Unrestricted Access: New and Classic Short Fiction

by James Rollins

  Laughter and cheers rose from the crowd. Feet pounded on the stands boards.

  But all Brutus heard was that one name.

  Caesar.

  He suddenly trembled all over. The shock rocked through him as if his very bones rattled. He fought to hold steady and stared across at his opponent—and remembered.

  “Caesar! C’mon, you bastard, you hungry or not?”

  Under the midmorning sun, Benny hung from a stranger’s hand. Fingers scruffed the pup’s neck and dangled him in the center of a strange yard. Benny cried and piddled a stream to the dirt below. He saw other dogs behind fences. Smelled more elsewhere. His sister was clutched in the arms of one of the men who’d nabbed them out of their yard. His sister barked out sharply.

  “Shut that bitch up. She’s distracting him.”

  “I don’t want to see this,” the man said, but he pinched his sister’s muzzle shut.

  “Oh, grow some damn balls. Whatcha think I paid you a hundred bucks for? Dog’s gotta eat, don’t he?” The man dug his fingers tighter into Benny’s scruff and shook him hard. “And bait is bait.”

  Another man called from the shadows across the yard. “Hey, Juice! How much weight you want on the sled this time?”

  “Go for fifteen bricks?”

  “Fifteen?”

  “I need Caesar muscled up good for the fight next week.”

  Benny heard the knock and scrape of something heavy.

  “Here he comes!” the shadow man called over. “He must be hungry!”

  Out of the darkness, a monster appeared. Benny had never seen a dog so large. The giant heaved against a harness strapped across his chest. Ropes of drool trailed from the corners of his lips. Claws dug into the dark dirt as he hauled forward. Behind him, attached to the harness was a sled on steel runners. It was piled high with blocks of cement.

  The man holding Benny laughed deep in his throat. “He be damned hungry! Haven’t fed him in two days!”

  Benny dribbled out more of his fear. The monster’s gaze was latched on to him. Benny read the red, raw hunger in those eyes. The drool flowed thicker.

  “Hurry it up, Caesar! If you want your breakfast!”

  The man took a step back with Benny.

  The large brute pulled harder, shouldering into the harness, his long tongue hanging, frothing with foam. He panted and growled. The sled dragged across the dirt with the grating sound of gnawed bone.

  Benny’s heart hammered in his small chest. He tried to squirm away, but he couldn’t escape the man’s iron grip . . . or the unwavering gaze of the monster. It was coming for him. He wailed and cried.

  Time stretched to a long sharp line of terror.

  Steadily the beast came at him.

  Finally, the man burst out a satisfied snort. “Good enough! Unhook him!”

  Another man ran out of the shadows and yanked on a leather lead. The harness dropped from the monster’s shoulders, and the huge dog bounded across the yard, throwing slather with each step.

  The man swung his arm back, then tossed Benny forward. The pup flew high into the air, spinning tail over ear. He was too terrified to scream. As he spun, he caught glimpses below of the monster pounding after him—but he also spotted his sister. The man who held Junie had started to turn away, not wanting to watch. He must have loosened his grip enough to let Junie slip her nose free. She bit hard into his thumb.

  Then Benny hit the ground and rolled across the yard. The impact knocked the air from his chest. He lay stunned as the larger dog barreled toward him. Terrified, Benny used the only advantage he had—his speed.

  He rolled to his feet and darted to the left. The big dog couldn’t turn fast enough and skidded past where he’d landed. Benny fled across the yard, tucking his back legs under his front in his desperation to go faster. He heard the huffing of the monster at his tail.

  If he could just get under the low sled, hide there . . .

  But he didn’t know the yard. One paw hit a broken tile in the scrubby weeds, and he lost his footing. He hit his shoulder and rolled. He came to rest on his side as the huge dog lunged at him.

  Benny winced. Desperate, he exposed his belly and piddled on himself, showing his submission. But it didn’t matter. Lips rippled back from yellow teeth.

  Then the monster suddenly jerked to a stop in midlunge, accompanied by a surprised yelp. The brute spun around. Benny saw something attached to his tail.

