Say No More

by Sasson, Gemini

  A car raced by with a long honk. Water crashed in a thunderous wall against the trailer in its wake.

  “Awww, fuck you!” Tucker slammed his fist into the side of the trailer.

  The voice on the other end of the phone squawked.

  “No, I wasn’t talking to you, but I might as well have been. Just forget I called. And don’t you dare ever ask me for any favors, you twit. You owe me about a dozen, as it is.”

  His phone let out a feeble beep as he pushed the end call button. Rain was still pouring steadily. Thunder rolled in the distance. Another car horn blared. Bolts and hinges groaned as Tucker stepped up on the trailer hitch. He pushed one of the side windows all the way open, reached down and unknotted the rope attached to the metal loop. It fell to the floor with a muffled thud. I jumped away from it, as if it might bite me like a coiled snake poised to strike.

  What was this supposed to mean?

  Muttering, Tucker marched back to the truck cab. A few seconds later, a dog’s choker collar jingled as he walked around to the back and heaved the door open with a grunt of exasperation.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he ordered.

  A shadow blocked my only route of escape. It was like no dog I had ever seen — if that’s what it even was. A long legged, hulking mass of muscle stood silhouetted against a glow of headlights. Its sleek steel gray hide glistened with a sheen of rain. Massive paws anchored its bulk, dark toenails splayed in an oily puddle. Loose skin sagged from its gargantuan head, flews flapping as it ran a long tongue over jagged teeth. Bloodshot eyes disappeared into loose folds of skin. And the ears — outside of a terrier or two, they were the tiniest ears I had ever seen. Actually, they were more like nubs where his ears had once been. Made me wonder if he had lost them in a fight, because no dog could have ever been born with ears like that. And no dog could have been born that ugly.

  A rumble of warning rose from deep within the beast’s throat. On open ground, I could have outsprinted him in just a few strides. With a little more room perhaps, I could have evaded him with my agility. A dodge, a duck, a leap to the side, he would have barely touched me. But here, as weak as I was, closed in on three sides, no more than a few feet in either direction ... my chances were looking slim. Dismal, actually.

  I had been charged by rams red with fury, and attacked by a bull bent on reaching his heifers in another pasture. Those animals had horns, but they didn’t have jaws meant for crushing smaller animals.

  I backed up as far as I could. Dipped my head to show I didn’t want a fight. But deep in my belly, I knew that that was what this monster had been bred for: to maim, to kill.

  Frozen to death, cooked in a metal trailer, starved, kicked in the ribs. I’d survived all that only to meet my death this way. My flesh shredded, bones crushed, blood spurting and gushing in a gory display of machismo by this hellhound.

  The headlights of a car coming in the other direction illuminated Tucker. He looked defeated. Like a drowned rat clawing his way out of the gutter, lying limply next to the curb.

  The dog’s lip lifted in a snarl, another growl vibrating his chest. I waited for him to lunge, to sink his giant teeth into my skin. Tucker yanked back on the leather handle of his chain leash. The dog obeyed, backing away just enough to give me an opening if I were brave enough — or stupid enough — to take it.

  “I said get out,” Tucker repeated.

  The dog-monster growled again. Louder.

  “Shut up, Cerberus.” Tucker yanked him to his side.

  I stayed where I was. They were only a few feet away. I didn’t trust either of them.

  Tucker pulled a full beer can from his jacket pocket and flailed it into the trailer. It ricocheted off the back wall and slammed me in the loin. A yelp split my throat.

  Fueled by fear, I bolted. Ran without thinking or looking.

  Ran for my life.

  —o00o—

  I took off without direction, the rope trailing behind me. My only thought was the need to get as far from them as fast as I could — and that meant in a straight line.

  Rain fell heavily, smearing the world in streaks of white and red lights as cars and trucks zipped by. Two blazing orbs of light appeared in front of me, boring into the lenses of my eyes like lasers. I pulled up, almost stopped, unsure of which way to go. A horn blasted, piercing my eardrums. I dashed across the road and bounded into a grassy ditch. A few more strides and my feet sank in deep muck. I stumbled, rolled in a puddle underlain with sharp rocks, righted myself and ran on. Up a short incline. Onto another road.

