Firestorm

by David Klass

  How do I know you won’t attack me?

  Dogs are man’s best friend.

  That’s a line.

  No, it’s true. We were the first domesticated animals. At least, that’s how YOU would phrase the relationship. I’d of course put it in more equal terms. We started our partnership twenty thousand years ago. Dog and man. Man and dog. Best buddies. We’re wasting time. This is our very last chances. Let me go. But if you don’t have the nerve to do it, at least save yourself. Because they’re coming. I can feel them getting closer. In fact, they’re right outside the building. Save yourself. Go now.

  That does it. The fact that he’s telling me to go save myself makes me decide to stay and help. I approach the huge dog and look at the chain that connects his right hind leg to the radiator. Not handcuffs like the ones used on me. More like manacles. No keyhole visible, and for that matter I don’t have a key. I could probably chisel it off him in about twenty years. But we don’t have twenty years. Or even twenty minutes. Maybe not even one minute. I can hear someone ringing the doorbell.

  Them. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. My skin feels cold.

  Go. Save yourself.

  Not an option, rug back. Once I decide to help someone, I don’t cut and run. How do I get these off you? She put them on. She must have had a way to get them off.

  Only one way. Melt them off.

  How?

  Silfor.

  What the hell’s that?

  Dissolvent. Eats through anything. You’re right. She must have some around.

  What does it look like? Where would it be?

  Purple. Has to be stored cool. Forget it. You’ll never find it. Save yourself. I beg you.

  I run out to kitchen. Rip open fridge. Find purple Jell-O containers. Start to run back to maid’s room. Then I freeze in mid-step. Because loud sounds are coming from direction of double-locked front door. They are either knocking it down or taking it off its hinges. And they’re not fooling around.

  I dash back into maid’s room. Here it is. What do I do?

  Pour it on the chains and step aside.

  I rip open container. Tilt it onto chains. Purple liquid oozes out. Coats chains. Instant chemical reaction. Sizzle sounds. Chains turn black. Metal becomes soot-like powder. Big dog free.

  Okay, Rover, what now? You’re the one with the answers.

  Name’s not Rover. Also not fur ball or rug back.

  Do I care? This doesn’t seem the time for formal introductions. The neural flay guys are breaking down the front door.

  There’s, always time for politeness. Gentility is a universal sign of cultural sophistication.

  Okay, I’m Jack Danielson.

  Gisco.

  Gisco? That’s a name for a dog?

  Jack’s a name for a prince?

  KA-BOOM. Loud ripping-tearing sound that I think is front door falling in or being ripped in half. Footsteps thudding into hall. More than one man. Big, powerful, and purposeful.

  Jack, I strongly suggest we get out now.

  You don’t have to convince me. But how? They’re already inside. No way to get past them to front door.

  We’re in the maid’s room. Near the service entrance.

  Good point, snout face.

  Gisco. Some respect, please. This way.

  I follow dog to rear of apartment. Closed door. I turn knob. Locked. Try to unlock latch. Jammed.

  Footsteps approach. My skin tingles with cold dread.

  Get it open.

  I’m trying.

  Try harder.

  You try.

  No fingers.

  They’re two rooms away and getting closer. I hammer on latch with my fist. Give one last yank with all my strength. Latch releases. I rip open door. Bolt out into back stairwell. Start down.

  No, fool. They’re waiting for you down there.

  Then where?

  Up.

  Gisco is galloping upstairs. I know “gallop” is most often used to describe horses running, but that’s the way this big shaggy dog moves as it bounds up the steep flight of stairs. I follow at maximum speed.

  We reach the top. Closed trapdoor.

  Voices from below. They’ve found service door.

  I hit trapdoor with heel of my fist. And again. Pop it open. Climb out onto roof of building.

  Help me up. Dogs can’t climb.

  How?

  Lower your shirt. I hope it’s relatively clean.

  I rip off my shirt. Lower it. Gisco sinks his teeth into the fabric.

  I brace myself and haul him up. He weighs a ton.

  You haven’t been missing many lunches, muzzle mouth.

