An Oath of Dogs

by Wendy N. Wagner

  She squeezed past the man in front of her and seized Brett’s elbow. “How do you use one of these things?”

  He hesitated. The radio gave a burst of static and then went painfully silent.

  “They’re big fire extinguishers,” he explained. “Point the hose at the base of the flames and keep moving. Your goal is to guide any survivors away from the building while the real fire crew handles the problem.”

  “OK.” She reached for a pack. It weighed nearly as much as Hattie did, and she had to work to get it slung onto her back. She took a few awkward steps forward.

  “Fuck.” Brett spun her around. “You’ll need this.” He held out an air mask. “The fire suppression system is pumping out aragonite and there’s not going to be much oxygen left. Be careful, Standish.”

  She felt a wave of gratitude for the man. “Thanks.”

  Then she hurried after the others, hoping like hell they knew where they were going. She’d never spent much time at the mill, and now she regretted it. As they zigged and zagged through the busy yard, she dropped her mask over her face. She might be able to breathe better, but she still couldn’t see shit. She could barely make out the back of the woman in front of her. There would be nothing worse than getting lost in this inferno. Her air could only last so long.

  Someone waved her toward a building with flames shooting out the upper stories. The whole place was shrouded in black smoke, but a red glow saturated the smoke and cast the area in a hellish light. The person ahead of her threw open the building’s door and propped it wide. Shrieks and screams tumbled out.

  People were dying in there.

  Standish and her crew pressed inside. Someone slapped the side of her pack and a white LED came on, trained forward. The white light pierced the smoke for a few feet and then vanished in the gloom.

  “Help!”

  They surged forward, one hand on the left-hand wall, one on the shoulder of the person ahead. The person in front of her paused to gesticulate wildly and Standish realized they intended to split the group in half, one moving forward, one headed to the left. She went to the left, her stomach climbing in her throat. Overhead, steel and plastic shrieked and groaned. The whole building could go up any second, and they hadn’t found anyone yet.

  She hit a heavy door and touched it with the back of her hand. Still cool. The door knob turned, but it wouldn’t open.

  She put her shoulder into it. Something heavy blocked the door, and as she shoved someone screamed. The door flew open, and Standish stumbled forward into someone crying and shrieking and gasping with pain. The air was still clear here, and Standish could see a staircase leading upward.

  The staircase was filled with people. Some lay on the treads, some barely clung to the railing, and she realized the air was clear because the smoke and oxygen was being sucked up into the upper layers, and there was nothing for these people to breathe, and she had only her own air to offer them.

  Something boomed overhead and flames shot out the second story landing. Someone leaped over the railing and smashed down in front of Standish, fire clinging to every inch of their body. She thumbed on her fire extinguisher, blasting at the flames. Bits of white fluff floated up on hot air currents.

  “Come on!” someone shouted.

  The person on the floor didn’t move. Standish had put out the flames, but the cooked thing there was beyond helping.

  The crowd in the stairwell surged forward. Standish tried to squeeze out of the way and keep the door open for them, but someone shoved her and she went down. A boot dug into her calf. Someone kicked her in the head so hard stars shot up in her eyes.

  A hand seized her elbow. “Get up,” a voice shouted in her ear. “Get up!”

  They yanked her to her feet. The air in the corridor was filling with smoke, but Standish still recognized the blond hair and fierce blue eyes of Victoria Wallace. Another figure crashed into her, and Standish caught the two before they fell. The second person swayed and nearly collapsed.

  “I got you,” Victoria said, her voice rough. “Help me with her,” she ordered Standish.

  They slung the other woman’s arms over their shoulders and followed the others toward the exit. The white lights of the rescue crew guided them forward, and Standish knew that without them she and Victoria would have lost their way as they staggered through the smoke. The injured woman’s blood seeped through Standish’s jacket like spilled tea.

  And then they were outside, all the way to the edge of the mill yard, where people were laying the dead and the injured on the muddy street. Standish and Victoria lowered their victim to the ground.

