by Linda L Zern
The dogs were a mix of shepherd and retriever, small now, but they’d be big enough to use for patrols. They were a boy’s dream come true, fluffy balls of unconditional love in a very hard world.
Tallahassee’s eyes glazed over when a red and white bitch licked his chin; it was love at first lick.
Titus caught Parrish’s eye, nodded, and it was done. The dog was Tallahassee’s to train and raise, and Parrish was going to have to show him how to do it.
Better to eat dog for dinner.
Tallahassee was a natural with the dog: patient but firm, affectionate but not gooey, a good pack leader. He named the puppy Penny because she was the color of an old penny, he’d explained to the others.
Much to Brevard’s delight they settled into the dilapidated armory building close to Lake Monroe, waiting for orders or news or . . . something. The hurricane months passed, the days of frost on the ground ended, and the weather dissolved into the soft, dreamy, rainy springtime, but orders never came.
There was no news, no scouts, and no contact with other Junior Militia groups. Twice they spotted what looked like canoes rigged up with sails on the lake, but whoever they were sailed away—fast.
The lake was full of fish, frogs, and gator. And the city of Sanford was empty—mostly. The Junior Militia took what they wanted. The ghosts that still lived there scuttled out of Titus’s way if they didn’t want to be sucked into the unit or wind up dead. Even without any real challengers . . . life was a hard scrabble.
In March, Sergeant Merritt slipped and fell, ramming the tip of a rusty machete into his knee. Seven days later his jaw locked shut and he starting screaming in pain—quietly though, because he couldn’t open his mouth. They busted out his front teeth to try and feed him but . . . he died of tetanus. It took a long time for Merritt to die.
Losing his friend and ally changed Titus. He worried about plots and traitors and became strangely secretive about what he ate and when. Still, no one defected, better to put up with crazy Commander Titus than die in the dark, alone.
He became obsessed with preparations and training. Maybe it was because they’d settled into the armory, or Camp Rock Steady to the new kids. Maybe it was everyone being in a building that was once a home for National Guard heroes. Whatever it was, it pushed Commander Titus to put the unit through a year’s worth of training—or what he’d named “Seasoning”—in the months after Merritt screamed himself to death.
There was the faint smell of spring rain in the air the day Titus lined the newest recruits up for yet another mindless drill: running in circles, double timing to the Saint John’s River and back, and the worst—racing back and forth along Lake Monroe’s retaining wall, over and over again, until exhaustion made it hard to stay on your feet.
A swim wouldn’t be so bad if the lake wasn’t boiling with alligators. Parrish had tried to argue that the time spent “seasoning” the new troops would be better spent hunting gator and mixing up a fresh bunch of pemmican. Titus only stared now when Parrish talked.
On the fiftieth sprint along the edge of the lake, Titus lined up the senior members of the unit. They stretched along the retaining wall, facing the lake, so that the Puppies had to run with the gator-infested lake on one side and the line of older boys on the other. Titus handed each senior member the sharp end of a butterfly palm frond and set them to beating the wilting boys as they raced along the wall. He called it “Running the Gauntlet of Teeth.”
They teetered on the edge of the crumbling cement wall, between the flailing spikes that left bloody welts and the lake, heads down, forcing their way forward—terrified of falling into the black water.
In the warm spring weather, gators floated on or near the surface of the murky water. Sun blazed across the lake. The gators cut through the top of the Lake Monroe, logs of knobby, leathered skin. Conditioned, the big reptiles came to the wall when the humans ran. Titus had been training them all winter by chucking hunks of wild pig into the water.
The choice was easy: better to be blinded and bleeding from the four-inch spikes of the palm fronds than to be dragged down by a bull gator, shoved under a rotted log to tenderize. Better to have your eyes poked out than to be gator bait.
Parrish stood next to Titus, watching the boys struggle. Titus would expect his senior leadership to punish anyone not giving his all to his insane “training program.”
