Abigail yelled the command “Out!” in Romanian. It took a moment for the command to sink in, then the K-9 stepped back from the trashed training aid, still growling. Abigail slapped her thigh and Fuzz was there. Abigail knelt down and began to pat and praise her four-legged companion
Then the applause. Followed by yells and shouts, turning into a chant of “Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzz.” The people had a new hero. Under the din the President walked over to Abigail and Fuzz. She bent over and began to scratch the ears of the war dog.
“Glad to have finally made your acquaintance, Sergeant Fuzz.” The canine “woofed”, turned and licked her hand. The President then stepped forward and held up her hands, motioning to stop the display of appreciation. Finally, the audience calmed down, but with most people grinning, chuckling, murmuring toward their neighbors. They were, in the vernacular, jacked.
Madam President stepped forward, not needing much help from the sound system to project her voice. “I asked for this demonstration for a specific reason. There is a propaganda circulating among the Tschaaa controlled areas that they want us to be a Client Species. To enjoy all the perks and benefits of Squid technology just as long as we allow a minority of humans to be served up as meat, as fodder. They apparently try to state that our relationship with our dogs, with Fuzz and his brethren, is a model for a future relationship between us and this alien, ten-armed invasive species.” She paused, looking out across the small sea of faces.
“After seeing Sergeant Fuzz here, willing to fight and possibly die for us and we for him—as I know Captain Young would do in a heartbeat—is there even the remotest chance we could be a loyal companion to a slimy, nasty Squid, as our canines are to us?”
“No!” It exploded from every single throat.
“Could we be a helpful companion to some weird species that would just as soon eat us as look at us?”
“No!” Again the answer shook the building.
“Could we acquiesce to serving some culture as a helper species when they look at serving us up as a menu item?”
“Hell no!”
The President knew this was being broadcast well beyond the borders of the Unoccupied States. She knew that a response could be swift and nasty if the Tschaaa wanted it. But she also knew that they did not think like humans. Even if they did, it was time to take that chance if people ever wanted to be out from under the yoke of alien oppression.
She smiled. “I knew you would say that.” Laughter exploded. She turned to Abigail and Fuzz.
“Thank you for your service. We couldn’t accomplish what we want to do without people like you and Fuzz here. And yes, Fuzz is definitely more of a person than a Squid will ever be.”
She then turned back to the assembled citizenry. “This ceremony is now complete. I thank you for your support. In closing, I would like us to sing a rousing version of America the Beautiful. How about it?”
Music emanated from the speakers and everyone began to sing. Those who did not remember the words did a good job faking it. Madam President noticed that Abigail had a very nice voice. Although Fuzz’s attempts at a few howls were none too successful. The song finished, the singing stopped.
“Go with God, my fellow citizens. The future begins today.” Applause broke out, then began to die down as the people got up to leave. Madam President made sure her mic was turned off as she went to Abigail and Fuzz one more time.
“The Country owes you both, Captain Young. Remember that. If there is ever anything you need…”
Abigail blushed a bit. “No Ma’am. You have done so much for us already. I would like to thank you for something, now that we are no longer on microphone.”
“Please, my dear, go ahead.”
“Ma’am, the brush set you left me the first day I was here. I know it was from your family. It’s too special for me to accept and keep.”
The President looked into the eyes of the Avenging Angel. She was becoming a daughter of the U.S. And a daughter to her. She smiled and took Abigail’s hand. “My dear, I knew you were special when I first learned about you. Special people need special things. So the brushes and combs are yours to keep. Consider yourself family. Now, it is time to leave.”
Abigail stepped back and saluted. “As Major Bender says, via con Dios, Madam President.”
The President saluted back. “Go with God also, Captain Young and Sergeant Fuzz.” She then turned and went toward Ranger Jackson.
“Time to leave, Andrew, before I turn into a pumpkin.”
