DoG (15 page)

Culann tried to focus on the howling of the dogs. Anything except the three throbbing wounds that screamed at his brain.

“Two.”

Culann could sense the dogs behind him, chomping and slavering, craving the Captain’s blood. But they were held back as if by invisible chains. The Captain was somehow restraining them.

“Time’s up,” the Captain said.

The collective savagery of the dogs overwhelmed Culann’s mind. They seemed to be trying to communicate with him. They couldn’t overcome the barrier the Captain had erected. But their insistent howling seemed to be telling Culann that he could.

“Kill him,” he whispered, and with that, the invisible chains snapped. Alphonse leapt forward latched his powerful jaws on the Captain’s throat. Caught off guard, the Captain struggled to raise his gun in defense, but another dog chomped down on his arm.

The entire pack rushed forward, and Culann could feel the paws press off his back as the dogs fought one another to get at their prey. The Captain started to scream, but the sound died to a gurgle as his windpipe collapsed under Alphonse’s crushing bite.

98

In a matter of moments, the Captain was torn to pieces, which were in turn torn into even smaller pieces. Culann pushed himself up and rolled over into a seated position.

The viciousness of the dogs melted away as quickly as it had appeared. Their bloodthirst slaked, they now enveloped Culann in a blanket of wet tongues and wagging tails.

Culann crawled on his elbows all the way up to Alistair’s. The dogs licked his face with encouragement as he went. He pulled himself up onto a barstool, reached over to snatch up a bottle of vodka, and took a long drink. The liquor burned his throat going down, and he coughed. He pulled the Swiss army knife from Williams’s belt and flipped out the blade using just his left hand and his teeth, which was a struggle. He cut his jeans off so he could treat his wounds. He found a dirty bar rag, soaked it in vodka, and wiped away the blood and grime that covered his wounds.

The wound in his right thigh bled steadily, but didn’t seem serious. The bullet hadn’t struck any bones, so Culann figured his right leg could support his weight. His left leg was another story. His kneecap was broken into at least three pieces. He was going to have to figure out a way to rig up a cast. Even with a cast, he knew he’d be permanently crippled. His hand was likewise broken in a few places and would never be the same. He was going to have to become left-handed.

Before learning to overcome these permanent disabilities, Culann needed to stop the blood pouring from the bullet holes. He cut his jeans into strips, which he doused in vodka and used to bind his wounds. He sat on the barstool in his t-shirt, underwear, socks and shoes. He drank what was left of the vodka, which did little to dull the pain that reverberated through every cell in his body. He thought he might have better luck with Worner’s marijuana, but it was all back at the cabin. Then he had an idea.

“Alphonse,” he said. The dog rose from the floor and peered up at Culann with his cerulean eyes. The Captain’s blood stained Alphonse’s muzzle. “Go get marijuana.”

Alphonse spun around and charged out of the tavern. If Culann hadn’t been in such agony, he would have laughed. As ridiculous as it was, his strange power over the dogs might just allow him survive. A couple of minutes later, Alphonse returned with a baggie containing several of Worner’s already-rolled joints hanging out of his mouth.

Culann lit one of the joints with bar matches and then slid down to the floor. The dogs settled in around him, and he felt safe and warm. He puffed on the joint, and the waves of pain began to ebb, and soon his snores mixed in with those of the dogs, and the island was once again at peace.

The pain tore Culann from his slumber. He hastily lit another joint and took a couple of hits. The smoke burned his dry throat, and he coughed, which made his wounds throb. He dragged himself back up onto a barstool and then leaned over to grab a bottle of club soda from behind the bar. He drank it down and then finished the joint. The pain receded but Culann’s head was so muddled he doubted he’d be able to function. Simply staying alive was a struggle, and Culann realized he was going to need to be sharp to survive. He could treat his pain or he could think. He couldn’t do both.

“Alphonse,” he called out, “go next door and get me some food.”

99

As before, the dog snapped to attention and then scurried off to do Culann’s bidding. He returned with a loaf of white bread. Culann would have preferred a little more flavor, but was still amazed the dog had brought anything.

