The Dog Hunters: An Apocalyptic Ice Age Story

by John Silveira

  “It was an ambush,” Wilson’s grandfather whispered. “The pack probably has an established run through this area.”

  “Those are our dogs. We’ve been following them all day,” Wilson said and he looked down the barrel of the scope and put the crosshairs on the man skinning the dog.

  His grandfather cupped his hand over the front of the scope.

  “What are you doing?” Wilson whispered.

  “There may be others in hiding,” his grandfather whispered back, “and we’ll be in a fix. Let’s see what happens.”

  Wilson put the safety back on and laid his head back on the snow in frustration. His grandfather thought of how his son, Wilson’s father, had gotten killed because of rash judgment. Sometimes, Wilson could be like that.

  They lay there watching as the second dog was brought to where the bitch’s body now lay, and he too was skinned out. Then five of the men knelt and chanted as the sixth man started to butcher the carcasses. To Wilson’s grandfather the ceremony was one more sign of the changing times, like Wilson and his talisman. It marked mankind’s rapid retreat from science and technology, and its descent back into superstition. Wilson reached to his pocket and took out the chip. The old man slapped his hand in frustration. He’d had enough.

  Wilson put the chip back in his pocket and the two of them watched.

  When the dogs were carved up, the pieces were stuffed into a sack and one of the men hefted the sack up onto his shoulder. Then, from nowhere, two others emerged from holes in the snow. Lookouts, just as the old man had warned. The group left, going west. Wilson and his grandfather waited until they were out of sight before they stood up.

  “Let’s head back to the village,” the old man said. His shoulders were sagging and his voice was weary.

  Wilson slowly skied to where the dogs had been butchered. His grandfather followed.

  “There’s a litter, somewhere, and the puppies will starve now,” Wilson said and stared at the patch of snow discolored by the dogs’ blood.

  The old man didn’t speak.

  Wilson closed his eyes and shook his head. “You were right; I should have taken one when I could.”

  “Let’s go,” the old man said and he and Wilson turned and skied east, their backs to a dying sun that hung low in the western sky.

  “We’re not going to make it home before sunset,” his grandfather said. “We should be thinking about making camp.”

  “I’m sorry about everything,” Wilson said.

  His grandfather said nothing.

  An hour later they pitched their tent near what had once been the Stoneham‑Wakefield line. Wilson started a fire in the camp stove and split the last of their food into two portions. One he put on the fire to cook, the other he returned to his pack. Even this close to home it was bad practice to deplete your food supply. Blizzards came up unexpectedly, even at this time of year, and they could keep you out for days.

  They watched their meal cook, then ate it without talking as the night swept over them.

  “What do you miss most about the Golden Age?” Wilson asked.

  “Coffee,” his grandfather said without hesitation.

  “What about it?” Wilson asked.

  “The taste, the caffeine buzz, the ceremony of making it. Unlike others, I made it one cup at a time, from fresh beans I ground up in a coffee grinder, and I used a coffee cone—a funnel-like thing—that I placed on the cup.”

  “What exactly was it?”

  “It was a hot drink. Which reminds me,” he said as he reached into his pocket and took out the plastic bag.

  “Okay, what is that stuff?” Wilson asked. “Is that like coffee?”

  His grandfather smiled and said, “No.” He took the pipe out of the bag, then some of the grey-green matter inside. He put some into the bowl of the pipe. He started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Wilson asked.

  The old man smiled again. He took a burning piece of tinder from the edge of the fire. Then he brought the pipe to his mouth and lit up. He took a long drag and held his breath.

  Wilson watched him. He was both puzzled and concerned.

  The old man let it out and started coughing.

  Wilson was on his feet in a flash and at his grandfather’s side. “Are you all right?”

  Using the still burning tinder, the old man took another hit and nodded. He held it in a few seconds then started coughing, again. He proffered the pipe and the now smoldering piece of wood to Wilson.

  Wilson took them and sat down. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “What I just did. Get a flame on the piece of wood, light the stuff in the pipe with it, inhale the smoke and hold it, then let it out. Don’t worry about choking. They use to say, ‘If you don’t cough, you won’t get off.’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  The old man didn’t answer. Wilson looked at the pipe and wood he held in his hands.

  “Are you sure this is all right?”

  He could see the old man smile in the glow from the fire.

  Wilson trusted his grandfather. He’d follow him into hell. But this was different. It was strange. The old man watched him.

  “Okay, tell me what to do again,” Wilson said.

  “Light up and inhale.”

  “Is this the tobacco stuff I’ve heard about?” Wilson asked.

  His grandfather shook his head no.

  “You really want me to do this, don’t you,” Wilson said.

  The old man nodded yes.

  “I’ll try it.”

  He leaned forward to get a flame going on the tinder, lit the pipe, inhaled, and choked.

  “This is disgusting.”

  “Do it again.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Wilson lit the wood again then lit the bowl. This time he knew what to expect, but still, he choked.

  “What’s it supposed to do?”

  “You’ll see. But don’t Bogie the pipe. Pass it back.”

