A metal pole sticks up out of the concrete and from an eye-bolt hangs a long lean chain, and a skinny raccoon is attached to the chain via a collar. All around the pole in a circle are little footprints, wet and red.
The coon gapes and pants. Eyes glossy. Blood mats its side.
A dog sits off to the side. Not a pit bull, by the looks of it. All white. Flat black nose—comical, like a Snoopy nose, like it was put there by a blob of paint. The ears are cropped, and they don’t just stick up—the tips of the ears each turn inward, like the points of Batman’s mask.
“Fuckin’ dog,” Bodie says. He turns toward them. Atlanta sees he’s got a lockback knife in his hand. Like her own. The blade greasy with blood. Coon’s blood, she figures.
“Bodie,” Bird says. “This chick was totally lookin’ for you, bro.”
Bodie’s disgruntled face brightens. A mean smile spreads like a puddle of gasoline across his face just before someone lights it on fire. His blue eyes—little sapphires—seem to flash and catch the light. “What’s up?”
She thinks to haul off and hit him right now. Baton out, crack him across that asshole smile. Teeth broken.
Instead, she says, “What’re y’all doin?”
Bodie laughs, “Ohh haha, shit, listen to that accent. That’s cool. I like that Southern thing. Sexy. What am I doing here? Just trying to train this dumb piece of shit dog of our uncle’s to take the fuckin’ bait.”
“But he won’t,” she says.
“Nah. Stupid bee-yotch just sits there staring. I stuck the fuckin’ coon, ran him around the pole. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.” He turns and screams at the dog: “Kill the coon! Kill it!” He suddenly leans in, lunges for the raccoon with the knife, stabs it a couple times in the meat of its haunches. The coon screams, tries to get away, but the chain on the pole only lets it run in a circle back to Bodie. Fresh red dribbles to the concrete.
The dog just watches. Looking a little confused, if Atlanta’s reading that right.
“That dog won’t frickin’ hunt,” Bird says, shaking his head. “Uncle’s gonna be pee-oh’ed, bro. He paid a lot for that one, tell you what.”
“Uncle shouldn’t have bought a dumb cur.”
Atlanta’s hands are twitching. She shoves them in her pockets to hide them. “Doesn’t look like a pit bull.”
“That’s cause he’s not. He’s a rare breed or some shit. Uncle paid a lot for him. Supposed to be good at fighting but to me he ain’t good at doing anything but being a—“ And here again Bodie gets mad, screaming at the top of his lungs: “—a fuckin’ retard.” The dog cocks his head. “Yeah. You heard me. I think you’re a fuckin’ retard, retard.” Bodie turns his full attention to the dog. “Maybe you need a little encouragement. Maybe you’re the one I should be sticking with this knife. Huh? Huh? How’s that for a motivator—“
Flash of the blade. Bodie movies toward the dog.
Bird says, “Dude, bro, wait—“
But Bodie raises the knife.
She can’t let this happen.
Baton in her hand. Thumb on the button, snap of the wrist. Atlanta moves fast. Bird starts to say something else but all he really gets out is a mizzle-witted “Whuh?” Bodie goes at the dog with the knife but before the blade lands, she brings the baton hard against the side of his head, right against his ear, bam.
Bodie staggers sideways. The knife drops, clatters against the spattered concrete. He cups his ears and wheels, a look of betrayal and horror on his face. A line of blood snakes down his jaw-line.
Bird backs up. Waving his hands. “Whoa! She’s frickin’ crazy, bro!”
Bodie growls. Comes at her. She swipes the baton in open air—and he backs away.
“You’re dead,” he says.
“You like hurting animals, don’t you?” she says.
“I’m gonna like hurting you.”
Again he comes at her. Swish, swish. The baton connects with the back of his hand and he recoils, hissing breath.
“Gah! Fuck. You dumb crazy bitch. You have no idea what you’ve done. Bird. Get her.”
But Bird’s eyes flick back and forth. He shifts nervously from foot to foot. His heart’s not in this. “Bro, she’s got a… whatever that is. She’s gonna frickin’ hit me!”
The dog sits back, watches it all.
“I’m here for Sailor,” she says.
“Who the hell is that?” Bodie asks.
“Little white dog. Terrier. No teeth. No claws. Chewed half to death. Died on his owner’s floor.”
“Who cares about a stupid little creampuff piece of shit?”
“I do,” she says, and whips the baton at him again—he barely dodges it.
From the woods comes a sound—a snapping of branches. Louder. Faster. Someone or something is coming.
Atlanta darts her gaze in that direction.
Oh no.
It’s the Cooch. Tressa Kucharski. Barreling forward like that stompy moose except this time it’s a stompy moose with a gun in her hand—where’d she get a gun? Where’d she even come from?
Atlanta turns, steps back, almost trips over a loose restraint pole that she didn’t see—
Tressa has the gun up. She’s making a sound like that raccoon did: half-growl, half-scream.