  Despite the soot covering her face and the blood soaking her coveralls, Standish recognized the woman. How could she forget Melissa Whitley’s pointed chin, so much like Olive’s?

  Standish dropped to her knees to hold the woman’s hand. “Please be all right,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “She’ll bleed to death if we don’t do something.” Victoria stripped off her jacket and the blouse beneath it and held them out to Standish.

  Standish pressed the fabric to Melissa’s side, racking her brains for past first aid training. None of what she’d learned mattered out here, nearly an hour from the nearest hospital. Melissa could die before help came from Space City.

  “Keep applying pressure,” Victoria ordered. “I’ll get more supplies from security. Don’t let her die.”

  Victoria headed toward the office, her white bra and pale skin gleaming as Muninn slid out from behind the cloud of smoke, lighting up the street. Standish trembled and turned her eyes back to Melissa’s face. She could feel the stars above, pitiless and cruel as they circled behind the second moon.

  Muninn, she remembered, was one of the Norse pantheon, one of blind Wodin’s companions. He would fly out over the battlefields, searching for the slain. Tonight there was plenty for him to see.

  In the hills, a dog howled.

  What is understanding, after all, but that which makes sense of the connections and underpinnings of the world and all our experiences?

  Understanding is primarily a thing of words.

  — from THE COLLECTED WISDOM OF MW WILLIAMS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PETER SLOWED for the final hairpin of Cemetery Curve and caught flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He crept to the side of the road and watched as three ambulances shot past him. His hands on the steering wheel went instantly clammy. One ambulance was unusual for Canaan Lake. Most people just reached for the super glue and drove themselves to the hospital in Space City if something went bad. He’d met plenty of loggers who’d driven in one-handed, their finger or hand or arm packed in a plastic bag filled with ice.

  He wiped his hands on his pants and reached for his hand unit. There had to be news if the ambulances were already arriving from Space City.

  The social media networks were buzzing with rumors, but SC News One was flashing a video update. Peter hesitated. A fire truck shot past the rig, rocking the UTV on its axles. He didn’t really want to know, but he had to.

  He clicked the video.

  A moment of static, and then a low-resolution image filled his screen — probably footage shot on a hand unit and then run through software to strip away identifiers. Three figures stood in silhouette against a white background, their faces and bodies shrouded in green fabric like the ghosts of horrible trees. Their voices had the metallic bark of a voice changer, and at first he could barely make out what they were saying.

  “GreenOne is proud to claim the firebombing of the Canaan Lake sawmill. It’s only right that Songheuser Corporation should experience the kind of devastation that the forests of Huginn experience every day. This world is under attack by the commercial enterprises that control the puppet government of Huginn!”

  It was impossible to tell which figure was speaking or if someone was narrating over the image. One of the figures held up a hunk of white, rubbery stuff that looked all-too like the plastic explosives in old-tim
e action movies.

  “If the corporate schemers do not clean up their act, we will be forced to take action on another mill. The people of Jawbone Flats and Canaan Lake have already paid the price for their participation in the destruction of our world’s ecology. Now other towns must wake up. Shut down your death machines before we do it for you!”

  He turned off his hand unit and sat in silence for a moment, trembling. He wiped his nose. Canaan Lake was still six kilometers down the road, and he could already smell smoke.

  Belinda was a part of this. She’d found him and threatened him, and he still hadn’t taken her seriously. And why? Because she was a bartender? Because he’d spent the last year and a half flirting with her, paying more attention to her backside than what she said? He could have stopped this before anyone got hurt.

  Peter pulled onto the highway, the UTV’s tires screeching a little. Belinda rented a little house from a Believer family just outside of the city limits. It had always seemed a strange location for a woman who commuted via bicycle, but now it made a certain kind of sense. She loved nature, after all, and apartment living didn’t offer much privacy for a terrorist.

