by Sal Conte
Queenie had summoned the bats just as she’d summoned the wolves. Had she also caused the tree to fall on him? She’d learned a lot during her short time in the mountains. “What next?” he grumbled.
While the bats hadn’t gotten into his eyes, the wounds around his eyes were beginning to puff up. Pretty soon his eyes would be swelling shut. He needed to get back the cabin and have his wounds treated as soon as possible.
Harry took one step along the dirt road and cried out as pain exploded in his left ankle. He hadn’t seen or heard her coming, but Queenie was on his ankle, below his pants cuff, biting and ripping at his Achilles tendon. Whatever the K9-233 people had put in her mouth for teeth were working very well. He heard a soft snaaap as his tendon severed, and his foot went wonky.
“Fuuuck!” He swung the bat making contact with Queenie’s head. A loud, hollow thunk rang out as he knocked her into the underbrush alongside the road. Harry turned to run away, but the pain in his ankle was excruciating, as if his entire foot had been doused in molten lava. The foot was no longer responding to his brain’s command, and as soon as he put weight on it, Harry went down. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
He lay on the hard earth, snow falling on top of him. Queenie emerged from the brush and began moving toward him. Her right eye had been dislodged by the blow of Harry’s shillelagh and was no longer in the socket. It was tethered to her head by a single wire, dangling there like a marionette. The eye, glinting in the moonlight, seemed to be laughing at him as it swung back-and-forth, back-and-forth.
“I didn’t try to kill you!” Harry cried out, and Queenie launched herself at him, attacking his right ankle.
Harry had dropped his weapon in the fall. As he rolled over and clawed for the shillelagh in the dirt, there was an explosion of pain in his right ankle, and heard the second soft snap. He rolled back onto his back, grabbed at Queenie by his feet, but she was already moving up his legs, stepping over his lower torso, his chest. Now that he’d been disabled, she was coming for his throat.
He grasped the small dog in his bloody hands, lifted her up and flung her as far away as he could. Harry then began crawling up the road, using only his arms to propel himself forward. His feet and legs were no longer of use to him. All they were good for was pain.
Queenie had been pretending, just as Ariel had said, pretending that she was back to normal to lull him into a false sense of confidence, and like a stupid fuck, he fell for it.
The snow was falling harder now as Harry dragged himself along the road. He was aware that another attack was imminent. This time, when the attack came, he needed to allow Queenie to go for his throat. It was either a dumb plan, or a brilliant one. If she were at his throat, he could get his hands on her underbelly, open the battery compartment, and remove the damn thing. That would stop her. That was his way out of this horror—removing the battery. Of course, it meant he’d have to endure a bit more pain until he got the battery out, but it needed to be done. Queenie was trying to kill him, and she was close to succeeding.
Haa-ree kill Queee-nie. Queee-nie kill Haa-ree.
Enduring the pain of another attack was the only way to stay alive.
Harry stopped crawling and rolled over onto his back. He lay still, his eyes gazing skyward. The stars were bright. They really were diamonds in the sky, as some old song had said. Back in the city, you could hardly see a star for all the smog, but up here, stars could be appreciated.
Queenie was coming.
Her doggy footsteps made a crunchy sound on the fresh snow as she trotted toward him. Harry braced himself. The mechanical dog climbed up onto him and began moving along his torso.
“I really love you, Queenie,” Harry said softly. “I didn’t try to kill you. I wouldn’t. You’re my… dog.” And Harry’s dog wasn’t a killer. Harry’s dog was a lap dog, cute and cuddly, and…perfect, which is why he was having the damnedest time accepting the bitter truth.
The mechanical dog arrived at his neckline and dug her teeth into the flesh of his throat. The pain was immediate and intense as Queenie tore into him with razor sharp teeth, ripping through tendons and nerves.
Harry’s hands slid along the dog’s under belly. He reached the battery compartment, released the latch, and the little door swung open. Harry’s hand moved inside the battery compartment, diving into the gooey mush of the burned out battery.
“Holy shit!”