Tallahassee shielded his face with a bloodied forearm. Commander Titus leaned forward when the kid’s foot slipped off the edge of the retaining wall into empty space; the exhausted boy went down to his knees. The senior squad closed in, spiked whips whistling through the air. Tallahassee leaned back, one arm up to shield his face, and away from the onslaught of whipping thorns, teetering farther over the edge.
Titus smiled.
Marching to the edge of the water, he shouted, “Are you prepared to defend this unit, to run any gauntlet assigned, to follow any order given, to give your life for life in the militia?” The Puppies growled their yesses. How many times had Parrish chanted those exact four affirmations? And the answer was yes, always yes.
A frightened kid would do anything to remain safe, put up with any humiliation to be part of something . . . because banishment brought death.
Titus stared at the slow glide of gators. He seemed to like knowing that they were there—waiting. He absolutely liked it when someone slipped toward the water’s edge, close to falling. Sadistic bastard. Parrish gripped his rifle, felt the bruising, cool metal under his fingers and pictured himself slamming the butt of the weapon into his commander’s face.
He couldn’t help Tallahassee, and the tension was turning his bones to lead. Tallahassee’s dog sensed it. She sat next to Parrish—ordered to sit and stay by her master. A growl grew inside the dog, rumbling like an eruption; Penny vibrated against Parrish, pressing against his leg. Her alpha was in trouble. The dog knew it. She’d gotten big on scraps, not full grown, but big enough to have the confidence of teeth and claw, and she loved her boy.
Titus foamed at the mouth when Tallahassee yipped, windmilled his arms, and then slipped over the edge. Parrish’s gut twisted when the kid disappeared, and then there was a moment of relief, seeing his hand come up to claw at the edge of the retaining wall. The kid had gotten lucky, probably landing on a cement outcropping designed to shore up the wall.
“End him!” Titus shouted.
Two older boys—twins—Cape and Coy—closed in to stomp Tallahassee’s hands off the wall.
The dog lunged away from Parrish and threw herself at the boys, smashing into their backs. Tallahassee saw her, ducked. The big dog’s body pushed Coy forward and over the wall into the water. His shriek went high and shrill. The sound of bodies thrashing, flailing, and tearing mixed with the slap of churning water.
The dog’s momentum carried her after Coy into the lake. Soldiers scattered, wanting to be anywhere but at the edge of that lake. Cape turned to Titus, shrieking curses. With blank, frozen eyes, Titus shoved Cape in after his brother. Parrish raced for the lake’s crumbling retaining wall.
Parrish flung himself onto his stomach and reached down for Tallahassee’s hand.
“Grab on.”
Ignoring Parrish, Tallahassee turned away, his eyes following the dog’s body. Parrish grabbed a handful of shirt.
Beneath them the water became a boil of twisting bodies and gaping mouths. Coy screamed and disappeared into the blackness.
“Tallahassee, give me your hand!”
The dog swam in a frantic circle and then scrambled up and over the bodies twisting beneath her. Distracted by blood and bone in the water, the gators ignored the dog.
Incredibly, the kid yanked free of Parrish’s hand, and dropped to the remnants of a rotted dock. Reaching out, he grabbed two handfuls of wet, sopping fur and dragged the dog toward him. A gator slung its big head at the dog, snapped its jaws shut inches from Tallahassee’s arm. Parrish grabbed at the boy and his puppy. Five feet beyond the dog’s wet tail, alligators f
inished ripping Cape and Coy to gurgling pieces.
No one helped Parrish haul the kid and dog back to dry ground. The horror in the water had pushed the “heroes” on the bank into a full retreat. A couple of them had stumbled back and away so fast they’d landed on their butts.
Titus had snapped. It was too much for even the worst of them and that was saying something . . . except for Titus, who stood calmly staring at the lake as blood spread across the water like a rotten oil slick.
Parrish rolled Tallahassee over the edge of the wall, the dog still wrapped in the idiot’s arms. Adrenaline pounded through every vein; tension and relief convulsed the muscles in Tallahassee’s shoulders; they would both be sick when the stress faded.
Beyond them he could still hear the slashing boil of gators feeding. He pushed to his feet, found Titus watching him, and felt the shakes start. The others found a way to become invisible.
