“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
His mouth works its way down the stick of beef, but he keeps his attention on me.
I outstretch my hand, an unhurried gesture to give the dog a chance to observe the movement and my intentions. When he’s within petting distance, I take the plunge and hope like hell he doesn’t decide my fresh flesh might taste better than the old, dried piece of beef.
“Of all the stupid things you could do, Tilly Morgan, taking in a dog is at the pinnacle of the list.” A sigh slips between my lips. Shut up, I instruct the conscience sitting on my shoulder. I don’t care.
I stroke his head, and he pauses chewing for a moment. His mouth widens, and his tail thumps twice on the solid floor. The pink- and black-spotted tongue slithers out and licks my forearm.
A giggle slips out of my mouth, and I pause in amazement, trying to remember the last time I felt happy enough to laugh. Nothing comes to mind.
“What a good boy.”
At my words of praise, his tail moves faster. He returns to his supper, intent on eating every morsel, now that he knows I’m no threat.
Lighter than I’ve felt in weeks, my arms reach to the ceiling for a satisfying stretch, releasing pent-up tension from the day’s events. “One last search, boy, then we need to head out.” I move off a little way. “Finish that up.”
A last sweep of the store ensures I haven’t missed another can of food or bottle of water.
The refrigerated deli section—that used to house meats, cheese, and cold sodas—now rests in shambles, devoid of anything edible. The rusting, white metal racks hang haphazardly out of their brackets and in a tangled heap at the bottom.
“Man, even if there was any food left inside, it’s not something I’d touch with a ten-foot pole. No way, no thank you. Food poisoning isn’t something I enjoy.”
The dog licks the rest of the crumbs near his paws. His peculiar eyes follow me.
Spotting some colorful old liquid freezer pops in one of the empty fridges, I gather them. “Now, this is something I can use.” Sugar for energy and liquid for hydration.
Growing up in West Texas, where summers turned roads into gooey blobs of tar, Mom always had a package of these in the freezer for Sissy and me.
The memory causes a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth. “Grape has always been my favorite.” The thin, rainbow-colored packets slip into my bag. Nostalgia or not, they’re going to help stave off dehydration until I can come across a stash of bottled water or a pond.
Out of the periphery of my eye, the dog rises and trots away.
“Hey.” There’s a note of panic in my voice I don’t like but can’t seem to control. “Dog. Come back. Don’t you wanna see what other goodies I find?”
He’s nowhere in sight.
“Damn, that figures. He took my supper and then dumped me like a hot rock. Story of my life, I guess.” His rejection bothers me more than I’d like to admit, though. The loneliness of being one of the few survivors of the world is daunting, but on bad days, I try to focus on my end goal: survive and find Sissy.
The hollowness in my soul fades a little, and I chant my mantra. “Survive and find Sissy. Survive and find Sissy.” There, that’s better. Who needs a dog, anyway? Their fur stinks when wet, they lick their butts, and they carry fleas. “What kind of idiot would ever want to put up with that kind of torture?”
A glance through the windows reveals an empty parking lot.
“Yeah, go on then, I don’t need you. No doubt you have fleas, ticks, and who knows what else.” My words sound hollow in my ears. I grimace and try to put the dog out of my mind. “Stupid mutt.” Confident I’ve scrounged everything left in the gas station, I turn to leave.
One last search behind the checkout counter yields the biggest prize of the night—a double-barreled, sawed-off Remington shotgun. My bottom jaw drops.
“How’d I pass you by?” Come to think of it, how’d other survivors miss you, too?
I guess they weren’t hungry enough to check every nook and cranny. Oh well, finders keepers.
The weapon reminds me of the shotgun I lost in Abilene, the one from home. This model I’m familiar with, and it’s much more powerful than a little pistol for close encounters.
My fingers stroke the steel barrel. “Oh yeah, come to Mamma.” The weight of the weapon in my hands is comforting, the smooth metal reassuring. “Next time some creep tries to have his way—” Words stick in my throat, and I can’t finish the sentence. There won’t be a next time.
