. Kept his rifle oiled. Never questioned his superiors, or his own place in the machine.
Dave tossed his cig into the hole and it set off a sharp burst of light followed by a weak, acrid sizzle.
And now he’s dead. The end.
...
How was that?
I like it. Short and to the point.
Thanks.
Dave turned off to look at a fleet of stormclouds rolling in from the east. The wind at double time now. Hal came over to stand at his shoulder and they stayed like that, watching the horizon blot out into a heavy gray, until the lantern flickered again and noticeably waned.
Better get a move on, said Dave. We're burning daylight.
Right. Now comes the fun part. Hal hooked a thumb towards the spot where their shovel stood upright. Who gets first shift?
If you want to pop the backseat and crash for a bit, I can handle it myself.
You sure?
Yeah. You should rest up. Dave zipped his jacket shut and started to roll the sleeves back past his wrists. We've got a long drive ahead of us.