Harry rummaged his hand through the goo, and as he did, his mouth began to fill with blood.
No battery, he thought. No fucking battery. But that’s impossible. He also thought: This was a dumb plan. Moments later, Queenie ripped through tendons and nerves, severing his carotid artery, and all the stars lighting the sky went out.
Chapter Thirteen
The Sad Ballad of Marie Antoinette Johnson
The K9-233 was purchased as a gift by Marie’s boyfriend, Harlan. Harlan had come into some money when his Uncle Abner died and he wanted to do something special for the mother of his unborn child.
Marie had been having a very difficult pregnancy. Her doctor had confined her to the house for the last four months of the pregnancy, and Harlan thought a mechanical dog would be the perfect companion. Because the dog was mechanical, she needed no feeding, no walking, no maintenance aside from a battery charge every now and then. Marie named the dog Samantha.
Being home alone all day, Marie had very little adult conversation. Aside from talking to the baby in her belly, Samantha was who Marie talked to the most. She grew to love Samantha, and knew that Samantha would be the perfect dog for her baby when he or she was born.
The trouble began seven months into Marie’s pregnancy. She knew she was becoming very moody, but it was Harlan who was acting strange. He started working longer hours and spending more time at his own apartment. Then, there were the nights Marie would wake up and Harlan wouldn’t be in bed with her. She’d find him in the bathroom, behind a locked door. It sounded as if he was talking to someone on the phone.
Affair. She thought you needed to be married to have one of those, and while she and Harlan certainly weren’t married, they were supposed to be in a monogamous relationship. Marie started to suspect that Harlan was having some, quote extra-curricular activity, unquote.
One evening, when Harlan called and said he’d be working late and would stay at his apartment rather than come in the middle of the night and disturb her sleep (“Oh, you’re so thoughtful”), Marie decided to go over to Harlan’s for a surprise inspection, just to make sure he was telling no lies.
As poorly as she was feeling, Marie got herself together, grabbed Samantha and headed out. As it turned out, Marie wasn’t imagining things. She walked in on Harlan in bed with some tramp. She came into his bedroom, turned on the lights, and threw the trollop’s clothes out the window.
She dumped Harlan on the spot. For days, he called her apologizing, begging her to take him back, but she would have none of it. After a week, he stopped calling. This enraged Marie even more. How dare he cheat on me. I bet he’s with that bitch right now.
In the middle of the night, Marie drove to Harlan’s apartment. She no longer had a key, so she banged on his door as loud as she could. She knew he was home; his car was on the street. She banged for nearly an hour before she went downstairs and slashed his tires.
This did not quench her thirst for revenge: it merely ignited it. Marie started calling Harlan all hours of the day and night. She broke into his apartment when he was at work and trashed his wardrobe. She sent emails to his bosses, telling them he was stealing from them. None of this behavior got a rise out of Harlan. He never called to complain. He didn’t call the police. He simply ignored her.
One night, Marie had gone to his apartment armed with a bucket of cream colored Sherwin-Williams that would go quite nicely on his black car. She had debated cutting his brake line, but no, he needed to know what happened to him was not an act of God.
When she arrived at his apartment, his car wasn’t there. She
waited—for two hours she waited, working herself up into a frothy rage. When the car came spinning around the corner, she ran out into the street, paint bucket open and poised to whitewash his windshield. That’ll teach him.
When Harlan saw her coming, he swerved away, fishtailing down the street before she could dump the paint all over his fine ride. In Marie’s insane mind, Harlan hadn’t swerved away; he’d barreled toward her, nearly missing her. Harlan was trying to kill her.
She called the police and Harlan was arrested. However, when all of her vengeful acts against him came to light, the case was dismissed. For the final month of her pregnancy, Marie told anyone who’d listen that Harlan had tried to murder her. By then, most of Marie’s friends knew she was heading down the slippery slope to crazy town. Many of them asked her to seek help. Marie assured them she wasn’t the one who needed help, Harlan was. When no one else would listen to her, Marie spent countless hours telling Samantha what they were going to do to protect her child.
