by B. C. Tweedt
Slowly dropping one hand from his backpack strap, Greyson reached and pulled the bottom of his jacket up and over his worn, red fanny pack. His fingers quietly worked the zipper.
“I’ll give you some money. Just put away the knife.”
CheekBones turned back to Greyson and noticed his hand at the zipper. He took a step closer. “Give us everything. Drop your bag. No funny business!”
One of his friends shook his arm. “The driver, man. He’s calling the cops!”
“I know, I know! Hand it over, kid! You have three seconds! Three…”
Greyson eyed the distance between him. There wouldn’t be enough time.
“Two…”
There were too many of them. He had to give them what they wanted. At least for a little while.
“One…”
“Okay!” he yelled. He swung the backpack to his front and held its hulk in his hands. It had everything he needed for days. Hundreds of dollars. Food. Clothing. It was all he had.
“The money’s in the top compartment.”
I hope this works…
He took in a deep breath and threw the backpack at CheekBones as hard as he could. In a flash, he snatched his slingshot, loaded two balls at once.
SNAP! The balls separated at an angle and slammed into the necks of the two boys next to CheekBones, sending them reeling backwards and to their knees, gasping for air. Greyson swung around and put the lunging boy down with another ball. The girl was frozen in her tracks. He let her be, deciding instead to deal with CheekBones.
But he was gone – already sprinting toward the fence with the backpack in hand, abandoning his friends. Greyson loaded and fired a ball into CheekBone’s calf, but he staggered on, climbing onto a dumpster and then the fence beyond.
My backpack…
“Stop!”
He burst after him, but he was suddenly dragged down from behind. The girl had latched onto his back and flailed her fingernails at his neck and around to his face.
With a jab from his elbow she was off of him, but the damage was done. CheekBones had disappeared over the fence. Panic jolted into his lungs at the thought of losing it.
Growling and rushing to his feet, he sprinted to the dumpster, the hoodie falling from his head in the wind, reminding him, too, that his hat was also in the backpack.
He deftly pushed himself onto the dumpster and over the fence. He surveyed the landing while in the air. A backyard, a swing set, a large, leashed dog barking hysterically, grass to break the fall. But no sign of CheekBones.
Greyson landed in a roll and was thinking through his next steps when suddenly something slammed into him from behind, sending him face-first into the grass and dirt. Before he could right himself, someone had seized his jacket, swung him around, and planted his forearm to his throat.
CheekBones. He’d been hiding just behind the fence. Waiting for him. Greyson had been outsmarted. And now he was outmatched.
The dog wouldn’t stop barking – loud, frightening, and only a few feet away. CheekBones eyed it, but felt satisfied with the chain keeping it at bay.
“Gotcha, kid.” CheekBones smiled to himself and held the knife against Greyson’s cheek.
“Take it! Take the bag!”
“Oh, I will. And your weapon, there. Pretty effective. It might come in handy.”
CheekBones kept the knife pointed toward Greyson’s face while finding the slingshot with his other hand. All the while the dog kept nipping at the air, its jaws snapping and snapping, flinging slobber. Its chain jerked at its neck, but it didn’t seem to care. It wanted their blood.
RUFFRuffRuuuUFFRuRRUFF!
“I’m taking the bag and you’re not going to follow!”
“Wait! Just…just take the money. There’s hundreds. But I need the bag. I’m…I’m…”
RrrrrUFF! RrrrUFFF!
“You’re what? A refugee?” Suddenly CheekBones tugged at Greyson’s hair and pulled at his lips so that he could examine his teeth. “No radiation – so you’re either lyin’ or got off easy. Half the world loves you. You get free food, housing, sympathy cards from all over the frickin’ world.” He stood up and grabbed the backpack.
Greyson sat up, eyeing the boy’s knife.
“What about me?” CheekBones continued. “And my family? We’ve been poor for years – before the bomb! But they don’t give a crap about us. They say the recession will end soon? Unemployment will level out? They lie…”
RUFFRuffRUUUFFRuRRUFF!
