The Darkness and Dogs

by Lanchbery, T. S.

  As soon as Lowell sees Bill and Heather begin to head out of the door, he begins to inwardly panic. Many times over the intervening years he has imagined his death, often in his darkest moments he has longed for it, and as recently as a few minutes before he had consoled himself to the fact that it were at hand, but suddenly he feels that animal urge to survive rising in him again. Maybe it is the fact that he is finally so close to Walter, finally within reach of some sort of resolution. He has always imagined that if they were to meet again, then the man might show some contrition for his cowardice that day, but now it seems to him that Walter will instead live on in total ignorance of the fact that Lowell had even survived – his death will mean nothing. Through his confusion and rage Lowell is certain of one thing; that as soon as the door closes behind Bill he will be in deep trouble. He watches the door close slowly, his breath quickening, and then lifts his eyes to meet those of Susan. For a moment they stare at each other, and once again that look of sympathetic but ruthless determination flashes in Susan’s eyes, sending a shiver down his spine, and then she steps forward slowly. As she opened her mouth to speak, she is interrupted by the sound of running footsteps hurriedly approaching from outside, and then a girl’s voice sounded close to the door

  “Where is she?”

  “Sue’s inside, she’ll be out soon honey,”

  That sounded like Bill. There is a pause and then the sound of a quick scuffle outside before Bill shouts again.

  “Wait!”

  The door is wrenched open, the harsh light stinging Lowell’s eyes as he tries to focus on the short figure in pigtails silhouetted in the doorway. Susan whirls around, a look of panic on her face, and rushes towards the door gesturing for the person to leave, but it is too late, the girl is inside, and is glaring furiously at Susan.

  Chapter Thirty

  As she stands there, trying to make sense of the scene in the room, the girl puffs out her cheeks, purses her lips and then frowns angrily, and looks from Lowell to Susan for some explanation as to what the hell is going on. Seeing her reaction, and the look of shame on Susan’s face, Lowell feels the first tentative shoots of a new hope begin to rise inside – either he is going to live, or at the very least he will be in for some interesting drama before he dies. The door opens again, and Bill slips quietly in behind the girl and grips her arm, gently tugging to indicate that she should come back outside and then whispers softly

  “Come on Bea.”

  The girl pulls her arm free, shoots Bill a scathing look, and then turns to Susan

  “What’s going on?”

  She demands.

  It is evident that the tables have been turned. Susan now wears the same sheepish look that Bill and Heather had demonstrated a minute beforehand.

  “Nothing, honey, we’re just talking to the gentleman.”

  Bea turns to look at Lowell incredulously, before turning back to Sue with a sarcastic expression.

  “So how are you going to talk to him if he’s got a gag on then?”

  She asks.

  Susan blows out her cheeks with a wry smile, raises her hands up in a defeated gesture and looks at Bill helplessly. For a moment she looks lost for words, and then finally she drops her hands, lets out a long sigh and walks over to where Bill and the girl are standing. She has just reached them and begun to speak when she looks over to Lowell once more and her expression changes; her mouth drops open, her eyes widen, and she thrusts out an arm protectively in front of Bea. As Lowell stares at her quizzically, he sees her reach down and pull out her gun, raising it up to point the muzzle towards Lowell’s head. Seeing the gun pointed towards him Lowell flinches, throwing his head to the left. As he does so, a slight movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention; something is coming through the gap in the wall behind him. As he strains his head around to see better, he hears the first low terrifying notes sound behind him; the same primal, paralyzing growl he had heard the Alpha make outside of the store. At once he whips his head around, eyes widened, beseeching his captors to let him free, as all the while he struggles desperately to break his bonds. Ahead, Susan and the others back out slowly. At the rear, Bill quickly breaks away, turning tail and leaping clear of the door, the sound of his steps across the street echoing clearly above the savage snarl rising ever closer to Lowell’s back. As Susan shepherds the girl steadily back toward the door she seems caught in two minds. Slowly, she lifts her thumb and cocks the hammer of her revolver. Holding her arm steady, she carefully sights down the barrel away to the side of Lowell’s head. As her finger slowly begin to depress the trigger, the girl reaches the door, looking back with a final terrified glance before exiting, then holding the door open for Susan as she goes and tugging wildly on her arm. As she does so the gun jerks off to the side, sending a bullet slamming through the wall to Lowell’s left.

