A smattering of shots, then two, three more and their echo, their echoes — Leeds falls to the ground, to the hole he’d dug for the face of his guest; it’s not that he’s been shot, as the blood about his mouth is the pig’s, underdone. Those swine after you, he says, don’t worry none, we’ll hold out, I offer full protection plans, no money down, sanctuary veritably guaranteed, this wall’ll never fall. I’m ready for a fight, a standoff, anything; we’ll hold here for months, years, Armageddon, we got enough pork — goddamnit, kid, he’s too loud now, smacking the earth and seeming to cry, I’m only a chaplain, ordained, licensed and bonded, but still…there are rules of engagement, there are dogs. Attack, will you. Fetch the yelps. Simpering whimper. Bitch out the bawls. Then, more shots, the undocumented calls of miniature, metallic, silverbeaked birds…a trampling of nature then fence. Benjamin gathers the hood tight overhead. Leeds quiets, puts a finger to his lips, raises another two to his eyes, with yet another finger points to the wall, sucks his thumb. He follows him, and they take shelter in silence: a squat behind bricks and trailer still puffing its signal…Leeds inconstant, disconsolately weepy one moment then all planning energetic the next. He beats out a march on his log, then springs up and begins searching himself flailingly, desperately behind his trailer the sloppy piles of trash — overwhelmingly papers and leaves fallen from potty refuse dumped black to freeze the baldness — for thrown bones or leftover flesh scrapped to serve, to appease the hungers of the howlings that near, then recede: the fierce howls and moans coming in waves too strong and too irregular for the creek, and in echoes of sounds too distantly dim, too muffled by the trees and leaves then dispersed by the wind to hear as to species or sense…only to near once again, a circling of noise and heat, a brutal noose of scurry and snap: this attack in its muster not animally savage, as would be expected, with barking and bite, but apparently organized, taken out back and executed with discipline — human’s the suspect, the goyim’s good shepherding…
An hour hunts, stalks its approach in ritual ringings, a merging of smokes.
Suddenly, a voice reveals through a megaphone:
Send, it distorts, if a voice of God then the voice of a god testing, just sounding it out…an airhorn, then, so sorry, it says, I pressed the wrong button:
Send, Send, am I doing it right, can you hear me, you can, Send the Minor Out, how’s that, and You Will Not Be Harmed And Neither Will He. Good. I’ve got it now. I’m alright. Be Reasonable. We’re Reasonable People. Or If Not Reasonable Then At Least We’re Trying. There’s No Excuse. I Mean Escape. I’m Sorry. I Apologize Too Much. My Therapist Says I’m Making Progress…enough. Don’t Get Wise With Us, You’re Grossly Outnumbered. Then, gevalt what next what next…there’s from nowhere, as if both visited down from the clouds and as cloud itself — smoke; not pigsmoke, smokesmoke; they’re setting everything on fire…it’s a strategy sieged without mercy, without appeal — if you can’t beatem, burnem, and so this tactically torched forest, the scorching of woods. All’s aflame, the tinder kindled, untamed: the wall’s caught and its craziness burns to growl big, a roar despite the pelting of sky.
The toilets, they smolder.
