The Savage(100)

Cotto’s hands dropped. His mind was fogged. Thoughts and emotion were that of days without sleep, like being hungover in a field hoeing potatoes, humidity pressing down with no shade or water. The body drained of electrolytes. Fighting the death that eased within his torso, organ by organ. Limb by limb. He looked to Angus. “What have you done to me?”

“Not near what I done to your father or—”

From the church’s entrance came the trample of feet sounding off like horse hooves along with the words of Scar, whose temperament ran Freon-cold, her militia backing her, their weapons bearing on the rears of each child soldier’s skull. Some were beat down by rifle butts. Those who tried to fight were removed from creation by gunshot. Seeing the masked children fall, Cotto screamed, “No!” And Scar raised her .45 Colt at Angus from across the room of carnage, as she finished his words for him, fingering the trigger from across the church’s bloodied hall, “—my father when you removed his face from his shoulders.”

*

Break of twig upon the forest’s floor. Coat of almond and pearl with the breach of sun upon the hillside, Dorn sat his rifle pinning the chest within his hairs, Horace watching beside him, waiting. Whispering, “Up to you. Kill it now or wait.”

Rush of blood expanding the arteries. Heart increasing with pulse. Pressure rising. Ears slightly ringing. Crack of leaves. Antlered head raised. Four points branched on left and right side. Eight-pointer. Neck swiveling. Eyes a cold sapphire matching the shade of the nose. Dorn could fight the rush no more and squeezed the trigger.

And like that first kill for betterment, for survival and continuation with his father, that rush would bear no difference with a human when it meant extinction of another. Dorn held the shape of Cotto in his crosshairs, realizing that even after shooting Alcorn, it was no easier a decision to take another’s life a second or third or even fourth time. Though he’d done it, more than once, he was still human, held emotion, but those killings gave the confidence to do what must be done, take Cotto’s life, end his slaughtering of men, enslaving women and children. And he pulled the trigger at the same time the Sheldon girl raised her gun to save the life of another.

*

High-caliber explosion raked the drums of all eyes watching and battling. Muscle meat parted from Scar’s right forearm. Took her weapon from being aimed at Angus. Vein and tissue ripped and seared. “Ahh!” Scar shrieked.

Jawline burned and ripped in Van Dorn’s crosshairs with the ooze of Cotto’s face.

Scar’s pistol dropped with the spray of blood. Fluid the shade of fresh cranberries dabbed from Cotto’s face, painted his lips. First in tiny specs. Then in droplets that grew into an overfilled bucket of liquid. Then all at once, Angus’s attack took Cotto’s organ. His kidney mangled internally. Then his insides erupted, split and broke by the warmth of Angus’s touch.

Wolf Cookie Mike reached for Scar, who dropped to her knees, screaming. The rest of her militia stood with guns shouldered, pointed to where the Sheldon girl had administered the bullet across the room.

Dorn could take no more of the lunacy, of the killing, of what the simple rural folk were doing to one another, and he shouted, “Stop!”

Angus watched Van Dorn with everyone else. “Enough. The past is the past. Nothing can change what we’ve all done. What we’ve incurred.” Van Dorn pointed to Angus, the Sheldon girl reached, held on to Van Dorn’s arm. “What this man done is the past. What everyone is doing now is savage. Has nothing to do with bettering any person’s life. It’s all about killing and ruling. It’s a struggle for power. And ain’t nothing good come from murdering your own, from war, ’cause there’s always another one building somewheres else.”

All around, the blink of lights within the church popped and buzzed.

Dorn and Sheldon watched as everyone forgot about Dorn and his words as the spark of wires frayed with no caps glittered orange from the walls, fountained in sparks. The hum of bug lights outside attached to poles flicked and fluttered. Then came the sirens. Nerve-damaging loud. Eyes from those still among the living lit up like clouds of atomic explosions; some stayed on knees, others dropped. Began to recite prayers. “Our Father who art—” Others screamed, “God have mercy on me. Please spare me. Please.”

“It’s the seven seals. God has come to save us!”

Dorn and Sheldon looked at each other, astonished at what they were viewing, even after all the pandemonium bloodshed, these folks thought they could be forgiven for their wrongs.

As the sirens blared, Angus had kneeled down, helped Ali to his feet, a mess of blood about his body, unknown if he’d survive his wounds; he was still breathing and looked around with fogged eyes at what was taking place. Angered and pumped, Angus was no longer able to withhold his pestilence. Shook his head. Made eye contact with Van Dorn, Sheldon, and the hound dog across the room. Then to Scar and her militia, who still stood bearing their weapons at the ready, waiting for command, one man holding the wounded Scar upright, her arm bleeding, but none aimed their guns, as they were confused by the return of electricity. Angus eyed the children soldiers, their tremoring. What has become of us, of this land, of this people? Angus questioned. Some of the children’s faces were covered by paint. Others by masks. Their leader, Cotto, shot dead. And glancing to the madness of the kneeling clan of followers, Angus shook his head, was sickened by their stupidity, wanting to slaughter anyone in a single instance and now seeking forgiveness, and he shouted, “What you all is hearing is tornado sirens, fuckin’ invalids. No wonder you all are in the shape you’re in.”