Seeking shelter in the shade for too long may have cut down on sunburn, but it proved to be an inferior protectant from the perils of a hot pursuit. With this notion in mind, Kip bounded forward onto the trail like a delirious Thanksgiving-eve shopper questing for a big-screen T.V. His frantic dash became almost too awkward for Bruce to watch, since the man had all the agility and grace of Rosie O’Donnell on a tightrope. It caused a spontaneous outburst from Bruce.
“Run, runner!” the beagle squealed.
Kip stopped in his tracks and said, “What did you say that for?”
Bruce trotted out of the patch of wildflowers and resumed a leisurely pace along the pathway. “Sorry. I just had an intense Yorkgasm.” Bruce cracked his neck and appeared unusually relaxed. “Boy, if I smoked, a cigarette would taste real bleeping good right about now.”
“What the hell is a ‘Yorkgasm’?”
“Never mind. The last time you had one of those was probably in 1976. But as long as my right paw isn’t blinking red, this won’t be our last day together.”
“Can you get serious for just one minute, Bruce? I have a feeling that the MUTTS aren’t finished with us yet. They want you dead. And I’m pretty sure they’re gonna make your grave big enough for the both of us if we’re caught.”
“You make Debbie Downer look like an eternal optimist. I’ve heard of guys who always see the glass being half empty, but you see it smashed to pieces in the middle of a drought. Lighten up. I’m surprised you don’t have dark shadows under your eyes, because Barnabas Collins had a sunnier disposition than you.”
“You’re not exactly the spokesperson for solar panels either, you know.”
The two forged ahead, but not with the speed or urgency that Kip hoped to inspire. After another two hundred yards or so, Kip realized that Bruce was circling back and sniffing at the ground as if he lost something.
“What’s the matter now?” Kip asked. His voice resonated with frustration. He noticed that Bruce suddenly looked pale, even for a white fur-faced dog. “Are you ill or something?”
“Yeppers. I haven’t felt this sick to my stomach since going to that Michael Bolton concert.”
“When have you ever gone to a Michael Bolton concert?”
“Okay, ya got me on that one, Kip. I lied. I’ve never attended one, but I couldn’t imagine anything more nauseating than that. Apparently, cheeseburgers and Milk Bones mix about as well as Bolton’s music and subtly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta squat to Big Red’s revenge.”
Bruce started to rotate and arch in his stance, which prompted Kip to pivot his head in disgust. “What are you doing?” he decried. “You can’t poop right here!”
“Oh, on the contrary, my misguided Padawan,” Bruce said. The dog proceeded to evacuate his bowels on the side of the path. Once finished, he kicked his hind legs back several times and turned to inspect the entrails. “Well, so much for that menace in my fanny. Let’s hope this isn’t a prequel for things to come.”
“That’s just gross,” Kip remarked, glancing at the heap of fresh dog crap.
“You’re not kidding. It sort of looks like Jar Jar Binks, don’t ya think?”
“No. It just looks like a mound of useless shit stinking up the scene.”
“And suddenly there’s a difference?”
Kip turned away with repulsion and resumed walking. “I guess they never taught you any kind of modesty in training school,” he said.
“Hey, do you think the majority of humans nowadays are any better than us dogs?” Bruce asked. “Go people-watching at Wal-Mart. It’s like a circus train chugged out of town and forgot to load up its freaks.”
They continued onward along the pathway for another fifteen minutes, stopping occasionally to monitor the area behind them, and also to search for the two willow trees that supposedly marked the bunker’s secret entrance. They saw no such trees. Twittering birds and the sound of rumbling river water provided a tranquility that one might’ve expected from such surroundings. Even though there was nothing to suggest that they were in any immediate danger, Kip had more questions than he did answers about the MUTTS appointed leader and followers.
“What else can you tell me about these guys who are chasing you?” he asked Bruce.
“Not a bleep of a lot. Like many of those involved in FIDO, I was only on a need-to-know basis.”
