The Savage(86)

Crunch of feet came through the woods. Van Dorn caught two young boys scattering toward them. He sighted one. Hesitated. Nothing more than a young kid. Ten, maybe twelve. Disheveled. Madness streaked their faces. A blast crowned the air. The slapping pelt of lead expanded one of the boy’s chests. He dropped his AK. Patted and screamed at the heat distressing his body as he followed the AK’s descent to the earth. Dorn glanced from his crosshairs to the Sheldon girl. She’d shot the boy. “That answer your question on my taking another’s life?”

A tight-lipped grin stamped over Van Dorn’s demeanor.

Each lay waiting with their chests heaving. Bodies glazed by perspiration. Van Dorn shook his head. “They’re only kids. What we need is tuh get us some distance ’fore this gets uglier.”

The Sheldon girl told Dorn, “It’s done got ugly. Now it’s kill or be kilt.”

As they moved from their shelter of tree and rock toward the downward shuffle of the hollow, gunshots sounded. Held the crack of being close. The linger of smoke on the air and above the trees fragranced the woods. The crunch of more feet came, scattered with the climate. Dorn, Sheldon, and the mongrel ran until they stood before the downfall that led to the hollow’s bottom, where cinder formations lodged into the hillside, as though they were once meteors that’d fired down from the heavens and uprooted lengths of tree growth, creating bridges of walk and cover.

Dorn pointed. “There, we get to the bottom, they’s plenty of rock and broken tree for camouflage and shelter. We can maneuver at a slower pace if need be.”

Descending, the Sheldon girl, Van Dorn, and mongrel hound leapt and trounced in a hurry until Dorn lost his footing. Slipped with his weight proning face-first into the dirt covered by dead growth. Hands spread and reached for ground. Dorn tumbled like a weed carried in a flat desert wind, taking in the curves and jags of flint, tree, and briar. A large formation leveled out from the decline and it was here that Dorn stopped, bloodied and bruised. The mangy hound trekked toward Dorn’s outline, the Sheldon girl sliding in beside him.

Over him she stood, short of breath, muscles full-on ache and burn. Van Dorn lay on his back. One leg crooked and tucked up behind his ass, he rolled it out, straightened it. His face a mess of scrapes and jags. He’d a shoulder wound, a formation wetting down his right appendage. The hound licked at it. A stick had pierced and broken into muscle. Dorn shook his head and spoke. “Ain’t them some soured persimmons.”

“I ain’t gonna leave you as you did my mother and me.”

“You ain’t gotta. I can still navigate. I got two arms and the stiffness ain’t set in yet.”

“What of the stick that’s broken off in your skin?”

“When we get settled I’ll pull it free and smother its wet.”

Behind them came the halt of feet. The fall of rock pieces. Dorn looked, the same as Sheldon. Above them stood a mess of young boys, their faces covered by hide masks, and in their center was a figure devoid of welcoming. He’d a face of ink, and as he raised his rifle the boys who held ground with him did the same, giving in to the hyena-like whoop of battle cries.

*

There was an acre of stained farming posts with a six-inch circumference cut and lodged into the earth like some crazed alien spectacle; beginning at a height of twelve to sixteen inches, the farming posts were arranged to create a rolling-dice pattern for the number five or that of a plum flower. These patterns ran twenty-five posts to an area, then the posts’ height grew taller, some at two feet, but keeping the same pattern and numbering twenty-five. Other posts were cut to three feet, stair-stepping higher, building on up toward six feet. All were spread out, two feet from one post to the next.

Those that measured six feet had wooden spikes driven snug through bored-out holes from their sides. On the earthen floor, below the spikes were red ants, broken shards of glass, and sharp jags of flint. To fall was to implement injury. To test one’s mentality for failure.

Angus was taught first to walk them. Began on the lower rungs. Then came the kneeling, bending, twisting, and holding of postures. Throwing kicks and punches from them. Working on balance and foot placement. Trying not to fall. Sometimes standing on one leg. Jumping to a post. Squatting straight down, keeping his torso erect. His spine aligned, no forward slanting or arching. Other times he’d kneel low on one leg, the other was extended, held out to build tendon and ligament strength. He worked from these various movements, increasing his balance. Then came the bending forward, sideways, and backward. Sometimes reaching for an empty clay wine jug. Picking it up. Holding it. Curling the bottle toward him, the back of his hand facing away.

Angus trained in this manner, worked up to the taller posts. Then came the picking up and holding of saucers and plates on his palms, flat, as if serving food in a restaurant. He held these out from his body, balancing them, curving his torso, mimicking the posture of a drunken individual, a mime, staggering from post to post, mannerisms, Fu called them, but never dropping the plates or the cups.

“One must be well rounded. Know his surroundings. Be cautious of his footing, of where and when to step. Learning to open the six harmonies.”

Angus looked to Fu with confused amusement. “Six harmonies, kinda shit you spittin’ now?”

“Your body has three internal and three external harmonies. You shall learn them for combat. And when you’ve mastered them, you will be unbeatable, but now that you’ve mastered the poles with your eyes open, we move on.”