  A car swerved by me, its tires squealing on the slick pavement. I looked back to see it careen onto the shoulder, scud over packed gravel, then jerk back onto the highway. Just as I turned to go again, a wall of air shoved me backward as a double long semi roared by. Panicked, I stopped again, my front and back feet spanning a broken white line. Shivers of fright rattled me from skull to tailbone, even though the rain was warm.

  I gulped in air, felt my heart hammering up high in my throat. I was just as afraid to turn back as I was to go forward. And then I saw another car barreling toward me.

  Forward I leapt, into the darkness, unaware of how close the car was or whether there was another one coming. I saw a broad grassy strip, a line of woods ahead. A few strides more and I was across the road. The car whooshed by.

  I didn’t stop to look behind me. The danger was not past. For all I knew, Tucker and his dog could have dodged the cars, picked up my trail, and were bearing down.

  So I ran. Crashed through the bramble, branches lashing at my face, thorns pricking my paws, the heavy rope banging against my legs, tripping me. Still, I ran. Through the night. Ran until my lungs threatened to explode. Across streams. Through woods thick with old growth. Through meadows of tall grass and across boggy ground. Ran until the rain stopped and the sun rose pink above a field dense with soybeans.

  Until my muscles wouldn’t allow me to go any further.

  —o00o—

  South. I kept heading south. Toward home.

  Although for all I knew, home was hundreds, maybe even thousands, of miles away.

  After a rest, I went on. More slowly this time, but still spurred by the fear that Tucker and his hellhound were on my trail. The knotted end of the rope caught on a forked branch on the ground, jerking me back. I got up, threw my weight forward as I tried to dislodge the branch, but it was solidly buried. One look told me the rope was too thick to chew through.

  I sat awhile, pondering what to do, every sound in the woods setting off alarms in my head. Finally, I went to the end of the rope, faced the branch, and backed away. The collar, which had once been snug, slid over my head easily.

  I was free.

  chapter 22

  I hadn’t been able to see the world blur by as Tucker had driven to meet Clancy, but I was aware on which side the sun rose and set each day and I knew enough to go the other way. I stayed within sight of a busy highway, even though I wasn’t sure it was the same one we had gone north on. All the while, I searched for hills that looked like those around the farm and kept my nose to the air, hoping to catch some familiar scent. I saw cows and more rarely sheep, but the land here was more flat than hilly. There were great swaths of woodland and even bigger spreads of land that the humans had built their cities on. There were no deep valleys and broad grassy hills, one after the other.

  This wasn’t home. It wasn’t even close.

  But I had to keep going.

  The first few days were the hardest. I was bone tired. Being deprived of food and water the few days that Tucker kept me in the hot trailer had drained my body almost to the point of collapse. At first I was too afraid to go anywhere near a human dwelling, but I knew if I didn’t then I would not survive. I had to survive, so I could go home and take care of the sheep. Without me, the senseless creatures were probably wandering around in the open every night, unprotected, afraid, being stalked by coyotes, their numbers dwindling day by day.

  W
ater was easier to come by than food. The recent rain had left puddles everywhere. When those dried up, I drank from ditches. And so I never thirsted, even though the water was seldom clean. I stayed hidden and only approached the human dwellings when either there was no sign of their presence or it was well after nightfall. I couldn’t take the chance that someone would abuse or neglect me again — or even confine me to the safety of their enclosed yard and keep me from ever getting home.

  The humans kept their extra food in tall plastic or metal containers with lids, sometimes neatly wrapped in plastic bags. When the smell of food was evident, I easily toppled the containers, although sometimes the lids were tricky, and tore the bags open to gorge myself on chicken bones, buns, bits of hamburger, potato skins, paper cups with a milky substance in the bottom, and limp, cold French fries. Some days were a feast better than any I had ever had before. Other days, when I had to pick through the rancid offerings, it was barely sustenance. I learned early on to trust my nose and if something smelled bad my stomach would revolt.

