by Jones, K. J.
Through the closed back door and the drawn blinds, Pookie sounded worse. His bark grew angry and intense. “Why is he out!” She looked at the clock. 5:48 pm. Mr. Monroe was home from work.
The barking abruptly ceased, replaced by sharp yelping. Goosebumps rose on her arms. It was the horrible sound of a dog being hurt. Pookie. Without a second thought, her hand grabbed the bat and she charged to the door. Unlocking the deadbolt, she whipped the door open, the blinds banged against the window. Cold air closed in on her. The alarms reverberated in her ears. She stomped out on to the little deck. Straight ahead through the chain-link fence, she saw a big white dog in Mr. Monroe's yard. It had struggling Pookie in its mouth and whipped him back and forth like he was a rag. She jumped over the two steps of her tiny deck and entered the space between her backyard and Mr. Monroe's fence. The yelping abruptly stopped. Pookie hung limp in the beast's mouth.
She yelled, “You fucking mongrel shithead!”
She power walked along the fence, heading towards Mr. Monroe's property and the gate entrance of the fence. The dog had dead Pookie on the ground and looked to be eating him.
The beast lifted its face and watched Syanna. Bloodied foam dripped from its mouth.
She froze in place.
“Aw shit.”
A baseball bat was not going to do it with a rabid dog that big. The gun was needed for this one. She began to slowly back track. The dog walked towards the fence, eyeing her, with its back hair straight up.
“Oh Lord, help me.”
It stared at her with lips curled and canine fangs exposed, looking like the meanest, scariest damn dog in the world. Still backing up, trying to make as little movement as possible, she wondered if it could jump the fence before she could get up onto the deck and through the door in time. The dog spastically jerked, and a strange bark came from its throat. More signs of rabies.
Movement from the back of Mr. Monroe's house. The dog turned and snarled. It was Mr. Monroe, in PJs, like he had been in bed. “You son-bitch!” he yelled and raised a pistol. The dog moved towards him, and the gun fired like a clap. Bang! A chunk of blood splattered as the bullet penetrated the dog's chest. It fell backwards onto the ground. “Son-bitch!”
The dog stood back up. Syanna gasped.
It moved towards Mr. Monroe like it didn't have a bullet in its chest.
“Oh hell no!” The pistol hand came up and fired. The bullet hit the dog in the face and jolted it backwards.
The rabid beast lay dead in a ball of bloodied white fur. Syanna breathed again.
“Son-bitch rabid bastard killed my dog!” Mr. Monroe’s plaintiff voice yelled as he stood over the remains of Pookie. He dropped to his knees beside the mangled terrier’s body.
Syanna stood at the fence, looking in at Mr. Monroe, when an eerie feeling of being watched crept over her. Powerful goosebumps rose on her flesh and a shutter down her spine. Her yellowish-brown eyes scanned for what she was sensing. Her corkscrew curls touched her cheek from the chilled breeze. She looked out to the street beyond her corner house and saw no one under the lamplights. She turned in the other direction where Spencer's alarms continued going off. The yards over there had no fences. It was a clear shot right across the sandy lawns to her. An azalea bush here and there. A big magnolia tree. Bunches of tall ornamental grass with fuzzy ticklers at top. Further beyond was a big old live oak tree. Its Spanish moss dangled and waved in the breeze. Street and houselights cast a shadow at the base of the live oak, made deeper by the shadows from the hanging moss.
As she stared, the darkness beneath the tree spread out like a moving ink blob. She squinted her eyes, trying to make out what that was.
As it further emerged from the shadows, the moving darkness formed the shape of a big dog. It moved further into the lights and she recognized the shape to be a Labrador retriever. It continued to walk across Spencer's backyard away from the tree. She recognized it as Glitzy. But she didn't look like the happy, bouncing dog Syanna knew. Her head hung low and her hair up in razor back with her thick tail down. She looked mean as hell, like the white mutt.
“Oh Lord Jesus, help me.” Her heartbeat raced as she stared at Glitzy. She raised her voice to get it over the alarms, “Mr. Monroe!” At the corner of her eye, she saw him stand.
