Healthy? Death. Sick? Death. Unwanted? Death. Dying? Death.
She took the money she might have spent on restoring Jonesy to health and paid for the return of his ashes in a little wooden box, suitable for display, as the brochure said. Roland had promised to bring it to her when it was ready.
It was a promise he would keep––the last of them, as far as he was concerned.
His brother-in-law owned a trash recycling business that was proving wildly lucrative, and had offered Roland a job several times. As much as he detested his brother-in-law, now might be the time to deal with the throwaways that people actually wanted for a change.
He found her house from memory, parked the truck on the street. He grabbed the box and a clipboard with the paperwork she’d have to sign. It was late morning now, just a little after ten o’clock, so he hoped that he wouldn’t be disturbing her at breakfast.
As in response, she met him at the door, her eyes already on the box in his huge hands, already tearing. “Why, you dear man,” she said, her voice warbling with emotion. “Have you brought my little Jonesy back?”
“Why, yes’m, I did. He’s right here.”
Slowly, he held the wooden box out. She took it with one shaking hand, the other covering her mouth, as if an entire body’s worth of grief might spill from it.
“Oh, my dear, dear little Jonesy,” she whispered, taking it from his hands, where it looked so small, and pressing it to her thin chest. “My baby, my sweet little baby.”
Roland waited, respectfully, silently.
“Would you like to come in, young man, have a cup of coffee?”
“No, ma’am, thank you. I just need you to sign these papers, and I’ll be on my…”
“You might want to look under the back before you go,” she interrupted, as he handed the clipboard to her. “Something’s been howling all night.”
“A dog?” he asked, taking the clipboard back.
“Sounded like a gee-dee wolf, if you ask me.”
Roland pursed his lips, absently signed his name to the paper.
“Okay, let me get my pole, and I’ll take a look-see.”
“Fine,” she murmured, cradling the box to her chest as if it were her actual dog. “If you want that coffee, you just knock.”
The door closed, and he thought he heard her crying quietly as she disappeared into the house.
He went to the truck to get a control pole—basically a long stick with a collapsible loop of wire on one end—and a pair of thick leather gloves. As a precaution, he also took a loaded tranquilizer gun.
A cracked, narrow concrete path ran to her backyard. A rusted gate, groaning on its hinges, admitted him.
That’s where he smelled it first.
It was like dog, but multiplied by 100. And it wasn’t the smell of a group of dogs or even the kennel. It was the essential smell of dog, pure and concentrated on the air. It was dense and unpleasant, with a whiff of wet fur and a back odor like urine.
And blood––there was also a bloody component, mineral and meaty.
A few wooden steps led to the back door. Under this, a wooden trellis blocked the crawl space. A section was broken, chewed through––recently from the looks of it.
Using the end of the pole, he tapped the trellis, eliciting a low, menacing growl from the dark beneath the house, angry, fearful––
“Shit,” Roland cursed under his breath. He bent, surveyed the space. There was no way he was going to be able to squeeze in there. The pole extended 12 feet, but the longer it got, the more unwieldy it was and trying to loop the wire around the neck of an agitated animal was difficult under the best conditions.
On his hands and knees, he peered into the hole. The smell rolled from this opening in powerful waves, floating on the equally strong odors of damp earth and mildew.
The growl became more pronounced, more threatening.
The space went back about eight feet and was L-shaped, with the foot of the letter farther back on the right side. There, he could just make out a dense, compact curl of darkness.
“Hey, baby,” he said in his calmest tone. “Let’s get you out of there, take you someplace safe.”
He hated himself for saying that; hated himself even though he knew that the lie meant nothing to the frightened animal.
Slowly, carefully, he slid the pole into the opening.
“S’ok, baby, s’ok. I’m not gonna hurt you––not gonna––”
There was an explosion of movement that caught him off guard, snapping, growling. The pole ripped from his hands, skittered into the darkness.
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
Recovering quickly, he snatched at the end of the pole, hauled it back. The end was chewed savagely, but the wire was intact. Raising his eyebrows at the damage, Roland slid the pole back in, prepared this time for the dog to attack it.
This time, only a plaintive whine, the low growl. He felt it bite at the pole several times, but with far less vehemence. He maneuvered the loop where he thought its head was, felt it slip around something. Quickly, he pulled back, closing the loop, yanked the pole out.
This was met by violent thrashing and maddened yelping. The pole jerked in his hands.
Careful to keep hold of it, Roland planted his feet to get better leverage. Laughing a little, he hauled back strongly, like an angler wrestling a sport fish, amazed at the fight this dog had––and its weight.
A chaotic mass burst through the wooden trellis, scattering pieces in every direction.
It was enormous, easily as big as a Great Dane or an Irish Wolfhound. Not lean or lanky, but densely muscled, with a huge head and an elongated muzzle. Its fur was light grays and tans and dirty browns, and its teeth––
Its teeth, snapping and biting at the noose that held it, the pole that held it, the man who held it, were long and wickedly curved––and there were so many of them.
