Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  “Pedigree,” said the Wolfhound. “All Purebreds must have a clean pedigree going back at least five generations. We have ways of making sure they’re telling the truth about it.”

  “But only five generations?” said Luther, feigning surprise. “That’s hardly anything. Where I come from, the Purebreds have to check out to twelve generations.”

  This stunned all of them, in a way Luther would not have imagined possible. More than a few of the Purebreds started to get very nervous, as well.

  “Twelve?” exclaimed Judas, twitching uncomfortably. “Twelve, that wouldn’t be right, not at all. How could you expect any dog—”

  “He’s lying!” the Wolfhound said, probing Luther’s mind. “The pesthole he comes from doesn’t even have Purebreds.”

  “But why are you so jumpy?” Luther inquired. “You’re Pack Leader, Dragon. You could trace back twelve generations, couldn’t you? Or is there a stain somewhere in your pedigree?”

  “My pedigree is flawless!” Dragon insisted. “And you, mange, you’re dead. Slowly and painfully.” He glanced at the Dobermans. “Cerb—”

  The command was interrupted by a new thought-voice, loud and frightened, which came from the unblocked alleyway.

  “. . . missa dog, ya don’t wants to botha me. I’s jes an ol’ cat, an ol’ puddycat what don’t botha nobody, nobody t’all. Ya ain’ts gonna wanna hurt ol’ ’Jack, is ya? I sho do hope—”

  “Move it!” ordered another.

  A black cat with no tail tumbled past the guards into the courtyard, followed by an angry-looking Malamute. It took Luther a moment to realize that the cat was Blackjack, because the Manx was moving and holding himself in a way that he had never seen before. Luther finally put his paw on what it was: Blackjack was acting humble, and a scared humble at that.

  “What do we have here?” asked Dragon.

  Judas barked joyously. “It has no tail! Look at that! A cat with no tail!”

  Blackjack crouched low to the ground not hissing or defensive, but appearing to be more terrified, if that were possible, than the Spaniel had been. “I found this . . . this tom,” the Malamute explained distastefully, “wandering in the street. It asked me if I’d seen a mange named Luther. I thought you’d want to know about it, Dragon.”

  “So,” the Wolfhound said, making the connection, “this is your traveling companion.”

  The Malamute seemed perplexed for a moment, then growled as it caught sight of Luther.

  “Move the mange off to the side!” Dragon ordered. “We’ll do the cat first, and let him watch!”

  It was no sooner thought than done. Luther was hustled to the sidelines by the Great Dane and the Boxer, and Blackjack was shoved violently forward until he occupied the spot where the Spaniel had been killed.

  “What’s goin’ on?” the Manx asked, shuddering. “What’s y’all plannin’ to do? I’s jes an old puddycat, ya don—”

  “Stop your whining!” the Malamute snapped.

  “Cerberus.” said Dragon. The Dobermans rose. “You are at your own discretion, Cerberus—but make it entertaining.”

  Blackjack’s fur stood on end as the Dobermans approached him. He tried to back away, but the Malamute set up a fierce barking that scared him out of his retreat.

  “Please, missa dog,” Blackjack groveled, prostrating himself. “Please, ya don’t wants to hurt me, does ya? I’s never done nothin’ to a dog, never would do nothin’, no, not this puddycat. . . .”

  “Now I know where you get your courage, mange,” Dragon said. “You must have stolen his."

  Luther made no reply. He was studying Blackjack, wondering what in hell had happened to him. Could something have driven him mad?

  “Please, missa dog, please . . .”

  The Dobermans encircled him now. They spent a few moments snapping at him, teasing him and driving him back and forth. Then one of them, one that was slightly larger than the other two but otherwise identical, moved in until he and Blackjack were almost nose to nose. Like Dragon before, the Doberman’s lips were drawn back so far that he seemed to grin. Saliva dripped from his exposed fangs.

  “I bet he’s going to take his balls,” Judas offered. “Hey cat, he’s going to take your balls!”

  “Really?” said Blackjack, sliding his claws out and locking them. “I’m afraid he’ll have to do it by smell.”