“I know Mark wasn’t the number one guy. Who’s in charge?”
“His name is Hal Molek. I’ve heard people call him ‘Hooty’, but other than that I don’t know very much about him. He’s part of the Bohemian Club, which hosts an adult male-only campground in the Californian redwoods for its elite members. They get boners and piss on trees, not necessarily in that order.”
“I’ve never heard of that club before.”
“Most people haven’t, and that’s the way secret organizations thrive. Once you find out about the man behind the curtain, he’s not that impressive anymore.”
“So does this guy think he’s some kind of a wizard?” Kip asked.
“I can’t say for sure. Not just anyone gets an invite to the Grove, Kip, and rumor has it that Molek is its chief organizer. From what I know, there’s a lot of High Jinks and Low Jinks going on in those woods every July.”
“How do you feel about him personally?”
“He’s a Grover, and not the kind you’d ordinarily find on Sesame Street.”
“Sounds like he’s got a big head, huh?”
“Bigger than the Talosian Keeper or Barry Bonds, take your pick.”
“Isn’t there anything you can say about him that’s good?”
“Well, the only thing he’s got going for him is that he didn’t make Greedo fire first at the Mos Eisley Cantina. But he’s still trying to kill hundreds of innocent dogs, including me. I guess that keeps him off my Fruit of the Month gift list.”
“He sounds like a demented megalomaniac to me,” Kip said.
“Let’s put it this way: he’s the kind of guy who’d organize a Nurse Ratched fan club. After all, microchips will soon become the lobotomies of the new millennium.”
“When did you first develop your grim outlook on humanity?”
“Right after I saw Ringo Starr in Caveman I knew we were heading down a long and winding road to nowhere. And I couldn’t even blame Spector for that atrocity.”
“Why do I keep trying to have a serious conversation with a beagle?” Kip groaned. “I deserve the answers I get.”
Perhaps that was a prophetic statement on Kip’s part, but no one truly deserved what was coming down the river’s pike next for both him and Bruce. A hundred yards upstream, the first wave of drone beavers swam in formation. They moved like a squadron of Kamikazes blanketing the horizon. Bruce had the presence of mind to glance toward the river’s currents. The beavers headed straight for them.
“They finally did it,” Bruce murmured. His snout pointed toward the impending danger. Kip’s eyes gradually drifted to the river to survey the crisis at large.
“Did what?”
“Drone beavers,” Bruce said ruefully. “I would’ve taken snakes or even crystal skulls, but why did it have to be drone beavers?”
Kip squinted as he peered into the sunlight. The beavers started to veer toward the riverbank about thirty yards from where Kip and Bruce remained positioned on the pathway. “Those maniacs!” Bruce screamed, pounding his paw into the dirt trail. “Damn them all to bleep!”
“I don’t see anything,” Kip admitted. “Just a bunch of beavers in the river.”
“Beavers don’t swim in bunches unless there’s a pool party at a sorority house,” Bruce said. “They’re coming for us!” Kip stood petrified in silence. He couldn’t gather his thoughts quickly enough to appease the beagle. “Don’t just stand there like an iconic statue buried in the sand. Say something!”
“I’m speechless,” Kip replied.
“You’re about as loquacious and useful as Nova.”
“Uh, in her defense, wasn’t she a mute
?”
“Likely excuse. But I suppose doinking a producer has it perks. So what if you can’t read dialogue when you’ve got legs longer than Apocalypse Now Redux?”
Before Kip overreacted, he waited until the first wave of the fifteen visible beavers scuttled from the river and climbed an embankment in an unswerving line. Prior to progressing any farther, the mechanical creatures lifted their pancake tails in unison and sprayed streams of water out of their rear portholes simultaneously. Kip still surveyed the scene like a novice.
“How can you tell that they’re drone beavers?” he asked Bruce.
“Because in my experience real beavers don’t squirt.”
