DoG (10 page)

64

4

A survivor’s meeting convened in the tavern. They gathered around the bar’s only table. The dogs, who had pressed through the doorway as they entered, now occupied virtually every bit of floor space in the bar. Alistair poured out a few shots of whiskey to settle the nerves. Even Constance had one. Culann had four.

Between the ten of them, they could account for every resident of Pyrite. Aside from Culann, every member of the crew of the
Orthrus
was dead. The nine other survivors were the only people currently on the island who had not served on the
Orthrus
.

Not a single dog had died, but every other animal wild or tame that had been spotted was dead. Moreover there wasn’t a radio, television, cell phone or two-way on the island that could receive a signal from the outside world.

“So what is it?” asked Julia, running her finger along her broad chin.

“It’s got to be a virus of some kind,” Carla said before averting her gaze and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her raincoat. She didn’t seem to Culann to be much of a talker.

“I still think it’s pollution,” Margaret said, her once-glimmering blue eyes now dull with grief. “Something in the air is killing us.”

“But then why are the radios out?” countered Simon in a croak that suggested he was even less used to talking than Carla.

“If a virus hit the mainland,” Genevieve responded with a whiskey-thickened tongue, “there wouldn’t be anything for the radio stations to send out.”

“My mom’s in Fairbanks,” Constance said. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“Of course she is,” Margaret said with forced calm. “Your mom is fine, and we’re going to get you to her as soon as possible.”

“Don’t lie to the child,” Alistair said with such forcefulness a vein throbbed in the side of his shaved head. “This is the hand of God. We all need to get ready for His return.

Are you a Christian?”

Constance nodded her head.

“Good,” Alistair replied. “Maybe that’s why we are still alive. We are the saved.”

Margaret smirked and said, “I’m not much of a Christian. Besides, do you really think the pervert here is one of the saved?”

“What about the orb?” Culann asked to change the subject. “The orb that Gus”—

he squeezed Constance’s bare knee to cushion the blow of hearing her late father’s name—“took from us last night.”

They had all seen the orb last night, even little Marty, and been drawn into the debates as to its origin.

“Why do you seek worldly explanations?” Alistair shot back. “The End of Days is clearly upon us. No other explanation makes sense.”

65

“But we don’t know that the orb is a worldly explanation,” his wife replied.

“Perhaps it is the implement through which the Lord is doing His work.”

Alistair massaged his thick neck in tacit acceptance.

“Julia has a point,” LaTonya said while placing her hand on Julia’s arm. “I don’t know whether this came from Earth or heaven. Or hell, for that matter. I’m sure it has something to do with what’s going on.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

“But why are
you
still alive?” LaTonya asked Culann.

““If you found it,” Genevieve said, “shouldn’t you be the first to go?”

“What kind of name is Culann, anyway?” Simon asked with a squint.

“Irish.”

“You sure it ain’t Russian?”

“Calm down,” Julia interjected. “We don’t know anything yet, so there’s no use throwing out accusations. Where is the orb?”

“My house,” Constance whispered, her eyes never leaving the floor. Culann gave her knee another reassuring squeeze.

Julia and Marty stayed behind while the rest, dogs included, trekked back to Gus’s cabin. Constance waited outside. The grizzled old bastard was in his cramped bathroom. His bare ass hovered over the toilet seat, and his face rested against the opposite wall. He’d keeled over in the middle of taking a dump. This was the sight Constance had woken up to.

The orb rested on the nightstand in the bedroom. Culann picked it up, once again marveling at its polished shine and sturdy heft. Glancing down, he saw that the symbols had changed once more. Now they’d formed into neat rows, mostly of interlocking triangles, with a few circles thrown in. With each change, the symbols seemed to Culann to be taking a more definite shape. He looked up. Everyone stepped back from him.

“You sure you should be touching it?” LaTonya asked.

“Probably not,” he answered, “but we need to figure this thing out.”

They walked out of the cabin and headed back to the bar. Culann held the orb, fingering its odd markings as they walked. After a few moments, a scream cut through the still air.