  “Cerberus!” Dragon warned, too late. “Cerberus, look out!”

  The last thing the Doberman had been expecting—the last thing any of them had been expecting—from the panicked cat was an attack. As a result, the dog did not even have a chance to defend itself as the Manx reached past its muzzle and calmly and professionally tore out its eyes.

  “Much too easy,” said Blackjack. The Doberman whipped its bleeding head back and howled in agony . . . as did the other two Dobermans.

  Blackjack began to run. The two unwounded Dobermans regained their composure a moment later, and leapt blindly for the spot where the Manx had been. Not finding him, they began to bite and tear at each other instead.

  “That,” said Blackjack, looking back over his shoulder, “is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever seen. Luther! Come on!”

  Luther heard the call and ran for it, momentarily unimpeded. The sight of the ruined Cerberus held the Purebreds entranced. Luther caught up with Blackjack, and the two of them had actually gotten almost two-thirds of the way to the alley before Dragon awakened to their escape.

  “Stop them!” the Wolfhound ordered. “Tear them apart!”

  Now the other dogs all rushed forward, and it might have seemed that Blackjack and Luther had no chance. But if there was one thing that the Manx had learned long ago, it was that a task that can be performed easily by a few often proves impossible for an army. The air was already heavy with a blood smell, and this drove a number of the Purebreds into a killing frenzy—or perhaps the spirit of Raaq entered them. Those that did not immediately find their intended victims in many cases turned and attacked one another.

  Luther somehow slipped through the initial wave of attackers. Later he would suggest to Blackjack that God or Moses’ ghost had aided him, and out of politeness Blackjack would say nothing. Once through this front wave he was caught in a press of dogs, all straining to get into the fray. He was bitten any number of times—the frenzy had spread to all the Purebreds by now—but none seemed to realize that he was the dog they were trying to get to. Little by little he began to work himself through the crowd toward the alleyway, which was now unguarded.

  Blackjack saw two German Shepherds coming at him from the front, a Great Dane and a Malamute from the right, four assorted Terriers from the left, and an unruly and uncountable mob from behind. He picked the tallest approaching dog, stayed low, and shot right under it. Taking advantage of the ensuing chaos, he too skirted around toward the alleyway, disabling any dog that attempted to stop him.

  Dragon shoved his way through the throng, searching. Two big dogs reared up on their hind legs in front of him, grappling with one another. He separated them, then dove on an animal he thought was Luther. It was not; it was the Boxer who had helped bring Luther in. Dragon had picked it up by the neck and worried it to death before realizing his mistake.

  Then, by chance, he glanced at the alleyway, just in time to see Luther and Blackjack scurrying away. No one else had noticed their departure.

  “No!” he cried. “They’re escaping! They’re escaping! Stop fighting each other and go after them! Stop fighting each other. . . .”

  But it was a while before he could get the Purebreds to listen to him.

  IV.

  “What happened to you, Blackjack?” Luther asked as they scrambled out of the alleyway. “You were gone so long I thought something had gotten you.”

  “Something almost did,” the Manx told him. “ ‘Catchers. A pair of goddamned ‘catchers in a big van. They got the puss. I had her spotted and was just about to make my move when they came along and nabbed her. A minute later and
I guess they would have gotten me too—caught me in the act, so to speak.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “That was why I was gone so long. One of them came after me on foot. Ran pretty fast for a two-legged. He was shooting at me with some funny kind of gun and once he almost hit me. By the time I shook him and found my way back, the ‘Breds had already grabbed you. So I found that Malamute and let him grab me.”

  “You did a good job acting scared, Blackjack. You almost had me convinced you’d lost your mind.”

  “It wasn’t that hard to act,” the Manx admitted. “I’ve never run into a group of dogs like that before, but if there are more of them scattered around the countryside, I can see what Malcolm’s so paranoid about.”

  They zigzagged through the streets, following no definite path but being careful not to double back. Luther scented for Heaven, but could find no whiff of it in this place.

  “I can’t find Heaven, Blackjack,” Luther said. Blood ran from a dozen wounds on his body, all of them minor. “What are we going to do?”

