by Frank Bill
With the return of sound, the explosion of carbine rang in Van Dorn’s drums. Turning away, eyes of the shocked men and women looked to him, coming across the pew. Sheldon and the hound were waiting on Dorn while all around them bodies were bumping, elbowing, men and women shouting and reaching, and then more gunfire lit up the church.
Frames parted and poured to the slats. Others took cover. Looked upon the entrance where medium- and short-statured silhouettes stood. Some with faces painted black. Others red as the blood being drained from a rabbit hung by its rears. Then there were the taller ones, who bared masks that looked like folds of flesh stitched together with eyeholes and mouths. Crooked and parched. They were children. The young boys who’d given hunt to Van Dorn and the Sheldon girl, they stood savage, worn and doped up like their leader. Scratched and bruised with dirt about their lengths of arms and legs as though they’d lived within a mine shaft, laboring coal from dusk to dawn. Never bathed. Just heathen maniacs living on soot.
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.
Cotto’s hands dropped. His mind was fogged. Thoughts and emotion were that of days without sleep, like being hungover in a field hoeing potatoes, humidity pressing down with no shade or water. The body drained of electrolytes. Fighting the death that eased within his torso, organ by organ. Limb by limb. He looked to Angus. “What have you done to me?”
“Not near what I done to your father or—”
From the church’s entrance came the trample of feet sounding off like horse hooves along with the words of Scar, whose temperament ran Freon-cold, her militia backing her, their weapons bearing on the rears of each child soldier’s skull. Some were beat down by rifle butts. Those who tried to fight were removed from creation by gunshot. Seeing the masked children fall, Cotto screamed, “No!” And Scar raised her .45 Colt at Angus from across the room of carnage, as she finished his words for him, fingering the trigger from across the church’s bloodied hall, “—my father when you removed his face from his shoulders.”
* * *
Break of twig upon the forest’s floor. Coat of almond and pearl with the breach of sun upon the hillside, Dorn sat his rifle pinning the chest within his hairs, Horace watching beside him, waiting. Whispering, “Up to you. Kill it now or wait.”
Rush of blood expanding the arteries. Heart increasing with pulse. Pressure rising. Ears slightly ringing. Crack of leaves. Antlered head raised. Four points branched on left and right side. Eight-pointer. Neck swiveling. Eyes a cold sapphire matching the shade of the nose. Dorn could fight the rush no more and squeezed the trigger.
And like that first kill for betterment, for survival and continuation with his father, that rush would bear no di
fference with a human when it meant extinction of another. Dorn held the shape of Cotto in his crosshairs, realizing that even after shooting Alcorn, it was no easier a decision to take another’s life a second or third or even fourth time. Though he’d done it, more than once, he was still human, held emotion, but those killings gave the confidence to do what must be done, take Cotto’s life, end his slaughtering of men, enslaving women and children. And he pulled the trigger at the same time the Sheldon girl raised her gun to save the life of another.
* * *
High-caliber explosion raked the drums of all eyes watching and battling. Muscle meat parted from Scar’s right forearm. Took her weapon from being aimed at Angus. Vein and tissue ripped and seared. “Ahh!” Scar shrieked.
Jawline burned and ripped in Van Dorn’s crosshairs with the ooze of Cotto’s face.
Scar’s pistol dropped with the spray of blood. Fluid the shade of fresh cranberries dabbed from Cotto’s face, painted his lips. First in tiny specs. Then in droplets that grew into an overfilled bucket of liquid. Then all at once, Angus’s attack took Cotto’s organ. His kidney mangled internally. Then his insides erupted, split and broke by the warmth of Angus’s touch.
Wolf Cookie Mike reached for Scar, who dropped to her knees, screaming. The rest of her militia stood with guns shouldered, pointed to where the Sheldon girl had administered the bullet across the room.
Dorn could take no more of the lunacy, of the killing, of what the simple rural folk were doing to one another, and he shouted, “Stop!”
Angus watched Van Dorn with everyone else. “Enough. The past is the past. Nothing can change what we’ve all done. What we’ve incurred.” Van Dorn pointed to Angus, the Sheldon girl reached, held on to Van Dorn’s arm. “What this man done is the past. What everyone is doing now is savage. Has nothing to do with bettering any person’s life. It’s all about killing and ruling. It’s a struggle for power. And ain’t nothing good come from murdering your own, from war, ’cause there’s always another one building somewheres else.”
All around, the blink of lights within the church popped and buzzed.
Dorn and Sheldon watched as everyone forgot about Dorn and his words as the spark of wires frayed with no caps glittered orange from the walls, fountained in sparks. The hum of bug lights outside attached to poles flicked and fluttered. Then came the sirens. Nerve-damaging loud. Eyes from those still among the living lit up like clouds of atomic explosions; some stayed on knees, others dropped. Began to recite prayers. “Our Father who art—” Others screamed, “God have mercy on me. Please spare me. Please.”
“It’s the seven seals. God has come to save us!”
Dorn and Sheldon looked at each other, astonished at what they were viewing, even after all the pandemonium bloodshed, these folks thought they could be forgiven for their wrongs.
As the sirens blared, Angus had kneeled down, helped Ali to his feet, a mess of blood about his body, unknown if he’d survive his wounds; he was still breathing and looked around with fogged eyes at what was taking place. Angered and pumped, Angus was no longer able to withhold his pestilence. Shook his head. Made eye contact with Van Dorn, Sheldon, and the hound dog across the room. Then to Scar and her militia, who still stood bearing their weapons at the ready, waiting for command, one man holding the wounded Scar upright, her arm bleeding, but none aimed their guns, as they were confused by the return of electricity. Angus eyed the children soldiers, their tremoring. What has become of us, of this land, of this people? Angus questioned. Some of the children’s faces were covered by paint. Others by masks. Their leader, Cotto, shot dead. And glancing to the madness of the kneeling clan of followers, Angus shook his head, was sickened by their stupidity, wanting to slaughter anyone in a single instance and now seeking forgiveness, and he shouted, “What you all is hearing is tornado sirens, fuckin’ invalids. No wonder you all are in the shape you’re in.”