The thing fought too fiercely, was too big, too heavy. The pole wasn’t going to be enough––His hands scrabbling at the trank gun, he unholstered it, glanced at the preloaded dosage, and guessed. Aiming at the squirming, writhing dog, he squinted, pulled the trigger twice.
Two darts buried into its dense fur in quick succession, tiny against its bulk. The dog bellowed in rage, stopped moving, turned its head slowly, deliberately to look at Roland.
Its eyes, a strange gold-green, fixed him with measuring intelligence.
The animal crouched, flexing its rear legs and dipping its head, prepared to leap at him.
When the trank kicked in, and the dog’s rear legs folded, buckled.
It turned, Roland swore it actually turned and looked at its rear legs in stunned disbelief.
Then, it rolled limply, bonelessly on its side, panting heavily. A long, drooling tongue lolled from that tooth-filled mouth, swiped listlessly at the ground.
Its eyes, those gold-flecked eyes, stayed locked on Roland, watched him as he carefully prodded it with his foot, producing a weak, but nonetheless disturbing, reaction.
Shrugging, he put another dart into it as it lay there.
He was definitely not going to carry it to the truck until those eyes were closed.
* * *
“Je-sus Kee-rist!” whistled Manny Figueroa, the vet on duty when Roland plopped the dog onto the exam table. “What in the name of Mary Mother of God is that? A bear?”
Roland exhaled as the dog’s weight left him. “I dunno—a wolf or something.”
Manny looked at the dog’s head, its mouth to ensure that it was asleep before he laid a hand on it. Painful experience had taught them all that. He smoothed the fur on its face, unfolded its ears, pulled back its gums and ran a finger over its enormous, slick teeth.
“I don’t know what the frig this is,” he breathed, flashing a serious look at Roland, who watched with his arms folded over his barrel chest.
“A hybrid, maybe? Wolfdog? Maybe a cross breed with a mastiff or wolfhound or something?”
Manny was al
ready shaking his head. “No, no—look at the muzzle—too long. And those teeth? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, have you ever seen that kind of teeth on a dog? And look at the musculature—this is one seriously beefed up dude—errr—dudette?”
“It’s a she?” Roland asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Mm-hmm,” Manny answered, searching the dog’s belly, between its rear legs. “See, here are the teats—and—hmmm—”
“And—?”
“She’s in estrus––heat.” He inhaled deeply. “Can’t you smell that?”
“Have you ever smelled anything like that from a normal dog?” Roland asked.
“No. So, I’m going to take some blood, run some tests,” Manny said, circling the table with his hand on his chin. “Keep her knocked out for a while. But when I’m finished, there’s no way we can put her back in the kennel with the other dogs. They’ll go nuts.”
Roland nodded. “I can move some stuff out of the adoption room. Not too much she can mess up there.”
Manny nodded absently, a finger tapping his chin. “Okay. Hey, tell Mel to poke his head in here. I think we might want to get somebody from the department of conservation in here to take a look at this––see if we can figure out—what she is.”
* * *
Roland sensed it the moment he left the exam room; a tension in the air, something brittle, expectant. He heard the roar of the dogs barking at the back of the building. When he opened the door to the kennel, the roar easily trebled, quadrupled. Every dog in every cage was barking at its limits.
The barking was fear––plain, old fear.
The odor of the bitch’s heat was conspicuous on the air, even to a human like him. Rather than exciting these dogs—at least the male ones—it was frightening them, whipping them into a frenzy.
He went down the center of the kennel, looking into each cage. Big dog, small dog, male, female, aggressive, shy, they were all at the back of their cages, at the back with their heads low, barking and growling. Each made eye contact with him briefly, but didn’t hold it, didn’t seem to want to pay him much attention at all.
Stepping to the closest cage, he lifted the papers, saw he was an older male, about eight, a mix of Labrador and pit bull. This one, splotched brown and white with haunted, icy blue eyes, regarded him casually, but didn’t stop barking.
Roland unlatched the cage, knelt, patted his knees. He’d calm this one, use him to calm the rest.
The dog bayed louder, swayed his head back and forth, as if telling Roland, “No, no, no––”
Roland was patient and insistent, and soon the dog gave in to the trusting instinct of his kind, and came to Roland, hesitant, tail low but wagging.
“Good boy, good boy,” he said, letting him sniff the back of his hand before touching him. “I’m gonna call you Roscoe.”
Slowly, so as not to spook him, he took a leash from his belt, clipped it to the dog’s collar. Immediately, the dog drew itself up as if energized. His tail rose, wagged like a metronome.
“Roscoe,” Roland said, ruffing the sides of his head. “We’re gonna be good friends. I know it.”
They walked to the center of the kennel, and Roland let Roscoe lead him back and forth between the cages until the dogs had settled.
* * *
Manny peeled off the blue exam gloves, tossed them into the garbage. He gave Roland a vague, concerned look, went to the sink and washed his hands.
“Mel says that the conservation boys don’t have the time to look at our mutt,” Manny said, drying his hands with paper towels. “They said we know dogs better than they do.”
Roland chuckled, but Manny was not amused. “Assholes. Like we’re idiots because we deal with domesticated animals and not wild ones.”
