The Dog (7 page)
By the time the morning sun starts rising in the distance, Jon and I are in the bedroom. He's still holding the rifle in his arms, and he's sitting on the floor next to me, with his back against the bed. Neither of us slept during the night. We both stayed right here, watching the door and listening in case there was any hint of movement outside.
Now that the storm has passed, however, light is streaming through the rain-spattered window and the only sound comes from dribbles of water running down off the roof.
“I should go take a look,” Jon says finally, turning to me. He seems exhausted, with rings under his eyes. “I should, right? I should go and...”
He pauses, before gasping as he gets to his feet.
Letting out a faint whimper, I paw his leg.
“It's okay, buddy,” he continues, his voice filled with fear. “I'm going to be real careful. And don't worry, we've got plenty of ammo for the rifle. That's one of the advantages of not really liking the goddamn thing. I never even opened the box of ammunition until yesterday.”
He heads through to the cabin's main room, and after a moment I follow. The night's storm has changed the scents coming from the other side of the front door, and it takes a few seconds before I realize I can smell death. I wait as Jon opens the door, and then finally he swings it open to reveal the two dead bodies down at the bottom of the steps. I hesitate, worried that they might stir, but the only movement comes from beads of rain that dribble down their sides.
Richard's dead eyes are still open, covered in spots of water.
“Fuck,” Jon says, stepping out onto the porch with the gun still in his hands. “I was kinda hoping...”
His voice trails off.
“Well, you know. That none of it actually happened. That it was all just some kind of nightmare.”
His hands are trembling, and I can tell he's shocked by the horrific scene.
“What do I do?” he asks finally, turning to me. “What the hell am I supposed to do with them? Even if everything Richard said yesterday is true...”
He stares at me for a moment, before looking down at the bodies again.
“I guess I have to move them,” he continues. “I don't want to touch them, though. I'll find some other way. And then when this is all over, I'll have to explain to the cops...”
He pauses.
“And it
will
be all over,” he adds finally. “Soon. I can feel it. Everything's going to go back to normal.”
***
It takes most of the morning, but Jon finally manages to move the two bodies. He uses a couple of branches, which allow him to push the bodies around without actually touching them. I keep back, watching from the porch, because something about the scent from Richard's body is making me nervous. Somehow the smell isn't changing properly, and I let out a few cautious growls every time Jon uses the branches to push Richard further from the cabin.
Finally, once he's done, Jon comes and sits next to me on the steps.
“Should I burn them?” he asks, a little out of breath. “I can't just leave them like that, can I? It's not like I can call the cops right now and get them taken away, so...”
He pauses, before getting to his feet.
“I'll burn them,” he continues, reaching down and patting my head. “I can explain everything to the cops later, I can try to make them understand, but right now I figure I have to deal with the fact there are two dead bodies out here. I'll just use a little gas, not a lot, and then...”
He seems momentarily lost for words.
“Richard's car probably has something in the tank. Maybe enough for us to get out of here, Harry. I guess that's something we need to consider, but let's just do one job at a time, huh?”
I watch as he heads over to Richard's car. After fiddling with some kind of hose, he manages to get some dark, foul-smelling liquid to come dribbling out into a bucket. To be honest, I'm more focused on sniffing the scent that's coming from the bodies on the wet grass, because one of them – Richard's, I'm almost certain – seems to be somehow getting stronger, with a more pronounced and active smell than I'd expect from a corpse. I want to go closer and get a better sense of what's happening, but I don't think it's safe.
As Jon carries the bucket over to the bodies, I let out a bark to warn him.
“It's okay, buddy,” he replies, pouring the bucket's contents over the two corpses. “It's not nice, but I've got this.”
The liquid obliterates the other scents that were coming from the bodies, which makes me feel a little calmer. Still, I know that something isn't quite right, and I watch with concern as Jon heads to the other car and then returns with a little rattling box.
“I've never burned a corpse before,” he mutters, glancing at me. “And now I've got two! New life experiences for everyone, huh?”
He stops next to the bodies, staring down at them, and I can tell he's worried.
I bark again, hoping he'll heed my warning and step back.
Instead, he continues to look at the corpses, as if he's lost in thought. Finally he opens the little box in his hands and takes out what looks like a tiny piece of wood.
