As Lowell watches anxiously from his roost, he thinks back to the first days of the outbreak. To begin with he had barely noticed what was happening, his position at the top of a major defense company having granted him a healthy disdain for issues that disproportionately affected the young, old or underprivileged who initially made up the majority of the casualties. It was only when the numbers of absentees on the factory floor began to skyrocket and to have a knock-on effect on production that he had started to realize that the epidemic might be a bit more serious than he had first thought. Soon, the curfews were put in place, and he was forced to return home to the deserted streets of Newmarket. Trapped in his home he was barely aware of the soaring body count, so focused was he on the terrible sight of the markets tumbling into free-fall. The global death toll from that initial wave had been terrible, but at around the million mark had finally begun to tail off, prompting a wave of online memes in bad taste at the expense of those predictors of apocalypse and hyperbolic prophets of doom that had consumed the internet.
Then, just as governments began to relax their curfews, and it seemed that this outbreak would join the ranks of swine flu, avian flu, Ebola and all of the other pretenders to the apocalypse, something changed. The virus mutated. Twice. First, it passed to dogs; owners everywhere began reporting that erratic behavior and a general lethargy had possessed their pets. This continued for around a week. Just enough time had elapsed that nobody linked this strange new phenomenon to the epidemic that had so recently passed. Weeks went by, with drugs companies working around the clock to find a cure for this inexplicable canine malady, and then, suddenly, as quickly as it had begun, it seemed to end. The dogs’ sluggishness went away as quickly as it had appeared; an instantaneous, miracle cure that left the experts scratching their heads now, just as they had since the start of this curious outbreak. The news flew around the world, greeted everywhere by a collective sigh of relief, and a feeling that things would at last return to normality. And then, the very next day, they turned.
It is often remarked as to how curious it is that the domestication of dogs happened all over the earth within such a very short space of time. After millennia of living as separate, often opposing species, diverse groups of people the world over suddenly decided at much the same instant to adopt dogs as their closest companions. What is notable about this is that when this story is told, it is nearly always the dogs that are domesticated, the humans taking the lead in the relationship. If the events of the downfall are any indication, then that story may have to be reconsidered.
All of a sudden, it was as if an evolutionary rewind switch had been flicked; and they were no longer those same submissive creatures that slunk into the warmth of our campfires, bellies low to the ground and tails tucked between their legs. Now they were a much older beast: one that had prowled at the periphery and lurked in the shadows of those same fires, ever vigilant for an opportunity presented by an infant toddling carelessly out of the safety of the light, or a lone, weary hunter stumbling home in the low light of dusk. They had been suspicious of these new intelligent creatures that hunted with sticks and stones, thoroughly resented the fact that they had usurped their place as the top social hunters, and were quick to demonstrate their natural superiority in unarmed combat whenever possible. It was these wild animals that millions of people woke to find in their homes that terrible morning. Whatever the breed, however docile their erstwhile temperament, they hurled themselves unexpectedly and savagely at their masters, inflicting death and injury on scores, before escaping whenever possible, escaping to seek the bond of a pack in which to continue their hunt. Many of those that went off to sleep in the same bed as their dogs the night before never woke at all that day, and many of those that did survive found themselves stumbling physically and emotionally bloodied from their doors into a world that had been flipped on its axis.
Those that were bitten soon found themselves gripped by the very same symptoms that had characterized the original epidemic; it would begin with a powerful headache, and vision interrupted by blinding, intense flashes of light. This would be accompanied by a clear lack of coordination, as the internal lightshow confused the victim’s ability to move fluently or think clearly. These symptoms would continue to worsen for a spell, in most cases lasting up to around fifteen minutes when a visible swelling would begin to affect the face and outer extremities, continuing to balloon outwards at an incredible rate until blood vessels began to burst with an agonizing, often audible popping. By this stage the victims found that walking was quite impossible, and very quickly the streets and homes were filled with scores of wailing, inflated casualties. Those dogs that had escaped roamed freely amongst them, rapidly increasing their taste for human flesh, unchallenged by none but the most foolhardy and by those already bitten who had seen their impending fate and had decided to go down fighting.