Upon closer inspection, stuffed inside the cubbyhole are two boxes of ammo; one full and the other missing a few shells. Giddy with excitement, I snap the gun open and ensure it’s loaded. The boxes of ammo slide into my bag. I may not have found a lot of food, but at least a real weapon with some authentic power—some tangible protection—has fallen into my hands.
Something inside crashes to the floor, and I duck for cover behind the rectangular, wooden counter. The scent of oily steel and rotting wood surrounds me while I wait, gripping the gun with aching fingers.
Stupid. What were you thinking—letting your guard down like that again?
At the end of the small counter, where it opens to the store, a shadow falls into view, moving across the floor and closer to my hidden body.
I hold my breath and force my fingers to slide the gun around to point up and aim at the intruder. Hot sweat pools under my arms and drips into the band of my bra.
The absence of sound recedes with precise clicking as the shadow draws nearer.
Raising my arms and preparing to shoot, the dog prances around the corner of the counter. Proudly, he holds an object in his mouth.
“God Almighty, you scared the hell out of me.”
He ambles to my legs and drops the item at my feet.
My body sags in relief, and I take a moment to compose myself. I came to within a hair’s breadth of shooting this goofy mutt.
“Woof.” His toothy grin spreads from ear to ear. He dips his head down to the object and then back to me.
The irritation of his rejection is now but a distant memory.
“I was afraid you left because that beef jerky wasn’t good enough.” Curious and impressed, I inspect his offering. “What you got there, boy? Are you returning the favor?”
A can of snuff—Kodiak snuff—now lies next to my worn black boots.
I want to laugh, but amazement at what he did causes me to stare.
“You’re smart, aren’t ya?”
This dog figured out what I was doing and pitched in to help find supplies. Impressive.
He sits on his haunches, ears twitching. Muzzle points upwards to meet my gaze, and his tail beats a steady rhythm on the tiles.
Not wanting to disappoint his looting efforts, I pick up his prize, wondering what in the hell I’m going to do with a can of snuff. Well, no matter. The crucial takeaway here is that he sees how proud I am of his looting efforts.
“Good job, boy.” A gentle pat on his head makes his tail wag faster than windshield wipers in a downpour. “Where’d you come from?”
There’s no collar, though that’s not much of a surprise. Pets of any species are no longer a luxury of humankind. Still, has he been living around here for the past two years, scratching out a lonely existence? If so, even though he’s a little thin and matted, he must be a great hunter, scavenger, or both to have made it this long.
Ruffling the soft fur of his neck, I smile. “What’s your name, boy?”
That brown, fluffy tail beats at the ground.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His face, that complementing mixture of Siberian Husky and German Shepherd, offers warmth and hope of friendship to come. A low whine slips from his throat, and he uses his wet nose to nudge my snuff-holding hand.
Peering at the green can, I study the picture of the fierce bear. In High School, I remember an article mentioning a Kodiak bear’s intellect ranking between a dog and a primate. This dog doesn’t seem
all that ferocious, but he certainly comes across as intelligent.
“Kodiak. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
I lean close and glimpse into his black-rimmed eyes. “Is that it? You want me to call you Kodiak?”
He jumps to all fours and woofs, eyes dancing in approval. Hesitantly, he raises his head close to my face, puts a paw on my shoulder, and licks my cheek.
“All right, it’s decided.” I return the sentiment with a hearty scratching under his chin—"Kodiak it is.” Sissy, guess which idiot found herself a dog. “Now, let’s vamoose before it gets dark.”
Holding the gun in both hands, I venture back into the world with my new companion and a lighter step. Right now, I can pretend everything’s normal, and this dog is a reminder of better times, better days, better everything.
Chapter Two
The logs on the campfire burn to embers. Each blink out, one by one. When the last wisp of smoke snakes upward, it dissipates into the night sky.