“I don't know what to say, really,” he continues finally. “I've never been a religious guy, Harry, but at a time like this, I'm thinking maybe...”
He pauses, and then he glances up at the clear blue sky above. He hesitates for a moment, before mumbling something under his breath and then striking the piece of wood against the side of the box. A small flame bursts to life, which he then drops onto the bodies.
At the very last second, Richard's body twitches.
Suddenly flames burst across the two corpses.
I bark several times, but there's no further sign of movement other than the blazing, roaring flames that are already sending thick black smoke high into the clear blue sky.
Letting out a faint, worried whimper, I step back from the edge of the steps, and then I turn around a couple of times before settling again, watching the flames. I need to make sure that Richard doesn't suddenly start moving again.
Jon simply stands on the grass and watches the fire, before coming over and taking a seat next to me. For the next few minutes, we both stare in silence as the flames burn. Jon doesn't say a word, which is unusual for him. Instead, he strokes the fur on the back of my neck for a little while, and then his hands falls still, resting on my flank. It feels good to have him so close, and I'm glad he's keeping well away from the burning bodies. Eventually the flames start to die down, and all that's left is a charred and blacked pile of bones smoking in the wet, bright green grass. Even the bones are mostly destroyed, although I can see part of Richard's blackened skull still, and his mouth is wide open. I'm sure it was closed when the fire started.
“Well that was that,” Jon mutters. “When they've cooled, I'll take the tarp from round back, and I'll... I guess I'll find some way to wrap them up and then move them further away. Maybe down to the lake.”
He turns to me, and I can see the fear in his eyes.
“Hell of a way to spend our day, huh?”
His voice is trembling, and I can't shake the feeling that deep down something has changed in his heart.
“I shot that guy,” he continues finally. “Did you see? Maybe he was a zombie, maybe not, but I shot him right in the face. I shot a...”
He pauses, and now I can hear that his teeth are chattering.
“Fuck!” he hisses, getting to his feet and making his way along the porch, before stopping and turning back to me. “I shot a guy, Harry!” he shouts. “Maybe I was right to do it, maybe I'll have to do it again, but I actually aimed a gun at him and pulled the trigger. And then he died, and that asshole Richard died, and...”
He pauses, before sitting and leaning against the edge of the porch. There are tears in his eyes, and after a moment I get to my feet and head over to join him. Settling next to him again, I rest my chin on his lap, and he starts stroking my neck with a trembling hand. I wish I could make him feel better, but for now all I can do is stay close to him as the smell of burned meat fills the air all around us.
“I shot someone,” he stammers finally, under his breath. “Fuck. I actually shot him.”
After a moment, he reaches down and feels the flesh around his ankle, where there's a small graze in the skin.
“Damn it,” he mutters, “I didn't notice that happening. Must have been while I was moving them.”
I don't know how long we sit like this. Several hours, with my chin resting on his leg and his voice trembling as he continues to talk out loud. Eventually I go to the top of the steps and settle there, keen to keep my eyes on the burned bones, just to make sure that Richard doesn't move again. I glance back at Jon every few minutes, though, and I can't help noticing that he's still scratching that patch of damaged flesh on his ankle.
Jon's not well.
I start worrying later that evening, when I notice that he's scratching his ankle a lot while he makes dinner. Then, while he eats on the porch and occasionally passes scraps to me, I realize he seems a little warm, and I can see sweat glistening on his forehead. I tell myself that he's fine, that there's no reason to worry, but after sunset I start noticing that he's touching his wrist a lot, as if he's trying to listen to his heartbeat.
And there's fear in his eyes.
More than before.
“It's nothing,” he mutters several times, forcing a nervous smile as he glances at me. “After everything that happened today,” he adds later as we head out onto the porch and look out at the darkness, “it'd be a miracle if I wasn't feeling under the weather. It's probably just shock.”
Still, he keeps scratching that wound on his ankle, and he's made it bigger now. There's a patch of blood on his fingertips, and he only gets worse during the night. I desperately need to sleep, but I only doze a few times, since Jon keeps tossing and turning, bumping me as I rest at the bottom of the bed. He's mumbling, too, and I think his temperature is getting higher.