  “Get out of this town as fast as we can, is what,” Blackjack replied. “We can worry about Heaven later.”

  A grey-haired man with a cane spotted them as they turned the next corner. He noticed that they were without leashes or collars, and, remembering how a stray cat-and-dog team had torn up his garden two months earlier, he went to the nearest pay phone and called the Animal Shelter.

  V.

  “Well, Lucrezia?”

  The Bloodhound bitch sniffed the ground carefully, then the air. “North,” she said finally. “They’re heading roughly north from here.”

  “Good,” said Dragon. “That’s what I think, too, but I wanted to be certain. They’ve got a good lead on us, but the way they’re going they might just blunder into the Maze, and that should delay them long enough . . . all right, then. Lucrezia, Aleister, Perdurabo, and Manson come with me. Judas, you go back to the court and tell the others to disperse and head home. No more patrols today. We’ll have another meeting tomorrow to discuss all that’s happened.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what?” the Wolfhound snapped impatiently.

  “Well . . . it’s just that I kind of wanted to come along too, and I’m sure most of the others would—”

  “No. No packs roaming the streets. It’s afternoon, there’ll be more people out, and we’re in enough trouble with the ‘catchers as it is. If you have no word from me by tomorrow, tell Therion that he’s in charge. And start looking for a replacement for Cerberus.”

  “Yes, Dragon,” said Judas, still visibly disappointed. “As you wish.”

  “Now,” Dragon said, as the Bulldog padded away, “let’s go take the mange. And that damned cat.”

  VI.

  “Damn it! This is the third time we’ve been through here.”

  “The streets are all tangled, Blackjack.”

  “I don’t care how tangled they are, we should be able to find our way out. Getting lost is for people.”

  “I have a feeling Raaq doesn’t want us to get away. At least not me. And who knows, maybe he can hurt cats.”

  “Forget Raaq and help me figure out—Wait! Look over there!”

  Luther looked. A man in overalls had just come out of a nearby house. He paused at the front door, saying an affectionate and extended good-bye to a half-dressed woman within. Parked at the curb was a green flatbed truck, on the side of which were painted the words: BEATRIX, INC.

  “What do you think?” Blackjack asked. “We could hop in the back and hitch a ride. If he drives back the way we came then we get out in a hurry, but if he heads out of town—”

  “Yes!” Luther said, as if he’d just had a revelation. “That’s it, Blackjack! That’s how we get out!”

  The overall-clad man still tarried at the front door. He and the woman were hopelessly absorbed with one another, and neither noticed the mongrel dog and the tailless cat scrambling up the back bumper of the truck. A tarpaulin had been tossed carelessly into one corner of the flatbed, and Luther and Blackjack hid themselves under it.

  Blackjack felt something poking his side and turned slightly. He saw a large metal box with the word “Phillips” stamped on the top, and by the dim light seeping in under the edge of the tarpaulin was able to make out the further inscription:

  With love and affection during

  those lonely nights on the road.

  My thoughts are always with you.

  —Your Pookie Bear

  “A tool box,” Blackjack said, and would have snickered had he been capable of it. “What a touching gift.”

  “What?” Luther asked.

  “Never mind. I have a feeling this truck is leaving town, though. Who knows, maybe it’ll even take us closer to your Heaven.”

  “I think it will,” Luther replied.

  VII.

  “We have them!” Dragon said triumphantly as he led the others into the web of curving streets known as the Maze. “How far do you think, Lucrezia?”

  “Not far,” the bitch assured him. “Smells like they got just deep enough in to get lost.”

  “We have them!” Dragon repeated, quickening his pace. “We have them!”

  The sound of an approaching engine grew behind them. Dragon charged onward, oblivious to it, but Perdurabo turned to see what was coming.

  “Hey Dragon . . .” he said.

  “The cat’s going to be the only problem,” the Wolfhound briefed them on the run. “We’ll fall on it from all sides and kill it straight out. . . .”

  “Dragon, I think . . .”

