by Michael Bray
In the movies they would be under the van, waiting there to bite your ankle when you least expect it, and then attack in a pack as that ominous soundtrack built into a crashing, screeching crescendo as the victim was finally taken, fake blood spilling out of his mouth as he screamed and gurgled into the camera.
He tried not to think about it, still trying to tell himself that things like this didn’t happen in real life. He forced himself not to run as he moved towards the cab of the van, hoping that if they were watching they would see he wasn’t intimidated. Once he was safely inside, he relaxed a little, knowing he couldn’t put off trying to find out any longer. He took his phone out of his pocket, dropped it, and then snatched it up off the cab floor. He tried calling Richie, intending to ask him what he knew about the supplier he had put him in touch with. Richie’s line rang and remained unanswered. Frustrated, he punched in the number for the supplier directly, unsure if he was more angry or afraid at how things were playing out.
“Yeah?” Gable said as he answered the phone. He sounded drowsy, and Trent was sure he was either high or half asleep.
“It’s Trent Billingham. I need to talk to you about our arrangement.”
“What about it?”
“Not over the phone. Face to face. Be at the warehouse in an hour.” He said, hoping the fear didn’t come through on the phone.
“I don’t have any stock yet, Man. We agreed on next week.”
“I know what we agreed. This isn’t about that. One hour. If you’re not there, consider our arrangement finished.” He hung up and tossed his phone on the passenger seat, then leaned his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. He repeated it in his head over and over, hoping that repetition would make it so, but as much as he tried, the facts said otherwise. He started the van and set off towards the meeting point.
FIVE
The warehouse was by the waterfront and looked infinitely less intimidating during the day. It had been abandoned six months earlier and was covered in graffiti. When Trent arrived, Gable was already there, leaning on the hood of a filthy Ford sedan and smoking a cigarette. Trent pulled up beside him and clambered out of the van, pleased to see that his oafish bodyguard wasn’t present.
“Hey man, if you want more meat I-”
Trent grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him into the side of the van. “Where does it come from? Where do you get it?”
“Hey, back off, man.” Trent didn’t move. He kept Gable pinned there, squirming trying to get free, cigarette dangling from his lip. “I’m just the middleman. I didn’t know anything about it. Fucking let go of me.”
“But you know what it is, don’t you?” Trent said, even to himself his voice sounded a few octaves too high.
“It’s meat, Man. You asked for meat and that’s what you got.”
“What kind of meat? What animal?” Trent was now glaring, teeth gritted as he tried to contain his anger. He realised he must look insane, and stifled the bizarre urge to laugh.
“You wanted cheap. You got cheap. You were happy. We all were, I don’t know what you want from me?”
“Answer me, or I swear to god I’ll do something I regret,” Trent growled, surprised at how aggressive he was being. It wasn’t in his nature to be confrontational, but he supposed fear changed a man.
“Dog, man. It’s dog meat.” Gable blurted.
Trent let him go, Gable staggered away, straightening his jacket. “Just strays, man. None that anyone will miss. You said you wanted cheap meat. You never said what kind. What the fuck did you expect? Fucking Angus beef or somethin’?”
Trent leaned on Gable’s car, feeling as if someone had just punched him in the gut. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
“I don’t know why you’re so pissed, Man. They’re just dogs. Just dumb dogs.”
“Not that dumb,” Trent muttered as he opened the door to his van.
“Hey man, you still want the delivery next week right? I’ve already told my guy you had made a commitment to buy. He’s sourcing the stock right now.”
Trent ignored him and put the van into reverse, turned and raced away from the warehouse, a rooster tail of dust behind him. Gable didn’t matter to him now. He knew why the dogs were watching him, and even that was secondary to the one thought which reverberated over and over in his brain and made the fear he had felt before increase tenfold.
They know where I live.
SIX
He had considered driving the van all the way home but knew that such a random and irrational act would only alarm his family and make them ask questions he was in no position to answer. Even though his instinct screamed otherwise, he dropped the van off at the lockup and set off walking home, resisting the urge to run, nerves on edge at every sound. He saw an old woman walking a poodle and almost screamed, even when this particular canine paid him no attention whatsoever. His nerve endings shredded, he picked up his pace, desperate to get home.
The first dog didn’t start to follow him until a half mile from the house. It was the tan retriever, the very first dog that had started to watch him. To see it sent Trent into a blind panic, and he increased his pace. The dog kept its distance, trotting along behind him. He could feel its eyes boring into his back.
As Trent neared the house, more of them came. Out of side streets, hopping over fences and falling in behind the retriever. The fear was so intense he could taste it, but knew he couldn’t break into a run, not yet at least. He was overweight and unfit and knew they would chase him down with ease if he tried to escape them.
