The Last Dog on Earth

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  To: Garfield, Commanding

  From: Eagle's Nest

  Re: Operation Wolf

  Follows: CONFIRM ORDERS TO NEUTRALIZE ALL DOGS IN ZONE 1. ANY ATTEMPT TO INTERFERE WITH NEUTRALIZATION PROCEDURE MAY BE CONSIDERED AN ACT OF SEDITION AND A CRIME AGAINST THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. CONFIRM ORDERS TO QUARANTINE ALL DOG OWNERS EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, WITHOUT EXCEPTION.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Logan should have been used to waking up in strange places without the slightest idea of what was going on. But he wasn't. It wasn't the kind of thing you could get the hang of and say, Oh, yeah. My life is one never-ending freak show. I get it now.

  Nope. No matter how many times it happened, he still felt just as spooked.

  The first thing he noticed was that he was lying on something soft. And wherever he was, it was very, very bright. A little too bright. Logan rubbed his eyes. It looked like a bedroom, small and sparsely furnished. He was under the covers … a red-and-white-checked quilt.

  Aside from the quilt, all he could see was a dresser. The dresser was made from the same unfinished wood as the walls and floor. There were no pictures, no plants—nothing except a small clock on the dresser.

  Logan squinted at it. It was almost twelve o'clock.

  Aha. Right then, he figured out why it was so bright. There was a skylight directly over the bed. And the sun was right smack in the middle of it, beating down on him.

  That was a start, anyway.

  So. He was in a house. (At least, it seemed like a house.) It was noon. He just needed to piece everything else together. He would stop being spooked as soon as he sorted it all out.

  First things first. His left arm hurt. His wrist hurt, too, where the handcuff was, but this new pain was higher, near his biceps. It was all swollen and achy there. Maybe he'd bumped it.

  He sat up in the bed and rubbed his eyes again, very hard. Memories drifted like dust motes through his mind, but he was having a hard time separating what he'd dreamed from what he'd actually done. Lying down in a road, seeing a shadow standing over him … It was more like a bunch of impressions, really—like those paintings that are made up of lots of little dots. You can't really form a clear picture until you're very, very far away—

  The bedroom door opened. A man stepped into the room.

  Dad.

  No question. There he was, in the flesh. Right in front of him. So Logan had found him after all. Or he'd found Logan. Or something.

  The jerk looked pretty much the same as Logan remembered, except his hair was longer and grayer. It was tied into a ponytail. His face was a little thinner. He had more scruff on his cheeks, too. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt—pretty much the exact same outfit he'd worn when he'd walked out on Mom and Logan seven years ago.

  Well. If anything felt like a dream, this did.

  The clock ticked: ticktock, ticktock. Logan stared at his father. He felt nothing. He was absolutely blank. It sort of freaked him out. He should be shocked. He should burst into tears. He should clamp his hands against the sides of his head and say, “Oh my God!” This was a pretty big deal, as far as big deals went—right up there with getting sent to boot camp and escaping from jail and inventing a nuclear vaporizer that could destroy everything he hated.

  Logan knew it was a big deal. He just couldn't experience it.

  One minute, he was lying down in a ditch. The next, he was waking up to be reunited with his father. But he felt as though he were reading about it in a boring novel he'd been assigned for homework. His mind put the pieces together in a dull, detached way—as if it were performing a chore. The ditch must be close to Dad's house. He found you on the road and took you in. He put you to bed. And now he's here, looking at you. Looking, and looking, and looking …

  Logan frowned. Maybe he should say something. Then maybe some sort of emotion would kick in.

  “How's it going, Dad?” he asked. His voice was hoarse from sleep.

  His father blinked. He even tried to smile, but it didn't quite work. He just ended up sort of cringing, as if he had a bad toothache.

  “I'm sorry, young man,” Dad said. Funny. His tone was just how Logan remembered it. Deep and gravelly and formal.

