The Savage(96)

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Wars always began because one man’s idea differed from another, so he’d sought to overthrow another. To submerge his will with the support of like-minded souls, force his beliefs upon another’s ideology. Another’s way of being. Simply put: someone wanted power. To be in control maybe because one felt threatened. Didn’t agree with the moral or unmoral. The closed-minded ways of others. Mostly it was all bullshit; men are power mongers and sadists. Want to rule others and what they think, feel, and do. To be in control as long as they are doing the harming. That’d be the simplest way of understanding Alcorn’s intellect, Horace had once explained to Dorn.

As Dorn made his way through the woods, down the slant of earth coated by leaves and timber, Horace’s words rang through his mind. Of why Dillard was the way he was. Territorial pissing. Like a carnivore marking its territory. Though Dillard wanted little to do with the Widow, he wanted no one to be in commerce with her. He tried instilling fear within her. Keeping others who knew of him at bay with her. It was all about control. Narcissism. And when Horace and Dorn showed up, she took a liking to them and they took interest in the Widow. Alcorn lost that edge. That constraint. Especially when Horace showed Alcorn he wouldn’t be restrained by Guatemalan muscle.

Coming from behind an aluminum-sided outbuilding and campers bleached of their color, Dorn, Sheldon, and the mongrel worked their way through the lines of looters, made their way to the church’s entrance. To where Dorn had watched Alcorn enter, leading a man of color bound by rope. It was an outline of the familiar that Dorn hadn’t seen in some time. An outline he knew was responsible for the removal of his father and the Widow, and all at once, it consumed him. Alcorn was among the living. Surviving however he wanted. Needed.

A burly outline of man guarded the church’s entrance. Approaching him, the man eyed Dorn, Sheldon, and the mongrel hound.

“Ain’t seen you around here, what be your intentions?”

He had seen a man bound by wrist and neck, so Dorn knew that whatever they were doing was barbaric, possibly pugilistic in nature. Regardless, his objective would be sidelined until he dealt with Alcorn, and he told the man, “To see the primates and their games.”

“And what do you have to hock?”

Dorn didn’t hesitate to react, reached to his pouch. Pulled out the binoculars. The man grasped them, looked them over. “Nice. You, the girl, and the hound enjoy the wagering of skin.”

Defiled, angry. Lost. Starved of reason. The men and women within were unsightly. Their pungent scents clung to the air like two-week-old skillet grease. Dorn made his way to the right, hugged close to the wall where a pew ran. He was on the hunt. Followed it to the center of the church. Told Sheldon below the chattering mouths of broken teeth and split lips, “You and the mongrel keep yourselves here.”

Sheldon grasped his arm. “Where’s you going?”

“In search of a clean shot. Then we run like a feline with turpentine on its ass.”

Confused, Sheldon questioned, “What is this place? Who are these people?”

Dorn took on a serious tone, told her, “I’ve no idea, but at this moment, all I know is the man who murdered my father and the Widow is here, and I aim to avenge each of they’s deaths.”

“What about Cotto? The kids he’s enslaved? My mother, the others?”

“After I remove Alcorn, we focus on Cotto, find your mother and the others.” And he went off.

As he stood upon a pew, Dorn’s mind would not quit. Seeing Alcorn had rattled his nerves. Brought back a hurt he’d not realized was buried. Had thought was gone. It wasn’t. He worked his way behind the clamp of jaws slurring speech and the shadows of the wrecked, the absence of hygiene and kinship unless it involved the harm of others. All he could see was red. Wanted Alcorn centered between his crosshairs. He stopped and stood, waiting. Looked around. Over top of the mass of bodies, took in the hole. Floor that had been cut. Removed. The pit that had been dug out. The two lean hulks of men who stood within it, glaring at each other. Almost whispering back and forth. Far off to Dorn’s right, to the front of the church was an altar. A man came before it, children guarded him. Within their grips were tools for dividing and mincing. They appeared bloodless. Pale as intestines. The man was robed. Frail. And when he spoke, mouths ceased speech. Sound clamped. “Tonight we see two old adversaries. One of which murdered Bellmont McGill. The other was unbeaten till he met this murderer. They’s two men who’ve been under the wire. Hidden from sight and sound for many, many years. But they’ve a flame to rekindle tonight. One represents me and my followers, Chainsaw Angus.”

Men and women clapped and hollered. The Methodist stepped away. From behind him came a man with arms of spilt ink, skulls and insignias that represented death. Racial divide and hatred. He’d a female with a mashed eye, barely clothed. Several men sporting red suspenders and rifles. Van Dorn could close his eyes and still recognize the tongue. The image from where it came. Shape of age. Still stealthy. Thick. Sculpted. This lurch of man placed himself before the crowd that beckoned for pugilism. Anger fed Dorn’s confidence, he shook his head, you son of a bitch, took in the hint of age beneath his eyes, the purpling sags. Head like a kiwi’s rind. Rough and whiskered. Alcorn spoke, “Though I’m less agreeing upon the mixing of skin pigment, I’m all about the parchment of flesh. The brutality of two hides wrecking one another in the name of dominance. But in these times without filament, it’s all we got.”