  It was Junie. Dropped by her captor, she had come at the monster with her usual sneak attack. The monster spun several more times as Junie remained clamped to his tail. This was no playful nip. She must’ve dug in deep with her sharp teeth. In attempting to throw her off, the large dog only succeeded in stripping more fur and skin from his tail as Junie was tossed about.

  Blood sprayed across the dirt.

  But finally even Junie couldn’t resist the brute’s raw strength. She went flying, her muzzle bloody. The monster followed and landed hard on her. Blocked by his bulk, Benny couldn’t see—but he heard.

  A sharp cry from Junie, followed by the crunch of bone.

  No!

  Benny leaped to his feet and ran at the monster. There was no plan—only a red, dark anger. He speared straight at the monster. He caught a glimpse of a torn leg, bone showing. The monster gripped his sister and shook her. She flopped limply. Crimson sprayed, then poured from his lips, mixed with drool.

  With the sight, Benny plummeted into a dark place, a pit from which he knew he’d never escape. He leaped headlong at the monster and landed on the brute’s face. He clawed and bit and gouged, anything to get him to let his sister go.

  But he was so much smaller.

  A toss of the blocky head, and Benny went flying away—forever lost in blood, fury, and despair.

  As Brutus stared at Caesar, it all came back. The past and present overlapped and muddled into a crimson blur. He stood at the scratch line in the ring without remembering walking to it. He could not say who stood at the line.

  Brutus or Benny.

  After the mutilation of his sister, Benny had been spared a brutal death. The yard trainer had been impressed by his fire. A real Brutus, this one. Taking on Caesar all alone! Fast, too. See him juke and run. Maybe he’s too good for just bait.

  Caesar had not fared as well after their brief fight. During the attack, a back claw had split the large dog’s eyelid and sliced across his left eye, blinding that side. Even the tail wound from Junie’s bite had festered. The yard trainer had tried cutting off his tail with an ax and burning the stub with a flaming piece of wood. But the eye and tail got worse. For a week, the reek of pus and dying flesh flowed from his kennel. Flies swarmed in black gusts. Finally, a stranger in a cowboy hat arrived with a wheelbarrow, shook hands with the handler, and hauled Caesar away, muzzled, feverish, and moaning.

  Everyone thought he’d died.

  They’d been wrong.

  Both dogs toed the scratch line in the sand. Caesar did not recognize his opponent. No acknowledgment shone out of that one eye, only bloodlust and blind fury. The monster lunged at the end of his chain, digging deep into the sand.

  Brutus bunched his back legs under him. Old fury fired through his blood. His muzzle snarled into a long growl, one rising from his very bones.

  The tall skinny man lifted both arms. “Dogs ready!” He brought his arms down while stepping back. “Go!”

  With a snap, they were loosed from their chains. The dogs leaped upon each other. Bodies slammed together amid savage growls and flying spittle.

  Brutus went first for Caesar’s blind side. He bit into the nub of ear, seeking a hold. Cartilage ripped. Blood flowed over his tongue. The grip was too small to hold for long.

  In turn, Caesar struck hard, using his heavier bulk to roll Brutus. Fangs sank into his shoulder. Brutus lost his hold and found himself pinned under that weight. Caesar bodily lifted him and slammed him into the sand.

  But Brutus was still fast. He squirmed and twisted until he was belly to bel
ly with the monster. He jackrabbit-punched up with his back legs and broke Caesar’s hold on his shoulder. Loosed, Brutus went for the throat above him. But Caesar snapped down at him at the same time. They ended muzzle to muzzle, tearing at each other. Brutus on bottom, Caesar on top.

  Blood spat and flew.

  He kicked again and raked claws across the tender belly of his opponent, gouging deep—then lunged up and latched on to Caesar’s jowl. Using the hold, he kicked and hauled his way out from under the bulk. He kept to the beast’s left, his blind side.

  Momentarily losing sight of Brutus, Caesar jagged in the wrong direction. He left his flank open. Brutus lashed out for a hind leg. He bit deep into the thick meat at the back of the thigh and chomped with all the muscles in his jaws. He yanked hard and shook his head.