She became obsessed with revenge, and went on line seeking methods to kill Harlan—fire, drowning, electrocution. She sharpened Samantha’s teeth and taught the little dog how to bite into Harlan’s flesh, should the opportunity present itself. She was amazed at how many different ways men and women had killed their lovers over the years. She soaked up the murderous information like dry a sponge.
On delivery day, Marie gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Harlan did not go to the hospital to witness the birth of his daughter. Instead, he went to Marie’s apartment where he retrieved the mechanical dog and returned it to K9-233 for a partial refund. His way of thinking was he wanted at least some of his money back for all the misery and suffering Marie had caused him.
This is where Marie’s sad story with Samantha ends. The K9-233 observed all of Marie’s insanely vindictive acts. In the process, the K9-233 learned to be suspicious, and how to have a vengeful mind. More importantly, Marie Antoinette Johnson’s K9-233 learned how to slowly go insane, the dog’s insanity fueled solely by the power of rage.
*
The snow had stopped falling, leaving a thin carpet of white powder on the ground. Pam was moving up the path, away from the cabin, and toward the road when she heard Harry’s scream. The anguished cry obliterated the night silence like a thunder clap. Pam thought she heard more than a cry. It sounded as though the cry was stifled by a death rattle.
She stood motionless for several minutes, waiting, listening to hear another cry from her husband, hoping to hear more because more would mean she’d only imagined the death rattle. When no other sound came, Pam resolutely turned around.
“Did you see Daddy?” Jackson asked when she walked back into the cabin.
“No, Sweetie, I didn’t,” Pam replied, sounding disoriented even to her own ears.
“I heard a scream. What was that scream?” Jackson was looking at her, trying not to be afraid.
“That was an animal, honey.” Pam’s gaze moved to Ariel seated next to her brother on the sofa. Their eyes met, and she sensed Ariel knew there was real danger. “Keep an eye on your brother,” she said, starting to move away.
“Where are you going?” Ariel asked.
“Just upstairs. I’ll be right back. If someone knocks on the door do not open it.”
“Even for Daddy?”
“Even for Daddy,” she said.
She moved upstairs to the bedroom. She had a feeling Daddy wouldn’t be knocking ever again. Pam grabbed her purse from off the comfy chair in the corner by the window. She needed to get her cell phone out and call the authorities. She was aware she ran the risk of looking like a fool if nothing was wrong and Harry turned up in an hour with Queenie in his arms, licking his face with her soft dry tongue. In that moment, she welcomed the idea of looking like a fool.
She opened her purse. No cell phone. No. Fucking. Cell. Phone. She was certain she’d put her phone in her purse before they’d left the city.
Of course there’s no cell phone, she thought. A part of her knew that her phone would be gone when she came looking, just as Harry’s phone had gone missing earlier. Queenie was thorough.
She came back downstairs into the living room trying not to freak out as much on the outside as she was on the inside. Jackson was watching another movie on the laptop. Ariel was watching her.
Pam moved to the window and peered out. In the mottled moonlight she could see all the way to the road.
Yip, yip, yeee!
“Queenie!” Jackson called abandoning his spot on the sofa. “Daddy found Queenie.”
Jackson was moving toward the door.
“Stay away from the door, Sweetie.”
Jackson continued moving. “But Daddy and Queenie are coming.”
“STAY AWAY FROM THE DOOR!” The words detonated from Pam’s lips, freezing Jackson in his tracks. Instant tears welled up in his eyes.
“But… but…” He was on the verge of a crying jag.
“Come on, Jackson,” Ariel called in a soothing voice. Moving to Jackson, she took his hand in hers. “Daddy didn’t have dinner yet. He must be really hungry. Let’s fix him a plate so it will be all ready when he comes in. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jackson replied, sniffling.
With eyes on her mother, Ariel led Jackson into the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Pam mouthed.
When they were out of the room, she pressed her nose against the window, and strained her eyes toward the road. Something, a small animal was ambling toward the path that led to the house. Tears sprang into Pam’s eyes when she saw it was Queenie.