Of those that had not been bitten, the vast majority discovered too late that the inflicted were now ultra-infectious, and died as a result of their attempts to repair their savage wounds. So it was that the survivors that day were overwhelmingly made up of a combination of the cowardly and the unsympathetic; those who had locked their doors and hidden, or watched either appalled or indifferent from their windows as their neighbors and acquaintances screamed desperately for salvation from the streets outside.
One of those who watched, horrified, with his face pressed to the window that day was Lowell. His initial apathy was a result of his fixation on the bottom line: a characteristic that had given him a certain detachment from those issues that affected the majority of his fellow humans, as well as an entitled expectancy that others would clear up crises on his behalf; if a fire were to break out at one of his company’s factories he would be sure to initiate a cost-benefit analysis of the need for updated sprinkler systems in the others just as soon as was financially viable. And so his failure to act that day was not because he was in any way uncaring, but rather because he was in every way spineless – although he might prefer the term practical - and although he grabbed a fire poker and several kitchen knives and rushed to the door as if to fight he discovered that he could not force himself to open it, and so instead he sank to the floor, he placed his hands over his ears and he did his best to ignore the incessant wailing, and to pretend not to see those who reached their arms out towards him with the last of their rapidly fading strength.
Chapter Sixteen
Looking down from the bell tower, Lowell tries hard to still the anger percolating inside, and to instead focus his mind on finding a way to leave the church without drawing the dog’s attention. They had lain for two hours in front of the door before seemingly getting bored and leaving, and if he had not had such a good line of sight, then he might possibly have believed they were gone. As it were, he had watched from his high vantage point as they went to the other side of the street and disappeared straight into a looted convenience store within sight of the church. Occasionally he glimpses one of them pacing inside, but mostly all is still. He has dealt with the dogs for long enough to know that they are staking him out, but a big part of the reason he is still alive after all these years is that he has picked up a few tricks along the way to get himself out of just this kind of situation.
Gazing far up the street, he set his sights on his old house. His most recent burst of nostalgia has given him a deep yearning to return home. He longs to revisit his former life: to dress in his own clothes, sleep in his own bed, and pretend just for a while that none of this terror had ever come to pass. He knows that to get that opportunity to make-believe, he will first need to get out of the tower, and so he takes one last long look at the building containing the dogs, and then turns away, tiptoes down to the bottom of the stairs and into the main church building and quickly gathers his few possessions together. Pausing momentarily, he gazes longingly at the stash of consecrated wine, wondering briefly if he can fit a few in if he jettisons some of his food. Frowning, he reaches out to grab a bottle, tuck
s it into his belt, and then digs into his pocket until he finds a spool of string and sets off back up the stairs.
He knows he has to move quickly; the sun is setting, and if he is going to stand a chance of reaching his house at all, he will have to ensure that he can make it before nightfall. At the top of the stairs, he walks out to the wall overlooking the street and places the bottle of the wine on the edge. His tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, he concentrates on making each movement as deliberate and measured as possible, carefully ties the string around the neck of the bottle, then gradually lets it play out as he walks back down again. Reaching the bottom, he hooks the string once around the handrail and then carefully ties off the other end to the bottom of the banisters, checking it is as taut as can be without disturbing the bottle. This done, he opens the inner door, breathing deeply to calm his nerves and still his thoughts, and moves to the outer exit. As he peeks outside, he is just able to make out the doorway of the shop that the dogs have taken refuge in. All looks still. Now he just has to hope that they are still inside, and that they are still watching him. Summoning all of his courage, he pushes open the outer door, and gazes anxiously towards the store on the far side of the street. For a minute he stands there waiting, with no sign of the dogs whatsoever. Before long he begins to sweat, perspiration dripping down his forehead as he weighs up the chances that the dogs have slipped out while he was engaged in preparation. With each passing minute he becomes more and more anxious that the dogs will appear around the wall closest to him and attack before he can make a move to defend himself. Eventually he slips his machete out of his belt and taps it against the rusty rail that runs along the path to the church door – producing a clear and high note that rings through the otherwise silent town - and then grips hold of the door handle, ready to leap inside at the first sign of the dogs. He lets the sound fade away, waits, and then knocks again even louder than the first time. Still nothing. Then, suddenly, he hears a warning bark from inside the store, and a second later the alpha appears at the doorway, bristling instantly at the sight of Lowell. Scrabbling for purchase in his haste, he set off, dust flying. The other dogs in the pack emerge a moment later and follow close to his tail with a cacophony of excited barking. On the other side of the street Lowell waits, taunting them by staring back unmoving with a false mask of defiance until they are halfway across the street, and then he ducks quickly back inside the church.