Glitzy picked up speed into a trot.
“Think you may need that gun again, sir!”
He left his dead dog and walked his yard towards her and the fence.
Glitzy sped up into a sprint. She looked like a demon hound straight out of Hell itself with lips curled up and phlegm streaming, teeth barred and fury in her eyes.
“Look!”
He followed her point. “Ho-lee shit.”
Glitzy was closing the distance at a fast sprint.
Syanna lifted the bat as her feet moved towards the steps of the deck.
Thirty feet away. Twenty-five. Glitzy closed in fast.
Mr. Monroe raised the pistol.
Fifteen. Ten.
He fired. The bullet hit the plastic siding of Syanna’s house. “Shit!”
Syanna turned to run, but it was too late. Glitzy was here.
She reared back the baseball bat. All four paws leaped off the sandy ground. Bared teeth came up at her face. With all her strength, she swung the bat in a softball hitter swing. The bat contacted with a loud clunk of metal-to-bone. The impact jarred her arms.
Glitzy went down.
“Goddamn.” Mr. Monroe gasped.
Glitzy lay on the sandy soil, eyes closed, blood trickling from a crack in her skull. Syanna lifted the bat and saw a blood-smeared dent in the metal. She had hit the dog that hard.
Police, ambulance, and fire engine sirens pierced the air, growing closer, sounding to be coming along the street in front of her house. Syanna turned to the deck and took a few steps.
Mr. Monroe screamed at the top of his lungs, “Syanna!”
Her stomach tightened. She turned back around. Glitzy lunged up at her. She saw teeth among free-flowing phlegm inches from her face. A gun fired. In midair, the bullet entered the side of the dog's head. Brains exploded out the other side. The dog fell straight down without a single sound spare a grunt.
The big jaw lay on top of Syanna's shoe. Deep brown eyes stared without movement. Crimson darkened the ground around her head. It seeped into the sand. Glitzy was dead.
Syanna felt amazed she did not pee herself. Sirens filled her ears, making her feel even more disoriented. She did not know how long she stood there in shock, feeling the cold creep into her bones. The emergency vehicle sirens cut off when they were just on the other side of the house. A moment later, the car and house alarms stopped. Quiet, broken up by voices of radio dispatchers resounding from the street.
“You okay, honey?” Mr. Monroe asked her.
She could feel her vodka tonic calling her. Hell, Phebe’s good rum, a roommate would understand at this rate. “I'll be inside, Mr. Monroe.” She pulled her foot free and walked away before he could say anything. Up onto the deck, she scooted inside and closed and bolted the door. “Holy shit!” She looked at her arms, worried she had been bitten. Nothing but some rabies slobber and blood, brain matter and bits of hair clumps. She dashed to the half-bath and checked her face in the mirror. More slobber, blood, brains, and hair clumps. She grabbed a hand towel and scrubbed with hot water and hand soap until her skin hurt. “Holy shit,” she said to her mascara-running reflection.
From the ceiling, she heard movement upstairs. “Becks? You up?” Throwing down the towel into the sink basin, she headed out into the living room. “You ain't gonna believe what just happened, sugar.” She reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped up onto the first riser as she looked up. With only the dim light from the upstairs bathroom's nightlight illuminating the landing, she saw a dark silhouette of someone standing there. The dark figure's head hung low and moved in jerks. The body language was like an animal. She heard a low growl.
Every tiny hair on Syanna's body stood on
end.
The thing moved away, back into the dark.
There was a point in every horror movie when the white person chose to open a door or go into the dark or go up the stairs and the audience knew they should not do that. “Lord, I'm gonna be my black girl half right now and let this be. If that’s okay with you, Jesus.” She stepped back down off the riser.
Standing on the tan colored tiles of the foyer, she thought about what to do now. Looking around, she saw the emergency vehicle lights flashing through the closed thin drapes of the living room. She wished Phebe was home. Or she had that bat still. Or her gun. That gun was upstairs, where that thing she just saw was. The bat she had dropped outside next to Glitzy's body.
