by Jerry
And if she was here, why couldn’t any of the other dogs smell her . . .?
“Third row in front of us,” Blood said. “Aisle seat. Dressed like a solo.”
“How’s come you can whiff her and no other dog’s caught her?”
“You forget who I am, Albert.”
“I didn’t forget, I just don’t believe it.”
Over 50 years ago, in Los Angeles, before the Third War even got going completely, there was a man named Buesing who lived in Cerritos. He raised dogs as watchmen and sentries and attackers. Dobermans, Danes, Schnauzers and Japanese akitas. He had one four-year-old German shepherd bitch named Ginger. She worked for the Los Angeles Police Department’s narcotics division. She could smell out marijuana. No matter how well it was hidden. They ran a test on her: there were 25,000 boxes in an auto parts warehouse. Five of them had been planted with marijuana that had been scaled in cellophane, wrapped in tin foil and heavy brown paper, and finally hidden in three separate sealed cartons. Within seven minutes Ginger found all five packages. At the same time that Ginger was working, 92 miles further north, in Santa Barbara ectologists had drawn and amplified dolphin spinal fluid and injected it into Chacma baboons and dogs. Altering surgery and grafting had been done. The first successful product of this cetacean experimentation had been a two-year-old male Puli named Ahbhu, who had communicated sense-impressions telepathically. Cross-breeding and continued experimentation had produced the first skirmisher dogs, just in time for the Third War. Telepathic over short distances, easily trained, able to track gasoline or troops or poison gas or radiation when linked with their human controllers, they had become the shock commandos of a new kind of war. The selective traits had bred true. Dobermans, greyhounds, akitas. pulis and schnauzers had become steadily more telepathic.
He had told me so, a thousand times. Had told me the story just that way, in just these words, a thousand times, as it had been told to him. I’d never believed him till now.
Maybe the little bastard was special.
I checked out the solo scrunched down in the aisle seat three rows ahead of me. I couldn’t tell a damned thing. The solo had his (her?) cap pulled way down, fleece jacket pulled way up.
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. It’s a girl.”
“If it is, she’s playing with herself just like a guy.” Blood snickered. “Surprise,” he said sarcastically.
The mystery solo sat through “Raw Deal” again. It made sense, if that was a girl. Most of the solos and all of the members of roverpaks left after the beaver flick. The theater didn’t fill up much more, it gave the streets time to empty, he/she could make his/her way back to wherever he/she had come from. I sat through “Raw Deal” again myself. Blood went to sleep.
When the mystery solo got up, I gave him/her time to get weapons if any’d been checked, and start away. Then I pulled Blood’s big shaggy ear and said, “Let’s do it.” He slouched after me, up the aisle.
I got my guns and checked the street. Empty.
“Okay, nose,” I said, “where’d he go?”
“Her. To the right.”
I started off, loading the Browning from my bandolier. I still didn’t see anyone moving among the bombed-out shells of the buildings. This section of the city was crummy, really bad shape. But then, with Our Gang running the Metropole, they didn’t have to repair anything else to get their livelihood. It was ironic: the Dragons had to keep an entire power plant going to get tribute from the other roverpaks; Ted’s Bunch had to mind the reservoir, the Bastinados worked like field-hands in the marijuana gardens, the Barbados Blacks lost a couple of dozen members every year cleaning out the radiation pits all over the city; and Our Gang only had to run that movie house.
Whoever their leader had been, however many years ago it had been that the roverpaks had started forming out of foraging solos, I had to give it to him: he’d been a flinty sharp mother. He knew what services to deal in.
“She turned off here,” Blood said.
I followed him as he began loping, towards the edge of the city and the bluish-green radiation that still flickered from the hills. I knew he was right, then. The only thing out here was the access dropshaft to the downunder. It was a girl, all right.