  “. . . the mange shouldn’t put up much of a fight. We can take our time with him. I’m going to—”

  “Oh, hell!” Perdurabo exclaimed, as a white van came roaring into view. “ ‘Catchers! ‘Catchers!”

  “What?”

  Dragon finally turned to look, but it was almost too late to do anything.

  VIII.

  “Say hey, Dante, look at that!”

  The glassy-eyed, battle-scarred, World-War-II-veteran-turned-dogcatcher hunched over the steering wheel and grinned at what had just been pointed out to him.

  “Hah-um,” he said.

  “Five dogs, Dante!” his companion went on gleefully. “Five, and not a single collar! That beats shit out of a stray cat-and-dog pair any day of the week in my book!”

  “Hah-um.”

  “Check out that big one in the front, there. Ain’t he a beauty? Virgil’s gonna have himself a happy fit when he sees what we brought in.”

  Dante’s companion, still in his teens, reached behind his seat like a kid rummaging under the Christmas tree and brought out a pistol with the word “Lethe” stamped on the grip. Placing the pistol on the dash, he reached behind again and brought out a rifle, similarly stamped. Neither the pistol nor the rifle were supposed to be used except in emergencies—and certainly not while the van was in motion—but to the young and the shell-shocked life is a continual emergency.

  “Hold her steady, Dante!” the rifleman cried, leaning out the passenger window.

  “Hah-um.”

  “Whooooo-haaah!” He pulled the trigger, and a small dart struck the closest dog in the flank. Perdurabo, whose name meant “I will endure to the end,” stumbled more from shock than from the immediate effects of the tranquilizer, and was crushed under the front wheels of the van.

  “Hah-um!” Dante cried triumphantly.

  “Oops,” said the rifleman, sounding a bit more concerned. “I don’t know if Virgil’s going to like that.” Then, with renewed spirit: “But what the hell! This is fun, ain’t it, Dante?”

  “Hah-um!!!”

  “All right, good buddy. Floor it!”

  Dante floored it. As the van accelerated he began to hum La Forza del Destino.

  IX.

  “Raaq’s near!”

  “Jesus, Luther, don’t worry about it. We’re moving. Nothing can get at us now—not unless Purebreds can fly.”

  T
he flatbed moved steadily along, bouncing with the occasional pothole but otherwise riding smoothly. Then without warning it slowed, as a weak barking reached their ears.

  “That sounds like Dragon,” Luther said.

  “Jesus,” the Manx repeated. “Wait a minute! Luther, don’t!”

  But Luther had already crawled out from under the tarpaulin. He lifted his head up high enough to see over the side of the flatbed.

  He hardly knew how to react to what he saw. It was as if some great avenging angel had come tearing through here, leaving ruin in its wake.

  Farthest up the street, Perdurabo lay dead like a torn rag doll. Perhaps fifteen yards in front of him was another lump of road kill that had once been Aleister the Great Dane. Lucrezia had been a bit more fortunate—though struck by a dart, she had managed to move out of the van’s path before collapsing. Nearest of all, Dragon stood shakily in front of the now idling van, two darts sticking out of his side. The ‘catchers had stepped out of their vehicle and were trying to throw a net over him.

  You watch, Luther. Raaq ain’t to be trusted. Sometimes he turns on his own.

  So Moses had said, and so it seemed. Only Manson had escaped.

  “You brought this on yourselves,” Luther thought, trying not to feel too much pity for the dead. “You would have been happy to see us run down.”

  “Wh—” Groggy, Dragon intercepted the thought. He looked up and saw Luther riding past in the flatbed. “MANGE!"

  The Wolfhound launched himself forward, a leap that would, under normal circumstances, have carried him up into the truck. Drugged, he only went about three feet, falling heavily on the concrete. As the flatbed sped away and the ‘catchers moved in, he fired a parting threat at Luther, fragments of a thought like shrapnel:

  “. . . kill you, mange . . . find . . . I . . .”

  Then he faded into greyness.

  “Well,” said Blackjack, joining Luther, “looks like there is some justice in the world after all. How about that?”

  Luther made no reply. He was staring at the remains of Perdurabo as they cruised past.