by Bobby D. Lux
He carried a futuristic rifle that was connected to the Sam Browne by one of those squiggly cords you see hooked up to a CB radio. Futuristic human weapons are not among my areas of expertise, but I doubt as time goes on that handheld weapons get bigger. Small, sleek, and fast does it for me anytime.
Simon’s face was shielded by a mask that was decorative, but functionally laughable. A huge cut out in the front of it offered his nose and mouth plenty of room, and thus, no protection at all. Above the nose were two giant fluorescent bug eyes. The mask itself was held to his head only by a thick elastic band that wrapped taut around the back of his skull, leaving a horizontal part in his matted hair. It too was connected to a sagging battery pack on the Sam Browne next to a tiny speaker.
“You can’t hide from The Destroyer,” Simon shouted, from the mask and popping the speaker. “If you show yourself, I’ll make it painless.”
He toppled over a stack of boxes near the dryer, spilling Christmas ornaments all over the floor, several of them snapping on impact.
“What was that?” Mrs. Hart said, from inside the house.
“Nothing,” Simon said, lifting his mask and sounding like the child terror he was. He haphazardly kicked a few of the smaller shards of Christmas cheer out of the way under the washer and dryer. “Just playing with Missy.”
“Be careful in the garage, okay?”
“Jeez, I’m fine,” Simon said, as he lowered the mask and whispered to his prey. “Look what you made me do. Don’t make The Destroyer angry, you space monster.”
The hunt continued as Simon poked through the garage. He picked up a basketball and threw it up against the wall, echoing a plastic tiiiing. Now he was giving me a headache. He got down on his belly and crawled across the floor trying to get a better line of sight, his chest plate scratching on the concrete. Frustrated by the lack of a living target in range, Simon jumped to his feet and fired his rifle at will while spinning in a circle. And it sounded real. Automatic weapon real. Not space age laser fake. This was rat-a-tat-tat-tat rapid fire. If I hadn’t been watching with my own eyes, I would’ve thought we needed backup from the SWAT team.
“Simon!” Mrs. Hart said.
“What?”
“What did I tell you about that thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did I say about shooting that indoors?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What did I say?”
“I’m not indoors, mom.”
“You’re in the garage.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“What did I say?”
“Don’t,” Simon said, having tasted defeat in this game of generational wits.
“And what are you doing?”
“I was just playing.”
“Playing’s over. Come inside.”
“I thought I was already inside,” Simon said, zinging his mom.
“Don’t get smart with me! Come inside and take off Destroyer, and clean your room.”
Simon was defeated worse than anything the nastiest space monster could do to him. He dropped his gun and slouched out of the garage as the rifle dragged behind him on the cord, ricocheting off the ground with each step.
What kind of game was this anyway? Hunting? The whole point was to get something to eat, so if you weren’t born with the tools required to catch something, maybe you’re being told you’re not supposed to catch it and that it’s not on your menu. Look at me; I can eat anything I catch. Chicken? Easy. A cat? In my sleep. A pig? Give me a break. Don’t take this the wrong way, but there’s not a human out there that, if I really wanted to, well, you can see where I’m taking this, so let’s move on.
The point is you’ll never see me take on a bear and nor would I want to; the required abilities to do so were distributed to other animals, not dogs. While I’m thinking about hunting and eating, you people do realize that cooking is a luxury, right? I’ve had cooked steak. I’ll admit that it’s a slab of paradise. But you know what? If I had that, with no seasoning, and had to tear it off the bone on my own, it would still be double delicious. I don’t think the fat guy hovering over the barbeque could make the same claim.
My third year on the force I was brought along on a weekend hunting trip in the woods with some other officers. Initially, I thought it was a sting operation where I was going to lead the charge through the bush. Nope. They put a ridiculous shiny bright tarp over me that made me stick out like a guilty perp in a lineup with a nervous twitch in his leg; the more you try and stop it, the more you can’t control it.