CheekBones rifled through the upper compartment and found the envelope. He fingered through Sydney’s parents’ money and his eyes lit up. For a moment his eyes glazed with daydreams, his mouth curling in a fateful smile, but another loud bark from the dog shook him awake and he heard the sirens. Police. Suddenly fear crossed CheekBones’ brow and he glared at Greyson.
“You’ve seen my face. You’d lead them to me.”
No… “I won’t…just don’t.”
RrrrrUFF! RrrrUFFF! Grrrr…
CheekBones pulled the knife up and stuffed the envelope in his jacket. He took a step toward Greyson. The knife’s blade shone with the motion-sensing light from the apartment building. Greyson’s shallow breaths were lost in the dog’s frenzy.
RUFFRuffRUUUFFRuRRUFF!
CheekBones stepped over Greyson and bent his knees. Greyson could see it in his eyes. He was desperate enough. He was going to do it.
“Sorry,” he said, a catch in his voice. “But I have to…”
He pointed the knife at Greyson’s chest and lunged.
Chapter 10
With a guttural roar, a flash of black blazed over Greyson, sweeping CheekBones and the knife away. Startled and too stunned to move, Greyson watched as the dog latched on to CheekBones’ arm and shook horribly, rattling the length of broken chain that hung from its collar. The boy went down in an instant, screaming for his life.
Taking advantage of the opening, Greyson scrambled to his feet, grabbed his backpack and the slingshot, and raced to the fence. Sirens competed with the sound of vicious growling and CheekBones’ anguished screams. None of the sounds were good. He didn’t want any of it – especially the cops.
He peered through a hole in the fence. Cop cars pulled into the station and the bus driver was waving them in.
Greyson turned to the dogfight and searched for an alternate exit. For now the dog was still occupied with CheekBones, but there was no telling when it would suddenly sense the other intruder.
Not wanting to give the dog any more reason to notice him, he tiptoed across the yard to the back gate, keeping watch as the dog mauled the boy’s arm.
“Help!”
CheekBones’ cry came just as Greyson was about to leave; a sudden wave of compassion hit him like a sledgehammer. The boy was poor – and the dog could kill him. And again, it would be his fault. CheekBones was reaching out as Liam had.
“Hey!” Greyson yelled at the dog, his left hand gripping the gate. “Stop!”
To his alarm, the dog dropped CheekBones’ arm and snapped to Greyson, bloodlust still in its eyes. Its pointy ears were alert, watching him, analyzing its next victim. Now that Greyson got a good look at him, he knew. German Shepherd. A breed preferred by police and the military. A breed known for its ferocity.
Greyson gulped. The dog kept watching.
During the hesitation, CheekBones whimpered, pushed away, and crawled toward the fence. The dog ignored him, its eyes still locked on to Greyson.
“G-g-good boy. Stay…”
CheekBones staggered to his feet in a state of panic, tried to climb the fence with one good arm, abandoned the idea, and ran to the corner where a board was broken at the bottom of the fence. He kicked at it haphazardly, his eyes still on the dog. Finally the boards were broken enough that he began to crawl through.
And then Greyson remembered. He still had the envelope.
“Wait! My money!”
He took a step toward CheekBones and so did the dog. Greyson stopped. The
dog’s jowls were slobbering – its eyes still locked on Greyson – though it cast sideways glances at CheekBones as he slid through the small opening. CheekBones was a tempting target, yet the dog was still watching Greyson. Why? Was he the bigger threat?
A banging sound resonated in the direction of the dumpster and a policeman’s head suddenly popped over the top, shining a flashlight in the yard. The light landed on Greyson.
“Freeze! Police!”
Greyson eyed the dog, the flashlight, CheekBones’ disappearing shoes – then made his choice. He bolted.
“Freeze!”
He expected a gunshot, but there was only the bark of the dog behind him. His feet pounded pavement as he swerved into the street. He was heavy with the backpack. Its bulk swung back and forth, giving his stride an awkward waddle, and most definitely decreasing his mobility. He wouldn’t be able to outmaneuver the cops very long. He had to find a hiding spot – soon.
The neighborhood was dark. Most everyone would be asleep – it was nearly 2 a.m. Did he dare try to break in to someone’s home – or just knock and hope they would hide him from the police?
