Good Dog

by Dan Gemeinhart

  Aiden! Aiden! Aiden! his heart sang.

  He rounded the corner into the living room, his tail already in full wag, his bloodless heart bursting with joy.

  But his paws stopped quick. And his tail stuck straight. And the hair on his back rose instantly into angry, ready spikes. And his lip pulled back so that the ghost of his teeth could shine white in the shadowy, cluttered room.

  Because it wasn’t Aiden’s feet stomping in the door. And it wasn’t Aiden standing in front of him.

  It was him.

  Big and burly and sour-faced. Shirt untucked, face unshaven.

  Aiden’s dad.

  The monster.

  He was there. And his fists were there. And his scuffed, rock-toed boots were there. And his glowering eyes were there. And his shouting mouth was there, shut silent but there in a tight angry line.

  He slammed the door and sniffed loudly.

  He looked right at Brodie.

  And Brodie? Well, Brodie had years of practice with that monster. And when that man looked at him, Brodie cowered and backed away with his ears down and his tail tucked. It didn’t matter that he was dead, didn’t matter that the man’s eyes and fists and feet would pass right through him without seeing or hurting him. Even ghosts can be scared of monsters, if they’ve been given enough reasons.

  But the monster’s eyes just slid past him, unfocused. He dropped a greasy brown paper bag on the coffee table in front of the couch and walked right through Brodie.

  Brodie shuddered as the monster passed through him, too frozen with fear to move out of the way.

  The monster shivered, too. He paused and cleared his throat, looked around for a second. Then he kept walking into the kitchen. There was the squeak of the fridge door, and the click-pop of a can being opened.

  Brodie stepped out of his path as Aiden’s dad walked back into the room and sat down on the couch, a can of beer in his hand. He turned on the TV and dug a hamburger out of the brown bag.

  Brodie stood paralyzed, watching him. The monster chewed loudly, his mouth open. He already had a smear of ketchup on his chin.

  Patsy and Tuck walked in from the hallway.

  “Who’s that guy?” Patsy asked, her voice low.

  “I smell french fries,” Tuck whispered.

  “That’s his dad,” Brodie said. “Aiden’s, I mean. He’s … he’s …”

  There were too many memories choking Brodie’s mind, too many pictures and sounds and feelings. And when he looked at Aiden’s dad, the memories were all bad.

  Bruises and bellows. Tempers and tears. Fists and fighting. Slaps and sobs.

  And then it was right there. The memory. The one that had lurked and growled at the edges of his memory. The one that had haunted him and brought him back to this dark world with his soul glowing around him.

  It was his last memory.

  It had been nighttime. The sun had just gone down. Aiden and Brodie had been at the park, playing in the snow. They stayed as long as they could, like they always did. Aiden didn’t like going home.

  But, eventually, of course, they had to.

  Aiden’s dad had already been in an ugly mood before they’d left for the park. But when they got back, they’d known as soon as they’d walked in that it had only gotten worse. There was a pile of crinkled cans on the table. And he’d startled snarling even before the door had closed behind them.

  It had been warmer that day. The snow had melted in places, leaving little muddy slush puddles here and there. Aiden hadn’t really noticed. Until it was too late. Until his shoes and pants and coat were hopelessly muddy. Brodie, too, was matted and smeared with mud. They’d stepped inside, as quiet as they could. Aiden was hoping to get to his room, maybe, without the monster seeing.

  But his dad was there, sitting on the couch, his eyes already narrow, red-rimmed and furious.

  Aiden had stopped, right there in the middle of the carpet, his eyes wide.

  Then the shouting had started, the yelling and cursing.

  Aiden had apologized, like he always did. With his shaky and desperate voice. And Brodie had cowered, scared, but not leaving Aiden’s side.

  Aiden had gone back to the door and taken off his shoes, had wiped Brodie’s paws. Then he walked with Brodie toward the hallway, either to get the vacuum or just to get away from his dad.

  The monster had stood up, still snarling with his blurry voice and glaring eyes.

  None of that was new. None of it was unexpected.

  But then he’d thrown the can in his hand. Thrown it hard at Brodie. And it had bounced off Brodie’s ribs. That was new.

