by Brown, TW
“How can you say that? How many times did The Master care for you when you would eat something that you should not? Even when you made Bad Dog on the floor!”
“She is not The Master any longer, Second Mother.”
The use of that title made Circe pause. Imp only used it when he was being pack. He used it when he apologized for playing too rough, or when she would be scolded for something that was his doing and he would offer up an apology.
“She would never hurt us,” Circe insisted. She could feel The Master move behind her. Perhaps if The Master would but speak in her peculiar language, Imp would see. He would have to see.
Hands ran over her. It was in that instant that Circe realized that The Master truly was one of The Wrong. There was that instant when the cold hands closed on her that Circe reacted out of instinct. She whipped her head around to bite, but as soon as she saw The Master, that urge simply faded from the years of conditioning.
The Master was safety and love and protection. The Master was never hurt; even when she did things that upset The Master, she had never once been nipped, swatted or even scolded with much force. That is why Circe did nothing more than tremble as The Master’s mouth came closer.
“Run, Circe!” Imp demanded, but she would not. The Master would not hurt her. It was not The Master’s way.
The cold hands of The-Wrong-That-Was-Now-The-Master gripped her fur tighter and made Circe whimper in pain. Surely that would make The Master see. All those times when The Master would accidentally step on her foot or tail; The Master would always stop and tend to the hurt. She would soothe with words and gentle strokes of Circe’s fur.
The mouth came in closer, and then clamped down on the side of Circe’s throat. The red and white Border Collie yelped in pain as she felt something tear away. The pain was more than she could stand and Circe jerked free. Her body landed on the floor with an awkwardness as her legs did not free themselves properly from the bed coverings. Instead of landing on her feet, Circe landed on her side and felt her head bounce off the floor. She rose unsteadily and saw her own blood shoot across the room and spray the floor. She managed only a step before The Master landed heavily on top of her. Both back legs snapped under the sudden and overwhelming weight. Again Circe yelped.
In her mind, as the world faded to darkness, all she could do was ask herself how she had upset The Master. What had she done wrong?
***
Imp watched helplessly as The Wrong tore into his beloved pack-friend, Circe. He refused to allow himself to refer to that thing as The Master. It was not The Master. It was one of them.
The hot life blood came in a jet from Circe’s throat. She yelped in a raw, ragged way that Imp knew meant that she would be no more. He saw as Circe vanished under the body of The Wrong. He heard her pain cry and the sound of snapping bone. He was about to launch into an attack when the two man-things that were not of the pack came on the run.
“You are too late, stupid man-things!” Imp barked.
He saw that they held things in their awkward paws that could cut and hurt the flesh. The Wrong had managed to get to its knees and was pulling the limp figure of Circe in to take another bite. The Wrong’s face vanished in the long, silky fur that Circe had been so proud of and preened every time that The Master pulled out the funny little thing that ran through that fur and made it shine even brighter than normal as well as pull out all the kinks and knots that teeth would take hours trying to fix.
As The Wrong came up with a mouthful of meat and fur, one of the man-things leapt into the room in his graceless man-thing way and brought down a cutting thing on the head of The Wrong. Dark fluid that smelled foul and almost hurt Imp’s sensitive nose ran down the face of The Wrong.
It was over.
Imp looked up the hall at the new pack member that had introduced itself as Baily (a name that Imp thought was almost as ridiculous as the dog it belonged to). The Golden Retriever was actually shaking with its tail tucked tight against its belly. Imp wanted nothing more to do with this place. His pack was gone. When the door opened the next time, he would run. Imp loved running. Of course he loved it most when chasing after one of those wonderful discs or squishy balls that The Master used to throw for him.
The man-things were now talking. Imp wished that any of it made sense. He heard the name of The Master, and on reflex, his ears perked. However, an instant later, his ears dropped. The Master was gone. Imp was alone.
A new smell began to drift into his nose. Instantly, the black and white Border Collie’s lip curled back. There was something different, but it was still the smell of them: The Wrong. A twitch caught his attention and Imp’s head swung around to the source.
It was Circe.
No, that was not his pack-friend. When the head lifted from the floor where it had come to rest in all that life blood, Imp snarled. The eyes opened and Imp could see the death in them. Barking furiously, Imp warned this new horror to come no closer. Man-things never understood, that was why it was no surprise when The Wrongs had not responded to his warnings. Yet, this thing had once been pack…dog. It had to understand.
“Stay back or I will use teeth and claw,” Imp snapped.
That was the first challenge that a dog learned once it was weaned. Most dogs liked to use it in play, but Imp had first used it to warn one of the hated felines that prowled outside his window and left their bitter scent on his favorite tree. He occasionally tested it on the man-thing that stuck things through the door while The Master was away. A few times, he had used it on The Master’s mate. That had earned him a kick in his ribs, yet he had not been afraid. He smelled that man-thing’s weakness. He smelled the fear when he, Imp, had issued that challenge.
This Wrong was not Circe. Imp was certain as the thing that looked like her but certainly did not smell like her began to drag itself forward towards him and the two man-things that stunk of fear. It was a change from their normal scent. One of them stunk of anger and Imp had made it a point to avoid that one whenever possible.