The cheeks of my ass tightened as I thought about it. I was going to get laid. It had been almost a month, since Blood had whiffed that solo chick in the basement of the Market Basket. She’d been filthy, and I’d gotten the crabs from her, but she’d been a woman, all right, and once I’d tied her down and clubbed her a couple of times she’d been pretty good. She’d liked it, too, even if she did spit on me and tell me she’d kill me if she ever got loose. I left her tied up, just to be sure. She wasn’t there when I went back to look, week before last.
“Watch out,” Blood said, dodging around a crater almost invisible against the surrounding shadows. Something stirred in the crater.
Trekking across the nomansland I realised why it was that all but a handful of solos or members of roverpaks were guys. The War had killed off most of the girls, and that was the way it always was in wars . . . at least that’s what Blood told me. The things getting born were seldom males or female, and had to be smashed against a wall as soon as they were pulled out of the mother.
The few chicks who hadn’t gone downunder with the middle-classers were hard, solitary bitches like the one in the Market Basket; tough and stringy and just as likely to cut off your meat with a razor blade once they let you get in. Scuttling for a piece of ass had gotten harder and harder, the older I’d gotten.
But every once in a while a chick got tired of being roverpak property, or a raid was got-up by five or six roverpaks and some unsuspecting downunder was taken, or like this time, yeah some middle-class chick from a downunder got hot pants to find out what a beaver Hick looked like, and cumup.
I was going to get laid. Oh boy. I couldn’t wait!
OUT HERE IT was nothing but empty corpses of blasted buildings. One entire block had been stomped Hat, like a steel press had come down from Heaven and given one solid wham! and everything was powder under it. The chick was scared and skittish, I could see that. She moved erratically, looking back over her shoulder and to either side. She knew she was in dangerous country. Man. if she’d only known how dangerous.
There was one building standing all alone at the end of the smash-flat block, like it had been missed and chance let it stay. She ducked inside, and a minute later I saw a bobbing light. Flashlight? Maybe.
Blood and I crossed the street and came up into the blackness surrounding the building. It was what was left of a YMC’A.
I didn’t want her getting out; inside there was as good a place to screw her as any, so I put Blood on guard right beside the steps leading up into the shell, and I went around the back. All the doors and windows had been blown out, of course. It wasn’t no big trick getting in. I pulled myself up to the ledge of a window, and dropped down inside. Dark inside. No noise, except the sound of her, moving around on the other side of the old YMCA. I didn’t know if she was heeled or not, and I wasn’t about to take any chances. I bow-slung the Browning and took out the .45 automatic. I didn’t have to snap back the action there was always a slug in the chamber.
I started moving carefully through the room. It was a locker room of some kind. There was glass and debris all over the floor, and one entire row of metal lockers had the paint blistered off their surfaces; the flash blast had caught them through the windows, a lot of years ago. My sneakers didn’t make a sound coming through the room.
The door was hanging on one hinge, and I stepped over through the inverted triangle. I was in the swimming pool area. The big pool was empty, with tiles buckled down at the shallow end. It stunk bad in there; no wonder, there were dead guys, or what was left of them, along one wall. Some lousy cleaner-up had stacked them, but hadn’t buried them. I pulled my bandana up around my nose and mouth, and kept moving.
Out the other side of the pool pla
ce, and through a little passage with popped light bulbs in the ceiling. I didn’t have any trouble seeing. There was moonlight coming through busted windows and a chunk was out of the ceiling. I could hear her real plain now, just on the other side of the door at the end of the passage. I hung close to the wall, and stepped down to the door. It was open a crack, but blocked by a fall of lath and plaster from the wall. It would make noise when I went to pull it open, that was for certain. I had to wait for the right moment.
