The Last Dog on Earth

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  Logan waited. Jack whined.

  “Are you Dr. Marks?” Logan asked.

  “Yes.” The man offered Logan a brittle smile and extended a hand. Logan shook it. “And you must be Craig's son. Logan?”

  “Yeah, and now that we've all met, can you please help my dog?” Logan demanded.

  Dr. Marks stopped smiling. He turned to Dad. “A chip off the old block, I see,” he said.

  “If you want to say something to Logan, you can address him directly,” Dad said. “He's a human being. He's right in front of you.”

  “I see that.”

  Logan glanced from one to the other. His breathing quickened. He felt like taking their heads in either hand and smashing them together like two bowling balls—crack!— but that would be fairly dumb, seeing as they were the only ones who could possibly help Jack.

  “Um, can you guys talk about me later? In case you haven't noticed, there's a dog on the rug. And she's dying.”

  Dr. Marks sighed. He knelt beside Jack and gave her a quick once-over. He acted as if he were examining a piece of meat. “So you claim that this dog is immune to POS,” he said.

  “She is immune,” Dad said. “Her tissue shows no signs of astrogliosis. She was attacked by a dog with POS, and—” He hesitated. “By the way, who came up with the name psychotic outburst syndrome? It was you, wasn't it?”

  Dr. Marks pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his lab coat pocket. “It's an appropriate name,” he said. He blew into each glove, inflating them like balloons, then slipped them on. “I assume you found traces of astrogliosis in the attacker's tissue.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about blood toxicity?”

  “The sample spoke for itself. None of her proteins contained amyloid rods.”

  “I doubt that, but never mind,” Dr. Marks muttered. He lifted one of Jack's ears, holding it delicately in his fingertips. “Has she had her vaccines? DAAPL dash CPV?”

  “As far as I know,” Dad said dryly. “She's not my dog.”

  “The absence of astrogliosis doesn't necessarily guarantee immunity,” Dr. Marks said. “Spongiform change can manifest itself …”

  Logan stopped listening. He couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. Not that it mattered, anyway. It was obvious that this conversation had nothing to do with the actual words that were coming out of their mouths. It had to do with their tone, with the way they refused to make eye contact. This conversation wasn't about Jack's condition or weird medical terms or POS; it was about them— their problems, whatever they were. They were just disguising it with their scientific jargon so they could pretend they were being adult and professional.

  And they weren't helping Jack at all.

  Come to think of it, the whole thing reminded Logan of the way he and Devon Wallace talked to each other. Devon was always trying to prove how smart he was, and Logan was always trying to show him that he didn't really care. It was pretty much exactly the same, actually. Dr. Marks was the Devon Wallace character in this scenario—the perfect one, the rich one, the one with all the stuff, the awards—and, sad to say, Dad was Logan … angry, impatient, and, in the end, unable to figure out why being perfect mattered so much.

  “… need to move her,” Dr. Marks was saying. “We need to get her to intensive care if she's going to have any hope of survival. There's fluid in her lungs.”

  “Then move her,” Dad said.

  Dr. Marks glanced up from Jack. “Not without a safe suit. I'm not taking any chances.”

  “But you just touched her ears,” Dad said.

  “I'm not going to get into an argument over this, Craig,” Dr. Marks said in a toneless voice. “Maybe you've forgotten what it's like to work in a professional environment. That's understandable. But—”

  The doorknob rattled.

  Dr. Marks rolled his eyes. “Yes?” he called.

  Somebody knocked. “Harold Marks?” a man answered. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Marks frowned. “Who's there? Can I help you?”

  “Security. We have a situation out here.”

  “Not again.” Dr. Marks groaned. He stood and unlocked the door. It flew open, nearly knocking him over.

  Logan flinched. A grizzled man in a black hat stumbled into the room. He didn't look like a security guard. He wasn't wearing a uniform. He was dressed all in black except for a bloody homemade bandage around his left ankle. He slammed the door.

  “Who are you?” Dr. Marks said in a loud voice. “What on earth are you doing?”

