Night Howl

by Andrew Neiderman

  Qwen laughed, thinking about what it would be like to tell the story. “I’ve been on a hunt,” he said, “only I think I was after the wrong animal most of the time.”

  “No shit. That happened to me once. I was trackin’ a fox with my dog, Mike, when . . .”

  “Where is Mike?” Qwen asked, realizing the dog wasn’t around.

  “Somethin’ caught his attention a few days ago. He went off trackin’ it and he ain’t been back since. Probably after a bitch in heat. Which just goes to show you what a piece of tail could do to a good friendship,” Sam said.

  Qwen laughed, but he couldn’t help wondering how close the German shepherd had come during his zigzagging away from the institute and if Mike had crossed his path. There was no sense in bringing it up. It would only lend an element of darkness to a world the old man still saw as bright and alive.

  “Sam,” Qwen said, “the more I see of the world, the more I think you’re smart stayin’ out here in the lap of Nature.”

  “Well,” the old man said chewing his eggs slowly and thinking about it, “I got no complaints about the landlord.”

  Phantom awakened when the truck was halfway across the George Washington Bridge. The sound of traffic hadn’t bothered him. In fact, the monotonous sound of the truck’s engine and the tires whistling over the highway had lulled him into sleep. What stirred him back to consciousness was the scent of the sea water. It intrigued him. He stood up and shook himself quickly. Then he peered out between the used appliances and saw the line of cars and trucks. The sight amazed him. Some of the drivers saw him, too, and stared back with almost as much amazement. He backed up as the truck exited to the Cross-Bronx Expressway and picked up speed. Twice when the truck slowed down behind traffic, he was tempted to jump off, but he hesitated because he was disoriented.

  From the Cross-Bronx Expressway, the truck turned onto Webster Avenue and headed south. He peered out again and saw the people and the traffic and the hubbub of the city world. The sight was both fascinating and frightening. He alternated between growling and whining. As he stepped farther forward, people along the sidewalks and the streets began to see him. Most accepted him as some kind of guard dog taken along to protect the merchandise, even though it was used appliances.

  He turned his head from side to side to catch the origin of the sounds of horns, squealing brakes, a whistle, people shouting, and the terrific sound of a wrecking ball as a crane operator sent it crashing into the side of a partially demolished building. The activity and noise were abusive to his nervous system. He had experienced nothing like it in the laboratory. He longed to be back in the forest, traveling through the shade of trees, moving through a world that was so silent at times that he could hear himself breathing.

  The truck turned off the avenue and continued down a side street. The reduced activity was welcome, but the closeness of the buildings and the overall sense of being entrapped within stone and steel angered him. He went to the edge of the truck bed and when the truck slowed down to squeeze between a double-parked car and another vehicle, he jumped into the street.

  For a moment after the truck began moving again and started away from him, he had the impression that he had made an error. The truck was, after all, his only contact with the world in which he felt secure and dominant. Here he was so unsure and confused that he was nearly in a panic. He took a few steps toward the departing vehicle and then stopped. It had picked up speed and gone on to the end of the block, where it turned left and then disappeared.

  He looked about. The line of apartment houses on his right ran uninterrupted to the end of the block, but to his left they were broken up by a vast lot of demolished buildings. At this point, the pile of rubble was more attractive to him than the houses. He went to it and sniffed about, looking for some signs of other wildlife. His inspection brought forth some rats that scurried in and out of the chunks of concrete and stone. He didn’t chase them.

  Across the street two men came out of a doorway but paid no attention to him. He watched them walk off and then he went out to the street again. He started to cross it, but an oncoming vehicle, being driven too fast by the teenagers inside, drove him back. They shouted at him from the car windows. He stood on the side and watched the car squeal around the turn at the end of the street.

  For the first time, he noticed a man lying on the sidewalk twenty feet or so ahead of him. The man was curled up on a piece of cardboard. There was an empty bottle of gin in a paper bag beside him. When he went up to the man and sniffed his face, the man’s eyes fluttered, but he only groaned and turned over; he was no threat and of no interest.

  There was nothing to do but go on exploring. He reached the end of the street and turned down the direction the truck had gone. When people on this street saw him, they either stepped aside or crossed to the other side. He noted how no one wanted to confront him directly. This was encouraging to him and he sped up. Now his interest was in finding something to eat. He picked up the scent of food being cooked nearby and stopped when he reached a stoop. Without hesitation, he ran up the steps to the pale brown door of the aged brownstone. He had no problem with it; it opened when he merely pressed his head against it.

  The odors in the hallway of the building weren’t all appetizing, but his hunger had grown now, and he was willing to ignore everything but that. He trailed the scent of the food to a door at the far end of the hall. He stopped, sat back on his haunches, and tried the doorknob. It didn’t turn. Frustrated, he growled and then pawed the door. Moments later, an elderly black man, dressed in a pair of white pants and a plaid flannel shirt, opened the door. He stepped back in amazement.

  “Holy shit, where’d you come from?” he said.

  Phantom didn’t hesitate. He shot through the opening and entered the run-down apartment. He went right through the living room, jumped over the worn couch, and trotted into the kitchen. The old man had put out a plate of bacon and eggs for himself.