  It hadn’t hurt that bad. Not really. It wasn’t full. But Brodie had whined and flinched.

  And, for the first time, Aiden stopped. He stopped still, and he stopped sudden. He turned and faced his dad. And he looked him right in the eye. And he talked back.

  That was new.

  “Stop it,” he’d said, his voice soft but level and strong. “Leave my dog alone.”

  It took Brodie’s breath away, that part of the memory. Alive, he hadn’t known what the words had meant. He had only known that his boy had stopped and faced the monster. But now, remembering with all his new understanding and all his new words, he knew. He knew what his boy had said on that dark night to that roaring monster.

  “Stop it. Leave my dog alone.”

  His boy, his brave and beautiful boy, had spoken for him.

  “What did you say?” his dad had demanded.

  And Aiden had said it again.

  “Stop it. Don’t you dare hurt my dog.”

  It was brave. It was beautiful.

  And it was stupid.

  The monster had roared and struck and the boy was on the ground before Brodie even knew what was happening. It was a savage strike. A hard, meaty fist, a vicious swing. A body-crumpling, blood-bruising strike.

  Aiden had gone from brave and beautiful to broken and bloody in one breath.

  His boy was hurt. He was crying. He crawled back into a corner, pulling Brodie with him.

  But Brodie was shaking. His whole body, his whole soul, trembling in terror. He wanted to run. He wanted to get away.

  And towering over them, a few steps away, with his hands in fists and his head rising and falling with his enraged breathing, was the monster.

  Then: a mad, horrifying blur. Himself, shaking free and running away from Aiden. Aiden’s screaming voice. Stomping boots. Beating fists. Broken bones. Pain. And then … separation. A leaving. Away.

  It was all still a maddening mess, but through all the chaotic confusion one thing was clear and solid: the monster, with his raging eyes and snarling voice and thundering boots.

  The monster.

  Brodie stood there, right there in that same living room, and he looked at the monster on the couch.

  “It’s him,” Brodie said. “He’s the one. He’s the one that killed me.”

  Tuck jumped forward, his fur instantly up and a growl in his throat.

  “Easy, boy,” Patsy drawled, although even she seemed to be eyeing the man with more than her usual hostility. “Dead, remember?”

  “He … attacked us. Me and my boy. Shouting. Stomping. Kicking. Hitting. He was hitting my boy. And I … I was there with him.” Brodie looked over to the corner, to the little area of dingy carpet next to the wall. That was where Aiden had been huddled. Where Brodie had cowered, paralyzed with fear. The rest of the memory was still lost in shadow, but he was sure that it ended there. That it all ended there, in that corner. That was where he’d died.

  It was so shabby-looking. So … unremarkable. A stupid little patch of carpet. There was an empty straw wrapper against the wall. There was no sign of the terror. Of the fight. Of the end. Just a stupid little patch of carpet. There was nothing to show that that was where he was taken from his boy. And where his boy was taken from him.

  And now he was here. And Aiden was gone. Gone.

  A chill shivered Brodie’s soul. He didn’t know how
the memory ended. He just knew that it ended here, and that it ended with the monster killing him. But what came after? Why was Aiden gone?

  Brodie almost couldn’t let himself think it. But there was also no stopping the thought.

  What if Brodie wasn’t the only one that the monster had killed that night?

  What if Aiden was dead because Brodie hadn’t protected him?

  Brodie turned his eyes back to Aiden’s dad.

  Anger rose in him, hot and fast and unthinking.

  He jumped forward and barked. He snarled and snapped and barked again, and kept barking.

  The monster kept chewing, his dull eyes on the flickering screen of the TV. He took another swig from his can.

  “Why did you do it?” Brodie shouted in his ghost voice, the voice that came from his head and his heart without sound. “Why did you do it?” He barked and howled and shouted out his anger at the man on the couch.

  Tuck barked beside him, his teeth flashing and his muscles rippling.

  Because Tuck? He was the kind of dog who stood by your side and showed his teeth to your enemies. Even if they couldn’t see him. And a jet-black pit bull barking and snarling is a ferocious sight. Even if it’s dead.