“Well, I might’ve seen it happen once or twice before.”
“Sorry, I’m not buying it, Quick Draw. You couldn’t make a water gun squirt.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Oh, cut the bleep, Paul Revere. You’re divorced. Once a beaver squirts at ya, it keeps coming back again. It’s like a boomerang on a carousel.”
Kip remained defiant, if only because he was tired of losing so many arguments with the beagle. After a few more seconds of observation, however, it became certain that the beavers’ behavior didn’t mimic authentic animals in a natural habitat. “Okay, maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “But they’re just beavers. How much harm can they really cause anyone?”
“That’s a question for Jerry Mathers or John Wayne Bobbitt, but not me,” Bruce replied. The beagle’s eyes then focused on the drones’ position more intently. After all of the robots exited the river and expelled the excess water, they began a purposeful march directly toward him. Bruce assessed the situation accordingly. “They must having homing signals, and I’m the home they’re looking to wreck.”
“So what do we do now?” Kip asked.
“Good question. I’d say phone The Fonz, but I think we jumped the shark on our own about three miles back.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Kip, if things were any campier I’d pitch a tent.”
Kip scanned the immediate area, where he noticed a thicket of pricker bushes flanking the adjacent riverbank. The shrubbery might’ve been dense enough to potentially hide them both, but Bruce shook his head in refusal.
“Don’t even think about it,” Bruce admonished. “You don’t dive in bushes to elude beavers. That’s like jumping into the river when you wanna stay dry.”
If they needed further encouragement to do something, the beavers weren’t programmed to wait for their reaction. Bruce initially started to back step slowly, perhaps thinking that his microchip wouldn’t have been as traceable if he kept his body temperature under control. Kip followed the beagle in this instance, but it was more of a kneejerk reaction than a well-conceived strategy to make a getaway.
“They’re gaining on us,” Kip said, monitoring the approaching drones. “And they look really miffed.”
“Did you say ‘muff’?”
“Certainly not. I said ‘miffed.’ Seriously, if we get out of this alive, you gotta get your hearing checked.”
Bruce perked up his ears and yapped, “If you say so.”
Kip’s concentration reverted to the drones. “Don’t they look sort of mad to you?”
“Of course. This goes against their nature,” Bruce explained. “Beavers don’t usually hunt prey. They wait until it comes to them.”
“Maybe we should run away now.”
“It’s kind of ironic when you think about it, Kip. I mean, it’s likely that you and me having been chasing beavers for our entire lives. Now, they’re coming straight at us, and we can’t handle the pressure.”
“So what’s your point?”
Bruce reversed his position and shifted into a steady trot before he said, “I’ve eaten more beavers than a famished hillbilly from Oregon, but I don’t know if I tame these.”
“Well, we better do something. There’s a whole throng of them coming at us!”
“Did you just say ‘thong’?” Bruce asked.
“No. Why would I say that?”
“You wouldn’t. I just couldn’t resist the pun.”
“I think you better take an aspirin, Bruce, cause you’ve got beaver fever.” Kip kept pace with the beagle now, proving that it was instinctual to run faster with danger nipping at one’s heels. “Random thought here, but why did you call me Paul Revere a few seconds ago?” he asked Bruce.
“I’ll tell you in a minute, man.” Bruce found another gear in his four legs and suddenly bounded forward along the path in full sprint mode. Kip lagged behind, but not far enough to cause the dog to break stride. The beavers’ speed, although essentially unchanged since they assembled on dry ground, closed the gap regardless. Another battalion of drones appeared on the embankment in front of Kip and Bruce. They were now surrounded from two sides along the river.
“These beavers are very crafty,” Kip said, breathlessly.
“Did you ever encounter one that wasn’t?”
“Do you think it was Molek’s idea to use drones to attack us?”
“Maybe. But let’s blame it on bush instead. In this case, doubly so.”