  “Aunt Sue! Come on!”

  She screams. Susan begins at once to fumble to reload the weapon, and then glances over as she sees the girl leave. As soon as she is out the door, she lets the gun fall to his side, her eyes locked onto Lowell’s and her mouth adopting an apologetic, helpless smile. Sidestepping neatly, she pauses at the doorway to raise one hand upwards to give Lowell a final beseeching wave and then steps out of the door, slamming it shut to seal Lowell’s fate.

  As soon as the door closes behind him, Lowell lets out a deep breath, grins broadly and looks over at the Malamute. It continues to growl for a while longer; fangs bared and hair standing on end until the sound of footsteps outside die away, soon followed by the thud of a car door closing and then an extended screech as the vehicle speeds away on up the street. As soon as all is silent, the Malamute stops snarling and turns to look at Lowell, panting with exertion, takes a step towards him and then crumples forward with a distressing whimper as its bad leg gives way beneath it. At the sight of the dog’s collapse, Lowell’s triumphant grin transforms into a look of concern. He pulls his hands free from behind his back, having easily slipped out of the inexpertly tied ropes that had secured him soon after he had recognized the Malamute some minutes beforehand, and then stoops low to untangle the knots that secure his legs. As soon as he is free, he bends down in front of the dog, hesitates, and then reaches out and tousles the matted fur on its head gently. Feeling his caress, the Malamute opens its eyes and lifts them up to stare despondently into his for a moment, and then strains to move its head slowly forward until it is resting on Lowell’s knee. Lowell continues to gently stroke the dog’s head, he is no expert, but it feels far hotter that he would have thought possible, and he now notices a constant tremor and heavy pained breathing that he knows must bode badly for the dog. He leans over to inspect the wound on its paw. It is in even worse shape now, with foul smelling pus oozing freely from the swollen section that he is sure has bloated rapidly since he saw it last. Setting his jaw firmly, Lowell eases the dog’s head off of his knee and stands up. Although he knows deep down that there is likely nothing he can do to save the animal, he also knows that the dog didn’t have to come back for him, and he is damned if he is going to let it die in a pharmacy without trying his best to at least ease its suffering.

  Moving over to the racks of shelving towards the rear of the shop, Lowell gazes sadly at the pathetic selection of products that have survived the waves of looters that must have scoured clean the shop over the years. He picks up a few packets at random, tossing them back one by one as he swiftly realizes they are all beauty products of one sort or another. It doesn’t help that he has no idea what he should look for. He has some vague idea that he should find some pain relief, but doesn’t have a clue which ones will work on dogs. It doesn’t really matter anyway as he quickly established that these have all been taken. A few minutes later he finds the first thing that might be of some use; a packet of triangular bandages trapped beneath an overturned shelving unit behind the counter. Slipping the bandages in his pocket, he clambers up onto the unit and checks a series of high shelves that he hopes might have escape
d the attention of previous plunderers. No such luck. Clicking his tongue irritably, he spins around slowly, surveying the full length of the shop for any areas that might have escaped attention. Spotting a likely section, he moves in for a closer look. Here, three display cases have collapsed in on each other, scattering products across the floor in all directions. Clearly whatever had been on the top, accessible, unit had been of some value, as this has been picked clean. Leaning forward he is able to see that the next case had contained a mixture of shampoos and shower gels, many of which have burst and spread down to combine into a multi-colored mess pooling on the floor below the unit.

