The Savage(77)

Lowering his vision to the man’s feet, Angus focused on the stance that weighted the dead floor of limbs and torso; he was grounded, not arched on his heel or the ball of his foot. From the wall Dumas announced, “Here before us the Alcorn clan shall cross with the Chicken Foot Tharp clan in the meat cellar. Dueling till one man can no longer release air from his lungs, victor takes the weaker man’s cap, gets to eat and live for another day while bringing his owner territory.”

From the opposite side, one of the Mohawked men came forward and asked, “Who is it that represents your skin, Aryan?”

“Pardon my ignorance, Corbin, but I’ve not acquired a name from our trespasser.” Pausing, Alcorn glared down to the rear of Angus’s skull. “What label did your mother give you at birth, brawler?”

Feeling the Aryan’s words shimmer down his spine, the eyes from the other side burning into him, Angus smirked and said, “Angus.”

There was a mute stupidity that fell over every keeper standing above. Alcorn spoke once more. “The unbeaten Chainsaw Angus? One to have robbed the Donnybrook, to have lynched the life of Bellmont McGill?”

“’Less they’s more than one of me, you’d be correct.”

A madness came from his mouth. “For the church of my Aryan followers, don’t know if I should shake your calloused hand or cut it off. McGill gave us much, could’ve been even more had he not mixed races, if he’d grouped with his own skin, of course the real question is would we be doing as we are if he was still breathing, or was it because of him that we’re doing as we are?”

Heated by anger, Mick spoke through gritted teeth, “Have you forgotten this Angus killed my kin?”

“So he did. But at this juncture every organism is expendable, and in the meat cellar all wrongs are wiped from memory.” Alcorn eyed Corbin and Corbin nodded. And they bellowed together, “FIGHT!”





COTTO

He’d tracked her through the night with the words of the Pentecost severing the binds of theory within his psyche. People are looking for a new outlet, a new decree, a man to follow. But it shall not be you.

They can look all they want, battle amongst themselves, but when I finish what I’ve begun, they will not know what has taken them, Cotto thought to himself. More blood will soil the earth and it will be that of the rural. They shall lower themselves to my ways, and Van Dorn will be the first.

Kneeling with a small light, he fingered ATV tracks, inhaled the scents in the air. Meat. Vegetable. Woodsmoke. Somewhere near was nourishment. An excitement pursed within Cotto. His imagination danced with visions of killing, taking out more men, taking in more women for whoring and more children for soldiering. And his neurotransmitters rang hard to a glow within his barbaric brain, imagining Van Dorn teamed with the Sheldon girl, their combined skills, once enslaved and doped, would be of great use in the field of slaughter. Of drilling the others into killing machines. Only younger. Faster and deadlier.

In the sky above, the moon was glowing coral and shifting across the sky. Cotto bear-hugged up the girth of a tree, his frame numbed by endorphin overload, making his way through the maze of rough limbs until he could see the land in a wider, fuller view with his night vision. Studying the landscape, he found a shimmer of smoke several football-field-lengths away. Could make out the shape of the Sheldon girl crouching beside a tree for rest not more than fifty to seventy-five yards to the west. Lowering his night vision, he pulled his vial from his pocket. Removed the cap. Finished off the powder. Waited a bit. Watched the darkness fade. Looked to Sheldon once more, she was moving with caution.

Climbing down, Cotto followed, took to the land once more, treading the direction of the indentions, which soon became a path that he veered from, but still held the scents of food and the girl in his nose, Van Dorn in his mind feeding his hunger to rule, along with the chemical taste that drained down his throat.

With morning came a dampness about the bark of timber and the mold of the ground with leaf and twigs as Cotto watched squirrels jump from branches overhead, bridging them from one tree to the next. Letting the colors of wilderness come into view. Cotto sat, his frame beginning to ache; muscles sore, growing tight, he studied the expansive hillside where the wafts of smoke were dying down. Taking cover behind a mass of cedar, he watched through his binoculars, men upon stoops of pallet, drawn to knees, and like him, they were watching for movement within the surrounding terrain. When one looked away, Cotto moved to take in the sanctum. Watched the Sheldon girl climb the hillside, young, frail, dirt-covered, and possessing the .30-30 rifle in her hands; men whistled from one tree to the next like the squirrels who jumped overhead until a group surrounded her.

Pause was shared between the two along with words. The pointing of fingers. Cotto lay upon the foliage of ground, glanced at what they pointed to—trip wires, traps for the trespassers, the unwanted like him.

One of the persons left after several minutes of speak. Walked through the open cedar gates to the ridge of bunkers nestled into the rocks. Cotto could make out only the rooftops. The rest was hidden by molded cinder. A female with uneven locks of hair returned with Van Dorn. Cotto could hardly contain himself. The female wore a Ray Wylie Hubbard T-shirt. She was thin. Veiny with the complexion of Ivory soap. Cotto’s heart raced. His pressure rose and he kept watch while they stood eyeing each other. No words were exchanged. Only a stare-down. A hand raised at Dorn’s face from Sheldon. A slap echoed from Dorn’s flesh, waved the land. Followed by an embrace that lasted for what seemed like minutes until all walked back into the encampment. The boy had a weakness. Sheldon.