  The days were still warm, but the nights were becoming cooler. Usually, I slept in the woods, away from the houses and roads, but the woods held their own dangers. One night, I burrowed myself a nest at the base of a tree where I slept soundly, only to awaken to two dogs staring at me, their hackles raised. One was lanky, with short black hair and droopy ears, while the other was small, but muscular, mostly white in color with a brindle patch over one eye and a stub like mine for a tail. The smaller one snarled and snapped her jaws, while the bigger one just stood and growled. They could have jumped me then, torn me to bits, but all they really wanted was for me to get out of their territory and move on.

  Many days into my ordeal, I saw an old metal barrel at the end of a short path into the woods. The path looked like it had been formed by tire tracks, but no vehicle had come this way in a long time. There were other objects lying about, mostly tires, but also rusted bicycles, the metal framework of an old mattress, bits of cardboard, a very old TV with the front glass smashed out, and plastic jugs filled with nasty smelling liquids.

  It had rained all day and the barrel was a dry place in which I could rest. I had no sooner poked my nose into the opening than a skunk whipped her rear end around and sprayed me with her foul scent. My eyes burned. I had killed a groundhog or two in my time, but I knew not to mess with a skunk. So I ran — the smell clinging to me like a billboard announcing my arrival a mile ahead of me. Wherever I went, it shouted, ‘Here I am!’ I rolled in dirt, waded in every pond I could find, but still the smell surrounded me. And just as I thought the stink was fading, a little rain, a roll in dewy grass, even the dampness in the air would stir it up from the roots of my hair.

  On another occasion, I was lured by the smell of food coming from one of the metal containers behind a barn. I waited and watched for a long time to make sure there were no people around, even though there were no vehicles to indicate they might be there. I slunk around the corner of the barn, padded up to the container, and sniffed all around it. This one had no lid, but there were good things inside. I placed my front paws on its rim and, standing on my back two feet, I pulled it toward me. As it began to tip, I leapt aside. It wasn’t trash that spilled out first, but a barn cat.

  Back arched high, she yowled that otherworldly yowl and swatted with her claws, slicing the leather of my nose. I yelped, spun back the way I had come from, and ran. To my right, a screen door banged shut. An old woman stood on the porch of the house, a shotgun gripped in her crooked hands. She cocked it, raised the barrel, and took aim.

  Out in the open, I had no place to hide. I ran faster. The shot exploded with a bang. A shell whizzed over my head, buried itself in the clothesline pole directly in front of me. The pole’s edge burst into splinters. She primed the shotgun again as I raced over the lawn. Ahead lay a fallow field. I had ventured too far from the woods. The next shot went wide, plunging into the dirt behind me. I ran across that endless field while she continued to lob her ammunition at me. I ran until my tongue hung low, and my lungs screamed for air, and my muscles could go no more.

  By the time I stopped to rest, I had no idea where the highway was. I couldn’t retrace my scent and go back. She would be there waiting with her gun. She would kill me.

  And so I waited until morning, no food in my belly that night. At dawn I rose, skirted as far around the farm as I could where the crazy lady with the gun had tried to kill me, and followed my scent until the highway came back within sight.

  For several more days I followed that highway — cars and trucks buzzing in the distance, its length lit up at night like a ribbon of red and white taillights — until at last I came to a place where the hills were taller and more abundant. A place that was looking more and more like home.

  Trotting up and down the hills was tiring. Opportunities for food were fewer than they had been. But I was getting close, I knew it. And so I pressed on, even when I sorely wanted to lie down and sleep, even when the prospect of food beckoned from a cluster of human dwellings.

  I had grown accustomed to a certain pace, fast enough to carry me many miles over the course of a day, slow enough to keep from tiring too easily and to stop occasionally to gauge my direction. I climbed a very steep hill, more determined than ever. But when I topped it, my heart sank.