“Good boy,” he said, scratching Alphonse behind the ears with his good hand.

After eating a few slices of bread, Culann stepped gingerly off of the stool. His right leg could support his weight, although the wound in his thigh screamed when his foot hit the floor. He ordered the dogs to clear a path, and they dutifully complied. The barstool stood at just about the right height to serve as a crude crutch. Culann snaked his right arm through the seatback, careful to avoid putting any pressure on his shattered hand, and swung the stool forward a few inches. He hopped ahead on his left leg and then swung the stool forward again. Walking this way, he slowly and clumsily crossed the bar and made it outside.

The fog had receded while Culann slept. It still covered the water just off shore, but Culann could now see around the island. He hobbled forward on the stool, collecting things he would need to properly address his injuries. Between his inefficient locomotion and his drug-addled mind, it took him over an hour to find suitable items.

He started with his shattered right knee. He sat on a barstool and rested his right foot on another stool. He slid a thin piece of plywood, a yard long and four inches wide, underneath the leg. Using just his left hand and his teeth, Culann managed to secure the wood in place with duct tape. Frank and Worner would have been proud of him.

With his knee sufficiently splinted, he moved on to his mangled right hand. He dragged two stools together so that they were about six inches apart. He laid two foot-long dowel rods on the stools and pressed his right arm on top of them, palm up. He used the gap between the chairs to wind the duct tape around, fastening the dowels to his forearm. Then he raised his arm and delicately worked up to the hand. The dowels immobilized his right wrist, which Culann hoped would allow the hand to heal.

He’d found a push broom which he now turned upside down to serve as a less-cumbersome crutch. He took a clean sheet and tore it into strips that became fresh bandages. He wrapped another sheet around his neck like a cape to keep warm since he didn’t want to try pulling clothes on over his broken bones.

As the pot wore off, the pain returned. Culann struggled through it, vowing to lay off the drugs and keep his drinking to a reasonable level until he had the situation under control. His wounds were clean and the fractures set, so Culann was reasonably certain of his immediate survival. His longer-term survival—and that of the dogs to whom he now owed his life—was another story.

The next couple of days were hard for Culann. His pain lessened, but his injuries made challenges of even the simplest tasks. Alistair, Julia and Marty had lived in a room at the back of the bar, which Culann now claimed as his home. It was closer to
Wal-Mart
Jr.
and the dock than Frank’s place. He kept supplies of water and food in his bedroom and on top of the bar. He’d fed the dogs a few bags of dog food, but knew the supply wouldn’t last much longer. Fortunately his rain-catchers had worked, so the dogs had water, at least for now.

100

He thought about a longer-term solution. The pipes coming out of each cabin slipped under the soil, so he couldn’t easily determine where they led. Eventually though, he found a water storage tank about a quarter-mile from the main road back behind McGillicuddy’s trailer. A large pipe coming out of it looked like it led down to the well.

There was also a spigot on the side. When Culann turned it on, water poured out onto the grass. He figured this was just what was left in the tank, but it was probably enough to make a difference until he found a way to get at the water below. He shut off the faucet and limped back to the shore.

Culann perched atop a barstool he’d dragged out onto the dock. He’d put in a full day’s work—or at least its equivalent since the sun still didn’t let him know whether it was day or night—so he smoked the last of Worner’s pre-rolled joints. It would probably be a good week before the pain lessened enough that he’d be able to sleep without marijuana. Worner had a couple of bags of dried weed in his shack, but Culann was going to have a hell of a time rolling joints with just his left hand. A little high already, he giggled at the notion that his continued survival depended on his ability to master the use of drug paraphernalia.

Fog still covered the water and obscured the sun. The fog seemed to be keeping people from coming to the island. Culann figured the orb had something to do with this.

It was as if the orb felt bad about all the carnage it had wrought and wanted to prevent any more. Or maybe it was Culann who was somehow creating the fog. But Culann didn’t know how long the fog would work. Sooner or later, people would row through it, and Culann would have to watch them die.