  He turned onto the muddy drive leading to the farm and parked the rig in the grass. Belinda’s cottage — it must have been some kind of shed once, but she’d added some decorative touches — sat closer to the highway than the rest of the property. Her bike wasn’t leaning inside its shelter.

  That was a bad sign.

  He tested the front door. It wasn’t locked. Peter looked around. A group of sheep huddled against the fence, watching him idly. He still felt as if there were eyes on him as he opened the door.

  The smell of flowers and oranges filled the little cottage. Peter stopped in the doorway and looked around himself, getting oriented. Whatever else Belinda had been, she was clearly the kind of person who kept their house neat and good-smelling. He could see his reflection on the polished horsetail planks of the floor.

  “Belinda?”

  He cleared his throat. “Belinda?” he tried again, louder.

  Outside, a sheep made an irritable sound. The house stayed silent. Peter did not relax.

  There was only one room to the place, although a low counter marked off the kitchen area. A battery-powered hotplate sat on the counter with a small cooler beside it. He flipped open the cooler’s lid. A handful of radishes sat submerged in a puddle of melted ice, a bottle of beer beside them. The beer felt warm when he touched it.

  He turned to examine the sleeping area. The bed, a lightweight futon, was folded into its couch shape, and the end table beside it held a stack of books — The Monkey Wrench Gang, by Edward Abbey, Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, some hippy-dippy novel by Starhawk — and an empty water glass. Belinda didn’t seem to own much.

  A man’s voice hollered outside, and Peter tensed. He peered around the ruffled curtain on the door and was relieved to see a Believer walking up to the front gate. The man must be coming to visit the owner of the farm.

  Peter turned back to his investigation. There was nothing in the room to connect Belinda to the ecoterrorist cell, unless a bowl full of potpourri on a floating shelf counted as terrorist material. He picked up her hairbrush from the kitchen counter. A few strands of red-blonde hair and a thread of moss were caught between the bristles, but other than that, even the brush looked clean.

  With a frown, he turned back to the floating shelf. There was something tucked behind the potpourri bowl, a brochure he’d assumed she’d tacked up to add a little personality to the room. A stunning photo of a rock-eater lichen field filled most of the page, a backlit group of horsetail trees adding depth to the image. The picture, now that he actually looked at it, was familiar.

  He leaned closer. Oh, yes, he knew that quote only too well: “The wonders of Huginn are irreplaceable. The moon offers a wilderness of colors to soothe the soul.” This was his brochure, the one he’d written for that wretched travel agency that had landed him on the ecoterrorists’ radar. It wasn’t proof that Belinda was a member of GreenOne — not real, physical proof — but it was connection enough to show Sheriff Vargas.

  He hurried outside and came to an awkward stop. The man he’d seen through the window stood beside Peter’s UTV, talking intensely with another bearded man. He hadn’t heard them at all.

  “Can I help you, good man?” The taller of the pair looked at him with an impatient expression. His voice was polite enough, but Peter could tell he would be glad to see him go.

  “Just dropping something off for Belinda.”

  Peter passed them as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t help but hear the whispered exchange:

  “Matthias says he has a plan. We should trust in him. Besides, it’s our way!”

  “But Vogel is right. The last time we let Matthias make a deal for us, we lost a sixth of our property. Where is our future if we give it all to Songheuser?” The shorter man waved a yellow pamphlet, clearly furious about it. It looked like the cheap paper the town used to print the bulletins they sent to the Believers.

  The taller snatched it from his hands and gripped it as if to rip it in two. Peter could see the word “tax” written across the top.

  “Excuse me,” Peter said. “Would you mind if I looked at that?”

  The tall man thrust it at him. “Keep it. I’m tired of reading it.”

  “Thanks.” Peter got into the UTV before the other one could say anything and pulled out onto the highway. He couldn’t help glancing at the bulletin, catching words here and there.

  He pulled over and reread a section, his face twisting in disbelief.

  He had to show this to Standish. The new property tax was even more vicious than they’d thought.