“I have a monster in my house,” she muttered. “Lord Jesus, I have a damn monster in my house.”
A sudden knock on the front door made her scream. “Who is it?”
“Jim Conway.”
“Conway,” she whispered to herself in confusion. She unbolted the door and yanked it open. Officer Jimbo Conway stood there in his dark blue police uniform. He lowered his hat, like a good Texan gentleman, and bashfully smiled to her. The emergency vehicles were along the street with their strobe lights flashing like a bad dance club.
“Just checking on you, Miss Syanna. There's been some trouble.”
She glanced over her shoulder up at the landing of the stairs, then turned back to Matt's friend. “Jimbo, would you do a girl the biggest favor?” She laid it on thick.
“Of course. What do you need?”
She pointed up the stairs. “Could you check upstairs on my roommate? She has the flu.” She curled her hair around her finger and dropped her chin so she could demurely look up at him. She was well aware this performance was worthy of vomiting, but she was asking for such a stupid thing. “Would you be the biggest sweetie and go check on her for me? I'd sure appreciate it, sugar.” Eyelash batting. No one did this performance better than a Southern belle. And no one ate it up more than a Southern man.
The Texan soaked it up with a biscuit. “Sure thing, Miss Syanna.”
She stepped aside. He put on his hat and stepped in, being very courteous in the space he gave while passing her. She watched him jog up the stairs.
“Rebecca?” he called as he flicked on the light and turned down the hall.
She waited anxiously, listening for any horrible horror movie sounds or him shooting his service weapon.
A few moments later, he appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked up, fearing he'd be dripping with blood. “She's asleep.” He trotted down the steps.
She smiled to him. “Thank you so much, Jimbo. I sure do appreciate you.”
Hat down again, “There may be some rabid dogs in your area. Some trouble happened.”
“Yes. What is going on? Is my neighbor okay?”
“Um.” His dark blue eyes looked down for a moment - she suspected looking at her breasts, but she always assumed that - then slowly met her eyes. “I'm sorry to inform you, Miss Syanna, your neighbor has passed away.”
She shifted her weight to her other foot and crossed her arms. Southern gooey sweetness gone. “What? Are we talking about Spencer? The guy who lives two doors down?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Um … how? What do you mean passed away? Like ... of a heart attack?”
“He was killed.”
Her eyes widened. “Killed?” She glanced outside the open door. “By who? Shot? His dog was loose.”
“Looks like he was killed by a large canine.”
Her jaw dropped and she came close to peeing herself this time. She said the words slowly, “Large. Canine?”
“Yes, ma'am. He apparently has a dog?”
“Glitzy. You'll find her out back. Rabid. And dead.”
“Dead?”
“Mr. Monroe had to shoot her … before she could rip my face off.”
“Wouldn't want that to happen. You have such a pretty face.”
Her brows raised. Really bad time for compliments. “Glitzy killed Spencer?”
“I can't say at this point. We'll go out back and check on things.” He turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back at her. “He didn't get his dog vaccinated?”
“What? No, he did. She's a full-bred chocolate lab. He's an uptight banker. Of course, he did.” She scoffed. “Who the hell doesn't nowadays. Freaking trailer park trash are vaccinating their outdoor dogs on chains, for crying out loud.” She thought about it. “But she sure looked rabid. She was aggressive as hell So was the other dog.”
“What’s this other dog?”
“Some mutt I've never seen before. Killed my neighbor's Jack Russell right in Mr. Monroe’s yard.”
“I'll have a talk with this Mr. Monroe.” Jimbo looked worried. His hands fiddled with his hat. “We've been getting a lot of calls like this. Vaccinated dogs getting rabid.”
She scrunched up her nose. “That doesn't sound right.”
“It ain't, far as I can tell. Folks saying this a new kind of rabies maybe.” His eyes moved back to hers and he smiled. “Well, I'll let you to the rest of your evening. We might have to stop by again for a statement.”
“I'll be here.”
“Good to see you again, Miss Syanna.” He stepped out.
“You, too.” She lied. She couldn't give a rat's ass about him. “Be safe out there, ya hear.”
