The Savage(42)

“As I done told, some was mechanics, others was factory workers, fighters, hunters, builders of homes. Waitresses. They’re male and female ’lopers that’ve been wrung out by their government. Once the fortitude of society. Offered one lie after the next to gnaw on and procure a vote.”

Behind them Poe came from his ATV with the hound. Then came Mike with August, whose eyes were wrought with fear as they took in the smears of an unknown sanctum. Dorn met August’s glare, lipped, It’s okay.

Waving a hand, Scar motioned Dorn and the others to walk. To take in the encampment of structures built with logs that had been halved, coated by creosote to preserve the wood; she pointed to housing, told Dorn what was for storing artillery and arms. Others were for tools. Food. Told him there was a cave nearby with a spring. In its bottom lay a stream. They bucketed and heated the water to bathe. Wash clothing and whatever else. She led him to her bunker that sat next to the ammunition and weapons storage.

Several feet behind them was Wolf Cookie, Poe, and August. She waited for them to pass by areas of men and women who sat sharpening blades. Cleaning guns.

As they entered a cellar-like dwelling, candles burned, the air was cool. Two cots lay in the rear. Shelves lined the left flank of the bunker with books, CDs, batteries, jars of vegetables, clothing folded and stacked. Crates of ammunition stacked about the floor. Scar brightened the room up with several lanterns. Along the right flank sat a long wooden pew honed from hardwood. Scar motioned for everyone to sit down and Dorn asked, “Fuel for the ATVs, where do you get it?”

Scar and her men laughed. “Get it? You see all that we’ve built and you ask about fuel?”

Dorn raised a hand, said, “I view that you were prepared.”

“Prepared? We seen what was taking shape across the country.”

“You weren’t the first.”

“Naw, we wasn’t, it started with a group of brothers. Ex-military. Lawmen. Called themselves—”

Dorn cut Scar off with “The Disgruntled Americans.”

“You know of them?”

“Know of them? Their actions spawned an underground movement. Was all over the radio. My father held a great respect for them.”

“Your father sounded a lot like my father, knowledgeable.” Scar paused for thought, said, “Know why my father did as he did?”

Dorn had no idea what Scar meant and asked, “Why he did what?”

Poe said, “Created the Donnybrook.”

“Don’t know much of it other than your father saying the Donnybrook was a dream from his childhood, that it was savage to those that failed him. But kind to those that swam in the salvage and sacrifice of the land.”

Scar smiled and said, “You’re correct. He was tired, had lost his job in a tobacco plant. Drained his and my mother’s savings. Sold their home. Moved in with the brutality of a man I never knew, my grandfather, my mother’s father.”

Wolf Cookie said, “Bellmont was like every other blue-collar American at first. Had been a slave to a system that was failing its people.”

Scar continued. “But he saw the ink on the wall. Of what was coming. Had a plan. Give the working something more than NASCAR and pro wrestling. Something they could invest their souls into while viewing, let them be a part of it even from the outers looking in, let ’em suck their swills, sell dope or char food, do as the working do. Live without regret. They were the Donnybrook. But before he was removed he’d become restless with hate for what was consuming the working. Was eat up with violence, money, the power it professed, a mirage. After his being murdered, people kept waiting for another to pick up where he’d left off, someone who’d offer an outlet for their rage of struggling. But more jobs was lost. More wages cut. Politicians kept promising jobs would come back. Good manufacturing jobs. But they never did.” Scar paused. “Jobs was replaced with a new word, college. And kids who chose not to do as their grandparents or fathers did, they went to school. Got an education. Then the market got flooded and kids was broke with unpaid bank loans for tuition. Something that gets raised every year and they’d a degree that couldn’t land a job. While the rural dealt with prescription drug abuse, meth, and heroin. Addictions that poisoned the lives of common folk.”

Scar went on. “What my father gave to people every year was a gathering of like-minded souls and they wasn’t judged. He offered them an outlet, some he even give work to, helping to run the Donnybrook, of course if you’s a fighter, he paid you and fed you. Let the working feel alive until he was handed his ending.”

Van Dorn rolled all of this around in his mind, glanced at August, who sat in the pew, head leaned back, arms crossed, fast asleep and shaking, the hound laid out sideways below his footing, and Dorn asked Scar, “What is this plan you speak of?”

Scar smirked and said, “Plan is simple. Once Cotto finds the one that murdered my father and his, we kill them. Then we rebuild all that has been swindled and wait.”

“You know his location?”

“Yes, he’s set up a large encampment along the Ohio River at the old lighthouse in Leavenworth. Smart, he holds access to water travel. We know because not all of Cotto’s men are loyalists. Some are moles. Was loyal to my father and now me. They’re my eyes. My ears.”

Scar paused. “We know the one who murdered our fathers is Chainsaw Angus. He’s somewhere within Harri son or Orange County. Some say he’s taken in by a Chinaman with ties to Triads, was to be willed in the training of ancient fighting techniques. Cotto’ll find him, torture him. Once he does, our eyes will be there. And then we’ll remove both of them from existence.”