Figuring there's nothing I can do right now, I close my eyes and try to sleep. And I tell myself that tomorrow he'll be fine again.
“It's just a stomach bug,” he mutters the next morning, as he comes out from the bathroom. He pulls the door shut, but I heard him on the toilet and I can smell an overwhelming stench of feces. He smiles at me, but he looks hot and drained. “Great timing, huh? Don't worry, I'll be back on top form in no time.”
He spends the next few hours on the porch, drinking tea and watching the forest in the distance. It's clear that he doesn't have much energy, and eventually he grabs a blanket from the bedroom and wraps it around his shoulders, which seems odd since he already seems so warm. The skin around the edge of his nose looks red and sore, with the rash extending down onto his upper lip. He's shivering a little, too, and he keeps mumbling under his breath.
“Just flu,” he says several times.
He reaches over and pats my neck a lot, too, and I let him. He's sick, that much is clear, but I know that Jon has been sick sometimes in the past, and his kind of sickness never seems to cross over and make me unwell. All I want is to make him feel better, and to keep him company while he recovers, but at the same time I can't shake the feeling that he's a lot warmer than ever before.
I'm also watching the burned bones, which are still resting in the grass. They haven't moved since the fire died down, but I still don't like the sight of Richard's skull.
“Do you know what I think?” Jon asks later, after he's said almost nothing for several hours. “I think that Richard guy was full of shit. Seriously, look at the whole thing logically, there's no way some sudden sickness could have carved through the population so fast. Maybe there was some vague thing going on, something small, but he blatantly exaggerated the whole deal.”
He seems a little happier now, and a little calmer.
“He probably shot through at the first opportunity. The guy seemed like a coward. I mean, hell, he was trying to steal from us, right? I bet he was one of those conspiracy nuts and as soon as people started getting sick, he assumed the fucking apocalypse had arrived, so he loaded his car up and took off. Then he happened to find us and he took the opportunity to spew out his mangled version of events. And that other guy, from the gas station? That was just a coincidence. Coincidences happen, right? He was just badly hurt, out of his mind with pain, and that's why he...”
His voice trails off. He mumbles a little more, while still stroking my flank.
“That explains it, really,” he adds finally. “Yeah, I'm sure of it. Just a series of really messed-up coincidences. And do you know what else I think? I think Julie's gonna -”
Suddenly he starts coughing.
Startled, I watch as he turns away from me, coughing into his hands. His whole body is shuddering, and the cough sounds harsh but dry. It takes several minutes for him to recover, and when he moves his hands from his mouth, his wrists, palms and fingers are covered in a fine spray of blood.
“That's nothing,” he stammers, his voice sounding much weaker now. “It's just flu. Even if Richard was telling the truth, which he wasn't, but even if he was... There's no way I could have gotten sick. Not up here, not at the cabin, away from everyone. I didn't even touch the guy from the gas station, so how could it have gotten into me?” He pauses, before turning and forcing a smile. There's blood on his lips, but the rest of his face looks very pale. “It couldn't. So that's final. At the gas station, and then when I was moving the bodies last night, I was careful the whole time. I was really -”
Before he can finish, he starts coughing again. This time some of the blood sprays out between his fingers and hits the wooden floor, and I step back a little.
“It's okay,” he gasps, struggling to get his breath back. “Fuck, this is just...”
He pauses, staring at his blood-spattered hand, as if he's in shock and can't quite work out what's happening.
I let out a faint whimper.
Turning, he reaches out to pat my head, but at the last moment he hesitates and pulls his hand back. I think he's worried about touching me. He looks out toward the forest, and for a few minutes he seems lost in thought, as if he's thinking about something far away. Sweat is running down the side of his face now, and I can feel the extra heat from his body. His scent has changed, too, as if something is different deep down in his body.
Stepping closer, I nudge my nose against the top of his arm, to show him that I'm still here.
“It's okay,” he gasps, his voice sounding very dry now, almost scratched. He's shivering, too, even though it's a warm day and he's got a blanket over his shoulders. “We'll both be fine. And Julie's gonna get here soon.”
***
Later, while Jon is sleeping on the porch, I make my way around to the other side of the cabin, and I look out at the fields. The whole world seems strangely quiet now, and all the distant din of the human world is not only gone, but almost hard to remember.