  They stood there together, barking at the monster. They barked their anger and their fury at the monster and at all the other darkness in the world.

  But, eventually, both dogs fell silent.

  The monster burped and shoved a handful of fries in his mouth.

  “Well,” said Patsy behind them. “That was helpful. You gonna sing him a song now?”

  Tuck shifted his paws, still glaring at Aiden’s dad. He shook out his shoulders. He blinked. His tongue licked at his still-snarling lips.

  “Man,” he growled, “those fries look good.”

  “Where is he?” Brodie demanded, moving in front of the man’s unseeing eyes. He’d stopped his senseless barking but he was no less furious. “Where is Aiden? Why isn’t he here?”

  The man sniffed and spat a loogie into the brown bag.

  “Maybe he ran away,” Tuck said. “Maybe they … took him away.”

  “Maybe he’s dead,” Patsy offered in her bored voice.

  Brodie spun around.

  “Don’t say that!” he shouted. “Don’t you ever say that!”

  Patsy blinked.

  “Fine. I won’t say it. But I will say what I’ve been saying all along. You’re wasting your time, pooch. Maybe he’s here. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he’s alive. Maybe he’s …” Patsy paused, seeing Brodie’s threatening step toward her. “… less than alive. My point is, it don’t matter. You’re dead. You can’t do any good. You got nothing to do here, dog.”

  Brodie looked at her. He looked over his shoulder at Aiden’s dad. He looked back to Patsy.

  “I have to know. I have to know that he’s okay.”

  “Yeah. You’ve mentioned that. Super exciting. Any leads on that?”

  And it was at that moment, at that very moment, that the man’s phone rang. The timing was … well, you could almost call it miraculous.

  Brodie knew the ringtone. It was an obnoxious, whining guitar riff.

  Aiden’s dad swallowed his bite and washed it down with a gulp of beer while he fished the phone out of his pocket.

  “Hello?”

  Brodie sighed and looked down at the stained carpet. He couldn’t see his next step. Everything he’d done had been to get here, to this house, to the place where his boy lived with the monster. And he was here and the monster was here and Aiden wasn’t and it didn’t make any sense and he had no more moves to make.

  But his head shot up at the monster’s next words.

  “Yep, he’s still gone.” He said it low and seething. Angry. Brodie didn’t care that he was angry. But he cared a whole lot about who the “he” was that Aiden’s dad was talking about.

  “Nah, they won’t tell me where he is. ‘Protective custody,’ they say. Bunch of crap.”

  Those words meant nothing to Brodie but he took a step closer to the man, his eyes fixed on the man’s mouth, begging him to say something that would lead him to where he wanted to go.

  “Nope. Not even a phone call. Total bull. I mean, he’s my boy.”

  Brodie’s heart leapt. His tail almost wagged.

  His boy was alive, and out there somewhere. Away from the monster. Safe, maybe.

  “Yeah. Next week. Nah. I’ll play nice for the judge.”

  Brodie waited breathlessly, sifting through the monster’s words, looking for any clue.

  “Yup. No kidding. All this trouble over that stupid dog.”

  Brodie’s ears perked up. He must be the dog the man was talking about. Brodie started to growl, but the man’s next words silenced him.

  “Ah, don’t worry. I will. I’ll get my boy back. Yeah. See ya.”

  Brodie’s half-excited wag stopped. The monster’s words still hung in his head.

  I’ll get my boy back.

  The man hung up the phone and went back to his food.

  “Did you hear that?” Brodie asked.

  “Yeah,” Tuck answered. “He called you stupid.”

  “No, not that. My boy’s okay. For now. But he’s gonna get him back.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Tuck asked.

  “Um, fellas?” Patsy cut in.

  “I don’t know,” Brodie said, ignoring her. “But I gotta do something.”

  “Hey, guys? Hello?” Patsy said.

  “How you gonna find him, though? I mean, if this guy doesn’t even know where he is …”

  “I don’t know,” Brodie repeated. “But I’ll find a way.”