  In that moment of raw fury, Brutus flashed to a small limp form, clamped in bloody jaws, shaken and broken. A blackness fell over his vision. He used his entire body—muscle, bone, and blood—to rip and slash. The thick ligament at the back of the leg tore away from the ankle.

  Caesar roared, but Brutus kept his grip and hauled up onto his hind legs. He flipped the other onto his back. Only then did he let go and slam on top of the other. He lunged for the exposed throat and bit deep. Fangs sank into tender flesh. He shook and ripped, snarled and dug.

  From beyond the blackness, a whistle blew. It was the signal to break hold and return to their corners. Handlers ran up.

  “Release!” his trainer yelled and grabbed the back of his collar.

  Brutus heard the cheering, recognized the command. But it was all far away. He was deep in the pit.

  Hot blood filled his mouth, flowed into his lungs, soaked into the sand. Caesar writhed under him. Fierce growling turned into mewling. But Brutus was deaf to it. Blood flowed into all the empty places inside him, trying to fill it up, but failing.

  Something struck his shoulders. Again and again. The handler’s wooden bat. But Brutus kept his grip locked on the other dog’s throat. He couldn’t let go, trapped forever in the pit.

  Wood splintered across his back.

  Then a new noise cut through the roaring in his ears. More whistles, sharper and urgent, accompanied by the strident blare of sirens. Flashing lights dazzled through the darkness. Shouts followed, along with commands amplified to a piercing urgency.

  “This is the Police! Everyone on your knees! Hands on heads!”

  Brutus finally lifted his torn muzzle from the throat of the other dog. Caesar lay unmoving on the sand, soaked in a pool of blood. Brutus lifted his eyes to the chaos around him. People fled the stands. Dogs barked and howled. Dark figures in helmets and carrying clear shields closed a circle around the area, forming a larger ring around the sand pit. Through the open doors of the warehouse, cars blazed in the night.

  Wary, Brutus stood over the body of the dead dog.

  He felt no joy at the killing. Only a dead numbness.

  His trainer stood a step away. A string of anger flowed from the man’s lips. He threw the broken stub of his bat into the sand. An arm pointed at Brutus.

  “When I say release, you release, you dumb sack of shit!”

  Brutus stared dully at the arm pointed at him, then to the face. From the man’s expression, Brutus knew what the handler saw. It shone out of the dog’s entire being. Brutus was trapped in a pit deeper than anything covered in sand, a pit from which he could never escape, a hellish place of pain and hot blood.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. The beast stalked after him, no longer dog, only a creature of rage and fury.

  Without warning—no growl, no snarl—Brutus lunged at the trainer. He latched on to the man’s arm. The same arm that dangled pups as bait, an arm attached to the real monster of the sandy ring, a man who called horrors out of the shadows and set dogs on fire.

  Teeth clamped over the pale wrist. Jaws crushed down. Bones ground and crackled under the pressure.

  The man screamed.

  From the narrow corner of one eye, Brutus watched a helmeted figure rush at them, an arm held up, pointing a black pistol.

  A flash from the muzzle.

  Then a sizzle of blinding pain.

  And at last, darkness again.

  Brutus lay on the cold concrete floor of the kennel. He rested his head on his paws and stared out the fenced gate. A wire-framed ceiling lamp shone off the whitewashed cement walls and lines of kennels. He listened with a deaf ear to the shuffle of other dogs, to the occasional bark or howl.

  Behind him, a small door led to an outside fenced-in pen. Brutus seldom went out there. He preferred the shadows. His torn muzzle had been knitted together with staples, but it still hurt to drink. He didn’t eat. He had been here for five days, noting the rise and fall of sunlight through the doorway.

  People came by occasionally to stare at him. To scribble on a wooden chart hanging on his door. Men in white jackets injected him twice a day, using a noose attached to a long steel pole to hold him pinned to the wall. He growled and snapped. Mostly out of irritation than true anger. He just wanted to be left alone.

  He had woken here after that night in the pit.

  And a part of him still remained back there.

  Why am I still breathing?

