The Darkness and Dogs

by Lanchbery, T. S.

  “Heather?”

  “What?”

  “You reckon someone’s been here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what about the mess in Walter’s room?”

  There is a long pause, punctuated by an extravagant throat clearing and spitting before Heather responds. “That’s as likely Jo crashing about in her last fever as anythin’, we haven’t seen no one around here for months.”

  Her companion mulls on this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, can’t see anyone coming in and not helping themselves to a few guns at least.”

  “That’s it Bill, plus a bite to eat too. How about you crack open one of these crates and double check, Walter’ll be spittin’ if we miss anythin’.”

  Inside of his crate, Lowell begins to sweat profusely as he hears Bill lumbering ponderously closer, followed quickly by a thud from above him and a creaking as the lid of his crate is pried loose. His hand wavers, he lifts his gun so it is pointing directly aloft and prepares to leap upwards at the first crack of light shows through. Almost immediately, a wave of relief passes through him as he hears the sound of the wooden top popping free from the container next to his own, and then the sound of Bill’s voice.

  “S’all here”.

  Heather’s answer comes from over the other side of the room.

  “What did I tell ya? Now come on, if he says we’re going to be setting guard I want to make sure I get in quick ‘n’ get mine over in time for a decent bit of shut eye”.

  Bill grunts in agreement, and Lowell hears the lid being tapped back into place and then quick footsteps heading over to the ladder and ascending down towards the next floor.

  After the two searchers have left the loft, it is several minutes before his adrenaline begins to subside and Lowell’s hands finally stop shaking. He feels safe in his hiding place, but much as he wishes to remain inside for as long as he can, he quickly reasons that his best chance of escape lies with getting out whilst the sounds of the search have a chance of muffling any noises he might make. He leaves it a few more minutes just in case and then waits until he hears the masking sound of someone running down the stairs, quickly reaches up to pop the lid of his crate, and then stands up and carefully lowers it to the floor. Gripping both sides of the crate, he lifts himself free and swings his legs over the side before dropping down silently, crouching low and crawling on all fours over towards the hatch. He stays in place here for what feels like hours, listening to the search proceeding throughout the house, punctuated by urgent conversations held just below him on the landing. Through his eavesdropping, he discovers that the plan is to place guards on the front and back doors throughout the night, switching every hour according to some fixed schedule. Up above, Lowell chews his lower lip nervously. His chances of escape without detection seem slim. He knows that there are a few windows that he can slip out of, but to reach them he will have to either go into a room that he knows will be likely to be occupied or rather pass through the main living area to get to the rear of the house. And so, with no other option, he settles in to wait.

  As the hours pass, he watches with increasing agitation as a succession of guards take their place without leaving the front door unguarded for even a second. At each change, he raises his head just enough to see down to the bottom of the stairs, hopeful of some lapse that will allow him to flee, but is disappointed on each occasion. Finally, deep into the night, with four guard changes having been completed successfully, he scents an opportunity on the horizon. The guard on duty is a wiry looking old man with an extravagant handlebar moustache and a dirty grey beard that sweeps all the way to his belly. He spends the majority of his shift alternating between picking at his beard, yawning lavishly and rubbing warmth into his arms through his thin woolen pullover. With nobody else around, it almost appears to Lowell that this elaborate signaling that the old guard wants to get back to his bed as soon as possible is for his own benefit. As the hour slowly progresses the guard takes to pacing back and forth in front of the door, glancing at his watch every few moments. At length, it becomes obvious from his angry muttering and frequent sharp glances towards the living area that his replacement is overdue for the change of guard. Several times he coughs theatrically, pauses to listen for any response and then continues his irritated pacing and muttering afresh. He seems reluctant to leave his post, but as his pacing gives way to an increasingly frantic hopping from foot to foot it becomes clear that a need for another kind of relief has overtaken any thoughts of his bed. Eventually, with no sign of his replacement, the old man decides he has waited long enough, and strides quickly off down the hall, still muttering fiercely, and disappears off into the downstairs restroom. In the loft, Lowell doesn’t waste a second. No sooner has he heard the door closing below than is was shimmying down the ladder and onto the landing. He pauses for a second to cast an agonized glance towards the armory before forcing himself to the stairs, creeping downwards step-by-step to safety. Around half way down he hears the handle to the bathroom click down and he freezes in place, but by the time the door begins to open his mind is made up. Throwing caution to the wind, he hurdles the last few steps, throws open the front door and flies out into the night. As he reaches the gate at the end of the path he hears a commotion behind him at the door but knows better than to look back and merely increases his pace, skitters at high speed around the corner and runs for his life

  .

