The Savage(99)

Some of the clansmen and -women drew weapons. Pointed. Then the Methodist barked his words of who the man leading them was. Who they were. The men and women feared shooting a child, believing it could be their own. Or one whom they’d once known from a neighbor or familiar face in town.

In the chaos of Cotto’s entrance, Dorn maneuvered to Sheldon and the hound, kneeled with her beside a pew. “You killed that man?”

“He kilt my father. Hard as it was to take his life, I had to do what needed done.”

Anger and confusion at the situation followed Sheldon’s features and she questioned, “What’ll we do now?”

“What we’ve been doing, kill or be slaughtered.”

“But one of these boys could be my baby brother. These is kids.”

He thought of when he’d wanted to help them. To save or rescue them. If they wanted to survive they might have to kill their own. But he took that as a last resort of hope as they watched the chaos ensue.

“You’re correct. We wait. See how the situation sorts itself out.”

*

Cotto came with the scream of bullets and clatter of brass pinging the floor. Was making his way to Angus, his hands pulsing red as he cursed. “Wretched fuck. You. You’re the one who took the life from my father!”

Ali looked at Angus. “The fuck is that inked psycho?”

Angus told Ali, “Damn gangbanger wanting to settle an old score.”

With gunshots from the child soldiers, men and women lay about the floor, drowning in their own pools of blood, fighting amongst one another, becoming more and more unruly.

Walking amongst the dead and wounded, Cotto kicked and smashed those who reached and squirmed, twitched or searched for speech. A streak of anger painted his complexion as he turned to see his young-maniac militia falling as some of the men and women had decided to kill the young soldiers.

Ali told Angus just before gunshots opened his shoulder and chest, “Beat his ass bloody!” Ali hit the floor gasping, patting at the holes of red that leaked from him. And Angus made his way through the mad energy that surrounded him, inhaling deep, exhaling slow. Over and over. His flow of energy hulking his insides, radiant and atomic-like. Heating his hands. His feet bottoms. Ready to release.

Seeing a good cluster of the rural clans either wounded, bullet riddled, or taking cover, Cotto screamed. Pointed amongst the gunfire and bloodshed across the room to where Angus approached. “The man I’ve hunted and hunted. Here he stands, hidden amongst the dying!”

Behind Angus, with a face of clotted blood, the Methodist shouted over the fray, “This man that trespasses within my congregation, my gathering of rural clans bearing a crown of thorns, I command that Chainsaw Angus brings him the same death that he has brought to us!”

Angus smirked. Shook his head. Muttered, “Silly son of a bitch thinks he’s a deity.” Saw what was coming before it happened. Gonna get that thought tested real quick-like. Offered no warning.

“My birth name is Cotto Ramos, you pedophilic sage.” And before another sound etched from the Methodist’s lips, Cotto lifted the machete. Bent elbow at ear. Shouldered it forward. His hand released the weighted blade. Eyes watched it cartwheel in the air. Watched it meet skin. Cranium and forehead bone halved like a cantaloupe. The Methodist’s heartbeat ceased as vertebrae, neurons, and fluid spewed. His protectors came from the pulpit. Hatchets and blades drawn for battle like young Ronin behind Angus, who shuffled and pushed through the shock and retch of disgruntled bodies, some on the floor, others standing. Waiting and watching. Fearing to pull their gun triggers on the young doped-up adolescent killers backing Cotto.

Cotto and Angus kicked, palmed, elbowed, and punched obstruction from their paths. Pews and bodies dropped into the pit until they’d room to end the hunt, to clash like gladiators. And Cotto told Angus, “Your ending is here for what you done to my father. For what you took from me. I’ve wanted you to beg and burn all in one fucking breath.”

From the far side of the church the .30-30 of Dorn had been raised. Cotto’s upper profile filling it. An index finger graced the trigger. Cotto’s hands balled into fists. Angus anticipated every flinch of Cotto’s body from footing to face.

Right fist came up from Cotto’s hips. Half uppercut, half hook. A beeline to the side of Angus’s jaw. Angus adjusted his hips. A simple swivel. His right forearm deflected the attack while left palm came heated. Lifelined Cotto’s arm. A vibration of energy made Cotto withdraw his arm. Slingshot it back to his body. A shock or charge of something similar to electricity plagued it with bruised weight. He lifted his left arm. Elbow bent. Shelled at his face. What he felt he couldn’t explain. His mind went from straight lines on a graph to horizontal and scratchy. He searched for air. Felt as if he’d been electrocuted. Angus stepped forward. His left hand guarding center, his right gathering air, slapping from the side as he stepped to Cotto’s left, his right palm making contact with Cotto’s kidney. A surge of heat lit up Cotto’s insides. Baked tendons and ligaments. He lost feeling in his legs. Angus circle-stepped backward. Waited as he counted down in Mississippis.

Across the room within the chaos, Van Dorn kept his rifle shouldered. Following Cotto in the crosshairs, not wanting to shoot Angus. Losing his profile amongst the bodies that gathered around the struggle between the two men. His aggravation grew.