Flattened against the wall, I checked out what she was doing in there. It was a gymnasium, big one, with climbing ropes hanging down from the ceiling. She had a big square eight-cell flashlight sitting up in the croup of a vaulting horse. There were parallel bars and a horizontal bar about eight feet high, the high-tempered steel all rusty now. There were swinging rings and a trampoline and a big wooden balancing beam. Over to one side there were wallbars and balancing benches, horizontal and oblique ladders, and a couple of stacks of vaulting boxes. I made a note to remember this joint. It was better for working-out than the jerry-rigged gym I’d set up in an old auto-wrecking yard. A guy has to keep in shape if he’s going to be a solo.
She was out of her disguise. Standing there in the skin, shivering. Yeah, it was chilly, and I could see a pattern of chicken-skin all over her. She was maybe five six or seven, with nice tits and kind of skinny legs. She was brushing out her hair. It hung way down the back. The flashlight didn’t make it clear enough to tell if she had red hair or chestnut, but it wasn’t blonde, which was good, and that was because I dug redheads. She had nice tits, though. I couldn’t see her face, the hair was hanging down all smooth and wavy and cut off her profile.
The crap she’d been wearing was laying around on the floor, and what she was going to put on was up on the vaulting horse. She was standing in little shoes with a kind of funny heel on them.
I couldn’t move. I suddenly realized I couldn’t move. She was nice, really nice. I was getting as big a kick out of just standing there and seeing the way her waist fell inward and her hips fell outward, the way the muscles at the side of her tits pulled up when she reached to the top of her head to brush all that hair down. It was really weird, the kick I was getting out of standing and just staring at a chick do that. Kind of very, well, woman stuff. I liked it a lot.
I’d never ever stopped and just looked at a chick like that. All the ones I’d ever seen had been scumbags that Blood had smelled out for me, and I’d snatchn’grabbed them. Or the big chicks in the beaver flicks. Not like this one, kind of soft and very smooth, even with the goose bumps. I could of watched her all night.
She put down the brush, and reached over and took a pair of panties off the pile of clothes, and wriggled into them. Then she got her bra and put it on. I never knew the way chicks did it. She put it on backwards, around her waist, and it had a hook on it. Then she slid it around till the cups were in front, and kind of pulled it up under and scooped herself into it, first one, then the other; then she pulled the straps over her shoulder. She reached for her dress, and I nudged some of the lath and plaster aside, and grabbed the door to give it a yank.
She had the dress up over her head, and her arms up inside the material, and when she stuck her head in, and was all tangled there for a second, I yanked the door and there was a crash as chunks of wood and plaster fell out of the way, and a heavy scraping, and I jumped inside and was on her before she could get out of the dress.
She started to scream, and I pulled the dress off her with a ripping sound, and it all happened for her before she knew what that crash and scape was all about.
Her face was wild. Just wild. Big eyes: I couldn’t tell what colour they were because they were in shadow. Real fine features, a wide mouth, little nose, cheekbones just like mine, real high and prominent and a dimple in her right cheek. She stared at me really scared.
And then . . . and this is really weird . . . I felt like I should say something to her. I don’t know what. Just something. It made me uncomfortable, to see her scared, but what the hell could I do about that. I mean, I was going to rape her, after all, and I couldn’t very well tell her not to be shrinky about it. She was the one cumup, after all. But even so. I wanted to say hey, don’t be scared. I just want to lay you. (That never happened before. I never wanted to do anything to a chick, just get in. and that was that.)
But it passed, and I put my leg behind hers and tripped her back, and she went down in a pile. I levelled the .45 at her, and her mouth kind of opened in a little o shape. “Now I’m gonna go over there and get one of them wrestling mats, so it’ll be better, comfortable, uh-huh? You make a move off that floor and I shoot a leg out from under you, and you’ll get screwed just the same, except you’ll be without a leg.” I waited for her to let me know she was onto what I was saying, and she finally nodded real slow, so I kept the automatic on her, and went over to the big dusty stack of mats, and pulled one off.
I dragged it over to her, and flipped it so the cleaner side was up, and used the muzzle of the .45 to maneuver her onto it. She just sat there on the mat, with her hands behind her, and her knees bent, and stared at me.