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two blocks later, as he approaches Main Street once again, Lowell ducks into an alleyway and bends double, panting heavily from his exertions. Peering around the corner, he surveys the scene in the direction he has come from and is pleased to see that there is no sign of any pursuers, just an empty street illuminated by the eerie light of a waxing gibbous moon. Whilst fleeing from the house his full attention had been fixed on evading his fellow man, and it is only now that this danger had passed that he considers the more familiar dangers that now surround him, and feels the vulnerability of his situation. Hefting his backpack, he glances nervously around himself to get his bearings and considers his options. He knows that he must find somewhere to get inside quickly. The perfume shop is an option, but he quickly dismisses it, as he has no desire to travel down Main Street at this hour. He hasn’t been in town for long enough to know which areas, if any, are relatively safe so quickly determines that he just has to pick a road and hope he can find somewhere to rest up before he is discovered by either man or beast. Peering into the gloom of the alleyway behind him, he shudders, quickly discounted heading in that uncertain direction in favor of the moonlit street - far better to be seen from a distance than ambushed from close range.

  Scurrying out of the mouth of the alleyway, he adopts his customary wary darting from cover to cover; casting constant apprehensive glances all around him as he goes. Some way along, he finally spots what he is looking for: an open doorway at the far end of the street, leading to what looks like some small business or other. His pace quickens slightly but he forces himself to quell his instinct to run towards an uncertain sanctuary without scoping it out first and instead scurries across the street so that he will be approaching it from the far side.

  With around one hundred meters left to travel he crouches down behind a car at the side of the road for a brief respite and cocks his ear up to listen for any unfamiliar noises in the night. He is tired now, the effects of his long night spent watchful and on edge and the subsequent exertion are catching up with him, and he is once again struggling to keep his eyes open. All is quiet apart from the occasional mournful cry of an early-rising lone seagull somewhere in the distance. Squinting to scrutinize his destination, he can now just make out the sign above the door, which is advertising a variety of sports betting and what seems to Lowell to be the fairly unlikely chance of a ‘thrilling Las Vegas experience’. Nothing stirs in the immediate vicinity so he climbs warily to his feet, takes a step closer, and begins to move towards the shop. At that exact moment a noise
off in the distance stops him in his tracks. Whipping his head around he turns to face the direction from which he had heard the high-pitched but indeterminate sound far behind him. For a moment he is unsure if it was the gull that he had heard circling before, but it seemed different - a lower pitch - and instantly set his nerves on edge. Turning fully around, he groggily scans the end of the street. At first there is nothing, and then, squinting in to the dusk he thinks he sees some movement. A moment later this is confirmed as first one and then another dark shape courses swiftly around the corner and into view. He can make out the sound now, the damned savage yapping and baying of the pack on the hunt.

  As the dogs surge closer to his position, he struggles to force himself into action, and then realizes with a start that his body has taken over and he is already running at full speed towards the haven of the betting shop ahead of him. As he reaches halfway he risks a glance over his shoulder and notes grimly just how much ground the pack have already gained on him. His energy is almost spent, and try as he might he is already flagging. Gritting his teeth, he slaloms around two burnt-out cars abandoned in the middle of the road and presses on. With twenty meters to go he looks back again, the dogs are about another fifty back now, but still gaining, and he can now make out the dog in the lead, maybe five meters ahead of it’s nearest ally, it’s eyes fixed intently on Lowell and a thick foam formed around it’s mouth that quivers and sprays in all directions as it surges forward. He recognizes the dog as the malamute he had seen at the station at once, and even as he runs he curses himself for not dealing with the dog then and there, rather than once again slinking away to hide as he so often does. Thrusting these thoughts to the back of his mind he presses on, straining to ignore the sharp pain rising rapidly in his side. As he closes to within the last few steps he can tell without looking back that the lead dog is almost within biting distance and imagines he can feel it’s hot breath on his back driving him forward. As soon as he is close enough he leaps the final distance to the shop doorway and drops instantly into a roll, coming up the other side of the entrance and then springing forward to barge the door closed with the last of his strength. As the door moves to just short of closing an immense crash on the other side throws him backwards as the malamute leaps through the air, batters its whole weight against the door and thrusts itself through the gap. He staggers forward just in time to see the remainder of the pack following up for entry and with an enormous effort throws out one arm and heaves the door closed in their faces, wincing as two of them slam bodily against the outside. The malamute has skidded into one corner, it’s momentum throwing it off balance, and Lowell doesn’t waste a moment. Casting an eye quickly around the room he spots an entrance leading to a side room a few paces away and throws himself upon it, tearing open the door and slamming it closed behind him.

  As Lowell stands with his back pressed against the door, panting heavily, he rapidly appraises his new environment, and is relieved to see that the room looks secure. It is a small staff area, with a plate glass window running across one side that would have let the attendant keep an eye on the small row of fruit machines that stand in a line against the opposite wall. A barred window to Lowell’s left gives him a view out on to the street in front of the store where the pack are racing up and down, sniffing frantically as they try to find some way into the building that both their prey and companion have disappeared into. The alpha stands apart from the others bristling intently, and as Lowell stares out it stiffens, slowly turns its great head, looks up deliberately and meets his eye, an enraged fury in its gaze that seems to go beyond any urge to feed and towards a primal hatred that makes Lowell shiver and duck out of sight.