  He reaches roof and spits out my shirt. One more offensive nickname and I will gnaw off your gonads.

  I lock and bolt trapdoor from top. Good news is they can’t follow us up this way. Bad news is we are trapped. I turn slow circle. No way off roof.

  Okay, Gisco. Point taken. If you’re going to hang out with humans, you might want to try to develop a sense of humor pronto. Now, how do we get off this roof?

  Only one way.

  Which is?

  This way.

  Gisco runs across roof at full sprint. Halfway between racehorse and locomotive. He reaches the edge of the roof. Launches himself through the air. Canine missile. Snout leading the way. Legs folded to belly. Oddly aerodynamic. Heading for roof of another building more than twenty feet away.

  No way he’ll make it. Dogs are not known for staying airborne. In a few seconds he’ll be Central Park West roadkill. Goodbye, Gisco.

  But he somehow just makes it to lip of far rooftop. Skids along till he stops himself. Looks back. Your turn.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Only way out. No time to hesitate. You’re a human, not a chicken.

  You can insult me all you want. I can’t do it.

  No choice. They’re coming up the stairs.

  He’s right. Cold tingling. I can feel their proximity.

  I think of my dad’s last words to me. “For years I’ve told you to hide your abilities. Now you must use them all. Fly, my boy, fly like the wind.”

  I start to run across roof. Building speed. Arms pumping. The New York breeze hitting me from the side. Twenty yards to the lip. Ten.

  I’ve done some long jumping in my time. The whole key is planting the takeoff foot. No margin of error. I reach the edge. Right foot comes down so that toe is at edge of abyss. Plant and lift. Height is crucial. Arms straight out in front of chest. Legs stretching. Reaching for the far roof.

  I’m flying between two Manhattan buildings. The city all around me. Clouds above. Sidewalk below. I don’t make it. No boy could. I plummet.

  Sixteen stories. See the windows flashing all the way down. The same face watching me from every window. A face I’ve never seen before, yet it seems familiar and terrifying. Is this the face of death itself? Thick shock of white hair, like an old lion’s mane. Handsome, aristocratic features with a cruel edge. Strong jaw. Aquiline nose. Red lips slightly open to reveal gleaming, sharp teeth. The piercing eyes of a raptor, watching dispassionately as I meet my doom. Watching me all the way down. Death scream torn from my throat like a long scarlet rope. Pavement rising up to slap me into eternal darkness.

  Thump.

  My feet hit ledge of far building. I do make it. Go sprawling and sliding onto gravel and tar paper of roof. Never so happy to be scraped up.

  Good jump. Sloppy landing.

  Let’s get out of here.

  We find stairway down. Sixteen long flights to lobby. One more to basement. Find a side exit. Both of us winded. But no time to rest. We push out onto leafy side street.

  And we run. Boy and dog. Side by side. Block after block at full sprint. Fleeing together. Drawing strange looks from New Yorkers who are used to almost anything. Till we can run no longer.

  On a corner far from Reilly’s building we sink down to the sidewalk. Dog is panting. I’m gasping. We made it, Gisco.

&
nbsp; No, we haven’t made it. This is just the start. From here on, it’s going to get a lot worse.

  7

  Tell me what’s going on. Right now. Talk. Or think. Or whatever it is that you do.

  Can’t. We’ve got to get away.

  We are away. We long-jumped our way to freedom, remember? Now we’re walking down Broadway, adrift in a city of eight million people, not to mention lots of mangy dogs. They’ll never find us here, whoever they are. So relax and tell me what’s going on. Begin with who’s chasing me. Fill in some of the blanks about where you all come from. And I’d appreciate it if you’d throw in a little personal info like who I really am and why so many people want to kill me.

  No time. Your curiosity is understandable, but you’re wrong. It’s not safe. They’re scouring the city for us and we’re highly distinctive. They’ll find us. Only one option. We’ve got to get out of town.

  Hold on. There’s nothing highly distinctive about me. Normal American boy. You’re the one who’s distinctive because of your size, not to mention girth.

