by Holly Hart
So is Rocky's, but at least he's got a pile of food – a pile of food which, I notice, hasn't been touched. I've had a dog, and my parents have had more, and I know that healthy dogs don't refuse food. This place is sick, sick to its core.
I take pictures of everything, the seeping bandage on Toby's paw, Daisy's sad, deep depression, the emptiness of all of the cages, barring the filthy dog shit on the floor, the lack of toys or any other form of mental stimulation. It's like solitary confinement, I think to myself. What have they done to deserve that?
The last cage I come to has a big, eighty-pound German Shepherd sitting as politely as can be inside it, and I know even without looking at the nametag scrawled in unkempt, barely readable handwriting stuck to the lock, that it's Jake.
"Hey, Jake," I say in a quiet voice, "you okay? I'm going to get you out of there, yeah?" I know he doesn't understand what I'm saying, but I'm pretty sure he gives me a nod back.
"Who the hell are you?" a loud voice cries from the other end of the warehouse. "And what the hell are you doing in my facility?" The shock of the voice almost knocks me over from where I'm squatting in front of Jake's cage, phone in hand, but I have the presence of mind to stay down for a second, tapping away on the small touchscreen.
"I said," the voice comes again, threateningly, from behind me, "who the hell are you?" A large male hand descends on my shoulder, spinning me round and pulling me up. "And what the hell have you got in your hands?"
He grabs my phone out of my hands before I have a second to fight him off and a crushing sense of fear descends upon me as I realize how – quite literally – criminally stupid my actions might turn out to be. I bite my lip, hoping beyond all hope that my last couple of seconds tapping away on the smart phone had been successful.
"Were you," the man barks while continuing to pull me up and spin me around to face him, "taking pictures? If you were, young lady, then you're going away for a very, very long time…"
He grins, ominously, and I watch as a twisted smile spills across his overlarge, pockmarked face. My stomach turns, and I don't know whether that's because I'm scared of him or what he's saying.
"In trouble?" I start bravely. "You should be the one who's worried! How can you look at yourself when you treat these poor animals like this?"
The man scoffs, pulling his upper lip back, and sneers at me. I wouldn't have thought it possible that any expression could look uglier than his smile – but I would have been wrong. I could see how I might feel sorry for him, having to live with an affliction as unpleasant as his appearance, if it wasn't for his equally unlikeable demeanor.
"You think you're threatening me, do you?"
"Not threatening – just pointing out the obvious," I reply, doing my best to draw myself up to face him – a difficult job, since his hand is still anchored to my shoulder, keeping me slightly off-balance.
"If I were you," he leers at me, raking me up and down with a lascivious stare, "I'd be begging me for a way out of your predicament?"
"Why?" I ask, still acting way more confidently than I actually feel. I get the sense that the man standing in front of me in rankless, black military fatigues is like a caged animal himself in some ways, and worse in others – I get the sense that he's not a victim, but a sociopath: cold, violent and emotionless. My best way out of this isn't by trying to bargain with him – it's by standing up to him, even if that means threatening him. I noticed that something about him doesn't scream military – he doesn't have that kind of bearing, or that sense of honor that almost every other man on this base gives off. No, I think he's a contractor, and the thought gives me an idea – and some leverage.
"Oh," I say, shooting him what I hope is a devastatingly unimpressed glance, "and what kind of way out are you suggesting?"
He gives me that up-and-down piercing stare again, and I feel like he's mentally undressing me. It's disgusting; I feel affronted, my personal space invaded. I know exactly what it is he's suggesting, but I want him to say it.
"Maybe," he says, his tone of voice altering noticeably to a vulpine hiss, "we can come to an arrangement – just you and me."
"What kind of arrangement?" I reply coldly.
"You know…" he trails off, cowardly. Like many predators of his type, he's not brave enough to actually vocalize his darkest thoughts – he just wants to dance around the topic until I suggest it. That's never going to happen.
"I don't, actually."
For a short, barely noticeable microsecond, the man's shoulders constrict inwards and his grip on my shoulder loosens as he builds up the misguided courage to bully me into fulfilling his sick desires. Then, like a flash, he stands up tall, as though he has summoned up the requisite strength, or his dark, twisted innermost desires have finally overruled his common sense.
"You're going to make me spell it out? Fine," he spits, wet flecks of spittle landing on my cheek. "You're going to fuck me, right here, or you're going to be locked up for a very long time. Your choice."
It's the cold, emotionless way he spells out my two options – or at least, the two options he thinks I have – that I find most sickening. It's like he's done this before, and honestly I wouldn't be surprised if he has. He seems like the type.
"Or maybe," I reply, summoning strength from my conviction that what I'm doing here is right – not just getting Jake back for Mike, but hopefully saving all of these dogs from this sick man's tyranny, "I'll take door three."