When the first deer went down in one shot, I realized that the trip to the woods had nothing to do with the job. The guys told me to go check the buck, and I did. I wish I hadn’t. His eyes were still open. Probably had no idea what even happened. A quick flash of what’s that smell, and that’s all she wrote.
There was something not right about it. Like Simon, this was done, presumably, in the name of fun. They cheered and scratched me and scooped up the buck and carried him back to camp. These were officers who would lay down their life for any of us on that trip. We all made careers out of risking our lives and putting ourselves in positions where bad things can happen at any moment. On that walk back to the camp, I felt like we let ourselves and that buck down. But what do I know about what makes humans tick? Brains and brawn, that’s enough to get you what you need. Anything else is cheating.
Before long, Simon’s scent vanished and Missy’s nose reappeared from underneath a blanket. She sniffed the pieces of broken ornaments and tiptoed across the cold garage floor, stopping every few feet just to be sure no one was waiting for her. I felt bad watching her. I wanted to tell her, Hey kid, it’s okay, don’t pant it, but I suspected that the sudden entry of my voice onto the scene would have done more harm than good. I stared at her until she felt me looking. She looked up from the remains of the jagged pieces of what used to be Santa and she calmly caught my eyes.
I want to tell you that she inhaled a gasp, but quickly found comfort and warmth in my steely grin and a reassurance in my chiseled jaw that I was, despite the circumstances of our first meeting, firmly on her side and that with one wink I calmed her down and a bond was forged between us as two canines, each in a desperate situation all our own. But no, her fur puffed out and she flew out of the garage quicker than she flew in, stomping all over Rudolph’s nose.
When you’re that small, everyone’s a dog hunter, even a dog locked up in a cage. Locked up in a cage. And there I was trying to act like I wasn’t talking about me the whole time.
CHAPTER 8 - This Is Happening Right Now
I’m in a long hallway. There are no windows, but I know I’m on the top floor. I can hear the echo from below, under the warping wood, as I step on each plank. I feel the splinters falling off the underside of the floor with every step and I don’t hear them bounce off anything beneath them. The only thing behind me is the feeling of a squeezing vice as if my head is going cave in if I look back. There’s no way out but forward.
Each step is deliberate. I keep my head low and something clangs off the ground. My badge. My badge? I have a lanyard dangling loose around my neck with my dull badge duct taped to it. I’m in a dark, dirty, dusty wooden hallway with doors, paintings, ceiling fans, and spider webs. My nose can’t register a smell. Another sniff. Nothing. Not even the intentional smell of nothing that fills hospital walls.
Stop second guessing yourself. Each pause with every step makes me wonder if I should keep going. The only light is what’s around me. The light moves with me. I don’t get any closer to the end and total darkness is still just a turn of the neck away. The parallel ceiling and floor extend ahead into eternity. There’s a cacophony of doors to my left and right like a hotel hallway as I creep ahead to somewhere. The doors don’t mirror each other like they do even in the sleaziest of motels. They are all askew from the opposing door. They aren’t numbered; am I going forward or back?
“Come in, Eagle,” a v
oice scratches the silence. Is it coming from one of the doors? Which one? The voice sways above me like a cheap chandelier. “Come in, Eagle. Do you copy?”
“Hello?” I say, slicing the echo and knowing that I can’t be Eagle.
“Eagle, come in. Have you reached the lair?”
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“Are you talking to me?” I say.
Silence. Then the crack of a radio. “Depends.”
“On what? Don’t play games with me.”
“Eagle, come in.”
“Am I supposed to be Eagle?”
“Only if you come in.”
“What if I don’t?” I stop, and I want my answer before I take another step. I’m going to focus on where this sound is coming from; which door; around which corner that I can’t see. I’m waiting. As soon as I get my sound, I’m sprinting as fast as I can.
I spring load my posture an inch off the ground. I swing my neck to get that damn badge out of my way and I see that my injured leg is shaved bare. Now I’m cold. I’m freezing and my leg is shivering. My posture unwinds as I sit down and wait.