The Ranger laughed. “Ma’am, you would never be mistaken for a pumpkin. Pumpkins don’t have steel in their spines.” She smiled in response, then took his left arm to be escorted off the stage.
CHAPTER 17
The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.
-Albert Einstein
Yeah. Just needed someone who cares about him. Dogs are simple. You love them, they love you back. You fight for them, they’ll die for you. Simple.
-Dogman
BANKS OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER
OREGON STATE
Now called The River Bar, the former bar and grill had seen better days. It was still a step above the level of a “dive”, so the kitchen still worked and the beer wasn’t watered down. Located near the banks of the Columbia River, at what used to be The Dalles, the bar was now the center of a small community made up of bits and pieces of abandoned buildings, houses, vehicles, and some tents. Most of the beer was provided by a revitalized brewery in Portland, Oregon. Although a distance away, the road system was still sufficient for a trailer load of beer to be delivered about once a month. Bottle, barrel and kegs were available. Some wiseass had called the new brew Octopus Beer, slang name Wussy Beer. It actually was quite good
The alcohol menu was rounded out by locally produced wines, home brewed backyard beers, ales, and a still out behind The River Bar that produced what was called Bust-Head. The saying was, “If your head feels like it’s been busted, you’ve been drinking Bust-Head. Guaranteed not to make you blind.” A little bit of tweaking, different types of mash, fruit, and anything else that would ferment produced a variety of booze under the Bust-Head label. Aging was measured in hours, days, weeks or months. A bottle with a “12” on the label could mean any of those passages of time. People who cared actually asked what they were getting.
Of course, behind the bar were some pre-Squid bottles of the “good stuff” were kept for special occasions. Scavengers who came in with decent bottles of pre-Squid alcohol could get a premium price for it. But woe to those who tried to pass their home brew off as the good stuff. They wound up floating in the still irradiated Columbia River. Even though personnel under the control of Director Lloyd nearer the tri cities area were using Tschaaa technology to clean up the Columbia, and filter out the radioactive crap left over from the huge Hanford explosion, smart people did not make it a habit to eat the fish or drink the water. Water was provided by rain barrels, a few surviving water towers, streams and creeks. But even that was filtered using Tschaaa organic organism-based filters.
Near Portland, Oregon there was a small Squid presence, with a robocop overseeing a county council that organized the some fifty thousand surviving humans in the Occupied area. Since the Tschaaa did not travel up the contaminated Columbia River past the other huge filter and decontamination complex they ran some two miles east of Portland, The Dalles was considered Feral territory. People were allowed to go to Portland, to trade, buy things. But get out of line and you were whacked, then fed to the Squids.
The bar had a couple of operational televisions, hooked up to huge satellite dish and a fifty foot tall conventional antenna constructed from pieces of electrical power towers. The televisions could pick up anything broadcast for thousands of miles. Sometimes, they even picked up signals from Asia.
Tony the bartender was the owner of The River Bar. No one knew his real last name. He had been called Tony
the Bartender since taking over the place some five years prior. He smiled and laughed, but was not afraid to bust a head, or dump a body into the Columbia. Tony even allowed sex workers to ply their trade in his establishment for a small fee, as long as no one was rolled. He found a doctor who would stick around and examine the women to keep them free of associated diseases. If they did give someone a serious disease, they’d wind up in the Columbia. You had to have some standards.
Both televisions were on the same feed, broadcasting live a ceremony from the U.S.A., which was almost over. Tony liked to keep abreast of world affairs, so when something was being broadcast live, the pornos and old films were turned off. Things were winding down, as Tony watched the cameras pan across a small sea of people leaving an auditorium in Great Falls, Montana.
The picture changed and some good-looking black woman was interviewing a young, pretty white girl that had a huge dog next to her. Tony quickly turned up the sound. “….and so, Captain Young, you consider it excellent fortune that you and Sergeant Fuzz here found each other,” the attractive broadcaster was asking the sharp-looking female soldier.
“Yes, Ma’am. I call it providence.”