  Are you implying that I have a weight problem?

  No offense, but you’re not exactly a cute little doggy. If you had a horn you could pass for a rhino. Also, not to make you self-conscious, but you don’t act like a dog.

  What do you suggest I do?

  Piss on a fire hydrant once in a while.

  What a revolting suggestion.

  How about interacting normally with other dogs? Don’t be so aloof. You call attention to yourself.

  They sniff my rear end. Surely you don’t expect me to reciprocate?

  That’s how dogs get to know each other.

  I prefer small talk and soft jazz.

  Do you really think they’re looking for us?

  Absolutely. And they’ll find us in a matter of hours.

  There’s a lady looking at us right now.

  I see her.

  Staring.

  Yes.

  Should we run?

  No. She’s coming toward us. If she were one of them, she’d never expose herself like this.

  She’s a big woman, with big hair, several big shopping bags, and a very big mouth that opens into a gooey smile. “Excuse me, but where did you get that magnificent dog?”

  A highly intelligent woman. Treat her with respect.

  Shut up and stop feeding me thoughts. The last thing we need now is an interrogation by a dog-loving boob. “At the pound.”

  “No! I can’t believe it. My husband’s sister is a dog trainer and I’ve been to the shows with her. I thought I knew all the breeds. But I’ve never seen anything like this. What exactly is he?”

  “Just a big mutt,” I tell her. “A garbage can of dog genes.”

  How dare you insult my ancestry.

  “Are you sure? There’s something so pure about him.”

  “Pure mongrel,” I tell her. “Part great Dane, part Newfoundland, part rhino. And he sheds like an alpaca.”

  She laughs. “He needs a good bath, too.”

  You’re right. She’s an idiot. Get rid of her.

  “He always smells like this. This is a good day.”

  “You need a collar and a leash or you’re going to get a ticket. They’re cracking down. Can I pet him?”

  Don’t even think about letting her touch me.

  “Go ahead. He likes it when you scratch behind his ears. Dig in your nails.”

  I’ll bite her arm off at the elbow.

  I can hear her nails dig in as she rakes him behind his ears. “Oh, what a cute doggy-woggy.”

  Get her away from me before I rip out her jugular:

  All of a sudden, I feel a cold prickle on the back of my neck. Black van. Driving by on the other side of Broadway. Tinted windows. Can’t see inside. But I can feel that they’re looking for me. I step behind the lady and try to use her to shield me from view. Gisco, that van!

  I know. Gisco is now nuzzling up to her. Practically licking her knees. Her shopping bags screen him.

  A strange thing happens. In my mind’s eye, I get a flash picture of the street. People walking in slow motion. Cars driving by. The dark van. Ribbons of light shoot away from the van and touch every pedestrian. Like an X-ray.

  Two ribbons of light head for Gisco and me. Can’t dodge them. We’ll be found out. No way to hide from this.

  My left wrist suddenly tingles and then gets hot. I glance down. A bluish glow emanates from my watch. The two tentacles of light reach us and are deflected by the bluish glow. The van drives off down Broadway.

  I’m not sure exactly what’s happened, but I sense that this watch from my father just saved us.

  Meanwhile, the lady with the big hair is thrilled that Gisco has cuddled up to her. Doesn’t know he’s hiding. Thinks she’s found a true-blue four-legged pal.

  “Oh, what a friendly doggy-woggy. Let me give your ears one more good scratch.” Her nails sink in an inch deep.

  The neural flay couldn’t be much worse than this.

  The van’s gone. Do you think they’ll come back the other way?

  Every second we hang around is dangerous.

  You convinced me. Let’s get out of Dodge. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve got to take him to the vet to be dewormed.”

  She pulls her hand back fast. “Nice talking to you. Bye.”

  And good riddance.

  We turn off Broadway onto leafy side street. Okay, how do we get out of New York and where do we go?

  You’re asking me? You want me to be the brains of the operation after all your insults?

  So far they’ve been able to anticipate my every move, so I’m open to suggestions.

  They’re masters of cause and effect. So let’s reverse causality with the old chicken-and-egg game.