“One saved for two dead. Not going to build up the team that way.” Titus acted as if they were discussing the weather. A kind of fog full of madness settled over Parrish.
Penny stood up and shook, sending a blast of dirty water back into both their faces. Parrish staggered to his feet.
“Get up, Tallahassee,” Parrish said.
“Yeah, get up.” Titus’ fist on the machete in his belt looked made of stone. “That was some pretty amazing rescue. What with that dog of yours . . . come on over here now, girl.” He gave a low whistle meant to entice the dog. She cocked her ears but didn’t budge. Parrish reached over and fisted a hand in her thick red fur.
“We should clean up. Right, Commander? The kid’s dripping pond scum.”
“Cripes almighty . . . that . . .” Tallahassee coughed. “That was . . . too close.”
Muttered curses spun out like a poisonous mist from the Commander. The sounds from the lake faded.
Parrish pushed the dog away from the zone of Titus’ murderous intent. Without taking his eyes off Titus, he pulled Tallahassee to his feet by his ripped, dripping shirt collar. Titus turned his back to them, walked to the retaining wall, and stood staring at . . .
“Turn around and don’t look back,” he told the sopping wet kid. It came out in a snarl and made the kid duck his head. “You’re in his crosshairs, don’t make it worse. Don’t say anything.”
The dog trotted at Tallahassee’s side. They headed toward the armory. The boy did not look back.
Darby made sure to hand Parrish the best of the blankets to dry off with: a quilt with cartoon characters—the names escaped him, some kind of robots that turned into cars. She always took care of him that way.
“He wants you weak, Parrish. He wants to be the strong one. But you’re not weak. I know that, but it’s the only way he can understand what you did, saving that red-haired boy. Putting yourself at risk for some stupid Puppy.” Darby’s hand shook a bit when she handed him one of her hard-boiled eggs. She was worried, but not about the eggs for a change.
He looked at the egg in his hand and was tempted to laugh.
Since they’d settled in Sanford, she’d insisted on going out on the nights with full moons to gather up what was left of the local flocks of chickens. They were easy to catch at night—drugged with sleep, roosting in the wreckage of family backyard coops and trees. She kept them tucked up in a troop transport wrapped in hunks of chain link and chicken wire. Darby’s Egg Farm, that’s what she called it. It was for all the protein, she claimed, for muscle and strength.
Another sign that they’d stalled out in this place—Darby’s chickens.
“He won’t let it pass. I know it. I’m worried that there’s more wrong here than those two going into the lake. That insanity he calls training.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. Parrish could hear the shudder in it, an echo of the way her hand trembled. “He’s not right. Titus’s not right, and he’s getting worse.”
“Time to go,” he said. “You’re saying it’s time to go.” That’s what she meant, and she was right.
On the wall, behind the exam table, she kept track of time passing: slashing hash marks counting down the days, the months. Almost a year. Titus unraveled more and more every time they hashed through another thirty days. The black lines marched, chicken tracks across flaking paint.
“We’d be alone. Are you ready for that? It’d be harder, in a lot of ways it would be much harder. No fresh eggs. No roof over your head—our heads—for a while. But I know a place . . . if they’re still there. If they made it this long.”
Parrish rested his hands against the exam table, felt it wobble.
“What about Tallahassee?” she wanted to know.
When he hesitated, he saw the doubt in her eyes. It would be harder to go than she thought. Dogs formed packs for a reason.
“The kid coming with us will make it tough. Too many people.”
It might have been something in his tone or maybe his lack of enthusiasm . . .
She flew at him, grabbing him by the shirtfront. There was panic in her hands, her eyes.
“What,” he spluttered, “are you—what’s wrong with you? Darby?”
“It’s now. We have to go now. We have to.” She threw herself against his chest; she wrapped him up like she had when she was little, her arms locking around his neck.
It shocked him, being so close to her, to anyone. Hugs, kisses, affection. They were dangerous. There’d been girls in the camps: beaten, desperate, broken, ready to give or do or be anything to feel safe. They reminded him too much of Ella and Brittany, of what they must be doing to survive. He never touched the camp girls.
