Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  “Aunt Rose. Can you believe they—”

  “Of course they took you off the air. What happened to being subtle?”

  “I can’t do subtle anymore.”

  “Dixie, we talked about this. You have to play by their rules until you get in a position to make your own rules.”

  “That’ll take too long. Adam and I don’t have the time. You may live forever, but we won’t. It’s been more than a year now; I know Adam’s out there somewhere.”

  “And we’ll find him, I promise. We’ll figure it out.”

  Dixie sat down and closed her eyes. Deja vu swept over her. She felt like her house was on fire again, someone she loved was in danger. But just as before, no one could hear her scream.

  ****

  I don’t know where they’re keeping me. When Colonel Dayton threatened to hurt Dixie, I went with him; I would have done anything to keep Dixie from harm. But it’s been six months now, and I haven’t heard from Dixie, or Aunt Rose, or Detective Ramirez. Nor has anyone let me know how she is. All I can do is hope Colonel Dayton kept his word: Dixie’s safe and well. As long as I keep that hope alive, I don’t care what they do to me.

  Sometimes, when I’m sitting in my cell, which has a lot more room than the little cages in the basement of the house on Claremont Street, I like to think of Dixie reading the news at one of the big network stations. That’s all she ever wanted, and I’m glad if I helped her get there in some way.

  As for my daily routine: I give my captors almost everything they want. They’ve taken samples of my blood, urine, hair, saliva, tissue, spinal fluid, to name just a few. I hear the medical technicians talking about me—they speak to each other as if I’m a piece of furniture and am not listening—and how they’re determined to “get to the bottom of my problem.” Of course, I don’t have a problem, except for their infuriating poking and prodding.

  My cell is actually quite comfortable. I have a soft bed, a toilet and sink tucked behind a screen—there are four cameras in the ceiling hidden behind little globes of smoked glass—a writing table where they encourage me to write anything that comes into my mind. Of course, instead of writing I draw—pictures of Dixie usually, and scenes of Las Vegas, the way it was before. It’s all from memory, and I think they’re quite good, but who’s to say?

  They’ve also given me a large flat screen television, and I can watch it anytime I want. Sometimes the TV goes black. I can only assume a program is on they don’t want me to see—something about what they now call The Las Vegas Disaster, or something about werewolves, or something about Dixie. So I watch movies mainly. It’s funny, as a human, I can see everything in color, but my favorite movies are the old black and whites. Maybe because they tend to have more story—more emotion instead of relying on flashy computer graphics and technology. Give me Casablanca any day of the week. It’s my all-time favorite.

  I sometimes pretend I’m Rick and I’m being held in Casablanca (my cell) and because of an unselfish act, Ilsa (Dixie) can now live a normal life. I know it sounds childish, but it makes me happy and, after all, what else have I got except my own emotions?

  I’ve only seen Colonel Dayton twice in the past few months. Both times, he’s come to the little window in the door and looked in on me. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me as if I were an animal in a zoo and then walked away. I’ll never forget how he referred to me as a “mutt.” I assume it made him feel superior to me in some way. Maybe he was angry at me because of the way Major Ransom died. I guess I’ll never know.

  At least once a week, I’m escorted from my cell, down a long hallway, and into a large white room. Inside are an MRI tube, a CAT scan machine, X-ray equipment, and other devices they use to examine my body. I don’t know if they’ve found what they’re looking for, and I don’t care. At least this room is a change of scenery for me.

  Once, I heard one technician talk to another technician about “the strangest DNA sequencing he’d ever seen.” But that meant nothing to me. Like I said, the lab technicians tend to talk around me, and so it’s not as if I had any say in the matter whatsoever. It’s not as if I were in the hospital hanging on every word the doctors said about my cancer, or brain tumor, or anything I want cured. I’m not sick, and I don’t need to be cured. So they run their tests and write their reports, and I suppose they’ll keep on examining me until the day I die.

  On a happier note, they feed me well. The food is amazing: all sorts of international cuisine prepared especially for me. They let me request anything I fancy. I assume they’re trying different combinations of food to see if that will stimulate a change.

  It won’t. I always make sure to order meat.

  I know what they want from me, what they’ve been hoping for all these months, but I’ll never give them the satisfaction. Lucy, Aunt Rose, and Ivan have taught me well. I know the more meat I consume, the more control I have over the transformation. And my captors give me plenty of meat dishes. I guess they think this will encourage a transformation. Little do they realize, it only gives me more self-control.

  But in the end, Dixie taught me more than anyone else. She taught me about knowing what I want, and being who I am; she taught me how to change stripes.

  Whoever it is keeping me prisoner will never get what they want from me for two reasons: one, because I will never give them the satisfaction of seeing the wolfhound—never. And two, because I’ve finally decided who I am and what I am: a human being.

  A word about the author…

  Richard Arthur Newberry lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He considers himself a person who “cannot not write” and regards Las Vegas as a unique setting for his short stories and novels.

  He has been published in The Writer’s Block, an anthology, and placed second in the 2014 Las Vegas Flash Fiction competition.

  Mr. Newberry, his wife, Betty, and their son, Samuel, share their home with Zady and Schnoodles, two loving rescue dogs who provided a world of inspiration for his latest novel, Sin City Wolfhound.

  http://richardarthurnewberry.com

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.