Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation

by Richard Cosme

  Guns, he finally figured, were more trouble than they were worth. He never carried one again in his years alone. Probably saved his life.

  • • • •

  The lessons continued. Month after month. Year after year. He learned to deal with the predators—human and animal—trap and scavenge and forage for food. He lived for nearly six years that way, growing bigger and stronger and more suspicious and increasingly wary of every man, woman and animal with each new sunset.

  It wasn’t until March 2054 that he met an opponent he couldn’t handle by stealth—a dog pack that wanted the same thing he did. And it wasn’t until that moment that he met human beings who were good, and decent, and true. Trouble was, Stevie didn’t know how to recognize these traits.

  And when he told me and Sarah, “If you think I’m gonna share this deer with you, you’re fuckin’ nuts,” he truly believed we were the enemy.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MARCH THROUGH SEPTEMBER 2054

  After we saved Stevie from the dog pack, an action he seemed to genuinely resent, Sarah and I were essentially stuck with him. If we left him to fend for himself, the remaining dogs would have finished him off. Even if we had destroyed the rest of the pack, he still would have been helpless, staggering through the cold and snow with no winter gear, a hole in his boot, and a rotted tree limb as his weapon.

  So we brought him home with us. More accurately, he followed the food because we told him he couldn’t eat it raw and the only place it was going to get cooked was back in the safety of the compound. He followed us at a distance of twenty meters or so, close enough so we could hear the curses he threw our way. Sarah is a really good curser, but the kid put her to shame.

  “Don’t worry, Hon,” Sarah said, her heart filled with the warm glow of good deeds. “Once he gets some food in him and figures out we mean him no harm, he’ll come around.”

  She didn’t make too many bad calls. But on this one she was as wrong as wrong can be. I didn’t bring her error in judgment up into the light of day too many times during that first six months. His entrance into our growing family did not go nearly as well as Weasel’s, who had been with us for over a year. The way I calculate it, Stevie’s first night lasted six months. Hell, we didn’t even learn his name for five weeks. Stevie B., he finally said. If it’s any of your fucking business, he mumbled as an aside.

  The second we were back safely in the house, Weasel looked at Stevie, looked at us, and pulled his Glock—pointing it at the boy’s face.

  Stevie looked at Weasel, spat on the oriental carpet Sarah had scavenged from a mansion in Wayne, and said, “Go ahead and shoot, you mangy little toad. I can’t eat my deer, may as well die here and now.”

  “Damn!” Weasel said, “Reminds me of myself when I was a kid. Welcome to the block. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Fuck and you, midget.”

  Stevie was tough as squirrel meat and nastier than a badger with PMS. He was mean-spirited, filthy mouthed, untrustworthy, violent tempered, vile and obstreperous. And it wasn’t until he began to finally have real conversations with us that we learned of his history with Satan’s Messengers.

  Stevie B. wouldn’t talk about his life for months. He didn’t trust any of us. Except Duke. Which seemed odd…because Duke nearly ripped Stevie’s throat out the first time Stevie attacked me. But I got the “Duke No!” command out quickly enough to avert disaster.

  I then formally introduced Duke and Stevie by sitting them both down and letting Duke get the Stevie scent and experience.

  “You fuck this up,” I told Stevie, “this fucking dog might rip you up. You treat him right and Duke accepts you into the pack and protects you—forever.”

  Stevie mumbled something about the dog being stupid, protecting an asshole like me. But the boy seemed genuinely smitten by the dog and intrigued by the concept of being protected. The fact that Stevie had nearly lost his life to dog packs twice seemed to have no bearing on his affection for Duke.

  Looking back, I think that was the first tiny crack in Stevie’s armor. The dog won the boy’s heart the same way he had with Weasel. I think Stevie respected Duke for his loyalty. He had seen that attribute in only one person in his life with the clan. No longer living, he later told us.

  After three days with Stevie, days filled with verbal abuse and temper tantrums, bad manners and general refusals to do anything any of us suggested, Sarah, Weasel and I had a sitdown.