At the sound of the voice, a large, muscular man sitting at the end of the bar looked up from his beer. His eyes focused on the image on the screen. “Turn it up. Please, Tony.”
“Sure, Dogman.” The volume of the television increased, drawing the attention of three other rough looking individuals further down the bar. They struggled to focus on the picture through their blurry beer goggles, tried to discern the figures and what they were saying.
“That was some little show the President arranged for Sergeant Fuzz, wasn’t it?” Alesha Taylor asked.
Abigail Young chuckled. “Yes, Ma’am, but Fuzz here adapts well to strange situations. He has an excellent native intelligence, better than most people I have met.”
“I noticed that you only had to say one word in Romanian, and he knew just what to do.”
“Yes, Ma’am. He recognized the outline of a Tschaaa, artificial life-sized model or not. But I think they may have had some old Squid scent on the model also, judging by how Fuzz’s nose was working just before he reacted.That’s also how he took out the Eaters. He just slammed into them, all teeth.” The camera focused on Abigail, all smiles. “Someone said once I had to make sure Sergeant Fuzz was kept under control, to keep him from being a free running land shark.” She scratched behind his ears. “But sometimes a land shark has its uses.”
Alesha began to laugh on camera as one of the three drunks spoke up. “Hey, that’s the Deseret bitch. You know, the one we heard about. Took out some guys on the way to Malmstrom.”
His companion, a larger, hairy individual barked out with laughter. “That’s right. Look at that nice piece of ass.” He had a leer plastered on his face. “I wouldn’t mind teaching her a few new tricks. That would be a night to remember.” All three began to laugh, slapping each other’s backs, taking gulps form their beers.
“Tony. More beer,” The large one called out. Then he noticed the figure at the end of the bar was staring at him. He was not used to strangers daring to even look in his direction.
“What the hell are you looking at?” He blurted.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Dogman answered.
The large man’s beer soaked brain told him that he had just been insulted. He was over six feet tall, large and hairy, with some muscle under his beer fat. He was used to beating the crap out of people who pissed him off, especially after he had some ‘beer courage’ in him, like now. “Oh, a smartass. How’d you like your smart mouth closed for you?”
Tony tried to break in. “Hey, no problems in here. Take it outside, Mitch. I don’t want my place busted up.”
The one called Mitch sneered. “The only thing that is going to get busted is his smart mouth.” Mitch had barely uttered his threatt, when a very large shape detached itself from the shadows, a low growl emanating from its mouth. The huge Mastiff pup, just under two hundred pounds and only a year old, moved toward Dogman.
The three men at the bar froze, speechless for a moment. It appeared that the unexpected addition of a huge dog with equally huge teeth had made them have second thoughts about any trouble. But then, Mitch’s beer courage got the better of him, his two drunk friends following along like the lap dogs they were. Mitch reached for something concealed under his loose shirt tails. “I’ll just use my gun on that son of bitch. Then I’ll...”
He never finished his statement. The large caliber pistol he was pulling out was stopped at his belt level by a short handled double bladed throwing ax Dogman had concealed under the bar’s top edge. It buried itself between Mitch’s eyes with a thwacking sound. His body stood upright for a moment. Then it toppled backwards like a fallen tree.
Everyone froze for a few seconds. The skinnier of the two remaining men screamed like a little girl, clawing at his waist as if going for a concealed weapon. The Mastiff, after a single word from Dogman, stopped that action by lunging up quickly and latching its jaws about the face and head of Skinny. His screams were broken off with an audible crunching sound.
The final drunk turned to run out the door. A slim throwing knife buried itself at the base of his skull, and the dying man fell forward onto his face. He lay twitching, then went still. It took a few seconds, then Tony came back to life. “Goddammit, Dogman. How am I going to explain this to the law? They’ll close me down.”
“What law?” The large muscular cut man answered. Tony stood with an open mouth for a moment. Then he began to laugh. “You’re right. Force of habit. Once in a while I think it’s seven years ago, when I owned my old place.”
