Dogs (19 page)
Authors: Nancy Kress
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Medical, #General, #Science Fiction, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #Fiction
Dennis said, “They got my Lab, Ninja. I wasn't home and Barb gave him up, she didn't know what else to do. I don't blame her, but Ninja didn't have no plague and there's a bunch of us that don't like this god-damn government thinking they can get away with seizing private property without even warrants.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Dennis's voice dropped several tones. “A bunch of us are going to do something about it, Ed. Are you with us?”
Ed drew a deep breath. In the next room he could hear Cora, moaning again. Rage rose in him, the rage he felt so much nowadays, for just about everything: for Cora and his lousy job and the economy and the government that never did anything to help people like him, only took away everything it could in taxes and fees and penalties and speed traps. And now even dogs.
“Yeah,” Ed said, “whatever you're planning, count me in.”
Jess stood in the lightly falling snow beside Rick Carlin, a nineteen-year-old whom Jess had known since he was an infant. Jess and Billy had gone to high school with Rick's parents.
If things had turned out differently,
Jess thought as he checked his rifle,
this could be my son.
Sophomore year he had dated Linda Carlin, who was then Linda Nellis. Why had they broken up? He couldn't remember. Although he had a vague idea that Linda had dumped him.
Okay, you all have your assignments, let's do it," Don DiBella said. “Everybody clear?”
No one was unclear, or at least no one said anything. Men and women began to disperse, the town teams more lightly clad than the countryside ones. The town teams would search street by street for the shit-brown terrier with milky white eyes but no sign of aggression, while other volunteers began a telephone tree to ask if anyone had seen the dog. Jess and Rick, a countryside team, drove to the last place the terrier had been seen, the woods behind the Animal Control building.
“Do you think we'll find him?” Rick said. Jess glanced over. The boy looked excited, nervous, and self-important, all at once. Nineteen.
“Dunno, Rick.”
“What does it mean if we do?”
“I'm not sure of that, either, except that Dr. Latkin thinks it may speed up finding a cure or a vaccine or something.” This sounded vague even to Jess, but he didn't understand the science here. Increasingly, he thought that he didn't understand much of anything.
“Dad said there are dog packs still hunting out here. Packs you were supposed to catch but didn't yet.”
It sounded like an accusation but Jess knew it wasn't. Rick's voice had grown thick, and he stared determinedly out the passenger window. Jess said gently, “You have a dog missing, Rick?”
“Zorro. Our Bernese mountain.”
Who had done its best to attack Jess earlier that morning. He didn't say this, or anything. The terrier was hunting with that pack. The countryside search teams had orders to shoot any dog they saw except the terrier. Rick shouldn't be out here, but there was no way he could send the boy back now. That would only make it worse for him. Damn, Jess needed Billy. Billy, unlike Jess, could put a bullet cleanly wherever he chose.
Jess parked the car and they started into the woods on foot. It wasn't hard to follow the pack, which had gone barreling through the brush, breaking twigs and leaving footprints and marking territory. A light snow began to fall.
When they came to Black Creek, here a wide, shallow swath murmuring over icy stones, Jess lost the trail. He looked at Rick. “Any ideas?”
The boy scanned everything carefully, and Jess had a powerful image of Rick's father Buddy at this age. Buddy Carlin had been a wonderful tracker, back when Tyler had been smaller and sleepier than it was now, with no commuters, no Wal-Mart, no plague.
“I think they went up the bank,” Rick said. “That way.”
They climbed the bank, steeper on this side of the creek than the other, and headed west. If dogs were going to escape the Tyler township limits, this was the direction they were going to do it. At the top of the bank the woods were mostly white pine, birch, and oak, miles of them spreading toward West Virginia. Somewhere out there were supposed to be Maryland Guardsmen, preventing dogs from escaping Tyler. Yeah, right.
“They were here,” Rick said, pointing to a pile of half-frozen turds under a bush. Jess would have missed it. He sighed.
They walked another forty minutes before he heard baying, so faint he had to strain to catch the sound.
“Northwest,” Rick said. “But look over there, Mr. Langstrom.”
“Jess,” he said automatically. And then, “Bear.”
The brush had been raked back as the bear dug for mast. Jess saw signs of acorns, too. Lately bears had been wandering in from West Virginia with greater frequency. Female bears would be denned with newborn cubs; this was probably a male, newly up for the too-early spring, scrounging for food. Hungry.
Rick said, “Dad told me once his dogs ran a bear for ten miles before he shot it.” He glanced at Jess's face and said, “Not here, of course. Somewhere it was legal. A long, long time ago."
Jess said nothing. The dog pack bayed again, closer.
