Paws

by Stefan Petrucha

  Before the hot coffee can hit her vulnerable lap, I snap a pic of her priceless expression and post it on sundry social media.

  Better yet, when that coffee hits, I get a second “Aiiee!”

  “I’d get some seltzer before that stains, Em. But look, look what I got you!”

  I hold out the puppy. The collie and I look at her expectantly.

  “I’m rehired, right?”

  Before she can answer, we’re surrounded by flashing lights, howling sirens, and a digital voice warning that an intruder has somehow breached S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top-notch security. Lockdown is initiated. Metal shielding slams down. Protocols are actualized.

  Preston pants a few times before hitting a big green all-clear button. Wonder what the blue one does. Seconds later, a boss-type voice comes over the com. Could be Phil Coulson, or maybe Nick Fury himself. I don’t keep up with the continuity. Whoever it is says one word:

  “Deadpool?”

  Preston closes her eyes. “Deadpool.”

  The lights and sirens stop; the protective walls recede. And then the yelling starts.

  “YOU,” Preston begins. “I don’t even know what to call you! Dangerous is an understatement, careless is a compliment, and lunatic would be redundant!”

  “I know! I put the ‘z’ in ‘crazy,’ right?” I try to reassure her. “Don’t even try. You’d just sound like a stereotypical police lieutenant chewing out his best cop ’cause he goes outside the lines to get the perp. But look, look! A dog!”

  She buries her head in her hands. “Sometimes, Wade, I swear, if it weren’t for Jeff and Shane, I’d jump off a building just to avoid dealing with you.”

  “You don’t mean that. Look at the dog!” I hold her out. She yips and wags her tail. The dog, not Em. If Em did that, it’d be weird.

  Finally, Em looks.

  “From the list?”

  “Charleston Hospice, Astoria. This one hasn’t gone all monster, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t put up a fight—right, girl?” I make her paws do a boxing thing, like she’s punching. “At least I’ve been calling her a girl. I never really looked.” I lift her up to check. “Yep. Girl. Y’know, in the films and TV show, even though Lassie was supposed to be female, they used male collies ’cause they were heavier and looked more impressive. Some of the stunt doubles were female, though. So…can we test her to see if she’s a normal puppy?”

  Em shakes her head. “From what we know so far, the transformation’s triggered at a sub-cellular level—it literally rebuilds the DNA. Until she actually changes, she’d test as a dog.”

  “Huh. And who knows how long that’ll take? Maybe she just needs a little encouragement.” I shake her a bit and hold her up to my ear. Nothing but the pitter-patter of frantic puppy heart.

  I tug on her teeth. “Grrr!”

  Preston waves her hands at me. “Wade, stop! Just stop! Even if that did work, I wouldn’t want her changing into a monster here in my office. Bad enough I’ve got you here.”

  Just then, a pimple-faced, out-of-breath intern rushes in, prop-file in hand. “Special Agent Preston, I think I’ve got something!”

  Em gives him a look. “Astoria, Carl?”

  “Uh…yeah…”

  Noticing me, his shoulders slump, and he walks back out.

  Preston sighs. “I keep telling him he should just text or email. I think it gets lonely down in Data Collection.”

  “Before I pretend to be sympathetic, can we get to the elephant in the room? Am I rehired or what?”

  A multitude of expressions ripple across her face. There are a few I’ve never seen before. “I want to say ‘no’ in the worst possible way. But the thing is, I was about to contact you.”

  I do a little dance. “Ha! Nobody else right for the job, huh?”

  “Not exactly.” She grabs some napkins and starts dabbing the coffee on her outfit. “Tactical analyzed all the footage from the security and traffic cams in Yonkers. They concluded that while your methods weren’t…coherent…given your superhuman accuracy, a S.H.I.E.L.D. team might’ve actually caused more collateral damage. So we had a meeting—department heads, brass. Despite initial appearances, they think you played within the rules.”

  Rules?

  There are rules?

  She rolls the napkin into a ball and leans over to toss it into a wastebasket. “Are we gonna find the same true in Astoria?”

  “How the hell would I know? I mean…sure!”