Above me, a lonesome wind pushes its way through the tops of tall pine trees, creating a lullaby of sighs and whispers. My fingers pull a blanket tighter around my shoulders. I need to find more wood and start the fire. But my muscles groan in protest at even one more movement.
This morning, bright and early, I had the stupendous idea to squeeze in a few extra miles of ground coverage, and now, my body’s paying the price. Stumbling from weariness, Kodiak and I veered off the road and made camp several hours ago.
Silver light, from an almost full moon, finds its way through the gaps between the trees above, casting a myriad of shadows over ground and sleeping bag. The radiance softens the sparse grass and other plant life, giving a soft luminescence to the area.
The little pile of kindling I’ve been using is no more. The fire pit is full of ashes and dirt. Wood isn’t magically going to appear.
Just a few more minutes of respite, and I’ll get off my ass.
Holding a worn, booted foot up to check for holes or tears, I wiggle my toes inside and work the soreness from my feet. My hands knead at knotted calf muscles, and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open. The promise of sleep pulls at me, but the angry protests of my stomach keep me wide awake.
A twig snaps a few feet away, and my head turns in the sound's direction.
Too late, my shotgun comes to mind. It’s lying with my backpack, out of reach.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What’s the number one rule? Survive, which means never let your guard down.
Instead, I grab the pistol resting inside my boot, next to the flesh of my ankle. Sliding off the rock, I lean and use it for cover. My eyes squint, trying to pierce the dark veil of night to see beyond the shapes of wooded brush and trees that ring tonight’s campsite.
Another small noise rises from the same direction, and I snap the gun’s safety off.
The low-lying leaves of a nearby bush shake.
I grip the handle of the gun with such force that a fingernail tears against the surface. The pain is a reminder of being alive, and I plan to stay that way. Adrenaline flows into my limbs, raising my awareness of every creak of branch, soft hoot of owl, or far cry of coyote.
A quick second of deductive reasoning, and I realize whatever’s about to come charging through that foliage is not another human or sphere. The leafy bush, sitting low to the ground, must be hiding an animal.
I’m not sure if this knowledge makes the situation better or not. This part of Texas has mountain lions that weigh as much as one hundred seventy pounds. If it’s hungry, it might be brave enough to see if this particular human tastes like chicken.
Doubt creeps into my head. Should I risk taking the extra time to grab my shotgun? Will the little pistol pack enough punch?
Something’s weight bears down on the slender twigs, causing leaves to thrash and parting limbs to creak from the strain.
It’s do or die. The urgency of the situation leaves me no time to debate my weapon of choice.
My left eye closes in a squint, and I aim the sight toward the middle of the bush.
Thick feather grass grows around the plant and sways with each shake of leaf.
Should I go ahead and shoot, before it has a chance to leap on me? I have no idea how fast this animal is—or how dangerous.
The bushes continue to shake, and Kodiak bounces from the middle of the foliage.
“For the love of”—I wipe my forehead with a trembling hand—“you scared me half to death.”
Something hangs from his mouth—a dead rabbit.
“Can’t you at least bark or woof before you come sneaking up on a girl like that?”
He pads closer, and his tail wags in greeting. Next to the rock-lined fire pit, he drops dinner.
“I could’ve shot you, ya big goof.”
Relief floods through me. My weapon goes into my waistband before he jumps on me and causes it to shoot my foot or something else.
His long legs lope over and, before I can push him away, he leans forward and licks my mouth—lips and all.
“Oh, good grief, Kodiak. Stop that.” My body can’t decide if it wants to laugh or gag.
Knowing he had a dead, bloody rabbit in his mouth, my gag reflex wins out.
With keen eyes, he watches me dry heave for a few seconds, then blows a snort of air through his nose, letting me know where he stands on my weak stomach.
His antics and delivery of fresh meat tonight have perked me up, though. “Who’s a good boy?” With a rough hug to his neck, I convey how much he’s appreciated. “You are.”
Slinking two feet from my position, he sits on his haunches, pride in his eyes. Head back, he releases two high-pitched yelps into the starry sky. I can imagine him responding with You’re welcome.