Never! Leeds says with regard to what, he’s already forgotten, but it’s the thought that counts to ten, nine, eight…then hesitates toward what would’ve been three — throws a grenade that soars up through the fire as if an expelled spark, a bomby wingless creature flying freely over the wall, lands…agents scatter, a smatter of suits and the flutter of ties like rare snakes, the grenade doesn’t — explode: goddamned clods, he says, pinecones, what, defective under battle conditions. A slash of tongues, a roaring, the roofing trees aflame and so they decamp westward behind the trash pilings that front the river further, cedarbrown beneath ice, a stilled running of rust. Our position still secure, Leeds yells into his fist, over, he hisses, a fiery crackle, a burning burr in his throat, the boozy dizziness and the womanly, weakening stress…remembers only then his Mwhatever the hell, remembers it’s all out of ammo. And has been for weeks. Three agents advance slow steady in lockstep, firing shots into twilight, downing stars to be culled for collection. They’ll be examined, byopsied by communists, Mexican migrant trash, aliens picking a new glowing fruit. Regroup, Leeds says, retreat, whatever; he rips off his helmet and punts it away, making contact with it at the brunt of its spike and so hurting his foot, which is bare and so, bleeding…the river’s our only hope, he says limping, gnawing his tongue — I’ll ready the vessel, you hold them off…but without saying with what He’ll defend, Himself and His host, his churchy compound and their Joysey land, besides, any better ideas, the chainsaw he shoves into Benjamin’s hands, Leeds scuttles scarce, into needly underbrush, the shorelining sparse, scurrying low, bareheaded balding and stooped: there to the stolen rental canoe loosely roped to a stump on the verge of the creek rearing his property — a vessel battered old, striped in white peeling paint, beat out of shape in aluminum.
Benjamin follows behind, waddling in white vesture smeared over the slick and snowmuddied; His pointy hanging hood hooking in His lumber on a perimeter’s branch hanging low, snagging Him, choking, breathlessly bringing Him unbalanced to fall — rearing up the saw panickingly revved in His hands to tear from the ancient, ashy tree its moldy boughs and bark, them crashing down on Him to hit on a root exposed, jaggedly knobbed, knotted, to gash Him on His head, the saw remaining lodged in the trunk. An advancing agent in a suit and tie the black issue of what department there’s no time or clearance to tell grabs Him, lays Him out face up, lifts hood to air Him, shakes, slaps, He’s out. At Benjamin’s falling cry, Leeds turns from untying their canoe, his straddle of the gunwale with one foot to steady the thwart while with the other still bleeding he’s stomping to free all from the freeze, then — he’s frozen, too…shrieking, they’re agents, kovert kosher operatives, Gmenschs they are maybe diamond merchanting Hasids, perhaps Mormon Hasidim, militant lesbian activist fascists who the futz knows; him tipping, to almost wading, kicking hard at the ice into water surrounding the bob of the logged canoe, eventually freeing its hollow freeze, shoving it out then over the floeslick, to water open if sludgelike, thick like a pudding or iron soup, bog metal smelt and yet cold: grabbing the paddle by its shaft, choking up for the steering and heading upstream against flow, deeper into the woods, the Kieferöde dim, its piney hide. The canoe, though, throws all downstream, along with the under-current a tug imperceptible and yet stronger than him, fate implacable and should’ve been humbling. Leeds drops his paddle in midstroke to cup hands, yell again a last for Benjamin but by now he’s forgotten the name. Sounds like — I lost it; the whistling water, finally flowing out here, and whiter with force, a froth that’s rabid, that’s thirsty. Purifying, too, washing to swallow. All hands cupped to the bailing. More agents arrive onscene, commence laughing, they can’t stop…and, are you ready for this — it takes six of them, two to His legs, two to arms then two more holding up the saggingly white-sailed, surrenderflagged middle of Him to triage, to lift Benjamin then hump Him herniate through the woods to the clearing, along the way the agents surrounding His path, the trail newly marked, trod and fired, shooting stray at the dogs coming near, never close. Carcasses lie everywhere, theirs, being ravaged, teethtorn, and savagely pawed at by dogs still alive if only barely, though shot through themselves and singed, with others clear burnt, their hair hardened to an insectlike shell, a pest’s exomost skeletal. With existence at peril, they’re less inclined to attack (these instincts so terribly tough to stray lost); they sense out the danger, react with a low. Heads hung with night, they cower and bitch, drag themselves sorrily into loggy dens to recover, to heal; they’re slowed by the bullets lodged in their hindquarters, their flanks — there to lick at their wounds, though still hungry for anger they gnash, as if feeding on themselves never sated.