  The man raised a shaky finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispered. He stood on his right foot, wobbling. With his other hand, he reached behind his back.

  A second later, his hand reappeared—only this time it was holding a gun. A big one. With a silencer. He pointed it at Dr. Marks.

  Logan blinked.

  There's a guy with a gun in here.

  He could feel his heart beating. The sound was far away, though. It was as if his body had sprung a leak. Every single drop of blood felt as if it were draining out of him.

  He glanced at his father. Dad was sitting perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the gun.

  “I'm Rudy Stagg,” the man said.

  Rudy Stagg. Logan swallowed. He'd heard that name before. But where?

  “Recognize my name?” Rudy Stagg asked.

  Dr. Marks nodded very rapidly. “Yes … yes, I—uh, I suppose I do,” he stammered. “What, ah, what can I do for you, Mr. Stagg?”

  “I'm the famous dog killer,” Rudy Stagg said. “I'm a wanted man.” He limped over to the couch and sat on the armrest, keeping his gun aimed squarely at Dr. Marks. “And now I'm a sick man, too. I got bit by a dog. Did you get my e-mails?” Before Dr. Marks could reply, he snarled, “I know you got them, you jerk, even though you never replied.”

  Logan's head swam. The famous dog killer. So. This man Rudy Stagg killed dogs. And he had a gun. And he was inside this office. Not three feet from Jack.

  Jack whined.

  Rudy Stagg jerked at the sound.

  His shoulder started twitching. He stared at Jack. A drop of drool fell from his lips and landed on his jeans.

  Logan wobbled on his feet. His stomach turned. He was worried he might puke.

  “What's that?” Rudy Stagg hissed.

  “That's a dog,” Dr. Marks said.

  “It's a dog that can help you,” Dad said, speaking up for the first time. “If you're sick, this dog can—”

  “You can't see me because you're seeing a dog?” Rudy Stagg interrupted, whirling back toward Dr. Marks.

  “It's not that,” Dr. Marks said. “It's that—”

  “Shut up!” Rudy Stagg shouted, glaring at him. The pistol wavered. “Dogs are what got us into this mess. Don't you know anything? Dogs are what made me sick.”

  “Please,” Dad said. He leaned forward. “Listen. This dog is immune. We're going to use her to create a medicine that can cure you—”

  “I said shut up! Do you think I'm stupid? Huh? Do you think I don't know what you're planning, all of you people with your fancy suits and your black helicopters?”

  Logan's eyes widened. Stagg wasn't just a little weird. He was a lunatic.

  “Mr. Stagg, please,” Dr. Marks said. “That's the illness talking. Let us help you—”

  “Shut up,” Stagg said again, though more quietly. He sighted down the barrel of the pistol at Dr. Marks, whose face turned the color of moldy cheese. Then, suddenly, Stagg turned his pistol on Jack. “You know, I thought I'd done my very last dog job. But I got time for one more. Yes, sir.”

  He cocked the hammer.

  Time came to a standstill.

  Logan saw it all before him with weird clarity. Rudy Stagg was going to shoot Jack. Rudy Stagg was going to put an end to Dad and Dr. Marks's stupid argument because there would be no point in arguing anymore, because there would be no cure—because Jack would be dead. And if that were to happen, Logan really didn't see much point in hanging around
this lame planet anymore. It was just going to get a whole lot lamer, a whole lot quicker.

  He dove on top of Jack's body.

  “Logan, no!” Dad yelled. “Don't—”

  Logan heard a soft thwip, like the sound of a rubber band. There was a sharp stinging in his back. It burned. Man, how it burned! Warm wetness spread over the front of his sweatshirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw blood pooling on the expensive beige carpet.

  Now it was getting hard to breathe. Logan opened his mouth, but he couldn't seem to suck in air. Shadows closed in around the edges of his vision. He was dimly aware of yelling and footsteps and the door flying open and a bunch of other garbage … but it was funny to him because it didn't really matter. Jack was beneath him. She was safe. He tried to laugh, but he ended up falling asleep instead.