I unzipped my pants and started pulling them down off one side, when I caught her looking at me real funny. I stopped with the jeans. “What’re you lookin’ at?”
I was mad. I didn’t know why I was mad, but I was. “What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was very soft, and kind of furry, like it came up through her throat that was all lined with fur or something.
She kept looking at me, waiting for me to answer. “Vic,” I said. She looked like she was waiting for more.
“Vic what?”
I didn’t know what she meant for a minute, then I did. “Vic. Just Vic. That’s all.”
“Well, what’re your mother and father’s names?”
Then I started laughing, and working my jeans down again. “Boy, arc you a dumb bitch,” I said, and laughed some more. She looked hurt. H made me mad again. “Stop lookin’ like that, or I’ll bust out your teeth!”
She folded her hands in her lap.
I got the pants down around my ankles. They wouldn’t come off over the sneakers. I had to balance on one foot and scuff the sneaker off the other foot. It was tricky, keeping the .45 on her and getting the sneaker off at the same time. But I did it.
I was standing there buck-naked from the waist down and she had sat forward a little, her legs crossed, hands still in her lap. “Get that stuff off,” I said.
She didn’t move for a second, and I thought she was going to give me trouble. But then she reached around behind her and undid the bra. Then she tipped back and slipped the panties off her ass.
Suddenly, she didn’t look scared any more. She was watching me very close and I could see her eyes were blue now. Now this is the really weird thing . . .
I couldn’t do it. I mean, not exactly. I mean, I wanted to fuck her, see, but she was all soft and pretty and she kept looking at me, and no solo I ever met would believe me, but I heard myself talking to her, still standing there like some kind of wetbrain, one sneaker off and jeans down around my ankle. “What’s your name?”
“Quilla June Holmes.”
“That’s a weird name.”
“My mother says it’s not that uncommon, back in Oklahoma.”
“That where your folks come from?”
She nodded. “Before the Third War.”
“They must be pretty old by now.”
“They arc, but they’re okay. I guess.”
We were just frozen there, talking to each other. I could tell she was cold, because she was shivering. “Well,” I said, sort of getting ready to drop down beside her, “I guess we better—”
Damn it! That damned Blood! Right at that moment he came dashing in from outside. Came skidding through the lath and plaster, raising dust, slid along on his ass till he got to us. “Wow, what?” I demanded.
“Who’re you talking to?” the girl asked.
“Him. Blood.
”
“The dog!?!”
Blood stared at her and then ignored her. He started to say something, but the girl interrupted him. “Then it’s true what they say . . . you can all talk to animals . . .”
“You going to listen to her all night, or do you want to hear why I came in?”
“Okay, why’re you here?”
“You’re in trouble, Albert.”
“Come on, forget the mickeymouse. What’s the up?” Blood twisted his head towards the front door of the YMCA. “Roverpak. Got the building surrounded. I make it fifteen or twenty, maybe more.”
“How the hell’d they know we was here?”
Blood looked chagrined. He dropped his head.
“Well?”
“Some other mutt must’ve smelled her in the theater?”
“Great.”
“Now what?”
“Now we stand ’em off, that’s what. You got any better suggestions?”
“Just one.”
I waited. He grinned.
“Pull your pants up.”
THE GIRL, THIS Quilla June, was pretty safe. I made her a kind of a shelter out of wrestling mats, maybe a dozen of them. She wouldn’t get hit by a stray bullet, and if they didn’t go right for her, they wouldn’t find her. I climbed one of the ropes hanging down from the girders and laid out up there with the Browning and a couple of handfuls of reloads. I wished to God I’d had an automatic, a bren or a Thompson. I checked the .45, made sure it was full, with one in the chamber, and set the extra clips down on the girder. I had a clear line-of-fire all around the gym.
Blood was lying in shadow right near the front door. He’d suggested I try and pick off any dogs with the roverpak first, if I could. That would allow him to operate freely.
That was the least of my worries.