“Eagle, do you come in?”
“This is Eagle,” I say, not believing it.
“Very good, Eagle. We had trouble contacting you. Is everything okay? Are you code four?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no fur on my leg.”
“No fur? What are we supposed to do about that?”
“Who’s we?”
“This is base, Eagle. Do you copy?”
“Yes.”
“Eagle, proper communication protocol is to state affirmative. Do you copy?”
“Affirmative,” I confirm.
“What’s your twenty?”
“I’m in a hallway.”
“More specific on your twenty?”
“I’m in a long dark hallway with no numbers on the doors. All I need is a psychopath with a chainsaw to complete this nightmare.”
“Please don’t offer unnecessary and disruptive details, Eagle. You’re not in a comedy club. We need a status update on the operation.”
“Can you refresh me on my objectives up here?”
“Just keep moving.”
“That’s it? That’s the operation, to keep moving?”
“Chief’s orders.”
“Which way do I go?”
“Same way you’re going. From this point maintain radio-”
“I’m not even on the radio. You are.”
Then, as crystal clear as could be, like a recording studio with no echo, bass, treble, or reverberation, “Listen, Fritz. You’re quite literally on your last leg with us. If you screw this case up, there’s no coming back. Ever. Or should we just stop wasting time and get Nitro on the scene for you?”
“Negative.” I say.
“Maintain radio silence.”
There’s a scream ahead and I’m running down this treadmill hallway. I don’t know how close I am to the scream as it engulfs everything around me. I run as hard as I can towards the eye of the scream. The hallway seems to be running too, racing me. It’s winning. I barely get anywhere when my leg pleads with me to stop. Once your body argues with you, there’s nothing you can do. It has to be trained to keep its mouth shut because a body isn’t a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. Your brain is the supreme leader. Everything else is a subject. I cave in to the revolt in my leg and jog to the side of the hallway. The scream becomes focused on the door next to me, a door superficially indistinguishable from the others. It’s flat, no number, no peephole, no key hole, and a dull square handle. This door, unlike every other door, is cracked open.
I nudge my nose inside to get a scent. The trick is to not expect what scent to find. Take in whatever comes. It’s a technique that often takes a turn for the unexpected quickly, but at least you find something. My nose is still not working and I’m not hearing a thing, so I do the next best thing. I bark as loud as I can. The half-naked lady in the room screams again. Someone else in the room darts into a bathroom pulling the blanket behind him.
“I heard screaming,” I say. “Is everything okay in here?”
“Get out of here.”
The lights are off. Even with the door now wide open, I can’t see a thing in here.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m going to call the police.” she says.
“No need. I am the police.”
“You?” she says, as she laughs in my face. I want to maul her. “The police?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Hey John,” she turns, shouting to the man in the bathroom, “this dog here says he’s the police.”
“Oh, that’s funny,” John says, from the bathroom.
“You should see him. His face is turning grey. He’s got to be twenty years old.”
“Oh, that’s funny.”
“And I haven’t even told you about his leg. There’s nothing on it. No fur, nothing.”
“Oh, that’s funny.”
“Do you need assistance?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady with moderate success.
“We’re doing fine in here. What about you? You sure you’re okay? How about we help you?”
“I’m fine, ma’am.”
“Oh, that’s funny.”
“There’s nothing funny about it, sir. I’m just trying to do my job and you’re not making it any easier. I heard a scream and I’m investigating.”
“We don’t want you or your investigating,” she says.
“Oh, that’s fun-”
“Shut up, John. And you, dog, I think you need to go home.”
I back out and decide to not take a report on this incident. It’s handled at the scene. I’m still in the hallway and nothing has changed. Endless walls and limited light are in abundance.