“Julia!” Alistair shouted, and he ran towards the bar as quickly as his bad leg would carry him.

The others raced after him, the dogs charging ahead. The people had to push the mutts out of the way to get to the middle of the bar, where Julia was performing CPR on Marty. Alistair gripped his son’s lifeless hand as his wife pressed down on the boy’s chest. The two struggled futilely to will their son back to life. Finally, they collapsed into each other, their tears pouring down on Marty’s body.

66

The others stayed back, but the pack of dogs pressed up against the grieving parents and their fallen son, seeming to swallow the fractured family whole. Then Julia rose up from the midst of fur and wagging tails, followed by Alistair, who held Marty’s body to his chest. He laid the boy down upon the bar, kissed his forehead, and turned away.

“We’re going to die,” he said.

It certainly looked that way to Culann. Up until now, the survivors had been assuming that they were the lucky ones, that whatever this was, it could not harm those who’d made it through the night. But Marty put the lie to that notion. Now they wondered who would be next.

It wouldn’t take long to find out.

“It’s suicide to stay here,” Carla whispered.

“She’s right,” Margaret replied. “We need to get off the island if we’re going to have a chance.”

“I got a boat,” Simon said. “All nine of us can fit, no problem.”

“Get us the hell out of here,” Alistair said, his voice choked with bitterness.

Culann wasn’t so sure they could outrun whatever this was, but he voiced his agreement nonetheless. Simon hurried over to his shack to get the keys. While the others waited for him to return, a concerted whining arose from the dogs in one corner of the bar. The humans went over to investigate and found Genevieve slumped forward onto the table. Considering how much she’d drank, she could easily have passed out, but Margaret felt for a pulse and shook her head.

“We got to get out of here,” Alistair cried. “Maybe it’s this bar. Everyone died indoors, right? We need fresh air.”

They all ran to the doorway, pushing dogs out of the way as they scrambled for fresh air. They stood outside panting in the humidity when Carla dropped to the ground in a heap, her straight black hair fanned out onto the grass. She’d been standing right in front of Culann, showing no signs of distress, when her legs buckled. Her face revealed no pain, no fear, no shock. She looked like she’d fallen asleep. But she was dead.

“God in heaven,” Alistair cried. “It’s the orb.”

“Yeah,” LaTonya added. “We have to get rid of it.”

Culann agreed. Nobody had dropped dead before they pulled this thing out of the sea. He took a running start and heaved the orb into the water. It plunked beneath the surface and disappeared into the blackness. Truthfully, though, the water could only have been about five feet deep, which didn’t seem nearly deep enough to Culann.

“I don’t want to die,” Constance sobbed.

Culann reached out for her and pulled her close. She pressed her head against his chest and he could feel her tears, hot and wet, soaking through his shirt. He rubbed her back and then rested his fingers on the exposed skin of her neck. Her soft hair tickled his knuckles.

67

“Simon should be back by now,” LaTonya said.

They all knew she was right and what that meant.

“Forget it,” shouted Alistair. “We’ll row across. It’s not that far.”

Down by the dock, they found two small rowboats. All six couldn’t fit in one, so they decided that Alistair would row one and Culann would row the other. Julia and LaTonya got into Alistair’s boat with him. Margaret dropped dead while they were trying to decide, so it was just Constance and Culann in the other boat. The dogs swarmed along the dock, howling at the last five humans as they pushed off into the water.

Alistair’s boat shot out into the water. Culann wasn’t much of an oarsman, and it took him a while to get the hang of it. Though it was a warm day, a cool breeze blew across the water. Constance shivered in her t-shirt. Culann gallantly removed his shirt and tossed it to her. She smiled, wrapped the shirt around her bare legs, and then fastened her gaze to her feet. The sun and the breeze felt good on Culann’s skin. He stroked harder, more smoothly, and started to catch up to Alistair’s boat. Constance lifted her eyes. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and he felt like he could row forever.