  “I think you must be a little disoriented. You've obviously been through some trauma. I'm not your father. My name is Dr. Craig Westerly. I found you on the edge of my property, and—”

  “You are my father, you jerk. It's me. Logan.”

  Dad blinked again. His face went pale. Logan could actually see his skin change color.

  “Logan?” Dad breathed.

  Logan nodded. “That's the name you gave me,” he said. “Although I'm not surprised you don't recognize my face. I've changed a little since I was seven.”

  Dad clutched the door frame. He looked as if he were about to fall over. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

  “How did you find me?” he finally gasped.

  Logan scowled at him. That was it? That was the only thing he could think of to say? No My, how you've grown! No Gee, Logan, I'm sorry for running out on you. Not even a How's tricks, kid? No. Of course not. What did Logan expect? This wasn't a normal human being. This was his father.

  “The state police,” Logan said.

  “The police? I don't understand. Is that why you're wearing those broken handcuffs? I don't understand—”

  “It's kind of a long story. See, I was with my dog, and—” He broke off in midsentence, suddenly seized with panic. His eyes darted around the room. He tossed the covers aside. “Jack! Where's Jack?”

  “Where's who?”

  “My dog!”

  “She's outside,” Dad said. “I don't understand—”

  “What are you, slow?” Logan interrupted. “All you seem to be able to say is 'I don't understand.' Aren't you supposed to be some kind of genius scientist?”

  Dad shook his head. “I—”

  “Why is Jack outside?” Logan demanded in his loudest voice.

  “Well, as I was saying, I found you both this morning at the edge of my property. The dog was hurt. Very badly beaten. And bloody. And given all the worry about POS, you know, I couldn't handle her until I put on protective gear—”

  “Get to the point,” Logan spat.

  “She's out on the porch,” Dad said.

  “Is she alive?”

  Dad nodded. “Last time I checked. I gave her some food and water. But she's pretty far gone.”

  “And it never occurred to you to take her to the vet or the CDC?”

  Dad's face started regaining some of its color. He straightened. His lips pressed into a tight line. “Logan, they won't help your dog. Don't you know how they're handling dogs because of POS? And frankly, given the condition you were in, I had to prioritize.”

  Logan's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “I tested you for POS while you were asleep. If you notice that your arm is a little tender, it's from an injection I used to dye your blood. I had to take a sample and examine it under a microscope to make sure—”

  “Hold it. Stop right there.” Logan stared straight into his father's eyes. “You dyed my blood? While I was asleep? Without telling me?”

  Dad shrugged calmly. “It's a harmless procedure.”

  At last, Logan was feeling some emotion. The name of this particular emotion was anger. The kind of anger that drove people to conquer and kill and destroy and pillage. “So if you tested me, why didn't you test Jack?” he demanded.

  Dad tilted his head, looking puzzled. “Well, because she's already sick, Logan. Isn't it obvious?”

  “She is not sick,” Logan shot back. “She just needs help. She was attacked.”

  Dad met his stare. “How do you know she's not sick?”

  “I just know,” Logan muttered.

  “You know that she was bitten, don't you?”

  “So what?”

  “That's how dogs are infected,” Dad said.

  “
Well, she wasn't infected,” Logan said stubbornly. A vivid image flashed through his mind—that of Jack's mysterious twin, leaping through the air and wrapping those jaws around her leg.

  “What kind of food does she eat?”

  “I don't know, Dad.” Logan groaned. “Dog food. What difference does it make?”

  “None, I suppose,” Dad mumbled. He stroked his chin. “All right. If it'll make you feel better, I'll test her. But then we're taking you to a hospital, all right? You're malnourished and dehydrated at the very least. You need to be properly checked out.”

  Logan didn't answer. He wasn't even sure if he wanted Jack to be tested. Maybe it was better not to know. Maybe it was better just to cling to the hope that she wasn't sick.

  Dad hesitated in the doorway. “What does âOG' stand for?” he asked.

  Logan glared at him. “What?”

  “Your shirt.” Dad pointed at Logan's chest. “It says âOG.'”