  How does that work?

  Observe something. Choose quickly.

  I draw a blank. Look to the skies for help. See an airplane. Airplane.

  Good. That’s the chicken. Now, where’s the egg?

  I don’t follow you.

  Where were airplanes hatched?

  They’re not hatched. They’re built. In factories.

  Where did they first get off the ground?

  The Wright Brothers. Kitty Hawk.

  Good. That’s where we’re going.

  Okay. But first let’s duck into this pet store.

  Absolutely not. Horrible place. Like a slave ship. My brothers and sisters, rise up. You have nothing to lose but your chains.

  Dogs and cats in small, dirty cages start barking and meowing.

  Bored salesclerk looks around uneasily. “Boy, they all woke up at the same time. Can I help you?”

  “I need a leash and a big collar.”

  “In his size, I just have two. One with spikes and one with rhinestones.”

  Spikes.

  “We’ll take the rhinestones.”

  Why?

  You’re not a spikes kind of guy, okay?

  Not okay. What do you know? You see how he treats me, my dear brothers and sisters. This wretched race of fools! Vent your full rage upon them!

  Dogs and cats going nuts. Canaries chattering. Parrots hurling profanities at me in English and Spanish. Even the tropical fish swimming angry zigzag patterns.

  Salesgirl wigging out. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, paying. I fasten rhinestone collar around Gisco’s huge neck and snap on chain leash. “Maybe they need to be fed or something. Bye.”

  I yank dog out of store. Enough rabble-rousing.

  That place was a disgrace.

  So what? Is it any of our business? Stop calling attention to yourself.

  He sniffs. And to think the word “humane” is akin to “humans.”

  8

  Penn Station at rush hour. Gazillions of stressed-out people. Commuters. Travelers. Hard to spot or remember anyone in this chaos. Even a blind teenage boy wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, tapping with his cane as his large Seeing Eye dog le
ads the way. Dog bounds forward and boy nearly falls down a flight of stone steps.

  Sorry about that.

  Slow down. You nearly killed me. I’m supposed to be blind and you’re supposed to be a trained dog, remember?

  First of all, you’re not really blind, so why don’t you watch where the hell you’re going. Second, I’m a little nervous, okay? They’re probably here looking for us. I’ll relax on the train.

  What do you mean they’re here looking for us? I thought we outfoxed them by reversing causality. The old chicken-and-egg game. Remember?

  They don’t know where we’re going. But they may anticipate that we’re going to flee by train.

  Great. So what do we do?

  Proceed with caution. Here’s the ticket line. By the way, I only travel first class.

  Maybe they have a kennel car.

  Old-man ticket seller. “Whaddaya want?”

  “I’d like to reserve a first-class private sleeper on the five-sixteen to Raleigh.”

  Now you’re talking. Ask if they have room service.

  “No uncaged pets allowed.”

  “I’m blind. This dog is my eyes.”

  “Come on, kid. Don’t try that.”

  “Don’t try what?”

  “I’ve been doing this thirty-two years. You think you’re the first wisenheimer who wanted to take his dog on the train and bought a pair of dark glasses? I watched you walk up. And I know a trained Seeing Eye dog when I see one. They’re super-smart. Not like this hairy putz.”

  What did he call me?

  “For your information, mister, I’m not totally blind, but I am legally blind. And this is a super-intelligent and highly trained Seeing Eye dog.”

  “Yeah, right,” the man says, looking Gisco over.

  “I’ll prove it. Give him a command. Anything.”

  “Sit,” the man says.

  Gisco looks back at him. Contemptuous dog stare. Haughty. Condescending. That’s the best you can do?

  The huge dog daintily parks his rump on the ground in a thoughtful and decidedly un-doglike pose. His belly sags down on his folded hind legs and he raises one eye and surveys the ticket seller with the equanimity of the Buddha.

  The old ticket seller gapes. “I’ll be damned. Never saw a dog sit like that before.” He types on his computer and studies the screen. “I’ve got a sleeper, but there are two beds.”