He followed Rick through the forest. As they ascended steep ground, the trees thinned a little, letting the light snow drift lazily onto Jess's shoulders. He wasn't in as good shape as he should be, and he tried to keep the boy from noticing that his breathing had become labored. Rick climbed lightly, constantly gazing around, determined to miss nothing.
But it was Jess who first spotted the blood. A few drops, brownish-red on the lighter brown pine needles. Then more. When he stooped to examine it, his chest tightened. “Not bear.”
“Uh-uh,” Rick said. The few hairs matted in the blood were short, wiry, shit-brown.
They found the terrier a hundred yards on, after more blood. The little body was mangled so badly that at first Jess wasn't even sure it was the terrier. A foot lay in one direction, a haunch in another. Slowly Jess examined each piece, not touching them, until he was sure.
“Bear,” Rick said.
“Yes.” And not a male. This was the thorough work of a female with cubs nearby. “We need the head, Rick. With the brain.”
They hunted for thirty minutes, but didn't find it.
Shit, shit, shit
.
The dog pack burst from cover before either of them was aware of it. Four of the five that had brought down the doe early that morning. The dogs stopped and circled, growling. Among them was the Bernese mountain.
Jess and Rick stood back to back, rifles raised and cocked. The dogs continued to circle.
It would be the Doberman,
Jess decided; that was the leader. He put the dog in his sights and fired.
The Doberman dropped. The other dogs scattered, howling. Jess aimed at the German shepherd, fired, and missed. Behind him a second shot sounded, echoing off the side of the mountain as if reluctant to end.
Then silence.
Jess turned slowly. At the edge of the woods, almost back in the safety of its cover, lay the Bernese mountain. Zorro. The dog had been fleeing, no longer attacking. Rick stood with his rifle still raised, his young body completely motionless, taut as piano wire. He stayed that way, a boy who had just shot his own dog, until Jess spoke as softly as he could.
“Rick?”
Finally the boy moved. “We had orders. do something very important
Orders.
”
He resumed looking for the head of the mangled terrier.
Jess was careful not to look at Rick, not to notice whether there were tears freezing on his face. Rick's movements were steady. All at once Jess remembered why Linda Nellis had dumped him in high school in favor of Buddy Carlin.
“I'm sorry, Jess,”
she'd said.
“You're just tooâ¦I don't knowâ¦wishy-washy for me.”
He searched for the head of the terrier without any real hope that they'd find it.
Newspaper in hand, the deputy knocked on Hugh Martin's door. The White House Chief of Staff looked up and said, “Yes? Is this urgent, Terry?”
“It's the
Baltimore Sun,
Hugh. They got a reporter through the quarantine cordon in Tyler.”
“How the hell did they do that?”
“He sneaked through, sir, from the West Virginia side. You can only cover those mountains so well.” He handed his boss the newspaper and Martin scanned it while Porter gazed out the window at the frozen Rose Garden. The reporter, one Rudy Lundeen, had made the best of his scoop: three separate articles and an editorial.
Martin said sourly, “Where's Lundeen?”
“Under arrest for federal trespass. Apparently he thought it was worth it.”
“Apparently. So now the world knows that there are still a lot of loose dog packs down there, that FEMA has trucked in enough porta-potties and heaters, and that the CDC still doesn't have any effective medical protocols. So what?”
Porter didn't answer. They both knew that the factual reports from inside Tyler weren't the point. The editorial was.
Martin said, “If we give the order to destroy over a thousand dogs, half of them not even infected, the political fallout is going to be bad.”
“Avian flu has led to millions of chickens being destroyed all around the world.”
“Chickens aren't dogs. Do you know how Americans feel about their dogs?”
Porter didn't, actually. He didn't own a pet, and never had much liked dogs, who peed and barked and chewed shoes. Terry Porter wore eight-hundred-dollar Italian loafers.
“Americans spend thirty-four billion dollars a year on pets. They sleep with them and travel with them and go to therapists when their dogs die. Hold off on this order, Terry. We'll just have to ride it out.”
“If even one single infected dog gets out of Tylerâ”
“I know. Just hold off a while longer. And tell Scott Lurie to shoot those damn roving packs. He ought to at least be able to do that.”
Porter left. Martin looked at the fresh intelligence report on his desk. Terry didn't know it yet, but a lot worse things were coming out of Tyler than a single biting dog.
» 39
Allen woke in the hospital very early. His foot was still propped up at the end of his bed, but his mother wasn't sitting in the chair, crying. Cami had persuaded her that she should go home for the night. Something was still wrong with Allen's foot and he couldn't go home yet, but at least he could do stuff this morning without his mother there.
He hoped he could do stuff.
