Tortures of the Damned

by Hunter Shea

  Everyone silently waited for her. She joined Daniel’s side at the cart, and they pushed their way to one of the main streets in the city, McLean Avenue.

  57

  Alexiana first realized how famous McLean Avenue was, or infamous, depending on your point of view, when she went on a business trip to London seven years ago. After a day of training the new hires in her company’s latest European office, they all headed out for drinks at the Rose and Crown Pub, a local dive that was the perfect spot for what had turned out to be a rowdy bunch.

  They loved her American accent, and she went through countless rounds of “say ‘ball’” or “say ‘forget about it’ like a gangster!” One of the pub’s regulars heard her New York–ese, turned on his stool, and asked, “You wouldn’t by any chance live by McLean Avenue, would ya, miss?”

  “I actually live just two blocks away,” she’d replied, wondering where the conversation was heading.

  He gave her a toothy grin and said, “Well, what are you doing here, then? You have all you need back home!”

  If all she needed was a vast selection of bars and restaurants, he was absolutely right. McLean Avenue was a two-mile stretch packed with them, especially the end by the Bronx border that was home to more Irish people straight from Ireland than there were in some of its counties.

  Along with the bars were hundreds of shops, several parks, schools, apartment buildings, repair stations, and supermarkets. The streets were always filled with people and cars, at least until closing time at the bars.

  They stopped underneath the dark stoplight strung above the intersection of Kimball and McLean Avenues. There wasn’t a living soul to be seen in either direction. Alexiana shivered.

  “I thought of all the places, there’d at least be someone here,” she said.

  Buck pushed the cart with Dakota around the open door of an abandoned Honda Civic. “I did, too,” he said. “Things this bad, I’d hoped the bars would show some signs of life.”

  Daniel pushed his cart next to them. “Maybe we’ll find some people in the bars. We can give a quick check inside each as we go by.”

  Gabby pedaled too far ahead of them, weaving around cars and delivery trucks left in the middle of the street. Daniel shouted at her to stop.

  “The military has to have someone in charge somewhere,” Alexiana said to Buck. “If I were in charge, I’d try to set up bases in the main thoroughfares. That could be Central Avenue, Saw Mill River Road, Miles Square Road, or here.”

  “There’re a couple on the south side they could use, too, like South Broadway,” he said.

  “A lot of people on South Broadway,” Dakota said, startling them. They thought she’d fallen asleep again. “I went there all the time to get White Castle. God, I’d kill for one of those burgers right about now.”

  Alexiana’s stomach grumbled in agreement. She hadn’t had a murder burger in over a decade, but nothing sounded better at the moment.

  A dog yelped somewhere to their left, behind a three-story apartment building. Everyone stopped, including the kids on their bikes.

  “It’s some sign of life that isn’t from a sewer,” Alexiana said. She looked at the windows of the apartment building. Normally, air conditioners would be running or older residents would be sitting by open windows, watching everyone move about. Some were open, but the only things moving within were curtains flowing with the slight breeze.

  The echo of other dogs barking chimed in.

  “Sounds like when we go to the pet store,” Miguel said. He had one foot on the street, the other on the bike’s pedal.

  The barking turned to angry snarls, the volume rising quickly, becoming more violent.

  “They must be right back there,” Rey said, pointing with the rifle to the alley between the apartment building and the adjacent empty lot.

  “They’re coming closer,” Elizabeth said. She stepped between Miguel and Gabriela, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “We should get going,” Alexiana said. The sounds of the fighting pack of dogs chilled her blood.

  Buck resumed pushing the cart. “You’re right. Come on, everyone, let’s move.”

  They took four steps before the wild dogs came bursting from the alleyway, howling like creatures birthed in Hell.

  58

  Rey was the first to react. His vision had grown fuzzy the more he struggled to stay awake, but it was impossible to miss the angry pack of dogs. There had to be at least a dozen of varying breeds. Almost all wore collars, and some were trailing leashes. Even the smallest of the bunch, a black and gray poodle, looked like it could rip their throats out.