  “Hey!” Patsy shouted, stepping between them. “Quit ignoring me. You’re being even more annoying than usual. Anyone else notice that the sun went down?”

  “So?” Tuck asked. “You afraid of the dark, Patsy?”

  “No, idiot. And neither are Darkly and his stooges.”

  Tuck and Brodie’s eyes went to the window and the growing dark outside.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Quick, mutt,” Patsy went on. “Feel him out. He coming?”

  Brodie forced himself to take his mind off Aiden and the monster for a minute. He closed his eyes and felt through the dusk for Darkly.

  There. He found him.

  Brodie’s eyes snapped open.

  “Um,” he said.

  “Is he close?” Patsy asked.

  “You could say that.”

  And then, right then, they heard the voices. Right outside the back door.

  “You sure this is the place, boss?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a dump, Darkly.”

  “I’m sure, boys. He’s around here somewhere. Check the garage, Thump.”

  “We gotta go!” Patsy hissed, heading for the front door.

  “No!” Brodie protested. “I’ve gotta stay here and wait for Aiden.”

  “How dumb are you? You gonna just stay here and let Darkly rip your soul out? You gonna lose your soul in the same sorry place you lost your life, idiot? What good is that gonna do?”

  Brodie paced anxiously. He eyed the monster, who was picking a piece of onion out of his teeth with his thumbnail.

  “But …”

  “Come on, buddy,” Tuck said, his voice gentler than Patsy’s but just as urgent. “We have to. We can come back tomorrow. Staying and getting torn up by Darkly isn’t gonna help your boy at all. Let’s go.”

  Brodie cast one last glance at the corner, that shabby little littered corner where he’d died. Then he snarled and followed Tuck and Patsy out the front door.

  The last thing Brodie saw when he looked back over his shoulder as he ran out of the room was Darkly’s yellow face and black eyes coming into it.

  “There they are! I’ve got ’em!” he howled.

  Brodie jumped down the concrete stairs of the porch, right on Tuck’s tail. Patsy was already on the sidewalk, sprinting down the street. Tuck and Brodie caught up to her under the light of a s
treetlamp.

  The sky was dark, but not black yet. There was still a glowing line of blue and purple on the horizon. Snow was falling, big fluffy flakes, dropping down from the skies, fluttering through the gathering gloom to soften the dirty edges and lines of the city.

  Behind them, Darkly and his three goons charged out of the house and onto the sidewalk, legs churning in hot pursuit.

  “We’ll car-hop,” Patsy said, still running. “That’s my trick, not theirs. We’ll leave ’em behind, no problem.”

  A car was coming up behind them, heading the same direction they were going. It was moving quick. It was gonna be tough.

  “You ready?”

  “Ready,” Brodie answered.

  “Good. But I mostly meant the idiot. You gonna get this on your first try this time, smart stuff? ’Cause we don’t got time for your stupidity.”

  Tuck didn’t answer. He was eyeing the coming car over his shoulder, his mouth closed tight in concentration. The car was almost even with them. Tuck cut to the side and jumped.

  He sailed right through the car’s rear door. His head popped up in the window.

  “Not bad,” Patsy muttered, then jumped herself. Brodie leapt right behind her.

  They both landed with a lurch in the car’s backseat.

  “That should lose ’em,” Patsy said, hopping up onto the seat back to look out the rear window. “Those morons don’t know how to car-hop.”

  Tuck and Brodie popped up, too, watching their pursuers.

  Darkly and the others were running hard on the sidewalk through the falling snow. A big black SUV pulled alongside them on the road. The hellhounds veered toward the street and, one after the other, hopped through the metal doors and into the SUV.

  “Or maybe they do,” Patsy said. “Huh. This could be a long night.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Tuck asked, his eyes on the car that was following them.

  “We’ll just have to keep hopping,” Brodie said. “Stay ahead of them. Until sunrise.”

  “No,” Patsy said, her voice low. “I can’t do that. All these jumps, all this running and landing and hopping … it all takes a little soul, remember?” She looked down at her few remaining soul lights, circling slowly around her. “I don’t got enough for all that. I’ll be dark by morning. It’ll be close even for you guys.”