“Yeah.”
“But man, I tell you what, I think you’ve got a damn monster on your hands. He already exceeds all my expectations.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the stall. I gave him a chicken to eat. He’s already almost done.”
A live one, no doubt. That was a reward Freddy gave the winners. He let them relish the thrill of the kill and the satisfaction of munching on its meat.
“Water him?”
Freddy nodded. “He’s got a bucket now. I don’t want to spoil him, though. So once it’s empty, it’ll stay that way until I decide otherwise.”
“Stan said we have to keep giving him water…”
“Fuck Stan, the crazy asshole.”
Frowning, Clayton looked at the fire. The flames were starting to die. Without any kind of heavy breeze, there was nothing to keep them stirred. The dog-shaped charcoal briquette lay on top as the weak flames continued to crackle.
“Come on,” said Freddy. He started walking. “Time for another lesson.”
“But the fire...”
“It’ll be fine. It’s almost out, anyway.”
“You just want to leave the dog like that?”
“For now. Come on.”
* * * *
The feathers choked him. Hacking, he cleared them from his throat, using his tongue to get them out of his mouth. Some remained bonded to his tongue, but it was easier to swallow the meat now.
Though it felt good going down his throat, and seemed to sedate his budding rage, it did nothing to satisfy his hunger. He still felt antsy, still trembled all over.
But he was no longer frightened.
He no longer feared the men who’d hurt him with the sharp things. The sharp things had made him think of the long car ride to the smelly place with the other dogs, being put on a table and the woman who pretended to be nice while she stuck stinging things into his back. In that dark place, the scent of dead dogs all around, he’d been terrified. And when he’d been brought here, he’d noticed a lot of those same smells. He’d shaken so much it had caused him to urinate.
All of it was gone, replaced by a seething rage that seemed to flourish, seemed to spread a suffocating blackness in his mind. The only thing that remained clear was his craving to hurt.
And blood. The sweet taste of blood.
A bone crunched in his teeth. He felt little nicks of splinters inside his mouth from the crushed bone as he chewed. It didn’t hurt. His pains from the beatings were all but gone, just a phantom soreness he hardly noticed. Nothing seemed to hurt him now, except the hunger. The hunger made his stomach twist and fold, feeling relentlessly empty, though he could feel the meat dropping into it, the blood quenching his thirst, it seemed to never fill him up.
His feelings confused him, which caused more anger. He’d never felt like this, never wanted to harm anything. He thought of Amy, her underneath him, playing with his ears and scratching his chest. For a moment, the memory soothed the rage that boiled through his massive body.
But it didn’t last.
She’d left him behind. He could see her getting in the car, waving, driving away. Then the others had come. He hadn’t trusted them. But he’d seen Teresa, and had felt more at ease with the strangers’ presence.
Then Teresa betrayed him.
Just like Amy.
He’d never pined for vengeance before, but now he did. He wanted to hurt, maim. He wanted to kill.
Footsteps in the barn called his attention. Raising his head, his ears perked up to listen. He recognized the smells drifting into the dark stall where he lay on the floor. The men were back.
A corner of Jagger’s lip curled, but he kept the growl low in his chest.
They would not hurt him again.
* * * *
Standing outside the stall door, Clayton peered in through the feed window. Jagger was in the far corner, concealed in shadow. He could see the dog’s massive shape, dark against a heavier blackness behind him as he rose into a sitting position. The dim white of his pointed teeth seemed to stab the darkness, the foam of his drool like a frothy bleak cloud.
The coppery scent of blood radiated from the small window, making Clayton’s eyes water. There was also a hint of raw meat that reminded him of tearing the cellophane away from a pack of chicken legs.
The dog stopped panting. The teeth vanished as the maw closed. It had noticed Clayton watching. Though he couldn’t see Jagger’s dark eyes, Clayton could feel them studying him.
A rattling growl emanated from the darkness.
Clayton’s skin went tight. The deep rattle coming from inside the old horse stall was unlike anything he’d ever heard before.
The door pounded, throwing Clayton back. Screaming, he landed hard on his rump, the dry dirt floor joggling his spine. He looked at the stall door. It shook in its frame, rattling as if something evil was trying to break its way out of the stall. Though bowing and jerking, the door was held closed by a twisting bolt lock as deep angry barks and growls resounded from the other side.
“Jesus Christ...”
Sounded like a monster was in there.
Freddy’s little-girl laughter blended with the growls. The pudgy man stood at the launch of the stable area. The half melted ice cream sandwich was clutched in his chubby fingers. Chocolate clumped on his fingernails, smearing brown trails up to his knuckles. More chocolate clung to the corners of his mouth.
“Careful,” said Freddy. He stuffed the remainder of the ice cream into his mouth. “Bastard’ll take your head off.”