  Our physical environment was at an all-time peak with the advent of electricity, supplied by two of Weasel’s generators. Electricity provided us with entertainment in the forms of vids and music. It also opened up educational horizons, for we now had several hundred educational dvd’s, covering spelling, reading and writing for little kids as well as advanced video academic videos and documentaries. It was on this equipment that Weasel had taught himself to read and write.

  But the most fascinating gifts of all that came with the electricity were the computers and hundreds of data discs. Textbooks, math, history, encyclopedias. We still had not completely solved the riddles of their set up and utilization but were making progress.

  We picked each others’ brains constantly and worked incredibly well in the three-mind format. Weasel analyzed and ruminated, interjecting his comments and stories with movie references. Sarah philosophized and brainstormed, throwing out ideas like hailstones in a thunderstorm. And I tried to keep them both on the subject at hand, which was at that moment, Stevie B.

  “What we’ve got here,” said Weasel, “is failure to communicate.”

  “Thanks, Warden,” I replied. “But since we can’t throw the boy in the hot box, what in the hell are we going to do with him?”

  “Weasel is right about communication,” responded Sarah.

  “Yeah,” said Weasel. “Sounds real simple. But he ain’t gonna talk to us until he trusts us. We don’t know anything about this kid except what we can see. And what I see is he don’t trust no one, no how. Period.”

  “And all he’s got now is the three of us,” Sarah said.

  “Plus Duke,” Weasel said. “That damn Duke. He’s like another person.”

  “And saving the kid’s life wasn’t enough to get him to trust us,” said Sarah. “So what does that tell you about his life?”

  “Maybe worse’n mine,” Weasel responded. “And that’s sayin’ a piece. But you never know how a person is gonna react to a certain situation. Maybe little Stevie ain’t as, well, you know, smart as some other people.”

  “I don’t think so, Weasel,” I said. “Stevie’s no dummy. I can see intelligence in his eyes. He’s very wary and always watching interactions among the three of us. This kid’s got a good brain in there. And I’ll tell you another thing. That little guy is not afraid of anyone or anything.”

  “So let’s see what we’ve got so far,” said Sarah, her pacing in temporary abeyance, hands on hips, ready to expound. “We’ve got a boy whose life has been so bad that he’s wandering around in the snow fighting dog packs for food. He’s brave. Probably intelligent. In addition he hates our guts—we being the ones that recently saved his life and are now feeding him and protecting him from the elements—and probably hates the guts of every adult he’s ever seen.”

  She raised her hands over her head in frustration. “Christ what a mess. Now we’ve not only got to try to figure out a way to get this kid to trust us…Anything else, Mac? Like maybe providing him a college education while we’re at it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I yelled. “What a great idea. There’s no way this kid knows how to read and write. And we’ve got a teacher sitting right here.” I pointed at Weasel. “If Stevie is going to contribute and be part of us, he definitely needs an education. We’ve got books; we’ve got computers; and we’ve got a man who knows how to teach reading and writing. It’ll definitely give him something to do and Weasel can show me and Sarah some of the lessons and we can take turns.”

  I was greeted by silence. Weasel was thinking, mu
lling it over. Sarah remained rooted to her spot, hands still on her hips. Then she took a chair and pulled it back into the circle.

  “You know, Mac,” said Weasel, “that ain’t a bad idea. This boy must thinking pretty poorly about himself. I mean he ain’t got nothin’ and he can’t do nothin’. So what’s there to be proud of about himself? And nobody seems to like him except old Duke and the kid don’t do anything to try to change people’s minds. What the hell is that all about?”

  Sarah spoke up now, directing her comments to Weasel. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Weasel; but I think you and Stevie share many traits.” She paused, letting it sink in, assessing his reaction. “Why did you spend 20 years avoiding contact with people?”