Despite the odds of fleeing unscathed, Bruce still surveyed the landscape for an exodus. The only viable option was to swim across the river to its opposite bank.
“Now I know how General Custer felt at the Battle of Big Horny,” Bruce sighed.
“Uh, I think it was called the Battle of Little Big Horn, not ‘Big Horny’,” Kip corrected.
“You pick the names of your battles, Kip, and I’ll pick the names of mine.”
“Okay. If you want to take that stand, that’s fine by me.”
“It may be my last stand,” Bruce observed. He then eyeballed the river’s currents. He couldn’t tell how deep the water was, but that seemed secondary to their present plight. “We gotta cross it,” he told Kip. “I hope you can float in that pirate getup.”
“I don’t swim very well, but I think I can make it to the other side,” Kip said. “How about you? How are your swimming skills?”
“I dog paddle. Michael Phelps isn’t going to be looking over his shoulder with any sense of dread.”
Kip realized that another problem with getting wet was maintaining the contents of the dossier. Fortunately, he only still needed to secure the cellphone. He left the envelope’s remaining contents on the ground, including the map and money.
“I hope this thing is waterproof,” Kip said, stuffing the phone in his pant’s pocket.
Kip and Bruce squandered no more time. They leapt into the river just as the beavers had honed in on the beagle’s microchip signal. Two drones crossed paths and rammed into a line of trees beside the river’s bank, thereby exploding upon impact. Fragments of birch bark and upturned rocks splashed into the water beside Kip as he swam into the current.
“Holy Mexicana! It’s a taco fest out there,” Bruce said.
“They’re beaver bombs!” Kip screamed. “They’re blowing up!”
“Welcome to the big leagues, rookie. What did you think they were gonna do, sit there and wink at ya? These drones will make ya moan for all the wrong reasons,” Bruce said. The drones, of course, had already proven that they were as formidable on water as they were on land, if not more so. They reentered the river without hesitation. Kip reached the river’s opposite bank first, while Bruce narrowly avoided several explosions from his pursuers.
“Keep moving!” Bruce yowled. “Don’t stop for me!”
KaBoom! KaBoom! Kaboom!
Three more detonations created miniature geysers on the river, which caused a plume of smoky water to rain down upon Bruce and Kip, but all of these assaults missed their mark. The beagle scampered from the river unfazed. At least two-dozen robots still paddled toward him. Rather than run immediately after touching dry land, Bruce shook out his pelt as if he just stepped out of a bath.
“Come on!” Kip hollered at the dog. “You’re gonna get whacked by those things!”
“Shut your pie hole, Kip,” Bruce returned. “If anything is gonna get waxed around here, it’ll be those beavers, not me!”
“I said ‘Whacked’!”
“Sure you did.”
Bruce resumed his pace up the embankment beside Kip. The two had only put about thirty yards between themselves and the drones at this point. Another plunge in the river was no longer conceivable. Kip began to ponder what he deemed as inevitable.
“I don’t want to die like this! What will people think of me?”
“Who knows?” Bruce said, “but your obituary should garnish a few chuckles around the water cooler—‘Man Killed by Exploding Beavers.’”
Kip couldn’t argue with the sick humor in that headline, so he instead searched for yet another avenue to avoid making the morning press. What he found triggered a jubilant cry. Two willow trees were positioned on a low ridge in the river’s bend, and just behind them, Kip saw a boulder marking the bunker’s entrance.
“I found it, Bruce! There’s the secret bunker!” Kip pointed wildly toward the site.
“Speak up,” Bruce said mordantly, “Otherwise the deaf people in Siberia won’t be able to hear you.”
“Sorry. I got carried away.”
“Well, keep moving, or you’re gonna get blown away.” Bruce glanced back at the drones as they ascended the incline toward them. “Don’t put away your shaving utensils too soon, Kippy. We’re not off Beaver Boulevard yet. The way I see it, things are still looking hairier than a 70’s centerfold.”
Chapter 27
Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom! Page 26