Everything’s gone suddenly pear-shaped. Reality off its leash.
Twenty feet and closing.
Atlanta staggers, stands, runs.
Fifteen feet.
Bodie laughs. Bird just shrinks.
Ten feet.
The gun fires.
It barely makes a sound.
Just a little snap.
Atlanta feels something hit in the meat of her lower back—feels like a flicking finger. She bolts forward, feeling with her hands where the bullet hit her—she expects a hole, some blood, something, but all she finds is a little nub that wasn’t there before. She runs into the woods like a panicked animal, the nub coming off in her fingers, and as she crashes against a tree her head starts feeling woozy, everything sliding sideways like the earth is tilting, like it’s all loose furniture on a sinking ship
She sees that what she’s got in her hands is a small tranquilizer dart.
The forest collapses inward.
Tressa crashes into her.
* * *
She never really passes out. The world goes greasy, like she’s staring through glasses smeared with thumb-streaks of Vaseline. Her body doesn’t respond to the commands her brain gives it. Limbs sit dead, disconnected from the rest of the human machine. She tries to speak. It only comes out slurred gibberish.
Atlanta can hear them, though their voices sound like they’re talking through a long metal pipe—echoing and hollow, close but distant. Tressa outs her as the one who stopped them from stealing the beagle. Bird panics, says they should get their uncle. Bodie says no, says they can handle it, and besides, he has an idea. His hands find her face, grip her chin and cheeks hard—it should hurt but it doesn’t. Feels like she’s at the dentist. A spreading gooey numbness that does little to quash the fear.
Bodie whispers in Tressa’s ear. Atlanta sees the two of them smash together like blobs inside a lava lamp. Hears the sounds of them making out. Bird just mumbles and moans, the sad sound of a kicked puppy.
Tressa and Bodie grab her under her arms. Together they drag her across the concrete.
The forest is a blotchy mess. She sees someone in the woods watching. It’s Chris. He waves at her—a chipper finger waggle, as if to say, toodle-oo.
More animal noises. Bird again? No. The raccoon. Bodie has the animal—the collar’s off, the chain against the ground. He sticks the knife in its neck and throws it into the woods where Atlanta sees the brown shape run about ten feet then drop. It’s just a lump, but she sees its haunches twitching. Hears it whimpering.
Then—
Fingers around her neck. The jingle of a collar. The rattle of a chain.
They’re hooking me up to the pole.
I’m the coon.
<
br /> I’m the bait.
She finds the slack in her mental rope and pulls it tight—she’s able to get her hand up and swat at Bodie and Tressa but it’s a dumb, numb paw, and the fingers still don’t work. Tressa slaps her once, twice, a third time. It doesn’t sting but it rocks her head back against the metal pole and that hurts, and she thinks the pain is good because it means the tranq is starting to leave her system.
“Get her hands,” Bodie says. Tressa moves behind her. Winds another chain around her hands. The metal is cold and she tries to pull away but her body still isn’t listening.
Bodie gets between her legs. Eyes glide over her. That mean smile. A grim chuckle. He lets his hand fall to her thigh and it feels like a heavy weight and like it’s not there at all and inside she’s a barn full of horses suddenly on fire but outside she can’t do much more than shift her weight and moan against her teeth.
Tressa punches him. “Hey.”
“Whatever,” he says. His hand leaves Atlanta’s thigh.
There, in the woods, Atlanta sees a shape in the trees. A shadow hanging. A body. She sees Chris’ face—purple bruised, tongue thrust out from between dead lips. He winks.
Then—a white blur, a snowy shape, a hot humid blast. Bodie brings the big white dog over to her. Shoves his face into hers. He tells the dog: “Maybe you just need better bait. Since this bitch lost us our last bait dog, seems like she wants to volunteer. Ain’t that right?”
The dog sniffs her. Stares. Lip curls up showing one pink canine fang.
He’s going to tear her apart.
Omar and Orion all over again, except she can’t run, can’t move her hands, can’t protect her face. Dog’s got a set of jaws that could peel back a crumpled car roof. And he’s staring at her like she’s a plate of steak left on the patio.
She knows she’s crying. But she can’t feel her tears.
What she does feel is the knife.
Bodie’s there with the blade and he sticks it in the meat just below her collarbone. She doesn’t know how deep but it feels deep—at first it doesn’t hurt at all like her flesh is just an old car seat and he’s sticking his finger through a rip in the leather. But then the pain shows up—late to the party but there just the same, a bright flash of hot agony with long tentacles that wakes her up full tilt. The pain is a hard wind that blows away some of the clouds of the tranquilizers but she knows it doesn’t matter now.
She’s able to wriggle her hands free from the chains but then they just lay there like dead fish—free from the net but useless just the same.
The dog growls. But still doesn’t move.
“There you go,” Bodie says. “Get that blood stink up in your nose.” She sees him sticking the knife under the dog’s flaring nostrils. “No? Not yet. Fuckin’ retard. Let’s stick her again and see.”
