The Savage(22)
And Toby said, “Sure miss hearing that crazy bastard and his theories.”
Seeing his opportunity, Van Dorn needed to act before they sectioned him for the grill or whatever was outside the window came and enslaved or slaughtered everyone. Working the gap between his wrists, he watched as Toby and Ann warmed about each other like incestuous lovers, their eyes not watching his movements but studying each other. Toby’s right hand rubbed between Ann’s legs. Tongues drew wet over each other’s lips. Dorn closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to curse himself for wasting ammunition on those two men. Believing he was salvaging Toby’s and Ann’s lives; he had sensed something was amiss. Should’ve trusted his instinct. Dwelling on the horror of this killing skewed Van Dorn’s thoughts and psyche as he tried to keep his wits about him, and he asked, “What possessed your folks to come out here and live?”
The silhouette outside the window paused, then slowly disappeared. The door handle’s latch lifted. A clicking motion that went unnoticed.
Irritated, Ann said, “Dear God, the simpleton and his questions. A summer home. Father and Mother liked to come here and recharge their batteries, relax. Get away from their jobs in the city.”
Toby released a pouting breath and cut in with “Internet is slow, barely got a cell phone signal. Only thing we could do was watch satellite when it didn’t rain, play Xbox, and read.”
Having seconds to react, Van Dorn questioned whether he’d be forced to kill these whom he believed he’d saved. He’d be a fool if he didn’t, they’d off him when the mule meat was gone and the hunger pains set in. Or they could castrate him, feed and fatten him up for a butchering like the hogs his father and grandfather took to.
Van Dorn felt the shake in his finger’s ends, and stress jarred his tendons and ligaments. The front door creaked open slow and methodical. Toby and Ann looked to the intruders in surprise. Two profiles passed through the opening. Outside light gave them the appearance of faceless figurines, hiding their features at first. Once they were inside, Van Dorn saw that they were male. One wielded a cane cutter, its width discolored by something human or animal; the other gripped a roofing hammer with what appeared to be strands of hair caked between its claw. Clothing was ragged T-shirts, tainted work pants; their scents were a concoction of the earth, burnt papers, spored lumber, and sweaty socks. The whiskers upon their scratched and crusted faces could’ve marred the paint of a vehicle. And the sugarcane-cutter wielder looked to Toby and Ann, yelling, “You’ve murdered our kin!”
Freeing his hands, which were rubbery and confetti-filled from being pressed behind him, Van Dorn dug at his lower back, pulling the .45 from his waist. Toby stepped around Ann, placing her behind him, lowered his head, tactile and wormy. Eyes evil slits, he butted the .30-30, pressed it toward the man, and said, “Killed me some supper, you invalid fuck.” Ran a tongue about his lips. Tugged and tugged the trigger as though using a video game’s plastic gun. His face was confused when there was no explosion of gunfire. He held no understanding of how the rifle worked.
Grinning at Toby’s ignorance, the man laughed. “Fool.” Sliced the air with the cutter. Knocked the .30-30 away. Came with another slice. Caught Toby’s forearm. Split the muscle as if it were a squash being sectioned for a salad. Toby screamed. Blood oozed. The .30-30 clattered on the ceramics. The one with the claw gavel thumped Toby’s skull like he was staking spikes, connecting and securing iron on railroad tracks. Over and over till he plopped the skull into the floor, creating a heaving mash of tissue and gore; Toby’s entire frame jutted and jarred as though pummeled by electricity.
Ann stood in hysterics, screaming, “No! No! Toby, Toby!”
The man with the straight claw embedded his hand into Ann’s starchy lengths of hair. Slammed her face-first into the shelves of books that collapsed to the flooring until her shrieks found quiet.
Training the pistol on the mallet wielder, Dorn thumbed the hammer, squeezed the trigger, and lit up the interior with surprise.
THEN
Upon the Widow’s property, Horace took to sharpening tools or mending the leaks of the roof with heated tar from a bucket. Replaced sections of rotted stringer and joists within the attic of the Widow’s home or patched pipes beneath the sinks. Hunted wild game and split wood for the oncoming winter. Each kept an eye wide for the unexpected visitor, listening for the ping and drop of gravel from the tread of vehicle while the Widow worked the mart, as Dillard’s visits now came once a month after the battering of Manny. Always in search of clues to his brother Gutt’s disappearance. Always he traveled with companion, men from south of the equator, the Mutts, he called them. And Horace told Van Dorn, “One can only wonder why the alien skin finds interest in an Aryan.”
Day had shifted to night after the picking of beans. Seated around the kitchen table one night, Van Dorn and the Widow broke the mint-green strings that were as long as crayons. Taking them from the tin basins and placing them into large plastic dishes to later be washed, boiled until ten der, and cooled with cold water, packed and layered into masons with salt water. Then sealed and stored.
Johnny Cash’s tone belled from the speaker of an old eight-track player the Widow had been given by her father. Cash sang of lines walked, getting a rhythm or a boy named Sue. A crock jar of sweet tea moistened the burn lines of wood grain on the table with condensation. A ceiling fan trundled overhead. Horace sipped on three fingers of Maker’s as the Widow finally told of her dead husband, Alex. Of how they’d once been. How they’d become and how he’d found burial in the bone box.