I pause, letting my impudence hang heavy in the air between us. His features twist once again in anger, and he squeezes my shoulder, deliberately trying to inflict pain. I bite my tongue surreptitiously, but do my best not to give off any other hint that what he's doing is having any affect on me. Like I said, he's an animal – and if you show fear or pain to a predatory animal, they'll take advantage of it. He's just the same.
"What's your name?" I ask, keeping my voice steady and level.
"My name?" he asks, brow furrowed in confusion as he tries to figure out how this exchange has taken such an unexpected turn. "Why are you asking that? And what the hell's door three?"
"I'm glad you asked," I say while reaching up and firmly pulling his fingers off of my shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief under my breath as the blood begins to rush back into the affected area. "Oh – and I didn't get your name?"
He answers almost as though he's on autopilot, and that kind of makes sense to me – after all, it's not exactly like he's got an enormous brain. Even though I don't actually have any power over him, I'm acting like I do – and that seems to be enough, for now at least. If I don't use my trump card soon, though, my little act might prove to be just that…
"Fred," he grunts, momentarily resting his hands on his waist. For the first time since he caught me, he doesn't look like a coiled spring, ready to snap and lash out at me at any moment, and I decide to press my advantage.
"Nice to meet you, Fred. If you'll give me back my cellphone?"
He looks at me warily, and I realize that I might be pressing my luck – after all, he did catch me trespassing in a restricted area, and I'm probably legally breaching the Espionage Act, or something equally terrifying. "I just want to show you something," I quickly add.
He hands it over, but in doing so, he changes his stance so that he is resting on the balls of his feet. Damn – he's back to that caged animal thing. I'm going to have to handle this carefully.
"Look," I say, bringing up the gallery app and scrolling through the pictures of the insidious insides of his animal gaol. He cranes his neck and looks down. "These aren't exactly the kind of pictures that your bosses would be happy about the media getting their hands on, are they?"
He has the good grace to look nervous, a slight sheen of sweat appearing from nowhere on his brow as I scroll through to the image of the weeping bandage on Toby's paw.
"It looks to me like this is the kind of thing that could lose your company a whole load of contracts, and you wouldn't want that on your head, would you…" I notice more swe
at building up on Fred’s forehead, and know that I’m on the right track. "It's disgusting," I continue, building up with righteous anger. "How can you treat these animals like this?"
"They're just dogs," he scoffs, "and no one tells me what to do – not you, not nobody. What's stopping me from just taking your phone and deleting them right now?"
He reaches his arm out, ready to grab it off me. I decide to take the wind out of his sails and hand it right to him. "Here you go…" I say airily.
Fred shoots me a confused, quizzical look. "Why did you hand it over so easily?"
"Is there a tick at the top of the screen?" I ask. "Just a little icon."
"Yeah, so?"
"So," I say confidently, "they're on the cloud now. Good luck trying to delete them."
He shoots me a hunted, wounded look, and I hold my breath hoping that he's as stupid and technologically illiterate as he looks – because I'm bluffing. For all I know, he can still delete them. I just hope he doesn't know that.
A pause builds up between us.
"What do you want?" he finally mutters, eyes cast directly at the floor, then the wall – in fact, everywhere except directly at my triumphant stare. I let out the breath that I've been holding – slowly, just in case he realizes how close he came to calling my bluff.
"First things first," I say with wholly deserved, hard-earned confidence, "I want Jake."
"Who's Jake?" Fred asks with unfeigned confusion – he actually doesn't know.
"You're a disgrace, you know that Fred?" I say with disgust written on my face. "He's one of the dogs you're supposed to be taking care of…"
"How am I supposed to remember all their names?" he replies defensively, looking somewhat outraged. I decide not to bother arguing with him – I get the feeling that it'll be like trying to punch a brick wall.
"There are only –" I start with reflective irritation before catching myself, "it doesn't matter. He's that one," I say, pointing at Jake.
"Fine," he grunts, "he's all yours."
"What are you going to tell your boss when he realizes Jake's gone?" I ask with genuine surprise.
Fred laughs, a hollow and unexpected cackle that chills me to the core. "My boss? He doesn't come down here often… I'll just say that the little shi–" he begins, before correcting himself, "I mean, Jake, got sick."
"Fine," I reply, sickened by his callous attitude towards his helpless charges, but unwilling to call him out on the topic, especially given I've got a plan to deal with him anyway, "that works for me."
"Is that it?"
"No – glad you asked. These dogs deserve far better than you're giving them. I'm going to swing by once a day and check up on their well-being – and I'm gonna bring a friend who's very fond of his dogs. In fact, that's his dog over there…" I say with a vindictive grin, pointing at Jake.
"You're going to take them out for walks – in the evening," I hasten to correct myself, because I know by now that Fred's too dimwitted and downright malicious to be given any leeway or flexibility in his instructions, "so it's not too hot. You're going to make sure they have water at all times, because it's a disgrace that they don't. As long as they aren't fighting, you're going to let them out of their cages to play with each other. You're going to pick up their shit as soon as it hits the ground, and you're going to make sure that any injury is tended to immediately," I finish, punctuating every point with a firm prod into his chest.
