Thor

by Wayne Smith

“Be quiet!” Dad said again. His open hand came down hard on Thor’s rump. Thor got down off the door, feeling bad about his disobedience, but the sense of urgency refused to go away. He stood his ground on the kitchen floor, looked straight at Dad and barked at him.

  Dad bent down to grab the loop in Thor’s choker collar, but Thor backed away, stood his ground and continued to bark.

  A look of concern crossed Dad’s face and he looked out the window again. Still he saw nothing. By now, Mom, Teddy and Brett were on the stairs. Teddy and Brett were excited, as if they were going to a movie. Mom was terrified.

  “Don’t you go down there!” Mom told the kids. Brett stopped on the landing, but Teddy, as if imitating Thor, ignored her and kept going.

  Dad wasn’t sure what to do. This, after all, was one of the reasons he got the dog; to guard the family. But from what? Was Thor losing it? He looked out the window again, pondering the wisdom of letting the dog out. He decided to try silencing him once more.

  “Bad Dog!” he shouted angrily, and walked to the cellar door, opened it and pointed in. “Get in there! Bad Dog!” Thor stood his ground and barked, then ran to another window, away from his angry master. He barked more warnings to the thing in the woods, looking over his shoulder at the family that refused to take him seriously. His throat was beginning to feel sore.

  “All right!” Dad yelled over the din. He opened the kitchen door wide. “Go on! Get out!” Thor dashed for the opening, running low to avoid letting Dad snag his collar as he went by. And in fact, Dad tried to do just that. Thor had seen his intentions as clear as day, but it didn’t matter now.

  He was Out, and the only thing that mattered was finding and neutralizing the threat to the Pack.

  Thor charged across the cool, silvery moonlit grass, leaped the little creek that separated the yard from the woods, and vanished into the trees. As he reached the point where he last saw Uncle Ted, he slowed to a fast trot, found Uncle Ted’s scent trail, and followed it. It wasn’t hard. The scent rail was strong with Uncle Ted’s sweat, and strong with Uncle Ted’s fear.

  The woods were dark, much darker than the yard. The moon was still low in the sky and very little moonlight penetrated the tree cover. The shadows were deep and dangerous.

  From time to time the sound of a twig snapping of a leaf rustling in the shadows made him stop, head and ears erect, ready for action. But the noises were just small animals; the Bad Thing was still in the distance. He pushed ahead and tried to ignore all but the most distant sounds.

  Uncle Ted’s scent trail followed a well-worn jogging path, but there were loads of small side paths running off the main trail. The small paths often ran under the branches of tall bushes, resembling tunnels through the foliage more than paths. They frequently led into large clusters of bushes that hid small clearings in their midst. Kids used these natural hideouts for all sorts of things, like smoking cigarettes and stashing girlie magazines. Thor had investigated plenty of them. He could run through them like a bullet in the daytime, but at night their shadows were too deep for even his eyes to penetrate well. Fortunately, Uncle Ted’s trail didn’t take a side path. He was too tall for them.

  But Uncle Ted had a long head start. Thor had hoped to catch up with him right away, but the man was nowhere to be seen or heard. Could Uncle Ted have run through the forest in the dark? It didn’t seem possible. Even Thor risked spraining or breaking an ankle if he ran too fast.

  Thor picked up his pace until he was trotting as fast as he could without losing the scent trail. The trail left the familiar jogging path that ran along the edge of the woods, and turned in toward the forest’s interior. Soon he was a quarter mile from the house, in unfamiliar territory, much farther than he thought the chase would take him. The new surroundings sent another surge of adrenalin through him that mingled with the exhilaration of exercise, anticipation — and a touch of fear.

  He both did and did not look forward to a confrontation with the Bad Thing. He knew the Bad Thing was a danger to the Pack, and he sensed that the meeting would be extremely dangerous, and yet the thought of fighting the Bad Thing aroused him.

  At long last, he would fulfill his destiny and use his formidable strengths and skills to do his born Duty: Protect the Pack.

  He didn’t fear danger nearly as much as he feared failure.

  Uncle Ted’s fear-laced scent led Thor another quarter-mile into the woods, where it began to fade and another scent gradually took its place — the scent of the Wild Animal. Thor slowed down to check it out, but before he learned anything, a noise up ahead startled him.

