The Savage(67)

For a split second, the other man glanced at Okra, his orbs golf-balled, and he shouted, “Set your raggedy ass back from that piece of meat, ain’t no salt, you’s chewing her goddamned lengths, making a tangle of her skull.”

The female was coming to. Her shoulder quivered. Cuffed hands behind her back were halted from reaching at her hair as she tried to jerk. The man training a pistol on Angus kicked Okra in the ribs. From standing, Angus reacted. Palmed the man who held his pistol. Speared the .45 into his eye. Clamped his hand around the trigger and fired. Face. Skull. Eyehole. All separated like a spoiled tomato flung against a windshield.

Angus kicked him backward. Dropped his dead weight down onto Okra. The other man screamed, “You son’ bitch!”

Angus felt the other shape behind him. Felt the movement coming. Anticipated him. Dropped and spun into the other man with the gun. Knew he’d get jammed up. Didn’t shoot. Centered his weight. Shinned the side of the man’s bony knee. Knocked him off balance. Dart of steel came from overhead from the one who stood over Angus’s shoulder. Angus mashed the gun wielder’s face. “Ahh! Dumb fuck!” the man shouted as he released the pistol.

Angus reached for the pistol that fell from the man’s hold. Spun and scurried backward. Looked up over his shoulder to the man who’d hit him in the rear of the head; he stood with batting lids, confused by the sudden exchange of actions. Angus shot once at the steel wielder. Splintered one knee, caused each to bend, a crowbar hit the floor. The pale-skinned smudge of blood and screams stutter-stepped and fell toward Angus. Kneeling, Angus rolled, his weight somersaulting into the two female’s bodies that lay piled behind him. The metal wielder tumbled, Angus pulled his knees to chest, kicked the metal wielder backward.

Then came the squalls of Okra, “No! No!” followed by her teeth breaking the skin of Angus’s neck. A rabbit punch of knuckles marred the side of his face from the gun wielder, who crawled to his opposite side, hollering, “Shot my brother.” Taking the glancing fists, Angus pushed his .45 into the attachment of mouth and teeth that quickly flung and pawed at the barrel. Pulled the trigger. The pawing body of Okra went limp; right temple, eye, and cheek had combusted into smears and streaks. Flowering the cobwebbed walls like lengths of spruce spit from a wood chipper as the female’s shape fell sideways and wetted onto the floor like car wash suds.

The explosion shell-shocked the drums of the breathing’s ears. Decibeled the chorus of chaos. As the rabbit puncher sat staring at the parceled skull of Okra, Angus maneuvered around on his ass, drove the .45’s barrel into the rotted mouth of the puncher. The puncher gagged. Slapped the pistol from his mouth, hinged a right knee to his chest, and thrusted a heel at Angus. Kicked him backward. Angus dropped the .45, got to his feet. Looked to the pistol, then back to the slog of pale-skinned heathen who glanced at the pistol and up at Angus, who extended his right hand, fingers facing the puncher; he bent toward himself. Each man held the ring of gunfire jarring within his ears. Worn and wavered, Angus needed sleep, was redlining on exhaustion, but managed to tighten his hands to fists. Told the man, “See what skills you hold for quarrel!”

From the floor, the crowbar wielder moaned, “Beat that sum bitch, Mick, marble him black and red.” The man bared what passed for teeth. “You’ve killed my sister, one of my brothers, wounded my baby bro. Gonna make you dent and bleed. Soak yur ass in kerosene. Throw you to the meat cellar for a bonfire of flesh and bones.”

On the floor the female jerked, her hands cuffed behind her. She hollered, “Where the hell have you taken me?”

“Six Flags, honey.” Mick laughed.

Not looking down, Angus told her, “Hell.”

“Uncuff me, you bastard. Done caused enough death.”

“Sure has,” Mick said.

Angus came with a left jab to the side of the man’s face. Palmed the underside of his chin. The man crimped and stutter-stepped back. Eyes blinked fast. Angus followed. Flung a low roundhouse into the side of the man’s shin. Something cracked. Pant, pain, and drool creviced from the corners of the man’s mouth. He came with a wild right cross, which Angus evaded.

On the ground the female rolled onto her ass. Scooted toward Angus and bicycled kicks at his ankle. Angus stomped her feet. She screamed, “Bastard!”

Angus twisted a right hook into Mick’s ribs. The man spit blood, clenched Angus, tried to suffocate his barrage, reared his head back, and came forward, stapled Angus’s nose. Crimson oozed from his nostrils; the man delivered tight rabbit punches while his body pressed Angus backward, the hurried breath of an outhouse’s shit hole in the summer wafted from the man’s mouth. Angus cut an elbow just below the man’s eye, then beneath his chin, chattered what mineral-and raisin-tinted teeth he held, sidestepped, and dug a knee into the man’s kidney. Eliminated his wind.

The man buckled and cringed at Angus’s attacks. Spit red and took another elbow across his forehead. Followed by an uppercut that crumpled him to the floor.

Angus kneeled and took up his pistol. Glanced at the array of bodies, Okra’s malformed flesh. The opening in the steel wielder’s knee. The half-garnished skull of the man who picked up his Glock. Angus’s ears still rang, the taste of gunpowder hovering in the air and iron on his tongue. The female was going mad with insults. Mick wept for his fallen sibling, the side door swung open. Outdoor light peeked in with a man who towered thick and aged, being guided by the barrel of a shotgun that he scanned the area in front of him with. Angus raised the .45 at the man. Was rushed by the one he’d just laid a beating on. Squeezed the trigger, fired once. The thick man backpedaled and ducked out the entrance. Tin siding clunked with a quarter-sized rip. The man screamed, “Mick the Stick, you and your brothers still returning wind?”