  “Hey, what the hell—” He came up behind the dog as quickly as he could, but Phantom didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto the table and attacked the plate of food. “Get the hell outta here. Hey!” The old man lifted a kitchen chair and swung it at the dog. Phantom took the blow as though it had been delivered by a five-year-old. He didn’t let it interrupt his wolfing down of the food. The man struck him again and again.

  When the food was gone, he turned his attention to the man. The old man saw this and suddenly realized the size of the animal he was attacking. He had seen dogs before in the neighborhood, but most of them looked mangy and underdeveloped. This animal was healthy and strong, and unlike the other dogs, this one didn’t cower and slink away when chastised or threatened.

  He was first puzzled and then terrified by the calm way in which the dog looked at him. He told himself that if he didn’t know better, he’d think the animal was trying to decide whether or not he was worth the effort.

  Actually, that was exactly what Phantom was thinking. He sensed no danger from this man. The man carried no terrible weapon and exhibited very little physical strength. Arrogantly, Phantom turned away from him and scrutinized the kitchen. The old man saw this as an opportunity to effect an escape. He stepped back and ran out of his own apartment, screaming for help, first in the hallway and then from the stoop of the building.

  No one opened a door in the building. Cries of help weren’t unusual in this neighborhood, even in broad daylight. Out on the stoop, he attracted the interest of some passersby, but it was a group of three teenagers who crossed the street to listen to his story. The youngest was fifteen, but they all wore a streetwise look that made them appear older. The fifteen-year-old was white, and the two older boys were black.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” the bigger of the two black boys said.

  “There’s a fuckin’ monster dog in my apartment, dammit!”

  “No shit.”

  “I can’t get it out.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  T
he old man looked back through the building’s hallway and then at the teenagers.

  “All I got is two bucks,” he said. He reached into his pants pocket to show it.

  “Two bucks? To get a monster?” All the boys laughed.

  “You got any cigarettes?” the fifteen-year-old asked.

  “Yeah. There’s a pack in the kitchen on the counter. You can have it,” the old man said. The boys sensed that he was lying, but their curiosity about what was in his apartment got the better of them.

  “Take the two bucks, Tutu,” the big black boy commanded. Tutu scooped it out of the old man’s fingers and the three boys went into the building. They stopped at the opened apartment doorway and listened. Phantom, unable to open the refrigerator, had opened a cabinet door and was pawing out all the contents.

  “Maybe we’d better forget this,” the white boy said.

  “Take it easy. The old man might have something in here worth something.”

  They entered and paused in the living room. Phantom heard them and stopped his foraging. He took a few steps to the left and watched the kitchen doorway. The bigger black boy inched forward and put his head around the corner of the doorway. Phantom lowered his body and moved forward, more like a cat than a German shepherd. The boy didn’t see him to the left and stepped fully into the doorway. The moment he did so, Phantom sprang forward and up. He clamped his jaws firmly on the boy’s throat and tore into it, his razor-sharp teeth slicing the arteries and the neck muscles like a hot knife through butter. The boy tried to scream but gagged on his own blood, instead.

  His two friends, seeing the attack, ran from the apartment. In a moment, Phantom was after them. They shot out the front door and rushed past the old man. When they got to the sidewalk, they split up, the smaller, white boy going to the left and the other black boy, Tutu, going to the right.

  “Hey,” the old man said, but a moment later the dog went by him.

  Phantom paused at the bottom of the steps and watched the faster black boy running down the sidewalk. He turned and saw the white boy cross the street and head for the corner. When he looked back, he saw that the old man had closed the front door.

  Because none of the choices really attracted Phantom, he ignored them all. He didn’t go back up the stairs; there was nothing more of interest back in the apartment, and pursuing either of the boys was pointless now. They were fleeing from him and they had nothing he wanted. He continued on down the block, instead.

  Some people along the street, looking out of windows, standing by their own apartments, had heard the commotion and watched the teenagers. No one wanted to come to their aid or challenge the dog. Whatever was happening looked to be over, anyway. Before the old man came out screaming again to announce the ghastly scene in his apartment, Phantom had turned the corner and run up the next block.

  Without realizing in what direction he was heading, he found himself back on the major avenue, where the traffic and noise were immense, from his perspective. He could think only of escaping from it, so he charged forward, unused to these many cars and people. Some automobiles had to swerve; others put on their brakes; there was a quick fender-bender behind him. People were shouting; horns were blaring. He ran faster and harder, avoiding the people who waved and gestured in his direction.

  Panicked, he headed directly down the avenue, running between oncoming vehicles. Cars continued to swerve, brakes squealed, and more people gathered. Finally, a police car appeared near the traffic light directly ahead of him. The policemen stopped their vehicle and stepped out, looking with amazement at the traffic mess being caused by a large, stray dog. The dog kept coming at them.

  It wasn’t in the experience of either of the policemen to deal with such a situation, but the driver had the instinct to shout for his partner to get the shotgun. He didn’t start to do so until Phantom had gotten within ten feet of them and it was obvious to him that the dog was not going to veer off. He was attacking.