  It was a violent thrashing sound, accompanied by a low, angry growl. He knew immediately, deep in his gut, that it was the Bad Thing he’d dreaded for so long.

  Thor stopped dead in his tracks and came to attention like a pointer. He held his head high and trained his ears in the direction of the sound. Nothing. He scanned the landscape for similar sounds from other directions. Nothing. If whatever made the noise heard Thor coming, it could try to circle around him.

  Then the sound came again, from the same direction. The foliage around him muffled the noises, so he went to the nearest tree and stood on his hind legs with his front paws high on the tree trunk, to give himself some altitude.

  From his improved vantage point, he pinpointed the direction of the sounds. A struggle of some sort was going on, but it was stationary, and only seemed to involve one animal. Through the dark web of leaves and branches, he caught sight of movement in the distance. Something was shaking violently, apparently attacking a tree. Thor hopped down and cautiously crept toward the commotion.

  His blood was charged with adrenalin, and the fur on his shoulders and neck stood high. He padded quietly toward the noise with his body close to the ground. His ears wanted to flatten against his head in the presence of danger, but he held them up through force of will. Crouched down as he was, he couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. He couldn’t afford to miss any sounds in the dark.

  The closer he came to the noise, the more he felt danger, and the more cautiously he proceeded. He was not there out of curiosity or a sense of adventure. He was there to defend the Pack, and he couldn’t defend the Pack if he was dead.

  Thor was well acquainted with ambushes. When he was a puppy, Teddy and Brett had played a game in which Brett jumped up and down on his bed, calling Thor and teasing him. When Thor ran into Brett’s bedroom, Teddy sprang out from behind the door and tried to catch Thor’s head in a pillowcase.

  The game only worked once — Thor was a quick study. It had been years since they’d tried to ambush him like that, but Thor hadn’t forgotten.

  He picked up Uncle Ted’s scent again as he crept toward the Bad Thing. It was disturbingly faint, and seemed to go straight to the Bad Thing. Thor thought Uncle Ted must have gone somewhere else, but when he tried to find where Uncle Ted’s scent trail left the path, he came up empty. The fading scent of the path was the only trail. It didn’t make sense.

  As Uncle Ted’s scent faded, the scent of the Wild Animal (which he now knew was the Bad Thing) got stronger. It was as if Uncle Ted had faded away and the Bad Thing had gradually appeared out of nowhere to take his place. The abnormality of the situation frightened Thor in a way that was unlike any fear he’d known before. It was not fear of death or injury or pain, nor fear for his own well-being or even the well-being of the Pack. A silent voice deep inside him seemed to say that what lay ahead was wrong. It was too strange, too different. More different than birds or cars or telephones or all the other strange things in the world.

  It didn’t belong here. Or anywhere else.

  Fear heightened Thor’s attention to his surroundings, and he noticed for the first time that there were no other sounds around him — at all. Small animals in the woods always made sounds, night or day. Even if they weren’t nocturnal animals, they often scooted out of the hiding places when Thor passed by a little too close for comfort. He’d heard them tonight when he first entered the fo
rest. Field mice, birds, possums — they all made noise as they fled Thor’s approach. But not here, not now. It was as if Thor and the Bad Thing had the forest all to themselves. As if all the other animals had felt the strange new fear Thor felt, but unlike Thor, they had no Duty to perform. Their instincts told them only to flee.

  Thor continued his approach, inches at a time, as the Bad Thing struggled in place. If the Bad Thing broke and ran, Thor would give chase, but as long as it stayed put, there was no reason for Thor to announce his presence by charging in.

  He was about fifty feet from his quarry when the underbrush gave way to a small clearing, and he got his first real look at the Bad Thing.

  Every hair on Thor’s body stood on end. The Bad Thing, whatever it was, was hideously unnatural. It smelled like a dog, but it was not a dog. It was taller, longer, bigger than a dog, and its body was not a dog’s body. Covered with fur, it stood upright on its hind legs, with its front legs wrapped around a tree trunk, held together by Uncle Ted’s handcuffs. It wore Uncle Ted’s sweatpants and the ragged remains of his sweatshirt, and a small metal object dangled from a shiny chain around its neck. It had torn away as much of the sweatshirt as it could reach with its sharp teeth and the two grotesquely long fangs that protruded from its mouth. What remained of the sweatshirt lay limp and tattered around its waist. Its face, though covered with fur, was human-shaped — its mouth and nose were separate structures, not a snout.