  Still hunched toward the basket, she looks at me sideways. “Given your unique skillset, the fact that you’re considered expendable…”

  I bend over to make my head even with hers. “As if I could be expended!”

  She closes her eyes. “…and the unique level of deniability your public image provides…”

  “Denial is a big river in Egypt! That’s me!”

  “…they decided that the single-agent strategy remains preferable, and that you remain the preferable agent.”

  I’m so excited, I pull her up to a standing position. “Brace yourself, someone’s about to get a hug!”

  Usually when I move in for a friendly squeeze, even Galactus can’t stop me. Preston keeps me back with a single finger. “HOLD ON. We were still left with one big-ass question: How can we possibly trust you with the nano-catalyst when you almost dumped it in the reservoir?”

  “But you backed me up on that one, right, buddy?”

  “I was the one who raised the issue.”

  “Oh. Ow.” I take a step back. “Well, if that’s how you feel, maybe you should get your own Netflix password for your streaming needs.”

  “You never gave me your password.”

  “Yeah, but I could.”

  She taps her temple, indicating her eyes. “Got all the video I can handle, thanks. But the boys in Tech did come up with this.” She turns toward a hard metal case on her desk, which I didn’t mention earlier because the writer made it up just now.

  She clicks the latches and it opens up, revealing one sweet-looking weapon. It’s slick and white—the iPod of guns. “We should’ve thought of this in the first place—the circuitry is similar to what we used on the Gale Max. But things have been happening so fast, we were forced to improvise.”

  “So if I get out of line with the nano-catalyst, you’ll shoot me with that? You know that trick never works.”

  She hefts it. “This would. It’s a new housing for the nano-catalyst. Our acronym-happy techies call it an ADD: Aerosol Dispersal Device. It’s strong enough to withstand a .44 fired at two paces. There’s laser targeting, which you probably don’t need, but here’s the important part.” She touches a little grid above the nozzle. “The firing mechanism is only enabled when this sensor detects monster DNA. Point it at anything else, it won’t fire. We may actually have found a way to keep the public safe from you.”

  “Relatively.” I nod appreciatively. “Given what you said about the transformation, I couldn’t even use it on a potential monster pup—only the big guys. Well, I can’t say I like what it says about our trust level, but fair enough. It sure beats the crap out of that spray can when it comes to looks. You sure it works?”

  Before I can so much as “Aiee!” she aims it my way and pulls the trigger.

  Click.

  “Yeah. It works.”

  “Whoa! Geez, Em. I’m holding a puppy here! What if it didn’t?”

  “Ha!” She smiles for the first time since I showed up. “It’s not loaded yet. Sure was nice to see you jump, though—especially after you shoved that dog in my ear.”

  “Good one.” Remembering my advance from Jane, I bring up another awkward subject. “Long as we’re having a laugh about my possible mortality here, how about a little raise? Wouldn’t want another employer stealing me away, would you?”

  “No.”

  “Not even like a carpe per diem?”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  BOOK 2

  Out, damned Spot.

  Out, I s
ay!

  CHAPTER 11

  FOREST HILLS, Queens, looks like the love child of the city and the suburbs. There aren’t any mega-skyscrapers for me to fall from, but it does have lots of streets with six-story brick apartments on one side and freestanding Tudorbethans on the other.

  WTF is a Tudorbethan?

  What am I, a dictionary? Go use the Internet.

  No McMansions, either, like you’d find in Westchester. Here it’s mostly stuff built back when men were men and bricks were bricks, and it was cheaper to build houses out of bricks than men.

  Now that I’m back in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s good graces, I’m visiting what the cops once called the “snooze” precinct to track down a Maltese. I did look this one up. It’s not the falcon—this one’s a snowy white member of the Toy Group, A.K.A. a lapdog. Hate ’em, love ’em, or have ’em for lunch—in dog world, it don’t get smaller than a lapdog puppy. Unless it’s a mutant, or you’re using a shrink-ray, in which case all bets are off. If it starts out that small, I’m hoping it’ll change into a smaller monster—like Teeny, the Thing from Under the Cushions.

  The target address is on a particularly quiet street. It’s a humble one-family that looks cozy even from the outside—exactly the kind of place you’d love to have someone else raise your kids. The sun’s just a-rising, garbage men stretching and yawning to greet the day. If the occupants are still in slumberland, it’ll make for an easy in and out.