The awful Jason was still asleep. That was good. Lisa was awake, holding her stuffed animal tight, her eyes on the door. She was watching for Cami, Allen knew. Lisa wouldn't talk much except to say “Poo-poo,” but she liked Cami to read to her, stupid stuff about bunnies or princesses. Yesterday Cami had read to Lisa for
hours
, when Allen needed her himself. Still, Lisa was just a little kid and she'd seen her mother eaten by their dog so, grudgingly, Allen guessed it was fair that she came first.
Today, however, was
his
turn with Cami. She would help him with Susie, he knew she would. That's what she did: she helped people. She told Lisa and Jason that yesterday. Allen's mom just made people do things they didn't want to do, and then asked if they'd heard her.
That
was no help.
When Cami finally came, she was in her wheelchair but she had regular clothes on, not a hospital gown. Allen whispered loudly, “Cami!”
“Good morning, Allen. Good morning, Lisa. How's Poo-poo today?”
Lisa didn't answerâshe never answered anything Cami askedâand she didn't smile, either. But she gripped Poo-poo harder and sort of wiggled her body toward Cami, and Allen knew he better act quick or it would be Lisa, Lisa, Lisa again most of the day.
“Cami, I need help!”
“Okay,” she said. “But it will have to be now, Allen, because they're sending me home soon.”
Home? She was going home? Instantly Allen revised his plan. He'd could overhear you on a cell phone.
Cami was talking to Lisa, saying in a low voice that she would come back and visit, visit every single day, she promised, and when Lisa was well againâ
“Cami!”
“What, Allen?”
“Do you have paper and a pencil?”
“I can get them for you.”
“Please! And then when you go home will you take a note to my best friend, Jimmy Doake? It's really, really, really important!”
“Of course I will. But you know, I can't drive, so I have to ask the friend who's taking me home. But I'm sure he'll help, too.”
Cami's face sort of glowed when she said “friend.” Allen ignored this. “Could I have the paper and pencil now? The nurses are probably too busy, they're always too busy.” He tried to sound sad.
“I can get paper at the nurses' station. Back in a minute.”
When she returned, Allen pushed the button to make the top part of his bed go up, balanced the paper on his good leg, and wrote. His teacher at school had taught them correct letter form:
Dear Jimmy,
How are you? I am fine only Im in the hospitel. You have to do something VERY IMPORTENT!!!! Belle is in my seller in the file droor and she needs food and water NOW. Also to go out. She will not bite you! She is sick but not biting. Please do this now and DON'T TELL ANYBODY!!!!
Your frend,
Allen
“Writing to a girl?” Jason said. He poked his neck toward Allen's note. “A girl, a girl, Allen's got a girlfriend!”
“It's not to a girl!” Allen said furiously. He turned the note over.
“A girlfriend, a girlfriend, a hairy ugly girlfriend named Jimmy!”
A chill ran through Allen. If Jason had seen the name, he might also have read some of the note. Jason was a total loser but he was smart. Allen scowled at Jason's stupid, taunting face and folded the note into a very small bundle.
“Here, Cami. It goes to Jimmy Doake, 146 Cobbler Drive. Rememberâyou promised!”
“I promise,” Cami said, smiling. “Jason, don't tease so.”
“He's a nerd.”
“Am not!” Allen said hotly, although in his secret heart he knew he was.
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
“A fight this early in the morning?” said a new voice. “Hot dog, let's sell tickets!”
In the doorway stood a man with his arm in a sling. His hair was wet, like he'd just washed and combed it, he had on a dress-up coat like Allen's father wore to the office, and he carried a bunch of red flowers. Behind him stood another man in regular clothes with, Allen saw, a gun on his hip. Ordinarily this would have been thrilling, as thrilling as the gun Jimmy's dad kept under his bed, but now it gave Allen a sick feeling. People with guns were taking dogs away to the pound.
“Ready to go, beautiful?” the man with the flowers said to Cami, and she got that glow again. But she had good manners.
“Billy, these are my friends Jason, Lisa, and Allen. Kids, this is Mr. Davis andâ¦.”
“Jess Langstrom,” said the other man, who looked very tired. “Chauffeur.”
None of the three children smiled at the men.
Cami kissed Lisa and said, “I promise I'll be back soon, Allen, Lisa, Jason. Meanwhile, get well.”
Lisa started to cry, silent tears rolling down on Poo-poo, and for a hopeful minute Allen thought maybe that would make Cami stay. But it didn't. Mr. Davis rolled her chair away from them and down the hall. But at least Cami had Allen's note to Jimmy, and at the last minute she looked over her shoulder, held up the note, and smiled at Allen.
That would have to do for now.