  “Oh.” Logan flopped back down on the bed and closed his eyes. “I don't know. The cops gave it to me. My other clothes were ruined.”

  Dad laughed softly. “Probably stands for âOld Grouch.'” He closed the door and headed downstairs.

  Logan frowned. Then he laughed, too. He didn't know why. Nothing was funny about that stupid, moronic, lame little comment.

  In fact, nothing was funny at all. Period.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  Westerly hadn't asked for any of this.

  He hadn't asked for the sudden family reunion. He hadn't asked to go to his car this morning—for the sole purpose of taking a drive to get his mind off Jasmine—only to find a starving boy and his dog lying next to his car. He certainly hadn't asked for that boy to be his son. Most of all, he hadn't asked for …

  He shoved his eyes back against the microscope's dual eyepieces.

  This couldn't be happening. But it was. He'd only agreed to test the dog to indulge Logan's wish so that the boy would agree to go to a hospital.

  Westerly had never once imagined he would see what he was seeing right now.

  Or rather, what he wasn't seeing.

  Prion diseases left telltale signs in an animal's tissue—specifically, black, star-shaped spots called astrogliosis. As the infection spread, these spots started clogging the animal's brain. That was why the animal began to tremble and drool. That was why it lost its balance. That was why its body eventually shut down. The psychotic outbursts of POS were probably caused by something else—but no doubt the clogging in the brain played a part.

  Yet this dog's tissue showed no signs of astrogliosis.

  None. Not a single star-shaped spot.

  Westerly blinked. Maybe this was some kind of punishment. As a scientist, he didn't believe in the supernatural—but this dog's tissue might just change his opinion. What other possible explanation could there be? Some unseen force was testing him, torturing him, making him pay for all the terrible mistakes he'd made. It was like a cruel fable, a legend from some forgotten religion. A man loses everything. He buries the only creature he ever truly loved. And the very next day, as if by magic, his long-lost son walks back into his life, bearing the one gift that could possibly have saved that creature's life.

  Of course, possibly was the key word. Chances were that Jasmine would have died before a treatment could have been developed, anyway. And Westerly still wasn't quite one hundred percent sure about the health of this … Jack.

  But with each passing second, he grew more and more certain.

  He'd been examining her tissue for over an hour now. He'd drawn three separate samples from three different parts of her body: the leg that had been bitten, her chest, and the area between her shoulder blades. All looked the same. Clean. Spotless. Even the blood surrounding the bite was uninfected by the usual bacteria.

  The clincher was that the animal that had bitten her—another dog, it seemed—had left traces of its blood in her leg. And that blood was infected.

  But not hers.

  There could really be no doubt anymore. Aside from the injuries (which were substantial: cuts, bruises, a crushed collarbone, and several broken ribs) … aside from those, Logan's dog was perfectly healthy.

  Perfectly healthy.

  Westerly pushed the microscope away from him.

  “So. Where's the hot tub and trampoline?”

  He whirled around. Logan was standing right behind him. Westerly hadn't even heard him come downstairs.

  “What?” Westerly asked.

  “Never mind,” Logan murmured. “Inside joke.”

  “Please don't sneak up on me like that. You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” Logan said. “It just looked like you'd finished whatever you were doing.”

  Westerly glanced at Jack, lying on the rug—the rug where Jasmine should have been lying. Jack was wheezing. Her broken ribs made it hard for her to breathe.

  “So what's the story? Is she sick?” Logan asked.

  “No, Logan,” Westerly stated quietly. “Your dog is immune to POS.”

  Logan looked up. His eyes brightened. “Really? See. I told you she wasn't sick.”

  For the briefest moment, the relief on his son's face washed away the anger he felt toward the dog. But then, for some reason Westerly couldn't identify, that very same happiness made him even more angry. “I just told you that your dog is immune to POS, Logan. Do you understand the significance of that?”

  “Uh … yeah.” Logan seemed puzzled. “It means we can take her to a vet and get her fixed up.”