There’s smoke seeping out of the bottom of that door over there. It’s faint and thin, but it’s definitely smoke. It’s swirling through some light shining out between the door and the floor. The smoke could be poison. Could be incense. Could be in my head. A muted bass line trickles behind the smoke as it escapes. One-two, One-two-three. One-two, one-two-three. I approach the door and hear several voices from inside. They’re laughing and yelling at each other like friends do when they watch sports on TV. Like when someone calls you a “dirty scum bag” when they have no other way to say they love you like their brother.
I press my ear against the door. Only every third word or so is clear. I’m hesitating. I should lower my head and plough through this cheap door and tackle the first man I see and remove the meat from his arm. I wait for what I know isn’t coming: a sign to tell me what I should do.
“Hey, is that pizza guy gonna be here soon?” I hear from inside.
“Maybe he’s lost,” says another.
“Take a look.”
The door opens and I cower as a mammoth police officer stands above me. He looks over my unseen head down the hallway. I look up and see bits of a chewed moist cigar nesting in his moustache. He’s oblivious to my entire being.
“He ain’t out here,” he says, throwing the door shut. I stop it from closing all the way with my paw. The door tries its best to smash the tiny bones in my paw. Tiny? Says who? Where did that come from?
The door opens with little resistance. I push my way inside and immediately notice the wallpaper. It looks like chipped bowling lanes and it’s peeling at the top and bottom.
A poker game is in full swing towards the back of the room at a circular table. Five cops from GCPD are huddled around the table. Baxter, Peters, Donaldson, McMichael, and Nitro. Nitro’s leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table. They’re drinking, smoking, gambling, and staring at each other across the table.
“What’re you holding, Baxter?” Nitro demands.
“I called you, hombre,” bald, sweating Baxter says.
“Three queens,” Nitro declares, flicking his cigar and tossing his cards across the table. Ba
xter holds his cards up eye level, but curves them in his palm so no one can see them. He squints and his foot taps. Defeat dances across his face as he folds, mucking his hand into a pot of chips and cash. “I knew you had nothing. You fellas can watch my back any night of the week on patrol, but at the poker table, you’re a bunch of schoolgirls. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Nitro scoops up his newly won chips and moolah with a sweep of his arm while exhaling a perfect “O” of cigar smoke.
“Hey, don’t insult little girls,” Peters, sitting clockwise of Baxter, snorts.
“I’m talking about you too, bro,” Nitro says.
“Aw, come on, bro.”
They laugh the patented collective laugh cops do when they passively wrestle for power in the guise of teasing each other. I don’t laugh.
“Why don’t you take it easy on us then, huh Nitro?” McMichael says.
“Take it easy? Are you nuts? With the new promotion, I got a lifestyle to maintain here. Now that I’m top dog, I gotta look and act the part. And acting the part means I can’t let a bunch of sob stories ruin my run at the table. You remind me of the guy I took this job from in the first place. He was big time crybaby-”
“Hey, whatever happened to that guy anyway?” Donaldson says.
“Who knows?” Nitro says. “And who cares? Your deal, Bax.” Baxter snaps the cards between his knuckles and fires them across the cops of the roundtable. “Hey, you smell that? Smells like a wet rag in here.”
“I didn’t think Baxter was cooking his family recipe.”
More laughs. Not as many from Baxter.
“It’s definitely not anything that’s cooking,” Nitro says. “It’s more like something is rotting. I think it’s… yup, I know that smell. All too well. Three o’clock, gentlemen.”
They all turn my way.
“What’s going on in here?” I say.
“Just a couple of cops hanging out,” Nitro says.
“I got a call that there was a criminal in here.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did, Nitro.”
“You poor, poor, old dog. See, here’s the thing, now point those ears and listen tight. You ready? In the world of law enforcement, only actual cops are the ones who receive and answer distress calls. And last time I checked, you’re not a cop anymore. Therefore, if my math serves right, and I’m only up a few thousand here, so I’d say it’s serving me pretty well at the moment, I’d say that means that it’s outright impossible for you to be answering a call from anyone. Got it?”
