Breeds (7 page)

And unleash hell.

In their cages of wire and wood, the dogs slept in trembling curls of fur and bones, burying their noses under their tails. Some whimpered with nightmares, others shivered in dreamless pits of black.

The German Shepherd lay awake with his nose between his paws, eyes bright in the dark. Every tiny movement placed him a little more on edge, but he didn’t give in to fear yet. The rumbling of his stomach made him dread eating what was thrown at him, for he knew he shouldn’t have, even as he relented and devoured the meat. The prison stunk with their waste, as the old man-thing didn’t clean the cages, ever.

His given name was Maximilian, or just Max. He belonged to a lovely lady right in Upper Amherst Cove. He didn’t know where he was, but the last thing he remembered was being let outside for a quick piss and eating some meat that smelled strange. Then he was here, in the forever cold and sometimes dark, without his chew toys. The others had been here much longer, and most of their minds seemed gone. The old man-thing had collected all shapes and sizes in his cages, and while Max had once thought he’d seen most of his kind, it was obvious that he had not. There were dangerous-looking dogs held here, bred for strength and intellect, as well as the half-breed mongrels grown wild. Ones with oddly-pointed skulls and narrow eyes, and great dogs with airs of dignified melancholy. All kept in cages barely large enough to move in. The little ones, one cage to his right, constantly barked and jumped and seemed the farthest gone. Max felt a distinct evil emanating from them, a swelling desire to hurt people. Or any other animal for that matter.

A rumbling across the way cocked the Shepherd’s ears upward. He recognized the dog by its voice alone. Even in the cages as they all were, one had already established himself as leader. With a coat of black and orange, the leader wasn’t as big as Max, but size wasn’t that great of an advantage. The Rottweiler growled again, warning the Shepherd to look someplace else, informing him that, if necessary, if the leader
had
to, he’d shred the wire of both their cages. And rip the dog’s throat out.

Max glanced away, but it wasn’t from fear. He didn’t fear the leader. But he did fear what he’d eaten.

And the evil growing inside him.

The plane touched down in St. John’s airport a little after midnight, but Kirk had trouble believing they were actually on the ground. The flight had been a sleepless hell. Trapped scents consisting of quietly released gas, bad breath, and overpowering perfumes and colognes. Somewhere halfway over the Atlantic, one stupid bastard, who had drunk too much before boarding, got sick and puked while fumbling to open his barf bag. The vomiting occurred near the rear of the plane, maybe thirty rows away from business class, where both Kirk and Morris sat, but with their heightened senses of smell, it might as well have happened right in their laps. In his seat across the aisle, Morris appeared ready to explode, testing his armrests with death grips.

Kirk didn’t know how he had made it himself. Twenty-five minutes earlier, when he’d looked out his window to see the old city, all he’d seen were the flickering lights of the aircraft’s wings bathed in clouds. The captain had come on shortly afterwards, explaining that the cloud cover was low and the snow intensifying, but they would attempt landing anyway. He hadn’t mentioned the turbulence until the first solid dip that had Kirk tightening his seatbelt.

The pair of wardens led a sluggish stream of disembarking passengers. Both men were bone weary and didn’t bother speaking to each other. The arrival terminal glowed with a fluorescent sterility, causing them to squint against the glare. It took another twenty minutes to retrieve their bags, during which both kept quiet and lingered near the back of the assembled crowds. A few people glanced their way, but furtively, fearfully. Kirk knew he looked hard, but Morris was something dredged up from a charred pipeline. The bright lights of the luggage area only jacked up his intimidation level all the more. The way he looked, the cops could arrest the guy on suspicion of murder based on his appearance alone.

Morris got his bag first, a small overnight deal with a padlock on one zippered end, and sauntered sleepily towards the sliding exit doors. Kirk fumed at his companion, partially because he wanted to be the first out of the airport, and because he didn’t want to look like he was chasing after Morris’s heels.

Five minutes later, Kirk retrieved his own bag and plodded out the door. Underneath the glare of a streetlight stood Morris, breathing in air tainted with exhaust. A line of cabs idled not ten feet away. Snow fell in a thickening sheet, misting the light.

“You get a cab?” Kirk asked, stopping beside him.

“Nope.”

Kirk dispensed with airs and glared at Morris. “Why the hell not?”