  Phantom almost welcomed the sight of the police car and the men in uniform. This was something he could deal with; this was something he understood. He had confronted a man in a similar uniform before, and he knew that the man was a danger to him. He lunged at the men, thinking that they were somehow keeping him in this terrible place, blocking him from escape.

  The driver started to unholster his pistol, but he hadn’t cleared the barrel from the holster by the time Phantom was at him. He seized him at the wrist and spun him around. The policeman slammed against the car and crumpled to his knees. Phantom merely reached out with his iron jaws and clamped down on the side of the cop’s neck, tearing away the artery. With the blood spurting freely, the policeman fell forward.

  His partner came around the front of the car, his gun drawn. He had nowhere near the time he needed to get the shotgun from the trunk of the car. Phantom did not challenge him, for he was a man with a gun. Instead, the dog, despite his size, lowered his body and slipped under the rear of the vehicle. The policeman was shocked at how agile the dog was. He couldn’t get off a single shot, and his attention had to be directed to his mangled partner, whose bleeding had become life-threatening.

  Traffic had stopped all around them. People were gathering in groups. There was general bedlam, but even so, Phantom shot out across the street. The people in his way had seen the commotion. They parted quickly, no one daring to remain in his path or trying to stop him. He rushed through the crowds and headed blindly down a side street, running as hard and as fast as he could, driven by the fear of what awaited him and by the impact of what he had just been through. He expected more men in uniforms around every corner, but none appeared. He ran on and on, crossing streets, winding around cars, charging past people until he came to a section of rubble and demolished houses. There were empty buildings and long stretches of garbage-strewn lots. He didn’t pause; he went directly into it. There was something about the area that suggested the wild. He saw places to hide and he was encouraged by the emptiness and desolation. In it he saw hope and safety.

  He looked back only once. Satisfied that none of the men in uniform had caught up with him, he slipped into one of the half-demolished structures and disappeared into the darkness of its hollow interior. In moments, all was as quiet as before and he found a cool spot. He lowered himself to the floor and listened, but he could hear nothing over the sound of his own quickened breathing and panting. For the moment he cared about nothing but rest.

  Qwen stepped out of Sam Cohen’s rowboat and tied it to the dock at Keebler’s Landing. Since he had last been here, the owners had built on to their small motel, adding rooms that were mainly used by trout fishermen who drove up from the city. They could walk up or down the river to stake out their lucky spots. He had seen a few on his way down and now saw that the motel was almost full. He walked up to the office where he knew there was a pay phone. They had a small sporting goods store in there, as well.

  It was a beautiful spot, shaded by tall pines. If one approached it from the highway, he traveled for a good mile and a half down a hard dirt and gravel road. It was an ideal escape for the devoted fisherman. There was really nothing else to do here.

  Qwen didn’t know the owners personally—a couple and the husband’s brother—but the woman, a salt-and-pepper-haired chunky lady in her mid-fifties, gave him a warm hello and smile when he entered the office. He explained that he was there only to use the phone.

  “Help yourself,” she said. He thanked her but saw that the phone was on the wall, just to the right of the counter. He wished he could have some privacy for the call, but it was either this or head back into town. He asked the operator to connect him with the Fallsburg police department and then looked back over his shoulder. He couldn’t tell whether the woman was listening or not. As soon as the dispatcher answered, he asked for the chief.

  “Tell him it’s Qwen, the trapper who was with the dog group,” he said, thinking that was the best way to describe himself. He wondered if there was an APB out on him for sho
oting Fishman. The dispatcher hadn’t acted excited when Qwen mentioned his name, and when Harry Michaels came on, he sounded quite nonchalant.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Qwen? If you’re calling to find out about the dog, I got nothin’ to tell you. They haven’t located him yet.”

  “And they won’t,” Qwen said. He figured he might as well be direct, as quickly as possible.

  “I don’t know about that. There are an awful lot of men out there with some pretty good equipment. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “It’s more than a dog, Chief. You remember me? No one’s lookin’ for me?”

  “For you? Yeah, sure, I remember you. Who should be lookin’ for you?”

  “That so-called security man who was with us last night tried to kill me. He and the driver, I should say. To make a long story short, I killed him.”

  “Huh?”

  “What I really want to tell you, though, is they gave you a bunch of bullshit about that dog. That dog is no military dog in special training. It’s an experimental animal, created in a laboratory.”

  “What is this, a joke?”

  “I wish it was, Chief. You and me got to get together right away.”

  There was a long pause, during which the operator came on to demand more money. Qwen was out of change.

  “Charge the remainder of this call to this number, operator,” Michaels said. “This is a police matter.” She said she would. “Qwen, I never really got to talk to you last night. Who the hell are you? What do you have to do with all this?”

  “They hired me to find their dog. They told me a cock n’ bull story too, at first. Then I began to realize things about the dog and they were forced to tell me the truth. That’s why they tried to get rid of me.”

  There was a long pause before Michaels spoke again.

  “What was that about killing someone?”

  “I told you, they tried to kill me on the way back to the institute.”