  These weren’t stray dogs looking for the scraps left behind. These were once somebody’s pets, driven to a level of savagery he was sure their owners would never have dreamed possible.

  A Doberman, its fur stained with blood, especially around its mouth, led the pack. Its eyes were locked on Rey’s sister. Just as his father jerked the cart forward, Rey pulled the rifle’s trigger. The shot went wide right, plowing into the chest of a three-legged pit bull. The dog yelped and flopped backward, the rest of the pack trampling it.

  He fired again, this time with the cart in motion, catching the Doberman on the side of the head. It skidded to a stop, its left eye and ear missing, leaving a depression of wet gore.

  “Go! Go! Go!” his mother shouted, pushing Miguel and Gabby forward. Everyone was in a panic. They were so busy running, they failed to realize there was no way they could outpace the dogs.

  Alexiana shot into the center of the pack with her Beretta. One of the dogs let out a pained whine. She fired off four more shots, spraying bullets across the front-runners. One dog, no bigger than a Chihuahua but hairier, darted at her leg, taking a quick bite before scampering away.

  The shopping cart vibrated so hard, Rey’s teeth clacked together, sending bolts of pain into the top of his head. He angled his body as best as he could in the cart, hoping to get some clear shots behind them.

  “Watch where you point that!” his father shouted.

  Rey leaned over the side of the cart, saw some kind of mutt that could pass for a pony, and fired. The round took out the dog’s front legs, but it still struggled to remain upright, thick saliva spraying from its black-gummed mouth.

  It seemed that more dogs, hearing the commotion, had joined the fray. For every dog they took down, two more took their place.

  Maybe Miguel and Gabby could get away, if they pedaled their bikes faster than they ever had before. But Rey and Dakota and the carts were slowing the rest down. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be swarmed under by the pack.

  Rey pulled the trigger but nothing happened. Dammit!

  Buck shouted, “Everyone, get into Rourke’s!”

  Rourke’s Pub was just up ahead and to their right. The front door was open, the chalkboard that listed the day’s specials lying on the ground.

  Rey’s stomach dropped when he saw the big step to get into the bar. There was no way the cart could get over the step. And they didn’t have time to extricate him and Dakota without leaving their backs open to the dogs.

  Miguel and Gabby jumped off their moving bikes. Miguel ran inside the bar, but Gabby had frozen still.

  “Gabriela, get inside!” Rey screamed. “Go with Mom, now!”

  Her eyes were locked on the throng of mad dogs. Her lower lip trembled, but she wouldn’t move.

  Max leapt in front of her, knocking her to the ground in an attempt to protect her from the pack. “You heard Rey, go!” he said.

  Gabby stumbled on hands and knees, slipping into the dark pub.

  Rey’s father, not seeing the extra step into Rourke’s, slammed the cart, toppling it forward and ejecting Rey onto the floor. Now the cart was blocking the entrance.

  Judging by the escalating squeals from the dogs, they had gotten their prey.

  59

  When Max saw Rey’s cart take that nasty spill, his father’s chest slamming into the handle, knocking th
e wind out of him, he knew they were done for. Buck couldn’t get Dakota out and maneuver her past the wreckage, along with Alexiana.

  There was only one thing to do.

  He stopped, turned, and faced the oncoming pack.

  Flexing his hands around the handle of the bat, he cocked it over his shoulders, waving the bat head in the air. Last summer in Babe Ruth League, he’d knocked the cover off the ball, leading the team in home runs. It was a huge leap from the previous year when he was a reed-thin singles hitter who did whatever he could to get on base so he could steal second and third.

  Holy shit, there were a lot of dogs. They looked more like crazed hyenas. One of them, a pale husky, even looked familiar. Was that Mr. Dobson’s dog? Max saw him walking it around McLean Avenue all the time. Had the dog turned on Mr. Dobson while they were huddled in the shelter? What had happened to all of the people, and why were the animals acting crazy?

  There was no doubt that they wanted to get every tooth and claw they could in him and everyone else.