  There, in the distance, was the biggest creek I had ever seen. A river, Lise once called it when we went on a long car ride to visit her mother and then friends in Ohio. It cleaved the land in two. A barrier to my path home.

  I sat on the top of that wooded hill for a very long time, thinking of all I had endured and how far I had come, thinking that if only I could get across that great expanse of water, then home must not be far away. But no matter which way I turned it in my mind, I couldn’t see how it was possible.

  Because the only way across was the highway bridge — and that road had more cars on it than I’d ever in my life seen.

  —o00o—

  I went as close as I dared. The rumble of semis stirred an abject fear deep in my gut. They could not easily stop, they could not easily swerve. It seemed they could only go forward, far faster than my four legs could manage, bearing a tremendous weight at dangerous speeds. Any animal in their path was in the way. Dead.

  During my solo journey, I had learned a bit of the patterns of humans in their vehicles. They were most active during the day, less so at night. The quietest hours on the road were the small hours before dawn, when twilight melted into daylight. Humans were just beginning to stir then, but most were not yet travelling.

  That following night, I stirred often to gaze at the sky, trying to judge whether the time was right. Clouds blotted the sky. There was no smell of rain on the air, but the clouds made it impossible to gauge the time. When I next awoke, the highway was already buzzing with traffic. I was too late.

  For a brief time I considered trying to swim across, but when I went to the top of a small ridge that overlooked the river, all I could see was brown swirling water and no sign of the river’s bottom. The distance to the far bank was so vast that the cars driving along the road there were only tiny dots. A small, swift boat zipped downriver, while two, long flat boats bearing piles of black dust slogged upriver. No, I would tire and drown before I reached the other side.

  And so I waited another day. The rain started overnight and continued on well into morning. Another day went by.

  I awoke deep into the night. This time, however, the sky was clear and scattered with stars and a moon so bright it was like a floodlight.

  It was time.

  —o00o—

  The land sloped down toward the highway, trees giving way to those great swaths of grass that humans were so fond of mowing. This area, however, hadn’t been mowed for some time, and I was glad for that, so I could move through it less obviously. A possum ambled down the hillside in front of me, taking her time as she raked her claws through the gravelly dirt, searching for grubs and worms. She was no danger to me;
still, I avoided her, as I had avoided all creatures for many days now.

  How many days had it been? My species is not good at keeping track. After a few, the days all blend together. We tend to mark the passage of time by events — and my crossing this bridge was sure to be an event I would not soon forget.

  Bathed in the silvery blue glow of moonlight, I could see everything so clearly. That was comforting and terrifying at once. The bridge was a monstrous thing, the biggest structure I had ever laid eyes on. Metal arms linked together stretched across the river, supporting a length of road so long and arched so high I couldn’t see to the other side. Cars still sped along, but they were far fewer than in daylight hours. It would be impossible to get across without having to share the road with at least a few of them. If I kept to the side, on that narrow strip between the solid white line and the low concrete wall, perhaps I could make it across.

  Then again, perhaps I was stupid to try. But how else was I going to make it home?

  I sat for an eternity, watching the headlights appear in the distance, cross before me, and then go across the bridge. If there was any other way ... Well, fact was, there wasn’t.

  A stiff wind roared in my ears, making it hard to hear. I studied the road, waited until another truck went by. Just as I set my foot on the pavement, two more cars crested the bridge, coming my way. I scurried back and hid in the tall grass. When they were gone, I tried again. This time, I couldn’t see any cars at all.

  The road rose up like a small hill. I ran as fast as I could to the place where the road left the land and soared above the water. My heart beating wildly inside my ribs, I stayed tucked tight against the wall. Above the howl of the wind, I could just barely hear the gurgle and sloshing of the turbid water below.

  Faster, faster, I raced. This wasn’t a time for caution. It was a time for reckless speed, for muscles to ache for oxygen, for lungs to pull in air in great, heaving gulps. Stride after stride, my legs churned. In my travels, I had grown quick and strong and in this moment it served me well. At the farm, my work was usually done in short bursts of speed, but now I was even leaner and more hard muscled.