Of course, he then reminded himself, he didn’t have forever.

They overtook Alistair’s boat about two hundred yards offshore. It wasn’t

moving. An oar floated past. Julia lay huddled over Alistair, whose head rested in her lap.

He’d evidently died first. LaTonya’s feet were caught under one of the seats and the rest of her body leaned over the side of the boat. Her head was submerged, leaving her hair to float up to the surface like a bloom of brown seaweed.

“We are the only ones left,” Constance said.

She’d said
we
. Him and her.
We
. Culann felt a fluttering in his chest despite the cloud of death behind him.
We may be about to die
, he thought, but he was alive now. He leaned forward and kissed her.

“Eww, gross. What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Are you some kind of pervert?”

“You just looked so beautiful.”

“My dad just died. We’re probably going to die. What is wrong with you?”

“Sorry.”

“Put your shirt back on. It smells anyway.”

She flung the shirt at Culann. Humiliated, he started pulling it back over his head.

He then felt the rowboat rock and heard a splash. He pulled the shirt down from in front of his eyes. Constance lay face down in the water. A cascade of tiny bubbles churned the water around her. He was alone.

The mainland was still a good half-mile away. Culann didn’t know if he’d live long enough to make it there, and he didn’t know if it would do any good if he did. He sat there for a minute, feeling the gentle rocking of waves beneath him. He could hear the 68

faint echo of the dogs barking back on the dock. They were still alive and so too was he, at least for now, and he felt suddenly guilty for abandoning them.

As he pondered his options, he heard another sound from over his shoulder. He turned and faced the mainland. A motorboat was coming towards him with what looked like two people in the front seats. An overhead light flashed blue and red as the boat came closer. It was a police boat, and Culann’s little rowboat was clearly its destination. He pulled the oars in and waited.

69

70

The Diary of Culann Riordan, Day 11

I’m reading a book I found at Worner’s place called
The Pagan Saints.
It’s all
about how the Christian practice of venerating saints is really just a way of syncretizing
ancient beliefs into modern religions. There a lot of saints associated with dogs in here –

I’ve been reading these parts aloud to entertain my companions. There’s an illustration
of St. Christopher represented in medieval iconography as having the face of a dog. I
held this up for the dogs to see. Alphonse raised his head up and down like he was
nodding. At that point, I put the pot away.

The most bizarre entry in the book was St. Guinefort, a greyhound who lived in
France in the Thirteenth Century. According to legend, a hunter came home and found
Guinefort sitting in the room of the hunter’s infant son. Blood covered the walls and
dripped from Guinefort’s jaws. Overcome with grief at the loss of his son, the hunter shot
an arrow through the dog’s heart. At that exact moment, the baby cried out from the
cradle. The hunter saw that the child was unscathed. Under the cradle, the hunter found
a dead viper. Guinefort had saved the child and been killed for it. This tale of canine
martyrdom resonated with medieval Christians, who revered the dog for nearly a
hundred years until the Church declared the practice heresy.

That’s an impressive dog – sainthood sounds appropriate to me. I wonder if any
of my dogs would ever do anything so heroic. Hell, I’ve never done anything close, and
my life is probably about over. It’s one thing to be un-heroic, but another to realize the
time for heroism is almost up.

71

1

“You’re Culann Riordan, aren’t you?” asked the first officer, a short and stocky young woman wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap, both bearing the words
Alaska State
Trooper
.

“Yes.”

Culann’s little rowboat floated next to the police boat, the bow of which rose about five feet above the water line. Culann had to crane his neck to see the officers. The second officer, a tall, middle-aged black man—the only black man Culann had seen in Alaska—tossed down a line.

“Please tie one end to your vessel, Mr. Riordan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Riordan,” the first officer continued, “we have a warrant for your arrest.

You’ve been charged with statutory rape in Illinois, and we’ve been asked to extradite you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’d like you to climb up onto our vessel. Officer Williams is going to help you, and we would like you to cooperate with us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”