  Its fangs were sharp and long and dangerous-looking. It had been trying to cut through the tree trunk with them, and had gnawed a big hunk out of the tree before giving up on the idea.

  The Bad Thing hadn’t seen Thor yet, though Thor had a feeling it knew he was near. Thor backed away slowly, silently, into the surrounding bushes, and circled around it from behind the cover of low-lying foliage. He carefully worked his way through the forest until he was behind the Bad Thing, then edged in for a closer look.

  Fortunately, the Bad Thing was chained to the lone tree in the clearing, and the full moon, now high in the sky, beamed down on it like a spotlight. The Bad Thing’s attention seemed torn between the moon and the handcuffs that bound it. It struggled for a while, got tired, and gazed upward. Thor kept expecting it to bay at the moon, but it didn’t. Instead it glowered at the moon, its face a picture of hate. The only sound that came from it was the same constant low growl Thor had heard in the distance.

  Thor was almost directly behind the Bad Thing, but not quite. He’d chosen an approach that kept the handcuffs in his line of sight. He wasn’t at all sure he could kill the Bad Thing if it got free. He smelled something in the undergrowth as he advanced, and stopped to check it out. Uncle Ted’s sneakers lay on the ground. They smelled of Uncle Ted and the Bad Thing.

  Had Uncle Ted tried to put them on the Bad Thing, as he had his sweatshirt and pants? Why? And where was Uncle Ted? The questions passed through his mind and were forgotten, and he turned his attention back to he beast on the tree.

  He crept within a few yards of the Bad Thing when it heard him and snapped its head around to see the interloper.

  At the sight of Thor, the Bad Thing flew into a rage. Thor tensed and bared his teeth, ready to fight, but the handcuffs held — the Bad Thing couldn’t attack. Instead, it twisted itself around the tree to face him, snarling, growling, pulling at the handcuffs and snapping at the air the whole time. The Bad Thing’s fury made it foam slightly at the mouth, and despite its helpless state, it showed no fear, only rage. It was acting like a small dog on a leash, but with a big difference: It wasn’t faking anger or hiding fear. Its rage, its hate, were completely genuine. It wasn’t afraid; it gave off no scent of fear. Even helpless, locked to the tree, it wanted Thor to come closer, wanted any opportunity to try to kill him.

  It was utterly mad.

  Their eyes met, and Thor froze. The Thing’s eyes were neither canine nor human, but resembled both. It looked straight into Thor’s eyes, and Thor looked back as he would never look at a human. Its eyes seemed to beckon to Thor. They bore an invitation to join the Bad Thing in it wildness, in its freedom, in its madness. To enjoy the taste of blood and the smell of death, to revel in the power each of them possessed in such abundance — the power to kill.

  Thor had never killed. He’d never experienced the god-like rush of triumph as a victim’s struggles ceased between his jaws, the smell of the prey’s blood filling his nostrils. But the Bad Thing’s eyes seemed to tell him just how good it felt, to mock him for his unfulfilled destiny, to draw him into its circle of madness and bloodlust.

  Something deep inside Thor told him this seduction was wrong. Wild or domestic, wolves do not kill for pleasure. They kill for food, and they fight to defend their packs, but even when a pack’s existence is at stake, they fight until the enemy is vanquished and almost always allow the defeated enemy to escape with its life. The Bad Thing’s lust to kill was without purpose, without design or reason. It wanted to kill only for the love of killing.

  And yet its gaze, its bloodlust, its fury were so appealing. It offered freedom from all hierarchy, freedom from all rules and laws, freedom to run wild, even wilder than wolves.

  Thor and the Bad Thing stood motionless, eyes locked. Thor’s mind swam with intoxicating images of blood and strength and triumph and death.

  Until a far-off sound distracted him.

  From hundreds of yards away, the shrill voice of Thor’s dog whistle called to him in the forest, and the strange sensations vanished, washed away in a flood of reality.