  “What do you mean ‘Bogie’ it?”

  “It’s a saying from the old days. There was an actor named Humphrey Bogart who always had a cigarette in his hand. His nickname was ‘Bogie.’”

  “So, when I Bogie’d the pipe…” Wilson said.

  “Yeah, you were making like Bogart and not passing it.”

  “Well, there’s a useless piece of information I’m going to remember,” Wilson said and his grandfather smiled.

  Wilson handed it back and the old man checked the bowl.

  “I’ll load it once more.”

  “Load it?”

  The old man nodded and chuckled. He was speaking a language he hadn’t spoken in decades.

  He refilled the bowl and held the pipe out to his grandson. “You go first.”

  Wilson took it and started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” his grandfather asked.

  “I don’t know. I just started laughing.”

  “Yeah, it’ll do that to you.”

  Again, before he could light it again, he started laughing.

  “I feel funny.”

  “I know,” the old man said.

  “What did you call this stuff?”

  “Marijuana, weed, locoweed, Mary Jane, pot, reefer, dope, cannabis, herb, skunk, kief, the green goddess, hemp... I’m surprised I’m remembering this many of them. Then there were specific types like Acapulco gold, Mexican green, Maui wowwie, lotus weed… ” He started laughing himself. “It’s got lots of names and there are lots of kinds.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “I never thought I’d see it, again. I’d all but forgotten it existed.”

  Wilson lit up, took another hit, and coughed right away. He passed the pipe and tinder back. “Wow,” was all he could muster.

  His grandfather lit up, again.

  “Is that it?” Wilson asked. “Once we smoke it up, is it all gone?”

  He held the bag up, again, so he co
uld peer into it. “We’re in luck. There are some seeds at the bottom, the old man said. “You didn’t usually get seeds with the good stuff. And let me tell you, this stuff is good.” Still looking in at the seeds he said, “Some of them may sprout. We’re gonna plant ‘em and see what we get.”

  “In the herb garden?” Wilson asked and started laughing, again, for no reason.

  “Yeah, the herb garden,” his grandfather said and he laughed, too.

  “Didn’t you say herb was one of the names for it?”

  “Herb, yeah.”

  Wilson laughed, again.

  “You said you could go to jail for using this stuff in the old days?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? It’s great.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Wilson lay back on the snow. “Boy, am I hungry now.”

  “That’s another thing it does. It makes you hungry,” the old man said.

  Wilson laughed, again. “What kind of an idiot needs to be hungrier?” he asked. “We’re hungry all the time.” He laughed harder.

  “It’s called ‘the munchies.’”

  “The munchies?”

  “Yeah. You smoke this stuff and you want to eat, even if you’ve already eaten.”

  “Other than making me want to eat…” Wilson began, and his voice trailed off. “I can’t remember what I was going to say.”

  The old man laughed again.

  “Does it make you forget?” Wilson asked.

  “It can.”

  “Be a shame to run out of this stuff,” Wilson said. “You really think the seeds will sprout?”

  “What with them having been kept dry and cold all these years…” He thought about it a few seconds. “Yeah, I think we’ve got a good chance of getting some plants to grow.”

  “Good,” Wilson said, “because I’m going to want more of this.” He stared up at the stars. Because of his grandfather, he knew the ones that had names. That one was Arcturus, and it was about four hours from setting. Almost directly overhead was Vega and trailing behind it was Deneb.

  “I just want you to know that I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “I should have shot a dog when I had the chance.”

  His grandfather didn’t reply. He seemed pensive and reflective to Wilson. And when the old man finished his meal, he got up, and Wilson watched him cross the snow and spread his sleeping bag under the open night sky. An easterly breeze had come up from the distant ocean and took the chill off the night.

  “Aren’t you going to get in the tent?” Wilson asked.

  His grandfather lifted his face to feel the breeze and said, “If it gets colder I will.” He lay down on top of his bag and looked at the sky, too. Dim stars seemed to come alive and get brighter as the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared from the stratosphere. Pegasus was rising in the east.

  Wilson spread his own sleeping bag on the snow and slid into it.

  “The sky wasn’t this clear when I was a boy,” the old man said. “There was air pollution from automobiles and industry, and a glow from the light of the cities at night that astronomers called light pollution. There were lights along the streets of every city and town and they burned all night long. There were shopping malls and houses and office buildings. When you approached a city, any city in America, the night sky above it glowed like the smoke over a campfire. The glow hid the stars and it got so that we became isolated from the universe because we couldn’t see it. And even if you lived out in the country, away from the cities, you probably spent your nights inside, watching the television, or you were on Facebook on your computer and never went outside to see the stars.”

  “What was Facebook?” Wilson asked.

  The old man laughed. “You’re better off not knowing.”

  But Wilson had already decided it must have been important.

  After a brief silence, the old man said, “It took the ice age for me to realize how beautiful the universe is and how much there is to see. And to think,” he added, “it was my generation that we thought was destined to go there. There was talk about putting a man on Mars, in my lifetime, and after that, who knew where else?”