Roland glanced to where the dog lay, covering the exam table, draped with sheets. The tape from an anesthesia tube was still affixed to her lips, partially open, tongue still lolling.
“Well, aren’t they gonna be surprised,” Manny chuckled. “Especially when her offspring attack someone.”
“Offspring?”
Manny removed the tape from her mouth, gently smoothed her fur. “Oh, yes. She’s definitely whelped––a few litters at least.”
“I thought you said she was in heat?”
“Well, she’s not pregnant now, but wow, she’s asking for it,” he said, waving a hand in front of his face. He shuffled through papers, jotted a few notes.
“What do you think she is?” Roland asked.
“Well, the blood tests will give us some idea. But just looking at her––I dunno. She’s so friggin’ big, unusually built. I’d say she’s got some kind of wild canine in her, maybe mixed with some domestic, but what and how much––”
He shrugged, looked seriously at Roland. “You know what happens to her now, right?”
Roland had been looking at the shape beneath the sheet, started. “What?”
Manny raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, yeah––but maybe––”
“No maybe, Rollie,” he said, putting his hand on Roland’s shoulder. He was at least a foot shorter, so he had to reach to do this. “We’re obviously not going to adopt her. We can’t keep her, and we definitely can’t release her.”
“But don’t we need to find out what she is first?”
“The blood tests and a necropsy will tell us that.”
Roland flipped his wrist, looked at his watch. It was already after five p.m.
“Well, not today.” He thought back to Bethany and her eyes. “I don’t want to fire up that son of a bitch one more time today.”
Manny nodded. “Well, I put some blankets, a bowl of water and kibble in the adoption room. If you want to help me, we can leave her for the night. Careful of the bandages now.”
* * *
Roland decided to spend the night at the shelter, as much to keep an eye on this strange dog as to test his decision to leave––to make sure that taking a job at a recycling plant was what he really wanted.
He locked the door after Manny left, looked at Roscoe. He’d decided to make the dog his companion for the evening, and Roscoe seemed happy to take the job. He followed Roland as he bought sodas from the vending machine. He followed Roland to the front door when the pizza delivery guy came, sat by his side in Mel’s office and watched television and ate pizza with him as the evening waxed.
At about 10, Roland decided to check on the dog. He walked to the adoption room, peered through the narrow window that opened vertically in the door. She was awake, lying on the floor, moving her head groggily, unsure of where she was, what had happened. She didn’t notice Roland looking at her through the window.
Roscoe followed as he made a last check of the kennel, then ducked into the small office just off the garage. The shelter kept a cot for staff who wanted to sleep there, usually to keep an eye on an animal after a medical procedure.
Roland pulled off his boots, stripped off his pants, lowered himself gently to the cot. It was too small, seemingly too flimsy, but it had held him other nights; it would hold him tonight. Tucking the pillow under his head, he noticed that Roscoe had curled beside the cot, snoring softly.
* * *
There was a loud shattering of glass, and the dogs were barking madly.
Fumbling for his watch, he pressed the button that illuminated the dial.
2:43 a.m.
Roland lay there for a moment, getting his bearings.
He flinched when something pushed at his hand, licked it. He’d forgotten about Roscoe.
“Shhh,” he told the dog. “Good boy.”
And he listened.
Padding feet, clicking on the linoleum hallway––
Breathing, harsh and raspy.
That smell, that blood smell of dog in heat gummed the air, made his mouth taste of raw meat.
Roscoe nudged his hand again, whined softly.
“Shhh,” Roland said, absently.
Someone had broken in. The shelter was not in a good neighborhood;
who’d want a dog shelter, gas chamber and a crematorium next to their homes? But break in to take what––?
Drugs––always the drugs––the narcotics, the anesthetics, the tranquilizers.
Roland pursed his lips, strained to hear any sounds that might tell him where they were.
Then he heard scratching––nails on wood.
He thought of her, locked in the adoption room, scratching to get out.
He thought of them letting her out, letting her get at them.
Though he had little pity for whoever they might be, he couldn’t let them be ripped to shreds by a dog big enough, aggressive enough to do exactly that.
Pulling on his pants and boots, he grabbed a flashlight from a shelf. He took a deep breath, stood in the darkness for a moment, entered the kennel.
Roscoe followed at his heels.
* * *
The din from the kennel was disorienting, and Roland felt instantly nervous. Even Roscoe was skittish, pressing his side against Roland’s calves as they crept through the room. From every direction came frightened, insistent barking, maddened beyond restraint.
And Roland knew why.
That scent, the scent that floated on the air this afternoon, meaty and bloody and sexual, was now overlaid with another; another that was like it––not like it.
It was musky and sweaty and aggressive.
It was the masculine equivalent to the feminine odor.
Maybe––
But no––Roland dismissed this, before the thought even formed.
There was no way––no way––
Steeling himself, he switched on the flashlight, and the beam cast weird, hallucinatory shadows through the steel bars of the cages and onto the walls. The light swept the room, but he saw nothing out of order; dozens of cages, dozens of glowing eyes, noting him, then dismissing him as they had done this afternoon.
Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) Page 10