He turned into his street and could see his house three-quarters of the way down. The temptation was too great and he broke into a sprint, breath ragged, arms and legs pumping. This was fear, and it drove him on. The dogs gave chase, a snarling, barking mass of legs and teeth. Trent realised he had misjudged both the distance and his fitness, and knew he wasn’t going to make it. His world was filled with the deafening barking of his pursuers as he pushed way beyond his limits. He risked a glance over his shoulder, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The dogs were less than fifteen feet behind. His feet tangled, and for a split second, he was sure he was going to pitch over. He pinwheeled his arms, knowing that to fall would mean death. Somehow he stayed upright, the frightened voice in his head screaming at him to get inside, to get to his family. He reached his driveway, the snarling animals at his heels. Already exhausted, the slight uphill gradient seemed impossibly steep, his exhausted body and overworked heart refusing to push any further. Somehow he found the will to push on, more out of fear of what would happen to him than anything else. At his back, the dogs clattered into each other, their sheer numbers working against them and buying him the few precious seconds he needed to get to the door. He fumbled at the handle. Once. Twice. They were on him now, closing down on him. He wondered how it would feel as their teeth penetrated his flesh when he was decimated on his own driveway. He could imagine how it would look. He would look like something that had been thrown through a wood chipper, all blood and pulp with no recognisable features.
Holly will see it.
He was spared from his morbid train of thought by the door clicking open, his fumbling finally granting him access. He fell onto the hall carpet on his hands and knees and kicked the door shut just as the first dog slammed into the wood. Trent lay there, panting and drenched in sweat, breath rasping in his throat. Claire appeared in the hallway, staring at him in disbelief.
“What happened to yo-”
“Where’s Holly,” he said between ragged breaths.
“Jesus Trent, what’s wrong with-”
“Holly! Where is she?” He screamed, knowing it was too late now to hide how afraid he was.
“She’s playing out back.”
He lurched to his feet, barging past Claire and through the hallway.
“Trent, what the hell’s going on?”
“Pack a bag for you and Holly. Enough
for a few days.” He said over his shoulder as he went through the kitchen. The back door was open, and he could hear Holly outside. He prayed the dogs wouldn’t be there, hoping that his luck would hold for just a little longer.
His daughter sat in the backyard on the floor playing with Mr Tickles and Lady Pam. From his vantage point, he could see over the fence and back gate to the street outside. The dogs were there, lined up and watching him, noses twitching, lips curled back from teeth.
Trent’s plan had been to be gentle and not scare Holly, the idea gone as soon as he saw the dogs. “Holly, inside now. Come on.” He screamed.
She looked at him, a frown on her tiny face. “What is it, Daddy?”
“I said in, now!” he ran down the steps, hating that he had made her cry. He picked her up and carried her back towards the house, leaving the toys behind.
“Trent, what the hell is wrong with you?” Claire said as she stood and stared at him. He set Holly down and she ran to her mother, sobbing as Claire scooped her up.
“No time to explain. Have you packed a bag?”
“Trent, you’re scaring me.”
“Forget it, there’s no time now. Go get in the car.”
“Trent….”
“Please, just do it.” He screamed as Holly’s cries increased.
“Trent, you’re scaring her.”
“Just get in the fucking car!” He said, slamming his fist on the worktop. Holly screamed and buried her head in her mother’s neck.
Shaken by his outburst, Claire nodded and moved to the side door in the kitchen which opened onto the garage. She put Holly down and opened the back door, then started to strap her into the child seat. “We still need things. Clothes for me and Holly. What’s this about, Trent?” she said, now also crying.
“I’ll explain later. Right now we need to go.”
“You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? Please just talk to me.”
“Not now. Please, hurry up.”
She knew him well enough to know not to argue when he was so on edge. Instead, she did as he asked, getting in the passenger seat as Holly’s cries finally started to subside. Trent got into the driver’s seat and glanced across at Claire. “Close that window.”
“What?”
Please, just close it. Just until we get out of the street.”
She did as he asked, and half turned towards him. He could see that she was afraid of him and hated it. “What is this Trent?”
“You’ll see,” He said as he started the engine then pressed the control for the garage door. It rolled open, much too slowly for his liking. He stared in the mirror, waiting to see if the dogs would try to attack the car. He reversed out into the driveway, fighting the urge to do so at speed because his daughter was in the back. He had expected to see a lawn full of dogs baying for blood, waiting to finish what they started.
Trent frowned. The street was empty.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?” Claire said, confusion replacing fear for the time being.
“Never mind,” he muttered, then pressed the button on the car keys, closing the garage door, then reversed out into the street. As he drove away, an upset wife demanding answers beside him and confused child in the back, he was surprised that rather than make him feel better, the lack of dogs made him feel infinitely worse.