He replaced his hat on his head and smiled to her. “You lock that door.”
“I sure will.” She waved bye.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Jimbo.” Her smile faded the moment she closed the door. She locked the deadbolt, then looked up the stairs where she had seen the monster. She rolled her eyes. “Such a crazy girl, Syanna.” She headed to the kitchen.
It all made perfect sense. The stress and shock of the rabid dogs. Being attacked by one and seeing Glitzy’s brains blown out the side of her head - people's minds did funny things after such an awful incident.
She took out Phebe’s Captain Morgan spiced dark rum and poured herself a glass. For a second she thought of finding a mixer for it, but then just shot the whole thing down in one gulp. Marine's daughter, she could drink with the big boys.
While continuing to slam down rum, she went on a spree of texting everyone to tell everything that just happened. At the end, she received Phebe’s text: OMG. I’m on my way home!!!
Phebe rushed in with Matt following her, for Syanna had texted him, too.
“Matty,” drunk Syanna Lynn cheered as he came through the door.
He eyed her suspiciously, waiting to be yelled at.
The Belle’s syllables multiplied as she spoke, “You come here to protect little ole me with your big gun?”
He struggled to hold in the laugh.
“I'm gonna check on Becks,” Phebe said.
“No,” she yelled. “There's a fucking monster up there!” Syanna pointed somewhere northwest instead of the ceiling.
“I'll go with her.” Matt couldn't resist, “With my big gun.” He winked at Phebe.
They checked on Rebecca - she was asleep. They checked everywhere in the house and there was no one else there, monster or otherwise. They went outside and watched Officer Conway collect Glitzy's dead body. Phebe left Matt to talk with his buddy.
Inside, Phebe argued with Syanna about having her gun out while hammering down more drinks. The Captain Morgan bottle was more than half empty. Syanna’s pistol was a blush pink .380, appropriate for a Southern girl to tote around, probably with matching shoes and purse. When Matt came in, he backed Phebe up. Drunk people shouldn’t be armed.
Standing in the kitchen, Syanna turned on the sweet charm that gooed out of her and onto the floor where everyone slipped on it. “Matty,” she closed the distance to him, “I've just had the worst evening a girl could have.” She did a classic move of slowly rolling her hand up to her hair and salaciously pulling it up.
Syanna evidently did not know how she looked. Her hair had frizzed
in every direction and she had raccoon-eyed massacre running down her cheeks. And her face dry and blotchy from what she had done to it earlier.
She put her hands on his chest and batted her lashes up at him. He looked like he was about to go into self-defense.
“Would you stay and protect little ole me?” She smiled up to him. “You can sleep in my bed.”
He looked at her now like an alien species possessed her. He gathered her hands and moved them off his chest and took a step back. “You go up first and I’ll join you.”
“No. You come with me.”
“You go first. I’ll check the house again.”
“Matthew.”
Her sweetness dropped off her face and the new look was pissed off. Hand on hip, neck on ball bearings, and index finger wagging. “You are not having sex with my roommate under my roof, Matthew Richard Gleason.”
“Whoa,” exclaimed Phebe. “On that note, I am leaving the room. Good night, strange people.”
She heard them arguing.
“Why did you say that?” he demanded.
“Why else are you not going to bed with me?”
“Because you’re drunk off your ass and you snore worse than men I bunked with in the Army when you’re drunk.”
Phebe chuckled as she climbed the stairs.
Chapter Four
Thursday
1.
Phebe and Syanna Lynn snuck into Rebecca’s bedroom. They came armed with a glass of water and a bowl of soup.
“Okay,” said Phebe. “We gotta wake her up. You do it.”
“Me? This was your idea.”
“You’re so unhelpful, Sye. Hold the water.”
Syanna readjusted the bowl of soup and took the glass.
Phebe leaned over burrito-comforter wrapped Rebecca. “Becks?” She spoke in a soft, sing-songy voice. “Wake up. You need to eat something.”
Rebecca sounded like she suffered the worst rhinitis in history. Fat King Henry VIII snored less.
“Becks?”
Phebe gently shook her. “Wake up.”