The other man-thing was different. Imp liked him. That one always scratched him behind the ears or on his chest if they were close. He had been watching that one closely as he seemed to be drawn to The Master. Imp thought they might try to mate soon judging by the smells. He would have allowed it.
But now was not the time for such thoughts. Imp snarled another warning at The-Wrong-that-was-not-Circe. Its head turned towards him and milky eyes that were laced with death seemed to consider Imp for a moment.
Hands caught Imp as he started forward. He glanced up and saw the man-thing that reeked of anger. He wanted to bite and demand to be let go, but Imp knew that now was not the time. The other man-thing had stepped forward, in his hand was the same weapon that had killed The-Wrong-that-was-not-The-Master. With one swing, he brought it down and split the head of The-Wrong-that-was-not-Circe.
The man-thing set Imp down on the floor. There was communication, and then they both left the room. Imp slunk forward to take one final look at his former pack-friend. Circe had taught him much. Now, she was gone. He knew that she would already be chasing rabbits in the Endless Meadow. He would miss her. She and The Master had always made him feel like he was the most coveted thing that one of his kind could feel.
Imp was a Good Dog.
***
Ken walked out of the room. What he’d just seen had made his blood turn to ice and his stomach twist into a knot. Seeing people become zombies had been upsetting. When that red and white Border Collie had lifted its head and rolled those tracer ridden, milky eyes up at him and started to drag itself along the floor, he had feared for an instant that his mind might very well snap.
“That sucked,” Jason whispered.
Ken agreed with the sentiment. His feelings on the matter were much deeper, but that description would suffice for now.
“Dogs,” Jason whispered. “Why would it affect dogs?”
“Ask a scientist,” Ken replied, stepping aside as the black a
nd white dog slipped past him in the hallway.
“We need to deal with the two in the other bedroom and then start disposing of the bodies,” Jason said, hand already on the doorknob to the room where Rose’s sister and nephew were secured.
“We have a lot to do,” Ken agreed.
The next few hours were busy ones. After dealing with the two zombies in the bedroom, the men began dragging the bodies outside and starting a pile. Juanita was given a list of things to look for in the barn and asked to start gathering as many of the tools and supplies as she could find.
Once all the corpses had been gathered into a pile, the fire was started. Ken was dousing it with some gasoline when Juanita came up.
“Can we at least say a prayer?” The tears in her eyes were mixing with the sweat, and the gray handkerchief she wore over her face was almost black from moisture. When Ken nodded his consent, he saw something in her eyes that made him pause.
Did she think I might actually say no? he wondered.
What had he said or done up to this point to make her think that such a natural and simple request might be denied. Perhaps later, when things settled down, he would examine himself a bit closer and try to find what it was about him that could make a person feel that way.
***
Jason stepped back as the black smoke spiraled skyward. It was still early, and they’d managed to accomplish a great deal, but the work was just starting. The next thing on the list was actually the one thing that could end them all. It was also a step that he knew Ken was trying to delay.
Looking around, he realized that, at some point, the dogs had simply disappeared. He called out for Imp, but there was no response. He considered actually searching for the black and white Border Collie, but there were more pressing matters on the list of things that they absolutely had to accomplish today.
They would have to empty out the truck of all the guns and ammo he’d brought from the Reynolds’ house and then drive into town. Fortunately, the infrastructure was still intact. The power remained on and the internet (while hideously slow) was still up and running. They had put in a search for hardware stores in the area and found three. Both of the larger big-box stores were about equal in distance. Jason pointed out that the one known for its blue logo was also a stone’s throw from the local office of the Oregon State Police.
“I say we hit the local Home Depot,” Jason suggested. “It is gonna suck either way.”
The debate was minimal, and Ken agreed. It was also agreed that all three of them would go. Juanita refused to be left alone, and Jason could not blame her. Until they had this place secure, he wouldn’t want to be here alone either. Just looking out from the kitchen window, it was easy to pick out the singles and small groups of zombies roaming the area.
The three of them picked through the assorted guns and ammo before unloading and hiding it in a root cellar under the barn and then covering the door with dirt and straw. Once they were happy with how well hidden that hatch would be to any who might come sniffing around in their absence, they prepared for their foray out into what was sure to be a glimpse into the bowels of Hell itself. Jason had settled on a Glock similar to Ken’s—although not nearly as nice—as well as the street sweeper and a Ruger ten-shot .22 caliber rifle.
“Why you going with the pea shooter?” Ken quipped as they were making their selections.
“All it needs to do is put a round in the head. This weapon will work fine, and I can carry a lot more ammo without being weighed down,” Jason replied. He kept his smile to himself when Ken set down the .30-06 Springfield and selected another of the smaller caliber rifles.
Jason stuffed several boxes of ammo into his pack. That had prompted a question by Juanita as to why he was taking so much.
“If we get separated and I am on my own, I want to be able to feel like I can take care of myself for a while.”
Once everybody was happy with what they had which also included a hand-to-hand weapon (machetes for Jason and Ken, a hand axe for Juanita), as well as a few bottles of water, they piled into the truck and started off towards Portland.