  The spaceship was hard to steer. Logan clutched the control stick, but it felt heavy and supersluggish. A meteor shower was coming. Pretty soon he'd be right in the thick of it. He was nervous; he couldn't remember if he'd ever flown this spaceship before—but for some reason, it was weirdly familiar.

  Actually, he was pretty sure he'd built it. Or at least designed it. He knew where everything was: the hyperdrive button, the tractor beam, and most especially the Logan Moore Torpedo of Ultimate Destruction (LMTUD)—a weapon that was no bigger than a pencil but could instantly reduce any enemy to a small green stain.

  Jack sat beside him in the copilot's seat. She kept trying to stick her head out the window. Her tail wagged and wagged.

  Logan giggled. “You can't stick your head out the window,” he said. “There's no air out there. We're in outer space.”

  Now that he noticed it, he was having a tough time breathing himself. Was there a leak somewhere? He wasn't wearing a helmet. He knew he should be wearing one, but he wasn't. Whatever. There wasn't any time.

  Pow! The first meteor bounced against the ship.

  Logan nearly fell out of his seat. Jack barked. Logan regained his balance, deftly maneuvering the control stick. He swerved in and out among the rocks, missing most of them but bouncing against some like a marble in a pinball machine. Then, all at once, he was out of the meteor shower … and he could see one last big space rock—more like an asteroid than a meteor—dead ahead. Jack barked at it. Her eyes flashed to him. He knew she wanted him to go there.

  He frowned.

  There were three little figures in space suits standing on the rocky surface. They were all waving at him frantically with both hands.

  Logan tapped the brakes. The ship slowed down a little.

  Hey … one of those guys was Perry, the jerk from the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys. Logan could see his pale face. The ship was very close now. And the little shrimp next to him was Sergeant Bell. Ha! In his tiny space suit, Sergeant Bell looked like a midget. And the third one … Was that Robert?

  Weird. Maybe they'd all gone on a field trip together.

  Logan was hovering right over them now. They looked scared. They must have been marooned out here.

  Jack barked again. Her ears flattened. She growled—then stopped.

  Logan reached for the LMTUD trigger. Die, scumbags!

  But then he looked at Jack. Her eyes were soft. And right then, he changed his mind. He would not turn his enemies into small green stains. He would suck them up into the ship with his tractor beam and save them. He was bigger than them and better than them, and he would show them mercy—because that was the right thing to do, the thing that they would never do, small-minded fools that they were.

  True, they all belonged on his Things I Hate list. But looking at them now, stranded out there, Logan could only feel sorry for them. Yes, it was better to help them. Maybe they would learn something from this. Who goes on a field trip in the middle of outer space?

  The tractor beam sucked them right up into the cockpit: poof !

  They all clung to each other as Logan pulled away from the asteroid and sped off into the vast, starry blackness. They hugged each other like babies.

  “Thanks for saving us,” Robert said. “But don't you think Jack should get down from that chair? I don't want her getting in the habit of—”

  Jack barked at him.

  Robert didn't say anything after that.

  Logan smiled and shrugged. He reached over and patted Jack on the head. She really was a much better girl than Robert ever gave her credit for.

  PART VI

  AUGUST 18–21

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  At first, there was nothing but bright white light and softness.

  Every single time I wake up, I have no idea where I am.

  Logan wondered if he'd somehow ended up back at his father's place. But then he sniffed the air. Something was different. It smelled … metallic. He blinked a few times. His back hurt. He tried to swallow. His throat was incredibly dry. And incredibly sore.

  Fuzzy shapes hovered in the air above him. It took him a moment to realize that they were two heads. One on the left, one on the right. And the bright light was a big light bulb in the center of a silver dish—right in the middle of them.

  “He's awake,” the head on the right said.

  Robert?

  Logan squinted up at him. It was Robert, all right. There was no mistaking that craggy, pock-marked face.

  “What … what's going on?” Logan croaked. He sounded like a frog.

  “You're in the hospital, sweetie,” the other head said.