  Max hissed, “David Wright turns on a fastball!”

  He swung the bat even with his waist in a savage arc that brought the bat head in contact with five dogs. They went down fast, one of them being carried by its momentum and smashing into his shin.

  Like a pendulum, he brought the bat back around, battering the next wave of dogs. Back and forth he went, hitting everything within range. The bat thrummed in his hand, jostling the marrow in his bones. Still dogs made it past his bat, taking their pound of flesh where they could. With adrenaline firing through his system, he barely felt the nips at his flesh.

  Shots rang out beside him. He didn’t dare take his eyes from the attacking dogs. He felt the bodies of the ones that had fallen around him twitch and struggle to regain their footing.

  “Max!” his father shouted.

  He pulled the bat back, ready to bring it down on the head of a sheepdog whose fur was caked with mud, when something pulled him back. Losing his balance, he toppled over the prone body of one of the maimed dogs. When he looked up, he saw his father standing where he’d been, pumping rounds into the dogs with the shotgun.

  “Get inside, now!” he yelled.

  The pack was thinning. Alexiana and Buck were emptying their guns into them now, too. Dakota was stuck in the cart, eyes wide and terrified. Max chucked the bat into the bar and ran to her cart.

  An Irish setter leaped to wrap its mouth around his arm. Max ripped the bowie knife from his pocket, slamming it into the dog’s shoulder. The crazed beast ran off, the knife’s handle jiggling with its stride.

  There goes my knife, Max thought, cursing the dog.

  He lifted Dakota out roughly, momentarily holding on to a breast before shifting her weight. A bloodred Pomeranian soared over the leaking body of a boxer. It sank its teeth into Dakota’s side. She squealed with agony, her eyes rolling in her head like dice. “Get the fuck off her!” Max shouted, ramming his knee into the dog and dislodging it from Dakota. Blood dripped onto his hand, making it difficult to carry her.

  Another dog bashed into his back. Max staggered, nearly dropping Dakota. A shot rang out and the dog flipped over itself. Buck howled, “Get your asses inside!” turning the gun back on the advancing dogs.

  Carrying Dakota into the bar, he handed her to his mother. Miguel and Gabby were huddled in a booth, eyes glued to the front door.

  “You got her?” he said.

  His mother’s head bobbed up and down frantically. He headed back for the door.

  “Max, stay here!” she shouted.

  He scooped up the bat and jumped over the cart blocking the exit.

  60

  If Daniel hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. His fourteen-year-old son had taken on a multitude of frenzied dogs and saved his family and friends—all with just a baseball bat!

  Alexiana fired her last bullet into a German shepherd and let out a deep, guttural cry. Droplets of blood and gore dotted her clothes and face. She and Buck had hit a lot of the dogs at point-blank range and were, unhappily, wearing the results.

  Max bumped into Daniel when he reemerged from the bar, bat held high.

  The few dogs that were left turned tail and ran back behind the apartment building. Spread out before them in a grotesque semicircle were the broken and bleeding bodies of almost two dozen dogs. The smell of blood and perforated organs was enough to make him gag.

  Daniel wanted to say something to his son, to pull him into a hug, happy he was unhurt and proud as hell for what he’d done. He could see that Max was still humming, his chest heaving, eyes fixed on the dogs’ escape route. Instead, he clapped him on the back.

  “Thanks, Max.”

  The boy muttered something in return, a barely audible grunt.

  “Buck, Alexiana, you okay?” Daniel said.

  Buck tipped his hat with his pistol.

  “Just a few bites, nothing serious. Looks like we all got a little jacked up. Holy shit, Dan, what the hell was that all about? I don’t think they attacked us because they’re hungry.”

  “Let’s get inside, then we can talk,” Alexiana said.

  They picked up Rey’s cart and everything that had been in it, rolling it into the safety of the bar. They did the same with Dakota’s cart and shut the heavy oak door. Daniel grabbed a few chairs and jammed one under the knob, piling the rest between the door and the wall of the foyer.

