The Savage(30)

Van Dorn tugged the trigger. Pieces of pork spine greased the air. Van Dorn limped toward the boar, wished he had his .30-30, knowing this would’ve ended with a single shot as he tugged the trigger again. Ribs opened up. The boar squealed. Kept its head lowered and rammed the dog. It belled in pain.

An explosion concaved the air. Wrung the wilderness of its quiet. An oozing red jackhammered above the boar’s right leg. All four gave out as it lay expelling a sound more chilling than a metal rake screeching down aluminum. As it heaved its final gasp with a silver-dollar-sized puncture within its mount, moisture drained from the beast thick as ketchup.

Van Dorn looked to where the eruption of gunshot came. Off beside the opening of earth, an outline of domed skull with wiry thistles of hair poking from ears stood holding a rifle. Remington, Model 700, .22-250. Clay gray synthetic stock with five shots and a scope. Dorn knew the weapon and the man who lowered it. The ground gave and crunched as the shape stepped forward. Skin appearing bloodless except for the ink of red and black stars about his neck, the Celtic crosses, snakes, and words of scripture engraved about his limbs. Dorn’s heart was a menthol rush. Feeling the cold burn of every inhale. The man came into focus. Spoke to Van Dorn: “Be damned. Been trying to trap that son of a bitch since this rapture has crippled man, woman, and child.”

The dog lay panting. Van Dorn slid his pistol back into its holster. Eyed the man known as Bill Henning, though Dorn’s father called him Pickle Loaf Bill ’cause anytime he came to give him a hand he’d always be eating a sandwich of homemade pickle loaf. He was known as a leather smith. Had made the holder of brass that hung over Dorn’s torso. But he was also recognized by others around the area as Pentecost Bill. A born-again with an acidic tongue of religious rhetoric. Reading and studying everything from Methodist and Baptist ways, until he settled upon being a fire-and-brimstone Pentecostal. Was believed to lead an underground movement for the Church of God.

Bill donned a pair of worn navy-blue work trousers. A knife within a leather case was looped on his side. Stretched T-shirt over his torso. His beard was a bright shade of cherry, long and pointed like an upside-down cedar tree, thick and coarse.

“Came from nowhere,” Van Dorn told him.

“Hell you doing this far north without Horace or the Widow?”

Van Dorn stood quiet with the ache in his ankle climbing up from his shin to his thigh. The Sheldon girl’s image flashed in his mind, dirty and helpless. Unlike when they’d picked morel fungus together, walked the woods, canvassing the ground, soft tones of laughter, her knowledge of the land and her flowery scent of flesh, lengths of hair, hand encompassing his own, her holding it, his viewing the contours of a female that awakened the hormones of his adolescence. And suddenly the remembrance was darkened, wiped away by the shadows of men pouring down the basement stringer, the flint of a match that sent the old house into a blaze.

Dorn kept mute. Didn’t reply.

“Know it ain’t safe to be out in these retches.” Bill tromped to the boar. Brought a worn sole of boot down on the swine’s throat. Bending, he kept his weight upon the passage of air passed. Worked his Case XX across the swine’s throat.

The dog sat like a fawn. Unmoving, it began to growl at Bill, who leveled his eyes, told Van Dorn, “Your hound tries to break my hide, I’ll end his actions quick as they started.”

Van Dorn stood lost in memory, remembered the day Bill’d gotten the rifle. Had contacted Horace to help him sight it on an aluminum pie pan tacked to a maple tree. Taking three shots from a hundred yards. The first one was a few hairs to the left of center. Horace adjusted the sights. Handed it back to Henning. He shot. Hit dead center. Unbolted the gun’s action. Released an empty brass. Bolted another one in. Took the third shot, making sure the second wasn’t luck. It wasn’t.

“He’s feral,” said Van Dorn. “Saved him from dying, unlike the ones in your squared pit.”

“Giving the beast a second chance … let us hope he’d return the favor.”

“He tried. Why he’s tossed out as he is.”

“Hog is too weighted to carry back to the house. Gonna have to dress him like a deer. Walk back, fetch the Harvester.” He paused his work of the blade, twisted a glance at Dorn. “You look to have a limp. One of them hounds nip you?”

“Twisted my ankle jumping over your pit.”

Bill worked the blade through the boar’s thick coat. From chin to ass and said, “That would have been your end.” Clearing his throat, he said, “Never answered why you’s this far north alone, with all the hell that is being unleashed. You’s lucky to have not been taken in by the Methodist or the Baptist.”

Dorn thought on Bill’s words, then spoke, “Killed a doe few days back, was field-dressing her when these men came. Forced my hand.” Dorn paused. Swallowed the knot in his throat. “I killed three of them. They’d a mess of folk caged up on a flatbed. Only females and boys, no men. One pleaded to me, the Sheldon girl and her mother. Said the men killed her daddy. Before I could try and free them, more men came. I ran and hid. Waited till they left. Headed to the house. They raided me next morning. I set the place aflame with them in it, fled but not before I seen the Sheldon girl, I believe she offered my juncture to them.”

Bill cut the large intestine at the ass, pulled it out warm and steaming. Severed the gullet, parted the intestines, and removed the heated weight of more entrails. Cut the liver and gallbladder free. With arms gored and slopped by hot crimson, Bill shook his head, looked up to Van Dorn. “Maybe she had to. You know, when this started I’s just outside the city of Louisville. Down in Portland, getting me some bibs and trousers when news of the dollar came over the radio. It was no longer worth the paper it was printed upon. Every folk in the store started looting. Chaos. White, black, poor, and struggling. Took what I had and ran. They’s people all out in the streets. Pushing on cars and choking one another. Guns being fired. Got in my truck and hauled ass. God as my copilot, as they say. Week later, power disappeared. Now they’s hordes, some working the cities while others work through the towns. They’s a man named Cotto Ramos taking people’s kids and wives. Slaughtering the males. Seems they getting cocky now, trying to overrun the rural. But folks out here has turned wild as the animals they hunt. They’s a few men, old-time preacher, the Methodist and the gunrunning racist Aryan Alcorn, they’ve they own clans. They enslave men to fight one another. To battle. Part empowerment, part entertainment, it’s an underbelly of the new ruling class.”