  Brutus knew guns. He recognized their menacing shapes and sizes, the tang of their oils, the bitter reek of their smoke. He’d seen scores of dogs shot, some quickly, some for sport. But the pistol that had fired back at the ring had struck with a sizzle that twisted his muscles and arched his back.

  He lived.

  That, more than anything, kept him angry and sick of spirit.

  A shuffle of rubber shoes drew his attention. He didn’t lift his head, only twitched his eyes. It was too early for the pole and needles.

  “He’s over here,” a voice said. “Animal Control just got the judge’s order to euthanize all the dogs this morning. This one’s on the list, too. Heard they had to tazer him off his own trainer. So I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

  Brutus watched three people step before his kennel. One wore a gray coverall zippered up the front. He smelled of disinfectant and tobacco.

  “Here he is. It was lucky we scanned him and found that old HomeAgain microchip. We were able to pull up your address and telephone. So you say someone stole him from your backyard?”

  “Two years ago,” a taller man said, dressed in black shoes and a suit.

  Brutus pulled back one ear. The voice was vaguely familiar.

  “They took both him and his littermate,” the man continued. “We thought they’d run off during a thunderstorm.”

  Brutus lifted his head. A boy pushed between the two taller men and stepped toward the gate. Brutus met his eyes. The boy was older, taller, more gangly of limb, but his scent was as familiar as an old sock. As the boy stared into the dark kennel, the initial glaze of hope in his small face crumbled away into horror.

  The boy’s voice was an appalled squeak. “Benny?”

  Shocked and disbelieving, Brutus slunk back on his belly. He let out a low warning growl as he shied away. He didn’t want to remember . . . and especially didn’t want this. It was too cruel.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder to the taller man. “It is Benny, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “I think so.” An arm pointed. “He’s got that white blaze over his right ear.” The voice grew slick with dread. “But what did they do to him?”

  The man in the coveralls shook his head. “Brutalized him. Turned him into a monster.”

  “Is there any hope for rehabilitation?”

  He shook his head and tapped the chart. “We had all the dogs examined by a behaviorist. She signed off that he’s unsalvageable.”

  “But, Dad, it’s Benny . . .”

  Brutus curled into the back of the run, as deep into the shadows as he could get. The name was like the lash of a whip.

  The man pulled a pen from his coverall pocket. “Since you’re still legally his owners and had no part in the
dog-fighting ring, we can’t put him down until you sign off on it.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “Jason, we had Benny for two months. They’ve had him for two years.”

  “But it’s still Benny. I know it. Can’t we try?”

  The coverall man crossed his arms and lowered his voice with warning. “He’s unpredictable and damn powerful. A bad combination. He even mauled his trainer. They had to amputate the man’s hand.”

  “Jason . . .”

  “I know. I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise. But he deserves a chance, doesn’t he?”

  His father sighed. “I don’t know.”

  The boy knelt down and matched Brutus’s gaze. The dog wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. He locked eyes and slipped into a past he’d thought long buried away, of fingers clutching hot dogs, chases across green lawns, and endless sunny days. He pushed it all away. It was too painful, too prickled with guilt. He didn’t deserve even the memory. It had no place in the pit.

  A low rumble shook through his chest.

  Still, the boy clutched the fence and faced the monster inside. He spoke with the effortless authority of innocence and youth.

  “It’s still Benny. Somewhere in there.”

  Brutus turned away and closed his eyes with an equally firm conviction.

  The boy was wrong.

  Brutus slept on the back porch. Three months had passed and his sutures and staples were gone. The medicines in his food had faded away. Over the months, he and the family had come to an uneasy truce, a cold stalemate.

  Each night they tried to coax him into the house, especially as the leaves were turning brown and drifting up into piles beneath the hardwoods and the lawn turned frosty in the early morning. But Brutus kept to his porch, even avoiding the old sofa covered in a ragged thick comforter. He kept his distance from all things. He still flinched from a touch and growled when he ate, unable to stop himself.

  But they no longer used the muzzle.

  Perhaps they sensed the defeat that had turned his heart to stone. So he spent his days staring across the yard, only stirring occasionally, pricking up an ear if a stray squirrel should dare bound along the fencerow, its tail fluffed and fearless.