“What about the bodies that are still burning?” Juanita asked as Jason was hopping out of the truck to open the gate.
“They are far enough away from anything. Hopefully that fire will have burnt out while we are gone and the wind will have blown most of that smell away,” Ken answered.
Jason had to agree with that sentiment. He’d never had the misfortune of smelling a body as it burned. It could not help the unpleasantness any with the bodies all being zombies that already had their own stomach-churning stench.
Once the truck was through the gate, Jason shut it and hooked the latch. The truck turned up the road and had gone less than a mile when it slowed and came to a stop. Jason glanced over at Ken and saw the way that the man was white-knuckling the steering wheel. He turned back to the front and saw a single zombie standing in the road.
It was a little boy.
He was about to ask Ken why he had stopped, after all, while it was unfortunate to see a child all torn up and covered with dried blood from where a large chunk of his left arm had been ripped away, this was not the first child zombie that they had seen. However, when Juanita began to utter a murmured prayer and he shot a look her way only to find tears streaming down her face, he kept his mouth shut. This was something personal between the two.
“Stay here,” Ken whispered as he stepped out of the car.
***
Ken closed the door to the truck and drew his Glock. He knew full well that conserving ammunition was important; however, this needed to be quick. Certainly the boy deserved that much.
“Evan,” Ken whispered as he drew near.
Once again, he was struck by how the child zombie reacted in a manner so very different from the “regular” zombie. Of course, as soon as that thought struck him, he actually chuckled in one sharp snort.
The zombie child…Evan, Ken reminded himself. This child had a name. It was Evan.
Evan tilted his head at the sound of Ken’s amused snort. He had not taken a step towards the man and actually seemed wary. That was in direct contrast to the other zombie now getting up from the other side of the car that was nose down in a ditch.
Evan’s mother.
“Damn,” Ken whispered.
Unlike Evan, his mother came right for him, hands reaching and clutching, mouth open. A hair-raising moan that seemed much too deep in tone escaped her and drifted on the near perfect silence of the late-morning air. The woman had a nasty rip down her throat that gave an almost clinical view of the exposed esophagus. In addition to that horrific wound, her right arm had chunks missing from the forearm. Ken knew defensive wounds when he saw them.
There was one zombie on the ground at the side of the road. If he had to guess, he would say that the head had been slammed repeatedly into the rear quarter-panel of the car where the nasty smear and chunk of scalp with hair had dried in place.
Looking even closer, he could see that the majority of the struggle took place around the still-open front passenger’s side door. There were dark stains on the normally gray sand and gravel in that area. He could not see clearly, but there was definitely a figure still behind the wheel of the car. Evan’s father no doubt. If Ken had to guess, he would say that the woman and her child had returned and tried to free the father. At some time during that attempt, zombies arrived and took down Evan’s mom. Despite trying to shove it away, his mind concluded that Evan probably witnessed the entire ordeal.
Ken had heard the screams. He had little difficulty putting the pieces together now that he was standing here.
Cold hands brushed his own as Ken gently pushed the zombie that had been Evan’s mother back and away. The next time she lurched forward, Ken stuck the barrel of his gun up under her chin and squeezed the trigger. The sound was only slightly muffled.
A hiss and a moan came from Evan. The boy transformed almost instantly. It was actually a relief to Ke
n as the boy became nothing more than a regular zombie. Before anything could change, Ken closed the last few steps and pressed the gun against Evan’s forehead.
The shot seemed to ring for an eternity in Ken’s ears.
***
“I can’t believe it,” Juanita whispered as they turned off of Interstate 205.
“Jesus,” Jason breathed as they drove past a few dozen zombies that all began to bounce off each other as they turned to follow the truck.
On both sides, bodies littered the ground. Some had been torn apart to the point where there was not enough left to actually come back. In many cases, bodies that had been savaged to the point of losing one or both legs, simply crawled on their bellies. In one instance that Jason saw and had to use the side view mirror to look back at to be sure that he had indeed seen what he thought he’d seen, he was able to confirm that the person was seemingly ripped in half and was missing everything below the waist.
Fires were burning out of control, and despite there not being any that they could readily spot, smoke wafted on the air and ash fell like snow or at least a fine sleet. There were at least a dozen massive columns of black or gray smoke that had to be hundreds, if not thousands, of feet high. One in particular was turning into an ominous mushroom shape, giving even further credence to the apocalypse feel that now hung over Portland.
Another thing that all three of them noticed and began pointing out to one another were the mad dashes of the living. Whether solitary, as was more often the case, or in small groups, the living were scampering across the roads, yards, and parking lots. Some were carrying things, as in the most peculiar case they all spied which was a woman running like she was an Olympic sprinter with a massive decorative lamp in her hands. Many were empty-handed and had the look of a wild animal being hunted. Then there were the others.
That was the only way that Jason could classify them. These were the people that gave even him, an ex-con, a case of the heebie-jeebies. Some slunk back into the shadows as they passed, but many simply stood and watched them go by, often making it a point to establish some very uncomfortable eye contact. A few went so far as to wave or even beckon for them to stop.