  Westerly shook his head. “No, we can't,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the CDC will dispose of her, if the state troopers don't get to her first. Don't you read the papers? Don't you follow the news at all?”

  Logan's face darkened. “Actually, Dad, I don't. See, Mom and Robert sent me to boot camp, and then I ran away, and then I got lost in the woods for about a week, and then I was arrested for shoplifting.” His voice quickly rose to a shout. The veins in his scrawny neck bulged. “So, no. I haven't had time to read the stupid papers!”

  Westerly swallowed. He had no idea what to make of what Logan had just said. If it was the truth … well, if it was the truth, then Westerly knew he should have made more of an effort to keep tabs on his ex-wife. Boot camp? What did that mean—that in the past seven years, his son had turned into some kind of juvenile delinquent? He couldn't believe it. No, correction … what he really couldn't believe was that seven years ago, Logan's mother had actually had the nerve to accuse him of being a bad parent, of being a quitter, of wallowing in self-pity after losing his job and neglecting his family….

  Okay, so maybe he had felt a little sorry for himself. But one thing was certain: He would have never allowed Logan to turn out like this. Not if he'd had anything to say about how the boy was raised.

  “Why are we even standing around here?” Logan asked.“If I'm supposed to take Jack to a hospital, why aren't we doing that right now?”

  “Because there's no point,” Westerly said, trying to be patient.

  “What are you talking about?” Logan said. “She needs help!”

  “That's true,” Westerly said. “She needs some basic medical care and a lot of rest. I can provide that for her right here. I have everything … everything we need.” He choked on the last three words. Over the years, he'd stockpiled lots of veterinary equipment so that he could tend to Jasmine at home if she were ever sick or injured. He'd collected enough surgical tools and bandages and medicine to open a small animal hospital.

  And in the end, none of it had done a bit of good.

  “So why don't you just get to work?” Logan pressed. “Why don't you do something? My dog is dying, Dad! Come on!”

  Westerly stared at him. “You know, your dog could have saved my dog's life,” he said. His voice quavered. He turned away from Logan and sat at his desk.

  Logan didn't say anything for a while.

  “You had a dog?” he asked finally.


  “Yes. I did. She died yesterday.”

  “Oh. I'm sorry.” Logan cleared his throat. “But, you know, I have no idea what you're talking about. How could my dog have saved your dog's life?”

  “Because your dog is immune, Logan,” Westerly said. “Your dog is one in a million. And if I'd gotten my hands on her, I could have taken her to the university and gotten to work on a cure. I could have used her tissue to create an antidote.”

  Again, Logan was silent. Westerly could feel tears welling in his eyes. He fought them back. He refused to cry in front of his son.

  “Why are you mad at me?” Logan asked.

  Westerly spun around in his chair. “What?”

  “You're acting as if I was supposed to know all this. How was I supposed to know? How was I even supposed to know you had a dog? We haven't spoken to each other in seven years, remember? Not since you walked out on us.”

  Westerly didn't answer. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. His head was suddenly throbbing. He couldn't take the stress of this encounter anymore. He and his son weren't communicating. In a way, this conversation was very similar to the last conversation he'd had with Logan's mother. She hadn't been able to understand why he'd been too miserable to explain himself, either.

  Maybe he should just call her and have her come pick Logan up. The boy was on the run; he was wearing a broken handcuff. Trying to help him was asking for trouble, clearly. Marianne could take him to the hospital nearest to Pinewood. Westerly would tend to this dog, but the less he got involved with Logan's problems, the better.

  “You know, Mom was right,” Logan said. “You really are a quitter.”

  Westerly opened his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Listen to what you're saying. You're not making any sense. You won't take my dog to the hospital. But you said that if you did, you would use her to help create a cure. I don't get it. Just because your dog is dead, every other dog has to die, too? Is that it? You're just giving up again? The way you gave up on Mom and me?”

  Abruptly, Westerly was seething with rage. If anything, Logan and his mother had given up on him. “How dare you talk to me like that?” he snapped.