  Mom. Logan's pulse quickened. The other head belonged to Mom. But she never called him “sweetie” unless something was wrong. He heard the faint sound of a machine beeping. The beeping grew faster.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You got shot,” Robert said. “The bullet collapsed one of your lungs. You've been under for three weeks.”

  Logan blinked. He couldn't quite grasp what Robert was telling him.

  “But you're all right now,” Mom added. “They called us this morning and told us you'd woken up briefly.” A watery smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “You were asleep again by the time we got here, though.”

  Logan closed his eyes, struggling to remember. A series of images whirled his mind, a tornado of them—but they were blurry and distorted, like headlights passing on a rainy highway. He saw the panicked crowd outside the university, the expression on his father's face when he talked to that jerk of a doctor … but most clearly of all, that freak with the gun. Right. Rudy Stagg. The “famous dog-killer.” He'd tried to shoot Jack, but Logan dove on top of her.

  I got shot.

  Logan opened his eyes again.

  The faces of Mom and Robert were still floating above him, like two planets in outer space. Maybe he was still dreaming. There was no way he could have been shot….

  He bit down on his cheek.

  Ouch. That hurt.

  So he was awake. And he wasn't dead. Everything must have turned out all right, because he was here—in a hospital bed, hooked up to a bunch of different machines. There was a tube in his arm. There was even a tube up his nose. Man, was that irritating. Still, he found himself grinning, in spite of his discomfort. Wow. This … this was pretty wild. He had actually been shot. Not even a guy like Perry could say that. He doubted even if Sergeant Bell could say that, and he'd been in a war. It was sort of cool, in a way.

  “Where's Jack?” Logan croaked.

  Mom and Robert exchanged a glance.

  “What?” Logan said.

  “I'm, uh …” Robert cleared his throat. “I'm going to go get some coffee, okay? Logan, do you want anything?”

  Do I want anything? Alarm bells instantly went off in his brain. Being called “sweetie” was one thing … but now Robert was offering to be his valet? Logan stared at him. The pain in his chest suddenly seemed detached, remote. The machine beeped away, faster and faster.

  “Logan, I have to tell you something,” Mom said. Robert hesitated on the doorway.

  “Where's Jack?” Logan demanded
again.

  “At a research facility.”

  Logan blinked. “A … what?”

  Mom nodded, biting her lip. “Logan, she's—well, she's at the CDC headquarters downtown. With your father. She isn't well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She's on life support,” Mom said. “You see … she was more hurt than you probably realized. When you brought her to the hospital, she was already in very, very bad shape—”

  “So she's alive, right?” Logan interrupted.

  Mom swallowed. “Her heart is beating, yes,” she said after a moment. “But she can't breathe on her own. She can't feed herself. You see, after…. after everything happened in Dr. Marks's office, they rushed her to one of the emergency rooms. That was when they finally realized that your father was right all along; she is immune to POS. So they're keeping her alive to study her, to use her tissue to help make an antidote, because she was the only dog in the world they could find, your dog …” The words came tumbling out of Mom's mouth in a rush. But then just as quickly, they stopped, as if a plug had been pulled. She exhaled. “Jack isn't going to make it, Logan. I'm sorry.”

  Logan shook his head. This wasn't making any sense. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “They're going to have to put her to sleep, sweetie. They have no choice.”

  “You just said they were keeping her alive,” he said.

  Mom looked at Robert, still standing in the doorway.

  “They are keeping her alive,” Robert said. “You saved her. But her injuries were just too much. She was beaten too badly. She's … uh, she's not going to get better.”

  Logan turned his head to gaze at Robert. The pain in his chest was completely gone now. He felt numb, as if his body had been dipped in ice.

  Robert cleared his throat. “See, you saved her from that crazy guy who would have killed her right here in this hospital.” He looked at the floor. “And the good news is, they got him. He didn't hurt anybody else after that. He was wanted by the FBI, if you can believe it. But, um, he … uh, he's dead now. He died of POS in jail.”

  The good news? The shock at having survived a gunshot wound flew from Logan's mind, leaving only a red haze in its place. A guy had died, and that was good news?