Queenie had killed Harry. She didn’t want to think it, but sure as Christmas, Harry was dead, and Queenie was coming for them.
I can’t let that thing get close to my children. The door was locked, but she didn’t believe that was enough. She grabbed the heavy wooden chair she and Harry had bought at a renaissance fair in one of the neighboring towns too long ago to remember. She dragged the chair over and placed it in front of the door.
She moved back to the window. Queenie was limping up the walk. Her left eye was gone, leaving a deep, black hole in her skull. And then Pam could no longer see her.
The door knob turned—back-and-forth. Pam stifled a scream. Queenie was trying to open the door.
Thunk!
Queenie was now throwing herself against it.
Thunk, thunk!
“Go away!” Pam called in a hoarse whisper. “I’m not letting you in.”
Her words were greeted by a sickening silence that set her stomach churning. She moved back to the window but couldn’t see if Queenie was still in front of the door or not. She ran back over to the door and pressed her ear against it, straining to hear.
“Yaaackson,” a scratchy voice called.
Pam’s head jerked up as if she’d been stung on the ear by a bee. She began backing away from the door, her eyes growing abnormally wide.
Jackson bounded into the room. “Queenie’s outside. I told you she could talk.”
“Yes. Yes, you did, Sweetheart. Now go back into the kitchen.”
“But—”
“Jackson… Please.” The soft plea was so out of character for her, she could tell she was scaring the boy.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Nothing’s wrong. We’re playing a game,” she replied, her voice distant and tremulous.
“No, we’re not,” Jackson said.
“Yaaackson.” Queenie called from the other side of the door. “Heeelp me!”
Thunk! Queenie threw herself against the door again.
“Go away. I’m not letting you in,” Pam cried out. She turned back to her son. Slow tears were rolling down his cheeks. “It’s okay,” she said, pushing a smile onto her lips.
“No, it’s not.”
“It is,” she repeated more adamantly, again trying to smile and ease the boy’s mind. “Don’t be ridick-orous,” she said.
Jackson’s expression turned dark, his eyes mean. “Daddy says that, and
you’re not Daddy!”
“You’re right… I’m sorry. I’m not. Daddy’s… on his way home,” she stammered.
Just then, the sound of tiny feet scratching out a retreat in the dirt crackled in the air. Queenie was scampering away.
Is she leaving? Please, God, make her go away.
Pam hurried back to the window and caught a glimpse of the small dog running toward the rear of the house. Queenie wasn’t leaving. She was searching for another way in.
Pam ran upstairs to the bedroom. The window there faced the back. From the bedroom window, she observed Queenie looking around, her solitary eye searching, searching. And then the little dog was again out of sight. Pam craned her neck, standing on her toes, but she could see nothing of what Queenie was doing down below. She threw open the window and listened. Silence. The silence was maddening because it allowed her mind to run free, and Pam imagined all the horrible things Queenie would do to them once she got inside.
“Mommy?” Jackson’s voice from the bottom of the stairs.
“Hey, Jacks,” Pam called, still searching for the right tone to strike with him.
“Something’s wrong with Ariel.”
She shut the window and headed downstairs.
When Pam entered the kitchen, she saw Harry’s dinner plate smashed on the floor. Ariel was seated on the floor nearby, her eyes foggy and distant. She was rocking from side-to-side.
“Jackson, I need you to go upstairs and get the blanket off of Ariel’s bed,” Pam said, keeping her voice even.
“I said Daddy always eats two hot dogs. She said what difference does it make?” Jackson told his mother. “She dropped the plate and sat down. Now she won’t talk to me anymore.”
“It’s okay. Just go get the blanket,” Pam said.
Jackson started away, turned back. “It’s not my fault. Daddy usually eats two.”
“I know. Just get the blanket, Sweetheart.”
As soon as Jackson was out of the room, Pam rushed over, got down on her knees and cradled Ariel in her arms. She kissed the top of her head, but there was no response from Ariel. She was like a small dead thing in her arms. Pam leaned in and whispered in Ariel’s ear.