Fangs
Page 27
One dent. Not damn enough because too many puppies either died or were stillborn. He knew what the problem was—the breeding stock was getting old. But replacing them took money. They needed to sell every pup they could to make the rent.
Wiping sweat off his forehead, Bruce turned from the cages to where hopefully more air moved. His legs tangled, prompting him to plant his hand against a metal roof for support, only to jerk it back. “Damn, that’s hot!”
Whimpers and yips from who the hell knew how many throats pounded against his ears. Thank goodness fall was around the corner, because summer heat made coming out to the kennels a miserable task. It had to be well over a hundred degrees under the metal roofing, and it smelled like the inside of a porta-potty. Flies filled the air and crawled over the piles of dog crap. No way was he going to shovel it out of there until the temperatures got below freezing.
He put distance between himself and what had once been a dependable way to bring in some money. Not only were the bitches wearing out, the cages were falling apart, the cost of food kept going up and the pet stores they sold to refused to increase what they were willing to pay.
“I’ve got some cash,” he reluctantly admitted. “Maybe a hundred. Get something for these dogs to eat.”
“Today?”
“Yeah, today.” You idiot. “We can’t afford to lose any more.”
Andrew pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a back pocket and extracted a bent one. Bruce, who’d forced himself to cut back because of the cost, clenched his teeth to keep from saying anything.
“I’ll go tonight,” Andrew said after a long, slow pull. “Too damn hot now. You want me to pick up some beer?”
“Hell yes. And wine for Amy.”
“Yeah, Amy.”
Hearing his half-brother use that tone about his wife had Bruce looking toward the trailer. For the past year and then some, either Andrew or he always had to be around to make sure Amy didn’t leave the stove on or wander off. He figured she had either dementia or Alzheimer’s, but without insurance there wasn’t much he could do about it. Eventually, when she got bad enough, he’d have to jump through the hoops to get her on Medicaid.
Shit. Would they insist on seeing Amy’s living conditions? Someone would come out here, see, hear and smell. Put them out of business.
Double shit. What if someone at the grocery store, which was practically the only place he took Amy anymore, had said something about the way she acted? They could already be under investigation.
Maybe they were already here. That’s what he’d been sensing.
No. Their operation was too small to concern a financially strapped county. There’d been cutbacks in every department, animal control included, thank goodness. What staff remained had more important things to do than go after him.
He wiped sweat off his forehead, then pressed his hand against it. The heat and wondering what the hell to do about Amy was getting to him, messing up his thinking. Even though he didn’t want to, he again stared at the tree he’d been looking at earlier. Too bad his sunglasses were scratched. Otherwise, he’d know whether he was imagining things or something was really up there. Watching.
What the hell could it be? Not long ago Andrew and he had chased off some coyotes, and one night he’d seen a fox cart off a dead puppy. Once, when Andrew was gone, he’d spotted a dog out in the open, looking like it was watching him. The damn thing had stayed around more than an hour, barely moving. It had been far enough away that he couldn’t tell much about it other than it was one of the biggest he’d ever seen.
The damn cur had shown up in a nightmare that night.
Instead of going to the trailer with its portable fans and a cold beer for himself and his brother, he hurried over to the shade cast by a scrub oak. Soon as he’d cooled off a bit and pulled his thoughts together, he’d finish the trip to the trailer.
The zoning out here called for each place to have at least five acres, which suited him just fine. The parcels on either side were owned by an out-of-state developer apparently content to let them stay the way they were. He didn’t have what he could call a neighbor, not that he wanted one.
He and Amy had been here for fifteen years, just the two of them, her working retail in town until she started forgetting too much, while he did a bit of everything, including collecting scrap metal for recycling and driving a pilot car for oversized loads.
Andrew had moved into the second bedroom some three years ago after his marriage fell apart. He hadn’t said much about what had happened, and Bruce hadn’t asked. It wasn’t the kind of thing men talked about. Andrew was behind in his child support and his ex was giving him hell about it. Andrew had told her to shut her yap. Otherwise, he’d hunt her down and take back all the furniture he’d bought during the marriage, including their girls’ beds.
If Andrew made good on his threat, it would just be Bruce—and Amy—for a few days.
At the thought, a shiver hit him between the shoulder blades. He didn’t want to be alone.
“What’s up?” Andrew asked as he joined him in the shade. “You’re staring into space.”
Bruce straightened. “The hell I am. It’s ripe out there.” He indicated the pit where they put the carcasses. “You’re going to have to pick up some more lime to throw in.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I did last time. It’s your turn.”
Before his brother could respond, a dog yelped. Another echoed the first, then suddenly a bunch of them took up the cry.
“What the hell?” Andrew muttered. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you bitches!”
The dogs kept barking, yipping and squealing like they were having a drunken convention.
“Hey!” Andrew bellowed. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll wring your damn necks!”
If anything, that got the dogs going even more. Bruce didn’t waste his breath telling his brother he was making things worse. The caterwauling had an unnatural sound to it.
Where the hell was the bat?
These mutts were small, their voices high. The bitches—and the males who serviced them—seldom made a sound. Most of the time he was able to shut out the puppies’ yammering. Not now. There was something unified about it, as if they were all saying the same thing.
Welcoming something.
“Fuck.” His hands fisted. Why hadn’t he gone straight to the trailer?
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About the Author
Vella Munn writes because the voices in her head demand it. She has had upward of 60 titles published both under her own name and several pen names. A dedicated hermit and shopping loather, she’s married with two sons and four grandchildren. She’s owned by two rescue dogs.
Email: vellamunn@gmail.com
Vella loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Vella Munn
Death Chant
Feral Justice: Punish