  But that wouldn’t be fun to read about, would it?

  With the collie safely back at S.H.I.E.L.D., I’m on my own. My hand’s about grown back, too, but you wouldn’t want to look at it. I get a side window open, like a good little second-story man. The residual smell of last night’s home-cooked dinner wafts out. Sadly, there’s no time to raid the fridge for leftovers. The front door creaks and wobbles open, and I hear the high-pitched chirp of a lapdog.

  Bingo. That’s not the name of the dog, BTW—as far as I know.

  A patient, elderly female voice answers the bark as if she’s speaking to a rambunctious great-grandchild.

  “Oh, settle down, B. Don’t want to wear yourself out before we get to the park.”

  B. Maybe it is named Bingo. Or Bill. Or Bernardo— remember him?

  I creep along the roof for a closer look. Creep. Creep. Creep. There’s my mini-mutt. The collar’s almost bigger than it is. And, man, that’s one sweet old lady holding the leash. We’re talking the little old lady from Pasadena. She’s like Ruth Buzzi from Laugh-In, an archetypal crone carved in flesh and blood. She looks so frail, I’m afraid if I just nab the dog it may give her a heart attack. Once more, I’ll need a subtler approach. Which means, basically, any approach other than my own.

  I hop down in front of her, gentle as can be, and give her a gentlemanly bow. “Excuse me, ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice what an attractive Maltese you have there!”

  Well, that didn’t work. I’m not sure who looks more terrified, the lady or the dog, but she screams loud enough for both of them. “Eek!”

  My hands shoot up. “Oh, ho! Sorry! You okay there? Didn’t mean to startle you! I only…”

  Her back arches. Her arms go out, like she’s taking some sort of freaky AARP battle stance. For a second, I think she’s going to turn into a monster.

  “Who are you? Get away from me!”

  I back up. “Uh…the dog…it’s…so sweet. Can I…hold onto him for a second? I’ll give him right back. Promise.” I cross my heart, pinky swear, but even the mini-mutt doesn’t look like it believes me.

  While the Maltese yaps at me, the old lady snaps it up quick as a lick and holds it to her chest. “Get away from me, you horrible man! Help!”

  I try to laugh it off. “Horrible? You should see me without the mask. Look, I’m not here to hurt you…”

  But the feeling isn’t mutual. Grandma doesn’t hit me with her purse, but the Mace-in-the-Face (Ultimate Strength for Long-Lasting Deterrence!) she sprays in my eyes stings like a sonofabitch.

  As soon as I can see again, I’m done being nice. “Gimme that dog!”

  She’s already making for the door, moving like Usain Bolt. “You stay away from Benny! Help! Someone help!”

  I stomp after her. “I am trying to help, lady!”

  “Help yourself to my dog, you mean!”

  “No! I mean, yes, but you don’t understand what you’ve got there…”

  Her Tru-Shot Taser (Why Be Half-Sure?) hits my chest like a cobra strike.

  Gzt.

  Ow. Not the same as being riddled with bullets—but it’s got a kick, and it leaves a nice metallic aftertaste in my mouth. Having shrugged off worse, I get my hand on the dog’s collar and tug. This lady isn’t just feisty, she’s strong. She yanks back, I yank again, and all of a sudden we’re in a puppy tug o’ war. At least she can’t mace or tase me while we’re both holding Benny, but I’m stuck. I can’t pull too hard. The dog could break—or even grosser, the old lady’s arm could pop out of the socket. While she seems to have the wherewithal to try to beat me senseless with her own detached limb, she doesn’t strike me as the regenerating type. So I try to be gentle, which totally isn’t my thing.

  “Let go!”

  “You let go!”

  “No, you!”

  Next thing I know, I’m on my ass about five yards away. For a sec, I think Granny emitted an AARP shockwave—some secret, last-ditch defense mechanism for the retired. Only she went flying, too, in the opposite direction. Something threw us both.

  The dog?

  How would a little dog do that?

  Wait for it.

  Oh, right. Monster dog.