  Picking his way carefully between the cases, he cranes his neck around to try and see what is on the third set of shelves. Whatever it is, the majority has already been removed, but he can just see a few packages trapped midway along near the bottom of the lowest shelf. Reaching his arm in he strains to grasp hold of one of the packets, but they are just out of reach. Pulling his arm back out, he takes his knife, then pushes his shoulder as far as he can into the gap and reaches out again, flailed blindly with his knife until he feels it make contact with one of the packages, and then flicks it towards him until he has dislodged the item and moved it close enough for him to stretch out and grip it tentatively between two fingers. Once he has a firm grasp of it, he carefully pulls it closer until he is able at last to lift it free, and holds it up to the dim light for a better look. Wiping the thick layer of accumulated dust from the packet he reads the words imprinted on the side; Neomize: Neomycin Antibacterial Ointment, and then just underneath that For treating and preventing infection due to minor cuts, scrapes, and burns. Lowell gazes over at the stricken Malamute doubtfully, he feels pretty sure that the dog’s wound cannot be described as minor, and has no idea if the medicine will help at all. Nevertheless, he is pretty sure that it can’t make things any worse than they are now, so he gathers together his few supplies and walks over to where the dog is lying and breathing fitfully on the floor.

  Lowell takes a deep breath and squats down in front of the injured animal, tenderly stroking its head before running one hand along its flank and down one leg until it is resting just above the injured paw. Watching the animal carefully, he gingerly lifts the paw in his hand. As he touches the area around the wound he feels the paw spasm slightly as the dog tries to draw it back, but other than a slight fluttering of the eyelids there is no further reaction. Laying the paw back down, Lowell opens the bottle of ointment and places it off to one side before splitting the packet of bandages, removing a couple and setting these down next to it. This done, he sits quietly for several minutes, not moving a muscle but simply staring at the dog. In truth, he has no idea what to do next. His instincts tell him that he should attempt to remove some of the pus from the wound, but the only way he can think to do so would be to squeeze it, the idea of which makes him feel too dizzy to contemplate. Eventually, he plucks up his courage, reaches out and grips the wound on both sides and presses gently. Immediately, the Malamute opens its eyes and growls softly, weakly twisting its head around to locate the source of the pain. Lowell tenses, but this seems to be the extent of the complaint, so he turns his attention back to the wound. A moment later, when he has at last overcome the feeling that he is going to faint, he looks again. Even with the mild pressure he has exerted, the amount of grim yellow discharge that has seeped clear from the injury is incredible. Taking one of the bandages, Lowell dabs a small amount of the ointment onto one edge, carefully wipes the wound clean and then repeats the action. At first, each time he squeezes a seemingly never ending, nausea-inducing flow of rancid matter bursts free, but before long he becomes desensitized and he is soon bent low, absorbed in the task of removing every last bit of the foul liquid. When at last he is satisfied that he has got as much as he is able out, he smears a final, liberal layer of ointment all over the wound and then quickly wraps a bandage around as tightly as he dares, hooks the loose end underneath the previous flap and then sits back to proudly inspect his handiwork. Apart from the occasional brief whine, the Malamute has seemed mostly oblivious to his actions, and Lowell now finds himself once again stroking the dog’s head and making soothing noises as he does so.

  Having completed his work, Lowell is at a loss as to what else, if anything, he can do for the animal. Looking around for a moment, he soon comes across a half-piece of plastic packaging that will serve as a water bowl and fills it up before leaving it close to the comatose dog’s head. Rising to his feet, he yawns extravagantly. The day has taken it out of him, and he realizes with a start that he can’t remember the last time he has eaten anything. Looking around for his pack, he experiences a long, rising note of panic as he is unable to find it before eventually he locates it leant snugly against the other side of the hole in the wall. Reaching inside, he extracts a tin of corned beef, wrenches it open, and quickly gulps down half of the contents, and then approaches the Malamute to hold the can under its nose. No sooner has the dog sniffed the meat than it opens one eye and gazes for a moment at the can. Its tail wags limply for a second and then it is out cold once more, too far gone to even salivate this time.