  THE MILL CAFE had set up an outdoor buffet breakfast for the rescue workers, and Standish was happy to sink into a chair with a cup of coffee and a stack of flapjacks. Black goo kept dribbling out of her nose, and every inch of her felt bruised or scorched. Even the coffee tasted smoky.

  Julia from accounting appeared at her elbow. “Wet wipe?”

  Standish looked at her hands. Her palms had a silver sheen and there was a black rime all around her nails. “Much appreciated.”

  Julia began polishing Standish’s nearest hand. “I can’t believe how brave you were. People were talking about how you and Victoria Wallace saved all those people. It’s amazing.”

  Standish forked a chunk of pancake into her face so she wouldn’t have to answer. If brave meant “nearly pissing yourself,” then sure, she’d been brave.

  Julia got out a third wipe. “And did you hear about the big announcement? Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  Julia dropped the wet wipe. “Oh my gosh, you’ve got to see it.” Julia brought out her hand unit. “I’ve already watched it twice. I can’t believe how terrific Victoria looks after all she went through last night.” She tapped the screen and held it in front of Standish’s face.

  On the screen, a clean and polished Victoria Wallace stood behind a lectern draped in Songheuser’s colors, an NATF flag filling the wall behind her. A pair of I+ glasses clamped on the tip of her nose toned down her general sexiness.

  “We will not be bullied by these eco-insurgents,” Wallace began. “Songheuser Corporation isn’t going anywhere. In fact, I’m proud to announce a new partnership with the townspeople of Canaan Lake that will strengthen the community and improve business practices.”

  Wallace paused for effect. Standish reached for the hand unit, but Julia maneuvered it out of reach, clearly worried about Standish’s grimy condition. “The city council is right now moving to authorize a special session vote on a property tax measure that will invest more than four million Huginn dollars into local law enforcement and infrastructure over the next five years. The townspeople’s investment will keep our mill safe and bring in necessary development as Songheuser moves to expand our operations here in Canaan Lake.”

  Wallace leaned closer to th
e microphone. “That’s right. Songheuser is planning not just to rebuild this mill, but to double its size and bring another four hundred workers to this community. Because we believe in Canaan Lake and its people!”

  Julia sighed. “Wasn’t that stirring? ‘Because we believe in Canaan Lake’? And can you imagine this place with another four hundred workers? We could actually attract our own hairdresser. Maybe even another restaurant. It’s going to change the face of the town!”

  “It’s… pretty exciting. Yep.” Standish got to her feet. “You know, I totally forgot about Hattie,” she fibbed. “She probably needs a walk. I’d better go to her.”

  “But you haven’t finished your pancakes.”

  “Hattie comes first,” Standish said, hoping her smile passed for real. Victoria Wallace’s big announcement stank worse than the stench of scorched plastic coming off the mill. Songheuser may have taken a hit when the ecoterrorists detonated that bomb, but the company had come back swinging — and looking more sympathetic than ever.

  She hurried up to her office to get Hattie. What good did GreenOne think it was doing? Songheuser had insurance, and what insurance didn’t cover, the government of Huginn would certainly kick in. This attack wouldn’t cost the company a penny.

  The only people who’d be paying were the people of Canaan Lake.

  She followed Hattie down the trail to the lake, her blood boiling. Good people had gotten hurt today. Like Melissa Whitley, who was just trying to make a home for her family and doing the best she could.

  “Standish!”

  She turned. “Peter!” She surprised herself by grabbing him in a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re back from the city.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right! Why are you so filthy? Don’t tell me you were at work during the fire?”

  She explained the night’s activities, enjoying his astonishment as she described her heroism. When she was done, his face turned serious.

  “Look at this,” he said, holding out the bulletin. He caught her up with his trip to Belinda’s cottage, then pointed out a clause in small print on the second page of the pamphlet. “This section talks about what zones will be affected by the property tax. It specifically says that industrial, mining, and timber areas are exempt from this special session tax.”