EPILOGUE
Scabrous and vile, the land was burnt in places, staked with male bodies, limbless and without head. Devoid of child or women. Where homes once stood, now wrecked, littered, and rummaged. Dryers, washers, and busted screen doors, dressers upturned and set aflame. Clothing scattered and children’s dolls without eyes thrown and left lying. Remnants and refuges of times condemned by the massacres and onslaught of vehemence when time had lost light and humans forgot about neighbors. Instead they massacred their own. It decorated Angus’s, Van Dorn’s, and Sheldon’s travel with the group of clans from the Methodist’s realm to Cotto’s compound.
Some took by foot. Others by vehicle or four-wheeler.
Wounded, Scar and her militia sat at their compound. Dragging their dead to burials. Wolf Cookie asked, “Now what?”
All Scar could say was “We do as we always have, just as my father did, we build. Create something new.”
“What about Angus?”
“I’m sure we’ll cross again someday.”
“Then what?”
“What happens, happens. I’m done fighting for a while.”
Rides were bumpy and coarse. Small groups had come through the valleys. Volunteers reaching out sent by a fallen and stalled government. Helping to place things disassembled back to some type of order.
Some hoped to find their loved ones. Others sought nieces, nephews, aunts, sisters, brothers. Some connection they’d thought gone forever.
In Cotto’s compound, children were holed up in bunkers with madness in their eyes and drugs in their veins. Piles and piles of drugs strung across metal tables. There was no firefight. For all the followers of Cotto and the children he’d taken, enslaved to soldiering, had become too strung out or had OD’d, couldn’t raise claim to a rifle. The children had been robbed of youth. Of kindness. Of family. Of values. Same as the land.
There were rooms of antibiotics. Of bottled water. Of family heirlooms. Dead bodies spread and piled with insects laboring. Things burned. Crates of automatic weapons and ammunition. MREs. Things Cotto and his men had robbed in their raids.
At one end of the compound was a long, rectangular concrete building where the lock was cut from the chained door. Women had been found, ragged and rotted ivory. Locked in. Starved. Dead spread upon dead and were covered in a white powder like lime. On the rear wall, spray-painted in large block fluorescent graffiti, was FUCK YOU GRINGOS!
All stood lost. Gagged by the smells passing. Walking amongst the others who looked for their own, walked with Sheldon and Dorn, gazing about the spoiled and raisin-skinned. Wet coursed Sheldon’s eyes. Her mother was no more. Starved and withered with the other females. Dorn held tight to her frame as they walked.
In the lighthouse’s top floor, young boys lay limp about the floor like a deck after 52 Pickup. In the room’s center was a table. Six boys sat around it. Eight-ball-eyed. Each had a box of brass shells beside him. A revolver in the table’s center. One was Sheldon’s baby brother. Each resembled the next, their minds blasted of wits, playing spin the bottle. Only it wasn’t a bottle. It was the “lucky one of six.” One child spun the revolver. The child the revolver stopped on picked up the pistol. Loaded the chamber with a single bullet. Then wheeled the cylinder. Pointed it at his temple. Pulled the hammer and fired. If it was an empty chamber, the soldier wasn’t shot. That child then spun the revolver. If he was shot, another child stepped in. Spun the pistol for the next. The game went on until they reached the sixth soldier, then they started over, played until they had another sixth survivor, and so on and so forth.
It was part of Cotto’s crazed psychotic protocol. To create soldiers who faced death. Survived and no longer feared it. Created a stir-crazy in their minds. Each child’s eyes were rimmed with shock. Drug induced. Pupils the size of marbles. Sheldon ran to the table, stepping over the dead. Took the weapon from the table’s center. Scooped up their loved ones. Offered comfort. Let them know it was over. But it wasn’t. It had only begun. The world they’d once known was no more. Things would be different. Much different. The United States wa
s now no different from the war-torn third-world countries they’d aided over the years, the ones that’d been on the world news. Or written about or photographed by American journalists.
Sheldon clasped her brother tight. “It’s over. It’s over.” Flesh around his eyes bulbous and rashed, the boy was in a state of numb to anything said. And Dorn walked them away from the lighthouse. To a vehicle that drove them to Sheldon’s parents’ farm.
* * *
Angus would find an antibiotic, penicillin. Was offered a ride. He took it. The man driving told him, “We been trying.”
“We?” Angus questioned.
“Yeah, National Guard. Red Cross. Everyone’s been trying to get to as many as we could. They’s just too much unknown, things is no longer safe, too damn many people. Many has gave up. No one knows how long it’ll take to sort things out. Restore all the power. They’s much uncertainty.”
“Too many crazy sons of bitches. I wouldn’t call them people no more,” Angus said, and the man kept silent, then said, “Guess you seen some shit?”
“That’s one way of coining it.”
When Angus came from the truck, he thanked the man for the ride. Walked the long drive to Fu’s home. Entered. All sat silent. Fu was no longer lying in rest. He was gone. A letter written upon a chalkboard in the kitchen read:
Angus,
If you’ve found this writing, you’ve survived. Returned. Brought back medicine for me. Though I was not sick. It was only a final lesson. Meaning I’ve taught you what was needed. You’re now free of me and my ways. It is up to you to pass what you’ve learned on to another.