  Seeing Rey, Elizabeth, Miguel, Gabriela, and Dakota shaken but safe gave him a reason to finally exhale.

  With only a couple of windows facing a dark alley and wood paneling covering every inch of the bar, Rourke’s was almost as gloomy as the bomb shelter. A large, U-shaped bar presided in the center of the tavern; it was flanked by dining booths, with an elevated common room reserved for bar overflow, dancing, and local bands.

  “I figured as much,” Buck said, leaning over the bar. “This place has been wiped out.”

  Daniel looked at the empty liquor display racks. The glasses still hung from metal racks over the bar, but there was nothing to pour into them. He wasn’t a big drinker by any means, but knowing he was locked in Rourke’s with no access to a drink made him desperate for two fingers of Scotch or even a beer. Anything to help settle his nerves.

  “Was anyone bitten?” Elizabeth asked. “I can’t tell with all the blood on your clothes.”

  Daniel, Max, Buck, and Alexiana nodded. “Just a few small bites here and there,” Daniel said.

  “Now we really have to worry about rabies,” Max said.

  “I’ll look you all over and dress your wounds,” Elizabeth said, her face pinched.

  Rey and Dakota were spread out on the padded benches of adjoining booths. “Too bad we didn’t film my entrance. I could have been a YouTube sensation,” Rey said. Dakota gave a quick laugh before cradling her head in her hands.

  “You shouldn’t joke about that,” Elizabeth said.

  Rey used his elbows to prop himself up a little higher. “Why not? Everyone around us has disappeared and what’s left is mad crazy. First rats, now dogs.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but he was overcome by a phlegmy coughing fit.

  Seeing Rey’s and Dakota’s waxen faces, circles under their eyes so dark it looked as if they hadn’t slept in a year, Daniel knew they needed to find a way to keep going, rats and dogs be damned. There had to be medical help somewhere in a city of millions. There was no way they could just be abandoned.

  Buck tossed a dirty rag to him. “You got a little blood and stuff on your neck.”

  Alexiana was pouring the dregs of a glass of water onto another rag to wipe her face and hands clean.

  A couple of dogs howled outside. Were they mourning the loss of their brothers and sisters, or calling for more to ferret out the humans trapped in the bar?

  Daniel said, “I think we need to stay here for tonight, rest up. We’ve had enough excitement for today. First light in the morning, we need to try again. We’ll have to be more methodic
al with how we proceed.”

  Order. Forethought. Consistency. Daniel lived and worked by excelling at each. This world they’d emerged into might be chaos, but there had to be a way to find order within it.

  “I’m with you,” Buck said. “You and I should check around, make sure the place is secure.” He fished a box of fresh shells from a canvas bag he’d tucked under Dakota’s cart. “When there’s a lull, reload.”

  Daniel was feeding his shotgun when Max called out from somewhere in the dark recesses of the bar.

  “Dad, Buck, come here!”

  As Daniel ran, following the sound of his son’s voice, his veins turned into twisting icicles when he heard Max say, “Don’t move or I swear I’ll hit you.”

  61

  Buck helped pull the man to his feet. Max stepped aside, ready with his bat should the guy make a move.

  He was in sorry shape. His clothes were tattered and filthy. He smelled like it had been a week since his last shower. He looked to be in his early thirties. His crew-cut hair was littered with bits of dust and dirt, and the flesh around his eyes was speckled with tiny red dots, what looked like burst capillaries.

  Wobbling on his feet, they all took a step back when he started coughing. Daniel pulled a bar stool over and slid it beneath him so he could sit.

  “You need a drink or something?” Daniel asked.

  “Why the hell do you think I came here?” he shot back, wiping the drool from his mouth with his forearm. “Found some beers and half a bottle of Turkey a couple of days ago. I fell asleep after I finished ’em, and when I woke up, I was too fucking weak to try Mulligan’s across the street. You want to put that bat down, kid?” He reached into his back pocket, extracting his wallet. He opened it to show them his badge and Bronx P.D. ID card. “Assaulting an officer can get you some serious jail time.”