  As Lowell tucks in to the rest of the tin he watches the dog sadly, and then when he is finished he returns to his pack. Pulling out one of the sheets he carries with him he wanders back over to the dog and gently lowers the sheet over it, tucks it in snugly and then tousles its head once more. As an afterthought, he heads back to the hole in the wall, drags one of the shelving units in front, and then walks to the other side of the store and flips the latch shut to secure the front door. With the place fortified, he stands in the middle of the shop for a moment, sighs heavily and then shuffles over to the far corner. There, he constructs a quick nest for himself out of the remainder of his bedding and then lays down to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  For three days, the Malamute barely eats or drinks a thing. Lowell continues to offer it small morsels whenever he eats but the dog merely stares at him dolefully and then drifts back to sleep. Occasionally it struggles to raise itself to reach the water bowl, at which point Lowell leaps forward to assist, holding the container close to its nose so it can lap up a small amount before again slumping back to the ground. On two occasions he leaves small bites of food lying close to its nose, and eventually he checks to find that they are gone, but he soon stops this after an incident where soon after eating he hears the dog begin to hack and heave painfully for a long while before it returns the food to the floor along with the small amount of water it had managed that day. Each morning Lowell removes the bandage, drains the wound as before, and then reapplies a covering of ointment and a fresh dressing. He can’t be sure whether his efforts are helping or not. On the one hand, it appears that the amount of pus is gradually decreasing, along with the redness; which has shrunk to a small halo around the edge of the injury. On the other, the dog’s fever doesn’t seem to be reducing at all; its whole body is still worryingly hot to the touch. He has looked all around the pharmacy for anything else that might help the dog, but apart from a roll of gauze and another bottle of the same ointment he has turned up nothing new.

  The rest of the time Lowell spends in the familiar pattern of eating, sleeping and staring out of the window, but with the additional concern that he is now looking out for two sets of enemies instead on one. The dog pack concerns him, but it is his human foes that give him the bigger anxiety. His only hope is that their assumption will surely be that he will be long dead by now, and they are unlikely to readily return to a place in which they have encountered a dog after all. Nevertheless, his concern is such that he takes the time to erect a formidable barricade across the front of the store; with shelving units stacked four deep barring the door and windows, and a similar arrangement blocking the hole in the wall at the back of the shop. He had been disappointed to discover early on that the heavy security door at the back of the store is double-locked, and has searched long and hard for the key, but without success.
He is uncomfortably aware that his heavy barricade has the unwanted additional effect of preventing any quick escape on his part, but on balance he decides he would rather take that risk. Besides, he has eventually come to accept the fact that, having started, he is now obligated to do his utmost to nurse the dog back to health.

  *****

  “So I’m still an outcast, still a joke, but at least I finally have my dog! After putting the matter off for some time, I eventually came to the decision that I had to give the Malamute a name. For obvious reasons, my first choice was Wilson, however, after I had begun to attend to the dog’s injuries I couldn’t help but notice that this name was quite inappropriate, so, something more feminine, perhaps? That also ruled out Jock, my original choice (pre-Dalmatian) for a dog when I was a lad. Some might have thought me stupid to give a dog a name, when it’s in the middle of fighting for its life, and my inclination to agree made me hold off for some time. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was emotionally invested. I had no idea what would happen when, or if, she recovered, but I enjoyed the sense of purpose that caring for her gave me, so if I wanted to give her a name, then I was going to give her a fucking name, okay?”

  I’m not ashamed to admit that in the end, picking the name took up a hell of a lot of time, I mean, what the hell else did I have to do? I immediately ruled out anything too feminine, although the idea of wandering around the apocalyptic wastelands calling out Princess or Angel or something did make me smile. After a lot of back and forth, I got it down to two main contenders: either Venus, or Marsha. Venus - firstly because it sounds nice, secondly because the whole goddess thing seemed apt (not the love part, a lot of people don’t know this but she was also the goddess of victory), and thirdly, just because I am or at least I was, a huge tennis fan. Marsha is less complicated, that was my mother’s name. It didn’t take me long to decide though that just about the last way she would like to be remembered would be through my naming a dog after her. I sincerely hope Venus Williams doesn’t feel the same way.”