A moment later the alpha bursts through the church doorway with the other dogs barreling in after him a split second later. From his hiding place Lowell watches carefully through a crack, holding his breath and gripping his hands together tightly, half in prayer and half to stop them from shaking as he sees the alpha looking around slowly and carefully appraising the new environment. Lowell’s plan relies on the dogs remaining in chase mode, and he can little afford them taking the time to sniff him out. As the leader snuffles cautiously around the lobby, the Shih Tzu heads straight towards the stairs. Lifting one leg, he steps over the string that stretches across the bottom riser, and goes to continue upwards. Seeing that the dog has missed the tripwire Lowell draws his breath in sharply in annoyance and the little dog’s head whips around towards the sound, it turns at once and trots straight back down. As it does so, its back leg catches on the line, pulling the string with it and dislodging the bottle balancing on the wall at the top of the tower. A second later, the sound of the glass smashing on the flagstones carried crisply down to the dogs waiting below, and immediately the pack turn as one and set off charging at full speed up the stairs, bowling the Shih Tzu over as they go. The alpha races to overtake them, desperate to ensure that his place at the top of the hierarchy will be respected in the kill. The smallest dog hurries behind, feet pattering desperately to keep up, the sound of a moment before instantly forgotten. A few meters away, Lowell waits a moment more for them to get out of sight, then slips open the side door as quietly as possible, tiptoes out of the front door, and sprints down the side of the church and away.
Panting hard, and doubled over with stitch, Lowell stares anxiously back down the street. He isn’t used to running for any real distance, his survival up to this point having relied more on stealth and cunning than any particular physical proficiency. He is a good distance from the church – he had started to run the second he left the door and had not stopped for at least five minutes - but he knows only too well how much faster the dogs will travel. He guesses that they will pick up on his trail pretty quickly, and is surprised that he hasn’t seen them already. As he runs, he curses himself for not shutting the outer door as he left the church, but panic had taken over, concentrating all of his thoughts towards escape.
Standing up straight, and inching out of the doorway he is hiding in, he fingers the gun nervously. Six bullets for six dogs. It doesn’t strike him as good odds, especially as it will be reliant on him being able to accurately pick off at least a couple from a distance, then reload instantly and quick draw all those remaining from close range. He curses himself for not taking more of the ample opportunities to learn about weapons and marksmanship that had come his way in his working days. With all the gun nuts that worked at that place, the fact that it was him that had survived strikes Lowell as faintly preposterous, he can so easily imagine that many of those same amateur Rambo’s had gone out in a blaze of glory that had never seemed at all likely to be his fate until now.