Tony quick walked around to the main door, looked out. No other customers nearby. He grabbed and put up a sign which read, ‘Back in Fifteen’, then shut and locked the door. “Come on. Help me clean up the bodies.” The two strong men soon had moved the three bodies out the back door of the establishment. Tony had a large cart on a set of tracks he had built. The cart could be lowered down by a thick hemp rope to the Columbia River’s edge, an easy way to get rid of non-recyclable trash. There was no more EPA to worry about. Besides, how could a little bit of trash make the radioactive water any worse?
The three bodies were soon splashing into the water. Tony and Dogman had relieved them of their cash, their weapons and anything else that looked valuable. Some large shapes moved toward them in the water. Numbers of very mutated and huge catfish were now a major predator in the area, smart enough to hang around the river’s edge near the bar. They had learned that at various periods, Tony provided some edible and tasty trash. The fish were soon chomping on the three bodies.
“When’s the marshall due back?” Dogman asked as they walked back inside. There was a man nearby who had established himself as the marshall by default, as he had once been a sheriff’s Deputy. One day, he showed up with a badge, gun, Pr-24, Bowie knife, taser, and pepper spray. He said he was the law. But his main job was running a small diner a few miles up off the Columbia.
Tony snorted. “He comes by here about once a month to collect his ‘mordida’. For his ‘protection’, he gets a keg of beer and a bottle of Bust-Head which he sells to his diner customers who pass through. Most of the regulars in the area come here when they want a drink. The only other times he comes here is when I call him.”
Marshall Masters, his true last name, had responded a couple of times to large fights at The River Bar. He had quickly established his technique as hit first, ask questions later. After a couple of folks were shot for causing him trouble, the locals soon learned to leave him alone. Although, if you called him for assistance and hadn’t done something piss him off, he would show up to help.
“Luckily the regulars don’t show up tonight until later. Those three drunks were just passing through. No one will miss them for long while, I wager.” He eyeballed Dogman. “Now, are you going to tell me what brought this on?”
“The youn
g lady on the television is my niece. No one insults my niece.”
Tony looked at the muscular man. “So being a badass runs in the family?”
Dogman shrugged. “I did teach her about dogs, and how to train them. I also might have shown her a thing or two about how to take care of herself.”
Tony chuckled. “From what I know from the people passing through, she has more of a reputation than just being able to take care of things.”
“Whatever. But you don’t mess with my family.”
Tony looked at the pile of property and weapons the two men had removed from the dead men. “Want any of these pistols, Dogman? One’s a big .45 Colt.”
“No thanks. I have enough guns. I’ll split the scratch, gold and silver with you.”
“Okay.” Tony soon had everything divided into two piles on the bar.
“Two hundred each in greenbacks, six gold coins and ten silver. Here, take this ring, it looks like gold. And here’s about five bucks in old U.S. Mint coin.”
Dogman pulled a cloth bag out from under his shirt, scooped everything into it. His Mastiff sat patiently watching. “Do you have anything I can feed Matt here?”
Tony reached under the bar and pulled out a small bag. “Here. Buffalo Jerky.” He tossed it to Dogman. The black haired man reached into the bag, and pulled out several pieces of jerky. He handed a piece at a time to the huge dog, who took it gently from his fingers.
“Man, that dog is big. Where’d you get him?”
“Some guy had him staked out near his house with little food and water. I’d tried to buy him, the asshole told me to get fucked. Now he’s fucked.” Dogman said it matter of fact, with no emotion. Tony did not ask what he meant in this case. He could imagine.
“He looks healthy now.”
“Yeah. Just needed someone who cares about him. Dogs are simple. You love them, they love you back. You fight for them, they’ll die for you. Simple.” Matt nuzzled Dogman’s hand with his huge nose. Dogman began to gently scratch his muzzle and ears. The Mastiff groaned a bit. He was in dog heaven.
The Tsunami Page 48