SEVEN
Claire’s mother lived five miles away in a quiet, quaint neighbourhood. The drive over had been tense, Claire asking questions he was unable to answer. His priority had been to get his family safe but knew it was only a temporary measure. The dogs had followed him to work, and they had followed him home. It stood to reason that they would follow him there too if he allowed it. He helped Claire get Holly out of the car, then went to climb back into the driver’s side.
“What are you doing?” Claire asked, sending holly up to the front door where her confused and surprised grandmother stood.
“I need to go back and get some things for you. Some for me too.”
“You said it was dangerous. The way you acted….”
“It’s fine. I’ll explain later. Just go inside, wait for me here and I’ll come back soon, okay?”
“You can’t do this, Trent. You can’t just leave it like this.”
He got into the car and closed the door, staring straight ahead, knowing that if he looked her in the eye, he would break and not go, then be resigned to waiting until the dogs came for him. “Just stay here. I’ll be back.” He muttered.
He reversed the car out of the driveway, hating himself for leaving the way he had, and wishing he could explain that it was all for their own good. He drove away from the house, wondering if even now the dogs were out there in the dark, watching him.
EIGHT
He parked the car at the end of the street, hoping that he could get in and out quietly on foot before the dogs knew he had even returned. He had a gun in a shoebox on top of the wardrobe in the bedroom, and although harming any sort of animal was something he would never do, this situation was different. Despite the fear that seemed to have consumed him over the last few days, there was now a calmness to Trent as he stood looking down the street. It was quiet, most homes with windows ablaze with golden light as families settled down for dinner or to watch television. He walked towards his house, notably the only one still shrouded in darkness. It looked like a tomb of some kind, a place of death born from a situation of his making. As he approached, the dogs fell in behind him, again appearing from gardens and over fences. Trent didn’t run, not at first, but as more joined the following pack the aggression within them increased. They began to growl and snap at his heels, and Trent couldn’t help but break into a run, sprinting towards the house. He fumbled for the door in an almost carbon copy of the earlier incident, grateful the door hadn’t been locked in the haste of their fleeing. He shouldered it open and slammed in closed, screaming in rage and frustration. He wondered if he could go through with it. If he could point the gun at those animals and pull the trigger. He wasn’t sure but had become desperate enough to try, especially with his family’s safety at risk. He looked through the spy hole in the door, the world outside a warped globe showing the garden and driveway. The dogs that had followed him sat on the lawn, staring at the door, blocking his exit.
“If that’s the way you want it, then that’s the way we’ll do it,” he muttered and was about to turn and head upstairs when he heard the low, throaty growl from behind.
Trent froze, and turned slowly around, his back pressed to the door. The dogs were everywhere. Standing on every surface, lining the corridors. Down the hall, he could see the back door still open. In his hurry to flee, he hadn’t closed it when he’d brought Holly inside. Trent couldn’t even guess how many dogs were in the house. He guessed at least fifty, probably more. All of them were staring at him, eyes without any form of emotion. Directly in front of him was the tan retriever.
“I didn’t know,” Trent whispered. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have bought it. I’ll stop now, I promise, do you understand me? It’s over.”
The dogs didn’t attack or move. They simply stared at him and waited.
“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry!” he screamed, blinking tears which rolled down his cheeks. “What else do you want from me? What do you want me to do?”
The dogs waited, all of them now growling, muscles tense and waiting to pounce. Trent was starting to sweat now, his heart a thundering tempo. A pain in his chest, a twinge at first then radiating up into his jaw. He staggered and a few of the dogs moved back. Not the retriever, though. He stood his ground, watching Trent with black eyes.
He fell to the ground. The dogs watching as he lay there, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare and wait for the attack to come.
A heart attack. Ironic, really.
He had been warned about this by his doctor. Change your diet. Get more exercise. Don’t work so hard. He’d intended to follow the instructions, but it was always tomorrow or next
week. Now it was too late. He lay on his back completely immobilised. The retriever padded over to him, its snout inches from Trent’s face, man and beast locked in eye contact. Trent was already fading, the life ebbing away from him. One final rational thought came to mind as he thought of his wife and daughter. I never told them I love them before I left. He blinked once then took one final shallow breath. The dogs waited, staring at the dead man on the floor. The retriever made a sound, a half cough, half snort, then one by one the other dogs began to file out of the house the way they had come, through the kitchen and out of the back door, leaping over the small fence or squeezing through the gaps in the iron gate, returning to the their masters, to homes and families who took them for granted and had no idea of the intelligence they possessed. Only the retriever remained. It lifted a paw and nudged Trent’s chest, watching for a reaction. Trent didn’t move, his dead eyes continuing to stare into oblivion. Satisfied, the retriever slowly turned and walked towards the back door. It turned and took one last look at Trent, then ran through the yard, clearing the fence in a single leap and away into the night.
YOU CAN FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORK BY VISITING HIM ON THE WEB AT: WWW.MICHAELBRAYAUTHOR.COM