Morris took his time answering. In fact, Kirk was a split second from marching to one of the waiting cabs when he heard, “Roads are bad. I talked to a driver. No one’s heading out to Amherst Cove at this hour.”

“What?” Kirk’s jaw dropped, mortified.

“In the morning we can get a shared van with eight other people, or we can pay the one-fifty and ride in on our own.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Two choices. Sleep here in the airport until morning, or burn through more of our cash and get a hotel room.”

“You’ll not find a room in d’city this night, sirs,” spoke a voice with just a dash of Irish brogue. Both men turned to see a figure hopping up onto the snow-slick walkway. Short, barrel shaped, with a walrus mustache and a blue winter’s coat that looked inflated. “Me buddies were just after ferrying a few folks around. She’s all booked up. After telling some other people the same thing now, and they’re staying here until morning. Seein’ if the weather improves any. Surprised the b’ys didn’t mention it to ye.”

Morris ignored the cabbie. Kirk didn’t feel like talking to him either. Sensing dismissal, the driver waved his hand and paced beside his vehicle as if on guard duty.

“We could rent a car,” Kirk suggested.

“Nar car to be had at this hour, my son,” the cabbie stated with a defiant shake of his head.

“In the morning then.”

“Youse’s headin’ out to Bonavista, right?” the cabbie asked.

Both Morris and Kirk looked in his direction.

“Trouble is, see, there’s a storm headin’ this way. Big bastard, too.
Big
. Callin’ it a ‘blizzard for the ages.’ Hundred kilometer winds. Temperature around minus fifteen Celsius. Some forecasters say close to forty centimeters o’ snow.
Forty
centimeters! It’s ravaging Nova Scotia even as I breathe ‘afore ye both. This last flight, the one you were on, skirted the edge of that beast and got you here, but you’ll have front row seats for the next one. The monster’s moving this way. Be here by tomorrow afternoon and it’s three hours plus to Bonavista in
good
weather. Yer lookin’ at four or five hours in slop like that. And somethin’ else I’ll tell ye––no driver from St. John’s is gonna want to go out there and get trapped. Nosir. Rent a car, sure, but only if you can get one, and I’ve heard they’re all gone, but don’t quote me on that. Yer best bet is t’camp out here, get up in the mornin’ and get to the local cab headin’ out that way. There’s a number at the help desk. You give ‘em a call tomorrow. Think the b’y’s name is Perry. He has a house out that way and once he makes his run outta town he won’t be back in until the roads are cleared, and Lord only knows when that could be. They say forty centimeters but t’won’t surprise if’n there’s fifty that comes down.
Fifty!
Take more than a few plows to clear that shit up!”

Kirk glanced at Morris’s stoic features. “Whattaya think?”

Morris didn’t answer, clearly not liking the choices.

“I knows what yer thinkin’,” the cabbie went on. “But, you go ahead and ask the b’ys around here. You ask ‘em. No one’s heading out that way tonight or tomorrow and I’ll be surprised if anyone heads that way the day after. Yer best bet––” at this, the old cabbie leaned in, glanced about furtively, and whispered “—get yerself a hotel somewhere for the night. Within walkin’ distance of George’s Street. That place’s tons of fun.”

With message delivered, the cabbie nodded and winked as if he’d just done them both a favor, and resumed pacing alongside his car.

Fuming against the cold night, Kirk about-faced and went back inside the near-deserted airport. He walked away from the arrival area, boots clicking on tiles awash in a fluorescent glow, and quickly spotted, of all things, a pair of wine-colored vinyl sofa chairs with their backs facing a broad bank of windows. Kirk made a beeline towards the chairs, picked the most comfortable one, dropped his small suitcase beside it and plopped down. It wasn’t a bed, but it would do until morning.

Pulling his stocking cap over his eyes, Kirk unbuttoned his denim coat, slid down in the chair, and propped his feet up on a coffee table. A long sigh blew out his nose, and he noticed that the airport didn’t smell as bad as the Halifax terminal. Probably because it was damn near empty. He gave thanks for that little gift.

Boots thumped along the floor, getting closer. A crash of luggage. Vinyl squeaked as a great weight descended upon it. Another sigh, followed by two great intakes of air. Morris.

“So what do you know about this job?” Morris asked in a weary voice.