It feels as if we've been up here at the cabin forever, and I have to struggle to remember what life was like in the city.
Sniffing the air, I realize that most of the smells seems like natural things. The grass, the forest, even scents drifting from the lake, carried all the way here on the breeze... Before, even up here at the cabin, I could always smell cars on the roads and other, occasional signs of human activity for miles around, but now the world seems to have calmed. Despite my concerns about Jon, I can't help looking out across the field and watching the lake's glittering water in the distance, and just taking a moment to let the scents of the natural world linger in my nose.
I wouldn't mind if things stayed like this. I just need Jon to get better first.
When I eventually head back to Jon, I find that he's still sleeping. His head has tilted to one side, and a faint dribble of clear mucus has begun to run from one corner of his mouth. There's sweat all over his face, too, and still a little dried blood on his lips and chin. He looks sick, with pale skin, and I stop before I reach him, worried about getting too close. Still, I've never gotten sick from being around him before, and I remind myself that he needs me. Sometimes, he seems to feel better just when he gets to touch my flank, so I step closer and settle on the ground next to him, listening to the sound of his rapid but shallow breathing.
He'll get better.
He has to.
And until then, I just have to wait.
Suddenly I hear a faint rattling sound from nearby. I hurry to the top of the steps and look toward the trees, but there's no sign of movement. A moment later, I realize that the sound is coming from the burned bones, and I see that the wind has picked up slightly. I start snarling, just in case there's any danger, and I watch for a few seconds as Richard's burned skull twitches slightly.
Finally the wind dies down.
The bones stop moving.
I don't dare stop looking at them, though.
Just in case.
A few minutes later, I hear a faint creaking sound over my shoulder, and I turn just in time to see that Jon's head is moving slightly. His eyes are still closed, but after a moment they start to open. There's some kind of thick, yellowish mucus stuck in his lashes, almost gumming his eyes shut, and it takes a few seconds before he turns and looks down at me. I wait for him to smile, for him to say something that'll make me feel better, but he's simply staring at me with no hint of recognition at all. I'm scared now, but I can't run from him. Jon is my master and nothing can ever make me leave him, even if his expression seems somehow wrong right now. It's almost as if someone else is staring at me from behind his eyes.
“Hey,” he whispers finally, his throat sounding drier than ever. His expression changes, relaxing slightly. “Sorry, buddy, I think I...”
He pauses, almost as if he's forgotten what he was saying.
“I think I nodded off there.”
He tries to sit up, but the effort is clearly painful and it takes him several attempts. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a faint gasp as he looks around.
“What time is it?” he asks. “How long have we been sitting here like this?”
I watch him carefully, looking for some sign that he might be getting better, but if anything he actually seems worse. Warmer, too, and with even more sweat running down his face.
Finally, after a few minutes, he tries to get to his feet. He lets out several more pained gasps, but he keeps pushing until eventually he manages to stand, although he's having to steady himself against the wall.
“I need to sleep,” he mumbles, turning and starting to shuffle toward the door. “I'll be better after that. I just need... I need water, and I need to sleep.”
I follow as he heads inside, and then I watch him stumbling toward the kitchen. He grabs a bottle of water and starts drinking, and he doesn't stop until every last drop is gone, at which point he grabs another bottle and does the same again. Taking a third bottle, he hesitates for a moment, before leaning down and pouring some into my bowl, and then he starts drinking again, tilting his head back as he pours more and more water down his throat. Finally, as if his body can take no more, he lets out a spluttering cough and lets the plastic bottle slip from his trembling hand. Leaning forward, he gasps several times, and I see bloody water dribbling from his lips.
“I just need to sleep,” he says again, turning to me and forcing a smile. “Whatever this is, it's just some kind of flu. I'm going to be fine.”
He starts shuffling toward the bedroom.
“I'll be -”
Suddenly he starts swaying, and he takes a couple of quick steps toward the wall before falling and slamming into the bookshelf. He lets out a gasp of pain, and then he pauses for a moment as if he's trying to get his balance back.
“I'll be fine,” he whispers, heading once again toward the bedroom door. “I'll get better, Julie will come, we'll go home and everything will start getting back to normal. I promise.”