  Moving over to the plate glass window, he wipes away a thick layer of dust that obscures the view and peers into the gloom beyond. It takes him a moment before he is able to locate the malamute, lying on one side in the far corner. He guesses that it has sustained an injury as it crashed into the door, as it is fervidly licking one leg and seems to be trembling lightly. Determining that this dog isn’t a threat for now at least, he sidles back to the other window and glanced out once more. The alpha is lying down in the same position that he had occupied a moment before, but at the sight of Lowell at the window instantly rises up and fixed him with the same intense, furious glowering. Feeling that this is a challenge, and with some vague memory surfacing that tells him that no dog is supposed to be able to out-stare a man, he meets the dog’s eyes and returns the glare. He lasts for about a minute before his eyes begin to water and he wilts from the penetrating loathing that bears into him, quickly turning his head to one side with an affected nonchalance he is sure will not fool the giant dog for an instant. At that moment, he hears a soft keening behind him in the room and, turning around, sees that the malamute is also looking at him intently. Like the alpha, this dog’s eyes seem to be full of a calculating intelligence, but that seems to be as far as the similarities go. Beyond that there is no apparent antipathy, but rather a suggestion of curiosity, its head tilted inquisitively to one side. There is something else there too; something that he struggles to put his finger on at first. But as the dog continues to meet his eyes and whimper softly, Lowell becomes gradually convinced that as much as he is appraising the Malamute’s intentions, the dog is sizing him up in return.

  END OF PART ONE

  PART TWO

  “So let’s go back to the beginning, to that first dog that seems now to have set my hold future in stone. I remember, when I had first spotted the Dalmatian, feeling thrilled. There I was looking for an opportunity to demonstrate how responsible I could be if I were allowed my own dog and, right on cue, here was one clearly lost on its own with no leash or owner, just sitting alone and whining mournfully outside the Minimart. A Dalmatian! Disney had taught me that these were the gentlest of dogs, so I felt no fear. Besides, I was too busy imagining the praise that would be showered upon me from my father, and the rewards that would be coming my way from the owner when I delivered it into their grateful arms. As I approached, I slipped my school tie from around my neck with one hand and did my best to fashion a makeshift noose on one end and then doubled the other around one hand, in my head looking every part the dusty cowpoke with a lasso. By now I was mentally adding at least one scout badge to my expected bounty for this selfless act, it really never occurred to me that the dog would or could be other than a mute and yielding accomplice. I approached within around a meter before the dog showed any signs of being aware of my presence. All the time I was approaching it just continued to stare intently into the shop, discharging the same high-pitched keening and shuffling it’s paws anxiously. Silly dog, I thought, you’re so busy looking for rescue inside the store that you’ve entirely missed your savior standing right behind you! Without pausing, I readied my makeshift leash, marched up behind it with a cool swagger, and confidently laid one hand on its neck.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lowell lies on his back on a desk within the partitioned off area of the shop that has become his prison. One hand taps out a distracted offbeat rhythm on the surface as his mind races through the options available to him. He had spent an uncomfortable and cold night in the room in the hope that the dogs outside would be gone in the morning, but from first light he could see their silhouettes ranged out across the sidewalk in front of the shop. He has no idea how long they could keep up their vigil, but deep down he is sure that after he has twice given them the slip this time they will not be so easily distracted. Every so often he has checked the window into the main area of the store, to see what the Malamute is up to, but in all that time it never once seemed to move from its position in the far corner. His earlier curiosity and uncertainty about this dog’s intentions had soon given way to a more familiar deep distrust for it. He has decided that any lack of open hostility on its part was more likely some combination of its being on its own, and the injury it had sustained during the chase providing some distraction. He remembers well the transformation that h
ad seemed to come over the Labrador in the moment of its death, and is convinced that this dog would soon mutate into a ferocious foe were he to set foot though the door to the inside of the arcade.

  Having decided that he can probably ignore the Malamute for the time being, Lowell sets about establishing whether it might be possible for him to get out any other way. First he tests the external windows. They all open a short way, but even if it weren’t for the furiously baying dogs waiting below, the bars blocking them off from the inside are solid and immovable. Next, he turns his attention to the ceiling. It is made up of a series of soft foam panels held in position by a crisscrossing framework of aluminum, of the sort often encountered in public buildings. Clambering onto the desk, he finds he can just about reach up and touch them at a stretch, and so he strains upwards ‘til he manages to push one up and out of place, then pauses for a moment to sneeze extravagantly and then wipe away the lavish deposit of dust and scum that has come loose as he moved the tile. This complete, he looks about until he finds a sturdy wooden box over in one corner of the room and then places it on the desk to allow him to get higher up and see inside the roof cavity. From his new position balanced precariously atop the riser, he is able to see a short distance inside the dusty gloom of the roof space, and is disappointed to note that the arrangement of panels seem to extend all the way into the arcade, overlaid with a layer of foam sheet insulation, but without any sturdier beams to climb onto or any apparent access to other areas towards the rear of the shop.