  “Cuz I didn’t like the way they treated me,” he replied, then smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh, shit, I see what you’re getting at. People treated him real bad, too. He’s just waiting for us to start acting the way he’s used to people acting all the time.”

  “In his mind,” said Sarah, “it’s just a matter of time until we turn into monsters.”

  “But there’s one huge difference between Weasel and Stevie,” I responded.

  “What’s that?” asked Weasel.

  “You like yourself.”

  “O.K. you two, my turn now,” I said. “Stevie’s asleep. We’ve got about eight hours or so to come up with a plan, because we sure as hell haven’t accomplished anything in the last three days. The only one that has made any progress is the dog. First question: How do we get him to trust us?”

  • • • •

  We worked through the night, drowning ourselves in coffee, finishing about an hour before Stevie woke up. All three of us practiced on the technique to restrain Stevie when he got out of hand. We had plenty of rug burns before we finally got it down pat.

  While I served as the record keeper, we formulated a philosophy on how we would deal with Stevie. The whole plan was built around several fundamental rules:

  We would never strike Stevie.

  We would praise him often.

  We would always respect him verbally and be careful not to invade his physical space unless he let us in.

  We would trust him, even though we figured we might get burned on it a few times.

  We would always be truthful.

  We would stay united.

  We would remain ourselves, for after all, everybody, including the dog, loved everyone else, so why fix what ain’t busted?

  We would set up rules and for him about violence, and chores and other people’s property and respect. When he broke them, and we knew he would early and often, we would talk about it—unless he was acting violently. Then we would stop him from hurting himself or us or breaking the place up.

  We would provide schooling for him 6 hours daily, 5 days a week.

  “Whadda we do if he nukes out?” asked Weasel.

  “Shit, that could easily happen,” I said. “And we have a bunch of stuff that we would like to keep together. Like computers and such.”

  Sarah came up with a plan, which was implemented on Stevie’s first day of school.

  Weasel came up with the final idea for the night. “The boy needs to learn about weapons. He needs to know how to protect himself if running ain’t an option. We teach him to shoot, he gains confidence and sees we trust him.”

  • • • •

  The three of us were incredibly proud of our plan. And presented our ideas to Stevie in the morning over a two-hour breakfast.

  Stevie told us to stick it. We smiled wisely and patiently, two wise men and one wise woman, secure in our wisdom, pillars of common sense and erudition.

  By 9:10 the next morning, just a few minutes after the start of Stevie’s first school session, he had all three of us on the floor.

  Sarah and I were in the kitchen, looking over Weasel’s new plan for easier-to-operate hand pumps for our well, when the screaming started. Point of origin: the newly reconfigured living room which now was our school. We both walked to the archway separating the two rooms to observe. We arrived just in time to see Weasel duck two books which Stevie had hurled at his head.

  “Take your books and shove them up your ass, you shriveled up little bald fuck,” he screamed at Weasel.

  “Doesn’t seem like a positive student teacher relationship,” I whispered to Sarah, receiving a poke in the ribs in response.

  Weasel picked up the books and put them back on the table. “Let’s give this another try,” he said in with great restraint. The veins on his neck were popping.

  Stevie threw the books at him again and Weasel nodded to the two of us, the signal to take control. I approached and when I was close enough Weasel and I both grabbed an arm, giving Stevie no warning, and pressed in close to him, pinning his arms to his side.

  It was like someone shot a jolt of electricity through the boy’s body. He was barely 100 pounds, less than half my weight, but his rage gave him uncommon strength.

  We couldn’t control him from a standing position and put him on the floor in a flash, sweeping his legs and guiding him down without harm. He was on his stomach, Weasel across his legs and me on his shoulders, controlling each arm with one of mine. He still managed to wrest an arm free, so Sarah joined the battle, securing the arm.

  He was trapped and plenty pissed about it.