"Is that it?" he asks grumpily, but with a beaten look on his face.
"Yes," I say happily, "but Fred?"
"Yes?" he replies sulkily.
"Don't fuck up, because you know what happens if you do…"
Chapter Nine - Katie
"I still can’t believe you managed to get him back," Mike says with childlike wonder in his voice. “He’ll come in useful… Jake!"
The German Shepherd's sharp ears prick up at the sound of his name. He was way more intelligent than the golden retriever I'd had as a child. They might as well not have been the same species for all the similarities they shared. Fur, four legs and tail – that was about it. Holly had been lovely, kind, playful – as many superlatives as you could list on two hands.
But clever?
No. Jake was an entirely different proposition.
"Guard."
The command is simple, and Jake cocks his head at the sound. I can't be certain, it almost looks like he’s – nodding? Well, not nodding – but there was definitely a nod…
"I thought he was a bomb dog?" I ask, looking down at our obedient helper with a grateful smile. My quarters aren't exactly in the busy part of town, far from it in fact, but even with Sophie occupied at the hospital, having Jake on watch duty gives me a little bit of comfort.
Fraternizing with a patient is certainly frowned upon, even if it's not banned. It's best for both of us that no one finds out, even if we did ‘fraternize’ with each other before he ever became my patient.
"He is," Mike smiles, "but they all start out with the same basic package of training, can't help it. So he's primarily good at bomb disposal – well, not disposal, but finding them, anyway, you know what I mean…" He trails off, the awkward look on his face making it completely clear to me that he's worried he's messing things up.
I chuckle, making light of the situation. "Thanks for clearing that up, Mike. Good to know that Jake hasn't figured out the secret of opposable thumbs…"
He smiles back, and as usual, the sight warms me. There's nothing forced, artful or concealed in his expressions, there never is. When he's hurting, you know about it; when he's upset, he can't hide it; and when he's happy – like right now – it's obvious.
"So, you gonna invite me in?" he asks, his warm and genuine smile transforming ever so slightly to a wicked, cheeky grin. Apparently my little joke worked…
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" I quip back, making it seem like he's asked for the moon, even though really he's only putting into words what I've wanted him to ask for weeks. For a while, I was beginning to think that the night we shared didn’t mean anything to Mike. Now, I realize I was wrong. He was as hurt as I am. Maybe more. I might not want him to have everything going completely his own way, but that definitely doesn't mean I want it to stop.
It doesn't seem to bother him.
"It's like that," he agrees, reaching out and taking the initiative by gently, tenderly trailing a finger down my torso. I shiver at the sensation, and though I try and hide it, I don't put much stock in my ability to conceal a reaction. Not from Mike, anyway. I haven't known him for long, not really, but he seems to be able to read me in a way that no one else can.
The physical contact makes up my mind, and my hand twists around the doorknob, the muscles writhing under my skin as the locking mechanism clicks softly. He leans forward, pushing the door open, and in the process getting as close to me as he's ever been. I start walking through the doorway, but he holds me back, lacing one arm gently around my waist and hooking me back. The motion causes me to spin around gently and pulls me in so that our waists are touching.
With his other, free hand, he traces a line down my cheek, pushing away loose strands of my long hair and tucking them tenderly behind my ear.
"Mike, we shouldn't…" I begin, desperately trying to warn him that we shouldn't be doing this out in the open, knowing that one of my colleagues could be back to pick something up from their bedroom at any point, and that if they saw him here, saw what we were doing, then it could mean awful things for both our careers.
But every thought, every protestation, every sense of tiredness and exhaustion and stress that's been building up over months and months of this endless toil in this remote desert base disappears in a second when his lips touch mine.
But I've come to know this man on a level that I wouldn't have believed if someone had tried to tell me only a few weeks before. I've seen him in his darkest moments, moments in which most men would push away help, but he's defied the odds and let me in. Mike's not like most men.<
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And it's not just him, it's me as well – I've changed.
I've always been insecure, desperate for approval and lonely. I mean, there's a reason I became a nurse in the first place. It's not just that I wanted to help people, although that definitely played its part. No, becoming a nurse was a goal, something I could aspire to, and something which everyone around me respected, approved of.
I needed that respect, still do, in fact. After all, why else would I pick Afghanistan, out of all the different options I could have chosen back home? I want to be different, want to be respected, and in my darkest moments, I just want to be loved. It was that hole in my soul that drove me here, out to the far edges of human civilization, that hole which ironically drove me away from making any real relationships.
And it's that hole that Mike seems to fill so effortlessly. It's like he's not even trying, but when he loops his arms around me and pulls me in for a hug, I feel different. I feel complete.