Flash of the knife. Wrist back. Blade pointed forward.
He moves to stick her again.
White flash. Avalanche. The dog growls and moves fast and suddenly Bodie’s screaming, a blood-curdling banshee wail as the dog’s mouth clamps down hard on his hand and wrist. The knife drops. The dog’s head shakes like he’s got a whistle pig in his mouth whose neck he wants to break—with every shake, Bodie screams louder, beating at the dog with one open hand at the same time he’s trying to crab-walk away.
Then Tressa starts to scream. And Bird makes a scared noise and runs off into the woods.
The Cooch grabs the knife. Goes at the big white hell-hound ripping up Bodie’s hand, ready to stab the dog in the neck. Atlanta focuses everything she has just to move her arms and she’s able to kick a hole in the tranquilizer haze and crawl through—her hands lift from the chains and give a clumsy shove, pushing Tressa Kucharski to the ground. Again the knife falls. And this time, Atlanta grabs it.
Knife-blade under the collar. Bites into her neck—she feels a nip of pain, but then she saws back and forth and the collar pops off. When she stands, the dog lets go of Bodie’s hand—and all she sees is a red mess at the end of his arm. He’s still got fingers and a thumb, but everything south of them looks like roadkill.
Tressa’s getting to her feet.
Atlanta doesn’t know what to do.
So she runs. She runs hard and she runs fast, passing Bird in the woods—he’s just sitting there against a tree, crying into his hands like his mother just died.
* * *
The dog is chasing her.
She thinks, He’s coming for me, now, and any second he’ll bite into her Achilles heel and rip the back right off her foot and when she goes down it’ll be face-first. The dog will rip her to ribbons.
Atlanta doesn’t know what to do, so she stops. Wheels on the dog. Better to face the hellhound then give the beast her back.
But when she pivots, the dog skids to a stop. And sits down.
Panting. He even gives his head a little dip—an acquiescence to what, she doesn’t know.
It’s surreal. He’s got a head like a cement block. And his jaw is stained pink and red. Teeth, too. But he looks docile as a sleepy lamb.
“Go away,” she mumbles, mush-mouthed. Lips barely able to form those words.
The dog continues sitting.
“Stop following me.”
Pant, pant, pant, pant.
“Seriously, quit it.”
The beast licks his lips. Blinks. Then burps a little.
“Whatever,” she says, exasperated. No time for this. She still feels groggy, like her parts are disconnected from the whole. All she knows is, her job here is done. Revenge has been achieved. Bodie’s hand looked like a grenade went off in the palm. That’s good enough for her.
She turns again and runs. Time to find Guy and get the hell out of here.
* * *
Into the crowd. Another fight must be on—everybody is fixated once more on the ring, and she hears snarls and whimpers from within the octagon. She searches the throng, body by body, face by face, looking for Guy but not seeing him. Someone bumps into her leg—
And it’s not a someone but a something. The dog. The white hellhound with the cement block for a head. The dog looks up at her. The face of innocence, except for that bloody muzzle. She doesn’t even bother saying anything; he’ll figure it out sooner or later that she doesn’t want him around.
Movement. From toward the barn. Bodie—his face twisted by pain, his hand under the crook of his opposing arm. Next to him, Tressa. The tranquilizer pistol in her hand. Both of their eyes searching the crowd.
Shit! Where’s Guy?
She moves away from the barn, around the far side of the ring, the dog still plodding after her—his snow-white coat sure to give her up. “Shoo,” she says. “Shoo.”
Everything feels like a nightmare. She’s still moving slow from the drugs. Can’t find Guy. Her enemies are here and looking for her. Pursued—dogged, literally dogged—by a red-mouthed hell-creature.
It’s then the nightmare really opens its mouth and shows its teeth.
Ahead, toward the parking lot, she sees John Elvis Baumgartner talking to somebody.
It’s the cop. It’s the goddamn dark-eyed unibrowed cop. Plainclothes, no uniform. He’s easy to spot—he’s like a crow on a power-line, a shadow on an X-Ray, a blotch of skin cancer right there on the back of your hand.
Why is he here?
A voice answers: Maybe he’s here for you.
Gotta get out of here.
Gotta get out of here.
She doesn’t know where to go. Danger in each direction. She feels caught, a rat in a trap. The dog nuzzles her wrist and she almost thinks to swat the animal away but she’s too afraid to touch him. It’s then a voice reaches her ears and that voice is like a song sung by all the angels in one big chorus:
“Atlanta?” Guy asks. He’s shoving a baggy—now half-empty of its pharmaceutical booty—back into a back pocket. “Hey, what’s up with the—“
But she doesn’t have time. “We gotta go,” she hisses.
“Aw, shit.
What did you do?”
“No time. Talk later.”
She starts dragging him toward the parking lot. He protests—“I’ve only sold half of what’s here”—but she shushes him and gestures toward the cop.
Bait Dog: An Atlanta Burns Novel Page 21