Kirk exhaled. “Didn’t we already talk about this?”

“I did. You didn’t.”

“We’re in yet another public place.”

“No one’s around.”

“We’re
in
a fuckin’ airport.”

“Take a sniff and tell me who’s around then.”

Kirk scowled and pushed his cap up. Morris was correct on that point, but he waited before answering, making it seem as though he weren’t in the least impressed, or worried, about his warden companion.

“What do
you
know about this job?” Kirk countered.

This time, Morris took
his
time answering, and round and round they went. The aggravating unspoken shit of laying down who was the baddest and the maddest without coming to blows. No pack had two leaders, but that’s exactly what the Elders had done in this situation––placed a pair of alpha males together. What was worse, they had placed Kirk with
Morris
.

“Like I said over in Halifax. Know that… it must be bad,” Morris rumbled in thought. “To send both of us out here. We’re fixers.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Heard Borland cracked up over here. Stopped listenin’ to the Elders. Killed two of ours.”

“Heard that myself.” Kirk closed his eyes and got comfortable once again.

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Him goin’ dark.”

That made Kirk pause. “Good question.”

“Open yer eyes before I slap you somethin’ fierce.”

Screwing up one corner of his mouth, Kirk complied, but didn’t rush. “He killed two of ours. Now, we do what we came here to do.”

Morris went silent. “Don’t like it.”

“What’re you sayin’?”

“Just sayin’ I don’t like it.”

“You think I do?”

“Why you gotta keep doin’ that?”

“Doin’ what?” Kirk looked at him.

“Answerin’ my questions with questions.”

Round and round
, the thought flashed in Kirk’s head. This wasn’t going to work. They were going be at each other’s throats before they even got to Amherst Cove. “Gettin’ clarification is all.”

“Maybe my boot print on your ass will clarify things.”

Here it comes
.

“Hey,” Kirk said in a tone of deep ice. “You secure that shit. Right now. The Elders got us together to do this, and I don’t wanna haveta worry about you while goin’ after Borland. We work as equals on this or not at all. And you can bet they’ll know what happened if it’s
you
who calls them and not me.”

“You sayin’ I can’t talk to the Elders?”

“No, I’m… look. We work as partners on this. You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours. Clear?”

Morris gave it a good thinking, his threatening features contorting. When he gave his answer, it was a sullen nod. Kirk returned it, wondering if things were actually better or had just gotten worse.

“He knows we’re comin’,” Morris stated quietly.

“You don’t know that.”

The
Were’s
eyes focused on Kirk with mocking light. “You think he doesn’t think we’re comin’? Christ. Expected better from you,
Halifax
.”

Kirk bit back his first reply, and thought about what Morris had just said. A warm rush of dread welled up inside him. Morris was right. The old bastard had already killed two of their kind. Crazy or not, there were repercussions to that kind of blood being spilled. The first time might’ve been an accident. Not likely, but possible. But not the second time. Borland knew the law of the land. Knew the Elders would send someone else after him––would
keep
sending someone after him.

Until he was dead.

“You’re right,” Kirk admitted, granting Morris the moment. To his surprise, the big man didn’t gloat. “He knows we’re comin’. But I bet you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I bet he’s not expectin’ two of us. Maybe one, but not two.”

That silenced Morris, as he digested Kirk’s opinion on the matter. Then, almost begrudgingly, he nodded.

Kirk felt the reasoning flow into the man’s overheated brain. “You’re right, though. He knows
someone
is comin’ for him. And he knows the price. For doing what he did. And even worse…”

“He’s got time to get ready,” Morris finished. He regarded Kirk with dangerous eyes.

“He’s got time to get ready,” Kirk agreed.

And felt the unease sink in.

Sleep didn’t take Kirk easily. Even with the minor improvement in the air quality, and the absence of people and cats. The chair fought with him, making it difficult to get comfortable, and he had a natural aversion to sleeping while sitting up, no matter how much he stretched his legs and boots out over the coffee table, careful not to connect with Morris’s own cement blocks. The leather-clad ogre overfilled his chair, resting with his bearded chin on his chest, letting out the softest buzz saw whines that Kirk found oddly comforting. He envied Morris’s ability to sleep. A large, sun-shaped clock not thirty feet down the fairway kept drawing his attention.