He couldn’t risk it.
He swerved into an alley between apartment buildings and took a quick glance back. The cop wasn’t following. But the dog was, gaining on him, zipping through the streetlight.
Greyson let out a yelp and sprinted between the buildings, breaking through a few shrubs into a larger open area with a wide-open gate and black fencing. There weren’t any lights here, but there were a few trees ahead and lots of small statues to hide behind. He ran and ran, the sound of the backpack smacking against him, reminding him of how slow he was.
And then he heard its footfalls. It was right behind him.
Taking a deep breath, he slowed to a stop. For a moment he couldn’t turn around. He had a thought that if he confronted the beast, it would feel threatened enough to attack. Maybe if he just lay down in a sign of submission, it would pass him by. Or he could play dead. He’d heard you were supposed to do something like that in case of a bear attack once, though his dad had said it depended on the type of bear. If a Grizzly were hungry or protecting its young, it’d do the deed whether or not you chose to fight back. German Shepherds were the Grizzlies of dogs.
He turned slowly, his arms outstretched as if to show he was unarmed. For now. His slingshot was still an option.
The dog stood erect only five feet from him – ears alert, eyes dark and direct. But its tongue was out, panting. It wasn’t growling, but a slight whimper escaped its loose lips that hid all but the sharpest fangs.
Now’s my chance…
Breathing heavily, Greyson reached into his pack. The dog watched. His fingers found what he was looking for. When the dog took a step forward, Greyson startled, throwing the object from his pack at the dog’s feet.
In an instant, the dog snatched up the beef jerky and swallowed it whole. As if thanking him, the dog let out a soft bark – though it still sent a chill down Greyson’s spine. And then it drooled.
Suddenly a wave of relief forced Greyson to smile. And he laughed a little.
“You…you hungry?”
Greyson found another jerky nugget in his pack and threw it to the dog. It caught it in mid-air and didn’t even chew.
Greyson laughed again and knelt, hands open and toward the ground. Like it had seen an opening, the dog burst forward knocking Greyson into his backpack and rolling to his side. Laughing out of shock and relief, Greyson let the dog lick his face and hands.
“Hey! Gross! Sick!”
Like a switch had jolted the dog into action, it jerked erect and searched the darkness.
It took a moment for Greyson to realize what it had done, and a sense of awe overtook him. The dog was trained.
“No, it’s okay. We’re okay. Don’t sic. There’s nothing to sic.”
He didn’t really know what it meant to “sic”, but he’d heard other people command their dogs to “sic” this or “sic” that, as a command to attack.
Before the dog could think to sic him, Greyson found another nugget and watched as the dog inhaled it with pleasure.
“Good boy…” he praised, petting it as it sniffed at his fanny pack. He had to zip it shut to keep it from eating all his jerky in one gulp.
Faint light from the street revealed the gorgeous beast. It had a sleek, black coat swirled with a caramel brown, like delicious hot cocoa – not to be confused with something sweet, though. Its muscles were taut, especially around its legs and jaw; and its teeth, especially the fangs that hung over its lips, could simply rip through flesh like paper.
And he’d seen it in action.
But its eyes, at least right now, were like puppy eyes, round as quarters and full of love.
Greyson pet it a few more times, still more than hesitant that it would suddenly find him empty of beef jerky and try to satisfy its hunger in some other way.
“Now what, boy?”
He looked around. The police weren’t anywhere close, and they could hide here. In the…cemetery.
Looking around, it finally sunk in. Graves were everywhere – big and small stones, crosses, and angels – all rolling over the gentle hills into the darkest dark. Spooky, but a great place to hide. He’d make his way to the tree line and plan his next move there.
He got up, staring at the dog. “Time to go home. Okay?”
The dog stared at him.
“Shoo. Go home. Understand?”
The dog bounced on its hind legs.
“What? No. Not stand - understand! You have to go home.”
The dog sat and cocked its head.
Greyson sighed and knelt to the dog’s collar. Finding its nametag, he read the name.
He grimaced at the name. “What? Really?”
The dog whimpered.