Laughter bubbles deep in the pit of my stomach and erupts from my lips.
Ignoring the protest of my tired body, I move forward to examine what’s soon to be dinner.
My four-legged companion inspects the little brown carcass, sniffs, and then sits.
“Now, here comes the fun part.” A half-yawn, half-grin skates across my face. “You wanna help me skin it, too?”
Kodiak smacks his lips, and with one last glance, lets out a vocal yawn. He stands and stretches his long body, head low to the ground and butt high in the air, maximizing the pose to work the kinks from his spine.
I guess he’s performed his duty; now it’s my turn.
“Oh, all right. Fine. Fine. I get it. You caught it, killed it, and brought it back. So, I guess the least I can do is skin and cook it.”
A soft snort of agreement comes from his snout. Tail high, he walks behind me and sniffs my sleeping bag.
“Hey now, don’t be getting any ideas. My bed isn’t a fire hydrant.” I know it needs a thorough cleaning, but it doesn’t need more stench. “Go. Do your business somewhere else.”
He gives me a quick glance, then trots off closer to the brush.
The sound of him watering the ground reaches my ears.
I knew it. You were looking for a place to pee, you little Alpha.
The whole forest lies before us, yet he would rather mark my stuff—amusement fights with agitation.
Excited at the prospect of fresh meat, I grab my bag and start searching deadfall for more kindling and logs. In this part of Texas, fallen wood is never challenging to find. The looming pines above ensure branches and twigs lie in abundance over the needle-strewn floor.
Careful to not stray too far from our campsite, I load as much deadwood as my arms can carry.
Though it’s dark, the moon still casts light bright enough to throw shadows across the rough bark of pine and oak, and the occasional smooth skin of bald cypress. Between a couple of trees, close to the little wooded area we call home for tonight, an enormous web gleams inches above my head. Thank goodness I’m only five feet three inches tall, or I’d have walked straight into that damn thing. Several torn strands float as if suspended in time. The tenant of the web isn’t in sight, and I half-run,
half-jump back to camp.
“I know you’re crawling around in my jacket or in my hair, you little bastard.”
The urge to throw the wood on the ground and scream spurs my legs to move faster.
I need to find a tent.
In the beginning, I’d relied on the protection of one, but circumstances forced me to leave it behind.
The little hairs on my arms stand straight. The memories from that night, always a distant but looming passenger, still linger and brush the insides of my mind. I sweep them aside, shutting the door and locking the unpleasantness away for another time.
Dumping the dry wood next to the fire pit, I shake out my shirt and do a spider dance, which consists of jumping around in a circle and yelling for good measure.
Kodiak, used to my routine by now, jumps from the sleeping bag and does his own signature move around my jerking body. He circles then runs in the opposite direction to snap at the air and howl.
His antics make me laugh even while I sweat from the belief that one of those creepy crawlers is hitching a ride on my body. “This isn’t a game, you know. There really could be one of those hairy little monsters getting ready to bite. A lot of help you are.”
We’d be ridiculous to anyone watching, so it’s a good thing we’re alone.
When I’m satisfied my clothes aren’t swarming with the little terrors, the adrenaline in my body slows enough to refocus on the task at hand.
Positioning the wood into the loose shape of a teepee, I leave plenty of room on the ground below the pile for a good flow of air. Tossing some dry pine needles and a handful of crispy oak leaves to the bottom of the wooden triangle, I strike a match. The red and white head bursts into bright flames then settles to a steady glow.
I loosen kindling with the wooden stick and a tiny flame curls the edges of the leaves. Gray smoke winds upwards, but then sputters and dies. With stubborn fury, the dried foliage refuses to catch.
Damn this East Texas humidity.
In the past, I rarely had to deal with humidity in West Texas—everything was dry as a bone. But now, it’s a whole other story—a long, drawn-out one consisting of death, destruction, and disease. A sore spot I’d prefer to snuff out like burning embers.
The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1) Page 3