He glanced out at the water to where the orb rested beneath the surface. He thought about the Captain who’d been so sure he’d be able to control it. But to Culann, three decades spent obsessively scouring the seabed sounded more like the actions of a slave than a master. And why did the orb grant Culann the power over the dogs that saved his life? Culann had no illusion about his ability to control the orb. This thing was beyond human understanding, and perhaps it was the failure to admit this that drove the monk and the Captain to madness. It had given Culann the power to control the dogs and could perhaps give him further powers that would make survival on this island possible. But those powers would undoubtedly come at a cost. Culann resolved to let the orb be.

Alphonse licked Culann’s bare leg. He reached down and nestled his fingers in the thick fur atop the dog’s head. A handful of other dogs pressed forward for their turn.

Culann carefully lowered himself down to the dock and let the dogs envelop him.

101

102

Diary of Culann Riordan, Day 18

I suppose it’s time for me to try to come to grips with why I’m here. I’ve had a lot
of time to think about it lately. I’d say it comes down to a general weakness – I do what’s
easy instead of what’s right. I drink instead of confronting my problems. Even now, I
smoke dope to dull my physical pain, but this also keeps me from thinking about all of the
things I’ve done.

My problem with the girls is… I still don’t quite know. I know enough about
biology to know there’s nothing that unusual about being attracted to post-pubescent
females who happen to be a little on the young side. But for some reason, I act on that
attraction while just about every other civilized man in the world shows self-control. I
wasn’t always like this.

I think it has something to do with being a teacher. I didn’t have these urges until
I became responsible for other people’s children. It’s like my subconscious had to find a
way to betray that responsibility…

No, that’s bullshit. I did this, not my subconscious. I’m a grown man and I acted
consciously. I need to accept this responsibility and…what? How do I make amends for
what I’ve done when I’m stuck on this island? I can take good care of the dogs, but that
hardly seems proportionate. Besides, I was going to do my best with the dogs anyway
(provided I can figure out a solution to the food situation). I need to somehow figure out
a way to make things right with the universe, but that’s going to be hard when I have to
struggle so hard just to stay alive. Self-preservation is a fundamentally selfish endeavor.

103

1

Culann sat on a stump on the island’s wooded western edge, gazing off to the horizon where the sky blushed with the first sunset he’d seen in six weeks. He sipped whiskey from the bottle while the dogs busied themselves urinating on the spruce trees surrounding them. Over the last month, Culann’s wounds had healed about as well as they were going to. His left kneecap had fused back together, though not exactly in the right shape. The leg could bear his weight as long as he walked with a cane he’d fashioned from a barstool leg. His right hand curled into a claw, but he could still use it.

He could even write, albeit sloppily, and had taken to keeping a journal in Alistair’s unused account ledgers. He figured it was a way to keep his mind sharp and ward off the insanity of isolation, at least for a time.

The color slowly bled from the sky to reveal the star-glittering blackness of night.

The return to diurnality reassured Culann, who’d feared the orb had permanently divorced him from nature in this fog-shrouded island. The setting sun told Culann that the world did indeed still turn. It also meant that winter would come.

Culann hadn’t seen a living thing die since the Captain had been devoured by the dogs. The power of the orb had kept humanity at bay. Culann had heard sounds and seen flashes of light from across the inlet, but his would-be visitors had undoubtedly been deterred by mechanical difficulties and the thick fog that suddenly appeared a half-mile from shore. Culann dreaded the day when some adventurous soul would row through the mystical barrier to certain death.

The dogs also worried Culann. They’d gone through almost all of the dog food he’d found at
Wal-Mart Jr.
He’d tried rationing, but the larger dogs shoved aside the smaller ones and ate their fill. Culann had to exert his control over the dogs to get them to share enough to keep them all alive. His own stock of food would keep him going through winter, but not if he shared any with this ravenous pack that grew less tame with each passing day. He was sickened with the thought that he’d have to kill some—most—