He finds himself picturing the small, shrew like animal that survived the age of the dinosaurs, and the last great ice age, to continue the mammalian line against the odds. Like him, its trick was in hiding away, and in doing so it had outlasted countless other larger and more ferocious creatures in its family tree. That thought at least gives him some solace, that through his cowardice he might be the savior of humankind, or at least it does until he considers that even with the best will in the world he might not be able to manage the feat entirely on his own. A moment later he spots a movement in the distance, swiftly crystalizing into the familiar shape of the dogs, noses pressed to the ground, bearing down quickly on his position, and he reflects that the other advantage the shrew undoubtedly possessed over him was that it was unlikely to be distracted by absurd reveries in the midst of a desperate bid for safety from a pack of ferocious hounds hell bent on its blood. In a panic, he considers his situation. It is far too late to make a break for it, and they will be sure to discover him if he stays where he is. Praying deeply to the god that he had so recently dismissed, as well as any others that might fancy helping him out – he isn’t picky - he tries the handle of the door behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
With a deeply satisfying click the handle drops and the door swings open a fraction of the way, sending a flood of relief coursing through his body. He pushes forward, wincing as the well-rusted hinges let out a painful, high pitched screech, and jumps inside. Through the door, he is immediately assaulted by a wave of musty, stale air. Scoping quickly from left to right, he can see that he is in some kind of shop. Rows of steel racking extend forward from his position to the depths of the room and a dimly visible counter at the far end. Several of the shelving units have been knocked to the floor but most are still standing. Boxes of merchandise and small bottles are spread along the shelves and arranged liberally across the carpet, covered in a thick layer of dust that obscures their contents from view. The counter end of the shop is mostly invisible to him due to an impenetrable gloom created by a cloud of disturbed dust and a loose framework of planks that have been nailed across the front window. Seeing no immediate danger within, he dismisses thoughts of further exploration for the time being and drops to his knees in front of the entrance, pressing one eye to the crack running along the edge of the door to watch for the dogs beyond.
Within a minute he hears the rhythmic pattering of the dogs approaching outside. Peering through the door, he is relieved to see one of the dogs moving steadily along the pavement across the other side of the street, and is comforted at least to rea
son that they must not have spotted him hiding in the doorway. He watches as the dog over the road slowly shuffles along, nose pressed to the ground, inhaling deeply. After a moment, it snorts its way towards a pile of garbage and assorted detritus, and with a quick glance over its shoulder at the other dogs, begins snuffling there instead, all of the concentration that had been fixed on picking up Lowell’s trail having been instantly transferred to the powerful impulses that the interesting and mixed smells of the trash inspire. A few seconds later the alpha appears, stalking in his typically domineering style squarely down the center of the road, scarred snout alternating between directing his path on the road and then lifting high up to sniff the air. Every few paces, he stops and casts a possessive eye over the rest of his troupe before lowering his head and continuing on his way. As he draws level with Lowell’s location he stops abruptly, and keeps his nose pressed to the ground for a fraction longer than before. Gradually but inexorably he follows the smell he has picked up, adjusting his course until he is facing straight in Lowell’s direction, and begins to slowly inch closer, constantly correcting his bearing whenever the strength of the scent lessens even slightly. From his position behind the door, Lowell holds his breath as he watches the alpha draw closer and closer towards him. His brain races rapidly through the options available to him, searching for some way to throw the dog off of its trail. It is too late to move further into the shop without making a noise that will surely alert the leader to his presence, and as no other plans spring to mind, he settles for remaining in place, concentrating instead on stilling the terrified shaking that convulse his body. The alpha has closed to within a few feet of the door when a sudden commotion arises across the street. One of the other dogs has disturbed a rat lurking in the rubbish, sending it tearing away to seek refuge further up the street. Immediately the dog sets off in hot pursuit barking savagely. Within a split second, the overwhelming urge to chase has consumed the other dogs lagging behind, and they set off as one, surging after the rodent and out of sight. The alpha watches them go for a second, seemingly torn between asserting his dominance and pursuing the trail, and then shoots off at high speed after them, issuing a piqued and irritable barking as he goes. Behind the door, Lowell lets a long-held breath drain free, wipes the sweat from his brow, and stands up to investigate his surroundings.
The Darkness and Dogs Page 7