  “C’mon you mother fuckers. Let me take you one at a time. Takes three of you chickenshits…Hey Squirrel, got any nuts?…Get off me you fat assed bitch…Hey, Sarah, I’ll bet needle dick here is one lousy fuck, ain’t he… C’mon you pieces of shit, hit me, take your best shot…You’re all a bunch of butt fuckers…”

  The cursing and insults went on for at least 15 minutes. All three of us remained completely silent during the tirade. During the whole time he was struggling with all his strength. Finally, the fight went out of him all at once, just drained away, and he went limp. Sarah later said it was chemical. His body couldn’t produce any more adrenaline, and he crashed.

  After a couple more minutes, I could feel his shoulders begin to shake and big uncontrollable sobs shook his entire body. I gently stroked his head and Sarah rubbed his back. We remained silent.

  When the sobbing subsided, I said, “When you feel like you can control yourself and get back to learning stuff, we will let you up.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “You let us know when you’re ready.” I turned to Weasel. “I think we’re O.K. now with just the two of us if you have some things you need to do.”

  He winked in response. “Well you know, I think I’ll take a little break, get something to eat and take Duke for a walk. I’ll check in on you every 15 minutes or so.”

  The three of us, in alternating shifts spent the next two hours on the floor with Stevie. He got up twice in that time, but each time we put him back down quickly, once for taking a swing at me and once for screaming epithets at Sarah concerning her breast size and fondness for farm animals. He was down again later that first day and then once daily for the next five, the rages always associated with school work.

  The second week he began to pick up letters and recognize words, receiving buckets of praise from all of us, which he pretended to ignore. But the takedowns decreased in frequency and when Weasel came up with the idea of tying successful completion of homework to watching videos in the evenings, progress was even more rapid.

  Stevie’s violent outbursts slowly decreased, week by week, while at the same time his fertile mind rapidly picked up the reading and writing and we moved him into basic math and sciences. His mind was ready for more advanced concepts before his reading abilities were capable of handling the texts, so we spent much his school time having him view educational videos—particularly something called “The Khan Academy”—and documentaries from Weasel’s massive vid library.

  After the first month of school, we began taking him on hikes miles from our compound to practice with weapons. If anyone heard our shots, they wo
uldn’t link them to where we lived. We went shooting every Saturday. When done, we dismantled, cleaned, and reassembled all the weapons and returned them to the basement armory.

  When Stevie watched educational vids, either Sarah or I always watched along with Stevie, available to answer his questions, but usually learning with him. It was during these video sessions that we received our first glimmerings as to the cause of the collapse.

  We began to include Stevie in on our planning and discussion sessions as to the household defenses, modifications in the building, additions to the compound, scouting trips to be taken and supplies or hardware that we sought among the detritus of the 20th cen. He never contributed or asked questions during these sessions. But he was soaking in every word.

  During the third week he allowed us to cut his scraggly hair and began showing interest in new clothing. I showed him how to shave his wispy facial hair. It was a ritual he undertook daily, even though once a week would have been fine.

  Whenever any of us spoke to him, it was in the same tone and respect that we used among ourselves. He was another person in the house, an equal. Our hope was that Stevie would return the respect. He failed in these expectations often, but never received derision or disrespect in return.

  In the fourth week he began voluntarily speaking, usually commenting on videos. He seemed to identify with Dorothy in THE WIZARD OF OZ and loved to discuss the film.

  We learned his name on the fifth week. “You can call me Stevie,” he said to Weasel during a science lesson. “My full name is Stevie B.”

  During the seventh week he mustered up enough courage to ask if he could use the compact disc player. His musical tastes, much to Weasel’s consternation, were similar to Sarah’s and mine—heavy duty, pulsating, muscular rock— IGGY POP, THE SISTERS OF MERCY, CHEAP TRICK, and a Chicago group called ELEVENTH DREAM DAY. But for his favorites Stevie went back to the more visceral groups of the 60’s and early 70’s, BLACK SABBATH and DEEP PURPLE. Weasel preferred country music, John Prine, Hank Williams, and 50’s and 60’s ballads and listened to “that Mozart guy” when he was tinkering with electronics or working on the guns.