  The Bad Thing’s bloodlust was without focus or purpose or meaning; given the chance, the Bad Thing would gleefully kill the entire Pack. And if Thor were to surrender to its bloodlust and join it, he would, too. A wave of guilt and revulsion washed over him, and the curiosity and fear Thor had felt toward the Bad Thing were replaced by white-hot hate.

  Thor barked savagely, furiously at the Bad Thing.

  And heard an unexpected response in the distance.

  “Thor! Here, Thor!”

  It was Dad, and he was coming closer, homing in on Thor’s barks. The Bad Thing heard Dad and turned to look in the direction of the house. Its eyes gleamed with an insane lust that sent a ripple of unnatural terror through Thor. But he stood his ground and barked, and didn’t attack.

  As dangerous as the Bad Thing might be, it was clearly helpless, and a helpless animal is not a threat. All Thor’s defensive instincts were geared toward attacking an active threat, not a potential one. There was nothing in this bound creature that invited attack.

  Besides, Dad was coming. Dad would know what to do.

  Thor barked steadily, as he had in the kitchen, announcing the presence of danger and telling Dad which way to come.

  “Thor! Get over here!” Dad was too far away to see the Bad Thing, and he wasn’t coming any closer. Thor turned around to bark at him.

  You come here!

  “Thor! Dammit, get over here! Now!”

  Dad’s voice was a mixture of fear and anger. Thor was torn between obedience and Duty, but his Duty wasn’t clear in this situation.

  The Bad Thing growled in anticipation of Dad’s arrival, but Dad either couldn’t hear it or didn’t care. Of maybe he did hear it, and that’s why he kept his distance.

  “Get over here!”

  Thor knew he was on the brink of being a Bad Dog. It was a line he didn’t want to cross.

  Snarling and showing his teeth to the Bad Thing, he circled it cautiously and started back toward Dad, glancing over his shoulder at the nightmarish creature as he left.

  The Bad Thing snarled back at first, but when it saw that Thor was leaving, it exploded. It opened its mouth wide, showing its teeth, and issued a loud, voiceless, hateful hiss. It thrashed its head and shoulders from side to side in mindless fury, frantically trying to break the handcuffs or the tree trunk itself. The handcuffs bit into its wrists and it attacked the tree trunk with its teeth again. It took as much of the trunk into it jaws as it could, then lifted its hind le
gs and kicked against the tree like a cat. Thor stopped for a moment to watch its maniacal display, to see if it might break free after all, but the tree trunk held. The Bad Thing would not escape.

  “Thor!”

  Thor turned toward his Pack Leader, still worried for the safety of the Pack, but unable to disobey any longer. He trotted briskly through the dark to the distant flickering flashlight beam, trying to make up for lost time.

  He approached Dad deferentially, head, ears, and body low, tail wagging apologetically between his legs. Dad stood waiting for him in Mom’s bathrobe and slippers, hands on his hips, the leash dangling from his wrist.

  Thor glanced over his shoulder. The Bad Thing was too far away to be seen. If only he could show Dad . . .

  “Get over here!” Dad said again. He was furious. Thor was in Big Trouble. He nearly crawled to his leader, and when Dad bent down to put on the leash, he cowered as if he expected to be hit. But when Dad grabbed his collar and held it in place for the leash clasp, Thor noticed his hand was trembling. Dad acted angry, and he was — but he was also afraid.

  Thor’s heart sank. There was no chance of showing Dad the Bad Thing; Dad didn’t want to see it. That was why he’d hung back and called Thor from a distance.

  Dad gave the leash a sharp jerk and started off toward the house. Thor knew better than to resist. Behind them in the woods, faint sounds of the Bad Thing’s struggle filtered through the forest.

  Thor sniffed the air as they walked back to the house. At the spot where Dad was waiting, the Bad Thing’s scent was barely detectable. A few yards closer to the house the scent vanished completely, replaced by the ever-strengthening scent of Uncle Ted. As always, Dad was totally oblivious to the scents. Even if Dad had a real nose like Thor’s, his head was too high to follow the trails.

  Did Dad know Uncle Ted was out there somewhere? If so, he didn’t seem to care. Dad and Thor were about a half mile from the house, and the Bad Thing had never come near the Pack. Was Thor crazy to go so far to meet a potential enemy? The closer they got to home, the less afraid Dad became, and the more Thor doubted his own judgment.