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.