There weren’t many worse things to call a dog. Whoever owned the dog was obviously cruel. And worse yet, there was no address or phone number.
Suddenly, the dog growled and turned to face the road. Greyson followed its gaze. Beyond the cemetery’s fence, Greyson glimpsed a patrol car slowly making its way down the street, shining its spotlight in the alleys between buildings.
“Frick!”
He jerked to his feet and jogged toward the graves. “Go home, mutt.” He couldn’t call it by its name.
It followed him, matching his strides with two or three of its own.
“Ugh…fine! But I’m not stealing you. If you follow me…frick! Hide!”
He slammed himself to the grass and shifted behind a gravestone just as the spotlight swept through. He was hidden well, and so was the dog. Somehow, the dog had gotten the sense to sit behind its own gravestone. It panted, staring at him out of satisfaction. He could swear it was smiling.
The spotlight made another sweep but kept moving as the patrol car continued outside the gate.
Greyson watched it until it was out of view, took a few more breaths, and then pushed himself to his feet. The backpack felt like a hundred pounds, digging into his shoulders and scrunching his spine; it couldn’t be that heavy, but it felt like it. In fact, everything seemed worse all of a sudden. He looked around. Darkness. Lurking cops. A strange dog, staring at him from on top of a grave.
A grave. Where a coffin had been buried with someone’s mom or someone’s dad. Where some kid had been forced to pour the first shovelful of dirt over his dead mom.
An urgency pushed him forward, toward the back of the cemetery where trees hovered over a black, metal fence. Greyson ran to it, grabbed the bars, and shook. The metal laughed at him with its creaks and squeals, and it wouldn’t let him out. He was trapped.
He took a few steps back, beginning to stagger as thoughts caught up to him in the silence. A mournful, haunting voice seemed to wail inside of him. It had been wailing for days, but he finally had the time to listen. He was too tired. Too alone. After so long, it was just him, with no one watching.
He fell back, his guard came crashing down, and
the tears came flooding in.
At first they were for himself. He was hiding from the cops in a graveyard hundreds of miles from home. No money. No phone. Helpless. He couldn’t afford bus tickets. It was ruined. Everything. In a matter of minutes he’d gone from being only a few days from his dad, to ruin. He had failed.
He let the sobs grow, even as the dog sniffed at his hair and neck. Death was all around him. Death had seemed to follow him recently – haunting him, perhaps forcing him to confront it – to give it what he owed. Tears.
Memories assaulted him full force – both good and bad. His mother’s face, his last good bye. Liam’s cold, dead eyes – pleading. Kip’s body, rocking with the bullets. Orion, standing over Kip, smirking. The mushroom cloud. The staggering refugees. The panicked people. Memorials. Speeches. Funerals. Leaving Sydney.
He was sorry. For his mom. For Liam. For the 8,000 and counting. More than this cemetery could hold. Far more. It was his fault. All of it. He deserved this.
He hated himself. He’d never been more angry. His fists clenched at the grass and pulled up wads of dirt. He started to yell, but he couldn’t alert the cops. What came out instead was a husky, head-pounding gag that pulsed at the veins in his neck and forehead. How could he have let it happen? How many had been children, or had children? How many other moms had died? And the orphans were now asking why. He was the answer. He was why.
Suddenly the dog’s tongue slapped his cheek, interrupting his thoughts, its tongue pleasant and gross at the same time – like therapy. Eventually the dog found more sensitive spots, like his ears. And then it caught a taste of the salt in his tears and the tongue swiped at his cheeks, nostrils, and mouth.
He pushed angrily at the dog’s face. “Get off!” The anger swelled over his sadness, and he lashed out at the dog. It whimpered and backed up. But only for a moment. It took another cautious step forward, like it was testing the water, and came at him again.
Feeling bad for shoving the dog, this time he let him back in for more licks. Odd enough, it felt good, and he’d already forgotten that he’d been crying. Soon, he hugged the dog close, both to keep him from licking, and for the comfort it gave. It felt good to hug – human or not. And he was tired. The dog’s fur was like a warm pillow, and he didn’t move. Maybe he liked the hug, too.