The Savage(2)

With a fevered action, Van Dorn guided the blade down one side of the spine. Hands stained warm and slick, he carved and sectioned the loin. Placed it into the foiled insides of his satchel. Zipped it closed. Warded off the heated air and the insects with their larvae.

Eyes swiveled from side to side, keeping watch up and down the passage of the back road. Ears tuned to the vibration of distance being closed by the oncoming rumble as he worked the blade along the shoulder.

He wanted more than the loin. Something that would last longer than a day or two. Something that would ease the pangs for protein and mineral.

Across the road, triple strands of rusted barbed wire ran from post to post, bordering a barren expanse of dirt and burnt weeds where crops were once nurtured. Now it just held unturned soil that hid the scattered bones of horse, cow, or wild game that’d been set free or run down and butchered or wasted for this new sport called survival.

A .30-30 lever-action Marlon lay over Van Dorn’s back, a gift from his father, Horace, that had once belonged to his grandfather. Rungs of brass ran across his front, a gift from the Widow a few years ago. Handcrafted by the crazed Pentecost Bill, a leather smith with three daughters spewing the teachings of the good book.

The rattle of engines replaced sound. Slick insides splatted from the buzzard’s beaks to the ground. They extended their shadowy wingspan. Disappeared into the gray-blue above. Van Dorn turned. Sheathed the blade. Ran. Worked his way up the hillside.

Hands red and peeling, he grabbed small trees for leverage. Climbed his way up the embankment of splintered sycamore, gray oak, briar, and dying fern. Trundles of leaves lay upturned from the weight of his tracked kill. Hamstrings burned and forearms tightened as his heart raced.

Two ATVs humming with the knotted tread of mud and black plastic fenders throttled down. Went silent. Behind them a flatbed’s transmission ground gears to second, then first, slowing its pace. Tires came to a stop and the engine found the same quiet as the ATVs that waited on the road now thirty feet below Van Dorn.

Two men stepped from their four-wheelers. Boots crunched across the road. Door hinges squeaked from the flatbed’s cab. The third man dragged his leg, raking the crumbling silt of the road.

Foreign English emerged from one of the upright men. “What is this beast?”

While the other voiced, “’Tis a deer.”

The hobbling man paid them no mind. Raised his head to the air like a malformed dog. Inhaling the bark, leaves, and pollen that lay within the hot air.

Van Dorn sat, ducked down behind a barrel-shaped oak. Chest heaving in his temples. Lactic acid stiffening his muscles. His hands quaking with the fear of being captured. Possibly killed by these ungodly forms of human. Criminals. Seeing them more and more over the passing weeks. Crossing the county back roads and Highway 62.

Unable to fight curiosity, he wanted to catch a better glimpse of the men. To view these savages. Swiveled his neck, peeked through the weeds that camouflaged him, took in the three shapes. Two stood, one kneeled. All sniffing the dry heat of the day.

Their arms, bulky cords of muscle connected to bone by tendon. Inked with skeletons, devil horns, daggers, and lettering, suspending from leather vests and jagged flannel. One of them had hair rifling in singed fibers from his skull. Another’s face was stitched and chinked by scars.

The two who stood kept pivoting their heads. Taking in the surroundings. Studying the landscape. While the one kneeling poked the violet meat. Thumbed the hide hanging loose, submerged his index into the blood that had expanded from the field dressing. Tasted it. His eyes followed where the loin had been removed while his right digit traced it. Van Dorn heard the words that sputtered like an exhaustless vehicle. “’Tis a fresh kill.”

Glancing up the hillside, the kneeling man sat patient. Eyeing the incline for a hint of passage. Watched the dead stillness of trees and leaves. His head turned oddly. Deci phered the skids of soil. Looked at the downward path Dorn and the deer had created.

Van Dorn could taste the stench of these men. They’d the air of mildew, scorched antifreeze, gunpowder, and decayed flesh. It made his throat burn from the acid that bubbled in his gut. Fighting the dread embedded within, Dorn slowly turned his eyes away from the distorted silhouettes of men. Looked behind him, upward through the tiny growth of trees and briar, forty more feet to the top. Another fifty to Red, his mule. And all at once an itch tickled his nostrils, a numb comfort overcame his mouth, and he sneezed. “Shit!” he mumbled.

Footsteps tripped across the crumbling cinder. Then stopped. The scrape of a voice with a Spanish accent: “A sneeze.”

The other figure pointed to the hillside. “Upturned leaves.”

Van Dorn imagined the location of the men in his mind. Twisted his neck to look one last time. The one kneeling met Van Dorn’s eyes. Went from slits to wide.

The man unholstered his pistol, stood up, thumbed the hammer of a 9 mm and yelled, “Something human eyes us from that tree’s flank! Can see the shape of its head.”

Van Dorn did what he should’ve already done. Stood up and ran. Leaves mashed and limbs crunched. A voice belled, “Shoot! Shoot this shape that spies on us!”

Knees burned, hands grabbed tiny trees, and Van Dorn climbed another foot closer to the top. Then another and another. An explosion crowned through the valley. Earth exploded below him, then came the combustion of automatic carbine. Footing gave as he fell backward.