  Granted, the Maltese seems extremely pissed. Its tiny body is shifted forward, its tiny tail stiff, its tiny muscles tightened, and its teeny pink gums bared—but that’s typical dog-about-to-attack stuff. The deep-throated snarl that rattles the pavement and the way it sends pieces of concrete flying as it scrapes its paws against the sidewalk are not so typical.

  It is changing, but not nearly as fast and furious as Goom or Gorgolla. Whatever it winds up being, I can’t let it run loose in this nice family neighborhood. When it charges my way, I draw my shiny new ADD.

  “Lady, close your eyes. Trust me!”

  Hm. If she keeps them closed long enough, I can turn Benny to goo, quick-’port to a pet store, buy another Maltese, and hope she doesn’t notice the difference.

  The mini-mutt almost on me, I hit the button. Nothing happens. I try again. Zilch. Nada. The Big Egg. The ADD won’t fire. The darn dog’s changing so slowly, the sensor doesn’t recognize it yet.

  “YIP!”

  The top of Benny’s surprisingly thick skull (I mean, how do you even fit a brain in there?) hits me square in the chest. Three ribs crack, and bone shards press into my lungs. My arms fly out; my feet lift off. I go zooming in a kind of sitting position until my back hits one of those classy old wrought-iron streetlamps. With a creak, a crunk, a thunk, and the shattering of its glass and my bone, the lamp falls across the peaceful, tree-lined street.

  Somewhere, a sleeping baby wakes and cries. Somewhere, a misophonia sufferer, not knowing the source of the racket, wishes she’d turned on her white-noise machine. Somewhere, a car owner will soon wonder what happened to his Mercedes.

  Me? I’ve got to deal with what’s in front of me.

  “Never mind, lady, keep your eyes open. It’ll be easier for you to run!”

  But it’s not like she’s listening. She’s too busy grabbing her chest and crying out: “Mercy!”

  She’s going down!

  CHAPTER 12

  SENIOR citizen with a health crisis, Maltese slowly transforming into a predatory brute…

  Somebody’s gotta do something!

  You?

  You betcha! Feet akimbo to solidify my stance, I shake my finger at the as-yet-still-small dog. “Play dead!”

  Gentle wisps of white fur crisscross its coal-black pupils and yellowed corneas as it glares at me.

  “Play dea
d, damn you! Play dead!”

  It won’t. It won’t play dead.

  I heft a piece of the fallen lamppost and chuck it.

  “Fetch!”

  It doesn’t. It doesn’t fetch. It doesn’t want to play anything.

  Its chest puffs. An ancient need, forever young, wells within it—the same placeless urge that first dragged life from the peaceful sleep of the primordial ooze into the searing violence of being. Heeding its implacable summons, the cottony white Maltese comes toward me.

  “Stay! Stay!”

  It’s more a plea than a command. Even if morality does exist— even if compassion matters not just to ourselves, but to reality’s very design—right here, right now it doesn’t matter. For in the dreadful terror of this moment…the bad dog has won.

  Who’re you supposed to be now?

  Not sure, but I think I’m on a roll.

  “Bad dog! Bad!”

  The space between Maltese and Merc vanishes as if it never were. We go mano a pata, immutable Wade meets irresistible pooch. It bites me—rar! I bite it—grr! Neither of us tastes like chicken. It spits out a bloody Wilson-gib. I spit out a chunk of fur that’s already growing back.

  We go at it again. There’s a punch, a kick, a scratch, another kick, more biting, and a heartfelt shouting of unsavory names. I’m shouting, anyway. A second petite headbutt takes me to the ground, but not before I throw the little sucker all the way across the street. My first mistake. On this page, I mean. It lands on all fours and, concrete crunching ’neath its paws, races toward a peaceful playground in the idyllic park at the end of the block.

  A playground? Didn’t we just have an elementary school? Why are there so many kids in this freaking city?

  I hurl myself across its path and land sideways, skidding with my hand supporting my head like I’m lying on a couch. It’s a cool look.

  “Hey, cutie. Where you goin’?”

  Before I can nab it, it’s up on my skull, licking my face really fast, really hard. Normally I’d love it. They say dog saliva, even if it’s not antiseptic, is cleaner than human. Think about that next time you’re swapping spit with someone.