  Wilson looked at the stars and forgot about the dogs.

  “You know, Wilson, I’ve been thinking about today, about the Golden Age and how it came about, about the way we live in the village, now, and how you decided to try to find the dogs’ den...

  “Oh!” Wilson exclaimed and raised his arm to track the brief brilliance of a shooting star.

  “It’s the time of year for the Perseid meteor shower,” the old man said to Wilson. “It’s debris from the Swift‑Tuttle comet.”

  Always educating, Wilson thought. His grandfather talked about that comet a year ago, too. But to him comets and shooting stars were still magic. His mind returned to the dogs. “I’m sorry about the dogs. I’ll never let a chance like that go by again.”

  “Listen to me, Wilson, I’ve been thinking, too. You did the right thing. You were doing what I thought the human race had forgotten how to do, you were trying something new to improve the way you live.”

  Wilson was surprised. “Is this a change in attitude?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m a witness to a world you’re never going to know. I’m one of the last survivors. Even Laura’s mother was just a child then. She barely remembers them and absolutely doesn’t understand them. But I remember. I said, this morning, we had art, science, literature... But I didn’t tell you how we got them. We got them because some men and women were different from the rest of us. Not many. One here, another there. They invented the machines, gave birth to the sciences, created the art and literature, and the rest of humanity was just dragged along for the ride. But we all shared in the credit for what these people gave us, for the ways they improved our lives, and called ourselves powerful because a few men and women led the way and created what we called civilization.

  “But we never realized how fragile it was. And now…” He sighed, “…it’s gone. All of it. And humanity is living hand‑to‑mouth like it did ten thousand years ago. It’ll take special people to pull us out of it again. It’ll be one here and another there, again. And this afternoon I was the unwitting witness to one of those things that drags humanity along.”

  “Huh?” Wilson asked.

  “You see a use for dogs. Instead of settling for living hand‑to‑mouth, you tried to catch one…use it as a tool. It’s people like you who will make the new progress, and you’re going to pull the rest of humanity along behind you. If we don’t have people like you, I’m afraid humanity isn’t going to survive; we’re going to go extinct. Tonight I realize just how proud of you I am.”

  Wilson didn’t respond.

  “Are you still awake?” his grandfather asked.

  “I was just thinking about that tool we left, the one I dropped back down the hole…”

  “The bumper jack?”

  “Yeah. Why did you want it?”

  “It’s good for lifting heavy objects. Clumsy, but effective. For them to have placed it near the bottom of the shaft, someone among the miners must have recognized it for what it is.”

  When Wilson didn’t say anything, the old man added, “It works on the principle of a lever. Levers can multiply force. Archimedes said, ‘Give me a lever long enough, and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.”

  “Who’s Archimedes?”

  “An ancient Greek mathematician. He may have been one of the five or so greatest mathematicians to live.”

  Wilson tried to picture how a man could move the world with a stick. More to learn before his grandfather was gone and took all this with him.

  They lay quietly for a few minutes and another shooting star came out of Cassiopeia and crossed the sky. Wilson snored softly.

  The old man smiled to himself when he realized he’d fallen asleep. “I love you Wilson. We need people like you. We need you.”

  Then he got into his own sleeping bag and hoped for more shooting st
ars. He wanted the universe to put on a show. He was not disappointed.

  Before dawn Wilson’s grandfather gently shook him awake.

  “Let’s get moving. We don’t want someone to catch us sleeping in the open.”

  Meteors still crossed the sky as Orion rose in the east, barely ahead of the sun, and the night sky stubbornly gave way to the day. They regarded the last of their dried fish and dulse and decided not to have breakfast, mindful of the possibility that they could still find themselves unexpectedly stranded by a blizzard.

  When the sun broke over the Atlantic snow barrens, they had already made two miles. Travel into a rising or setting sun was dangerous. It was the perfect vantage from which to stage an ambush. The old man retold the stories he had read as a boy about the knights of the air who fought from airplanes, and the warning of the “Hun in the sun,” like a morality play as they skied, and they traveled alertly scanning the horizon for signs of danger like the fighter pilots did in the Golden Age.

  “I hate going back empty handed,” Wilson said.

  “We have the tools and the rope, the lighter fluid, and the ‘good stuff,’” he said of the pot. “We even have gifts for your mother, sister, and Laura.”

  “We should have meat.”

  “There are no guarantees when foraging. The people in the village know that.”

  “If I had taken the shot, I’d have had at least one dog and probably two.”

  “Stop punishing yourself.”

  “Laura would be more impressed if I came back with meat than me coming home with trinkets and a shirt.”

  The old man laughed. “Is that what this is about? Well, you’re wrong. She’s going to remember the shirt and jewelry forever, but she probably won’t remember you didn’t bring home any meat.”

  Like in a dream, a dog barked and both men stopped. Up ahead of them, from somewhere in of the glare of the morning sun, it barked again.

  Wilson brought the rifle up in one smooth motion and eased the safety forward, but his grandfather put his hand over the front of the rifle’s scope and squinted into the sun.