Closing his eyes, he hugged her back, pushing his face into the halo of her blond hair.
“Please, Parrish. We have to go.”
She felt little-girl frail in his arms . . . except for the obvious lump of her belly: her pregnant belly.
They both froze. She didn’t lift her head from his chest.
“Please, Parrish,” she said, choking on tears. “We have to go now, before he finds out and they make me do something about it.”
Horrified, he pushed her away, her clothes bagging and lumping around her. “Who? Brevard. It has to be that fat . . .”
“No. Doesn’t matter. We have to go. Now! Because he doesn’t know, and I make sure he doesn’t find out.”
“Okay.” He ran his hands up and down her stick-thin arms. “We’ll go tonight.”
They should have just gone. Later, he would go over and over and over it in his head. But there was something about Tallahassee that wouldn’t let Parrish leave him behind. He should have left—without Tallahassee and that damn dog.
After the blood in the lake, the unit scattered, in twos and threes, pretending to be cleaning rifles, pretending they wouldn’t dream of severed arms and crushing jaws.
Parrish found Tallahassee behind the armory, his spine jammed flat against the back wall, Penny next to him, stretched out in the dirt, her tongue lolling. Big day for the dog, not getting eaten in an alligator feeding frenzy, but it didn’t seem to have left any lasting scars.
Tallahassee sat, head slumped to his chest, bright red hair glistening in the sun. Freckles danced across his cheeks. He looked like someone who should have been bagging groceries at a box store.
Parrish kicked the bottom of Tallahassee’s boot. He scrambled to his feet, sending the dog into a crouching growl. Tallahassee quieted her with a simple look. She sat and waited.
“Like magic, what you’ve done with her.”
The boy reached down to rub between Penny’s big golden eyes. Unsure of himself, he frowned and muttered, “Yes, Sir, thank you.”
“She’s something like the best friend you’ve ever had, right? I think she proved that today.” Parrish stepped back, pinned him with what Darby liked to call his “glare stare.”
There was a subtle tensing of the younger man’s shoulders, the shift of his weight into his heels, a fighting stance. Feeling a threat was as important as seeing it—it was life and death. Parrish had taught him that. Be
cause the bad guys didn’t wear uniforms anymore, it was important to stay ready. In the early days, stupid people still thought there were rules: The knocks on the door from some starving young woman with a kid—“Help me—help my baby. Help us.” Survivors in a weak moment, sending the woman and kid back into the brush so they could do the “right” thing and leave food on the step, something for a starving baby. And then the bullet that rips through the Good Samaritan’s head from some unseen shooter, and your family became a prize for gangs or worse. Kindness got you killed. Parrish had taught Tallahassee that.
“We usually eat dogs. Did you know that?”
“What do you mean ‘usually’?” The fight went out of Tallahassee’s stance as he knelt protectively next to the big red and white dog.
“Always. Every single time, except when . . . well . . . why do you think we didn’t eat the puppies? This one time?”
Tallahassee moved closer to the dog, his hand on her head.
“For patrols. The others say we’re training them up for patrols.”
Parrish scoffed, stepped in and hissed, “Soldier!” Tallahassee snapped to his feet. “Are you prepared to defend this unit, to run any gauntlet . . .” He let the words trail away.
A frown line settled between the kid’s blue eyes. He was remembering the lake.
“Snap out of it, soldier. Are you?”
“Yes. Yes, Sir.” The boy snapped straight.
“Then strangle that dog.”
He’d been given an order to mindlessly obey, to prove his ultimate loyalty to Titus and the unit, and it wasn’t even close; they hadn’t pounded on him long enough.
Tallahassee shook his head. “No.”
“He, Titus, read something like that in a book once. The Nazi’s trained their junior SS that way, but it took longer than a year to get a trooper brainwashed enough. It was the ultimate test, killing the one good thing in their lives, and then they were super soldiers. That’s how they turned kids into soulless murderers. He’ll do it to you if he can.”