Groaning, Clayton got to his knees. It reminded him too much of the other night when Freddy made him do some convincing, so he stood up, though it hurt his back to do so. “Sounds pissed off.”
“I’m sure he is. He doesn’t like us very much right now, but he’ll learn to respect us.” Slurping the ice cream from his fingers, he pointed with his pinky over Clayton’s shoulder.
Clayton turned, unsure what Freddy wanted him to see. Then he spotted it hanging from a hook on the wall.
The horse whip.
Clayton looked back to Freddy, who was giggling with a mouthful of finger.
“Again?” Clayton asked.
Freddy nodded. “Mmhmm.” The finger came out of his mouth with a wet pop. “Don’t shit your britches. Makes them tough. This dog needs it more. He’s big, but he’s also a house mutt. His victory could be a fluke, never know. We have to make him a killer. I don’t trust your buddy’s drugs, either. Probably just injected him with cola or something.”
Clayton hadn’t told Freddy about the first dog, or how its heart had grown so big it had burst through its chest. He also hadn’t shared the long list of side effects Stan told him about: the rage, the inability to feel pain.
The insanity.
Could a dog really go insane?
Listening to the din of frenzied sounds coming from inside the stall, he supposed it was a distinct possibility. Jagger was already on his way to being a killing machine before Freddy had started working on him.
The door quaked in its frame, scaring Clayton. Even Freddy seemed a little shaken up by the ferociousness on the other side of the door.
“Grab me the whip, will you?”
Clayton stared at Freddy.
“Don’t tell me you feel bad for this bastard,” said Freddy.
“Well...”
“If you want this fucker to be mean, then you have to make him mean. He’ll get eaten alive in the pit, just like Bruiser. You babied that fucking dog too much, and you’re in a heap of shit because of it.”
Clayton nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
Feeling numb, he walked over to where the whip dangled. It looked like something used to tame lions. He curled his fingers around the handle. It felt dry and leathery in his hand as he took it down. The thin strap was spotted with old blood. How many dogs had Freddy beaten with this thing?
He held it out to Freddy, who crossed arms. “Nope,” he said.
“What a
re you talking...?”
“You’re going to do it.”
“What?”
“It’s your damn dog. You get him riled up.”
“I...”
“It’s your turn.”
The whip suddenly felt too heavy to hold. His arm dropped down by his side.
Laughing, Freddy said, “Time to get your hands dirty.” Reaching into his pocket, his hand dug around. When it came out, it clutched his cell phone.
Gonna get video of this, too.
Fucking asshole.
In all his time working with the dogs, Clayton had never been the one to rile them up. It was always Freddy, and the overweight retard usually didn’t mind.
He’s doing this to fuck with me.
And he seemed to be enjoying himself. Laughing, Freddy walked over to the trembling door. Jagger was still pounding against it. His claws scraped the inside, grinding across the wood.
He reached out with his empty hand, fingers delicately gripping the lock. “Ready?”
“You know something, Freddy?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re an asshole.”
Laughing, Freddy kicked the door. An expression of pure madness knocked the smile away. “Get back, fucker!”
The banging and growls immediately abated. Soft whimpers came from inside the stall. Freddy glanced back at Clayton with a confident smirk.
“Get ready. If he starts to run out, just whack one good time in the face. He’ll change his tune real fast.”
Clayton felt sick as he watched Freddy pull the lock out of the eye clasp. His hand moved down to the handle and pulled it back.
The light from the barn pushed the darkness inside the stall back.
Clayton sucked in a jittery breath when he saw Jagger. Feathers were glued to the sticky clumps of fur. The blood matting his mouth, neck, and chest looked like dark ink. But it was Jagger’s eyes that made Clayton’s testicles retract into his body as if trying to hide. The once hearty brown orbs had turned a mustard shade of yellow and now oozed clumpy fluid that had dried on his snout like urine-colored mud.
What was left of the chicken was by Jagger’s paws—a little bit of bone and feathers inside the blood-soaked puddle his paws stood in.
Jagger snarled.
“Now!” yelled Freddy, starting to step out of the way.
Clayton threw his arm up and jerked it back down. The whip snapped outward.
And ripped a line across Freddy’s back, tearing his shirt, leaving a red welt on the skin underneath. The cell phone flew from his hand, vanishing in the thick darkness inside the stall.
“Shit!” cried Clayton. The whip slipped from his shaking hand.
Freddy screamed as his hand reached over his shoulder, patting around as if trying to find the wound. His feet tangled together, and flew out to the side. Spinning around, Freddy faced Clayton, his eyes stretching open with fear and shock.
He started to fall.
His back pounded the ground inside the stall. His chubby legs flew up, rolling him back.
Hitting Freddy with the whip had been an accident. But the idea it spawned was not. Clayton dashed forward, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.
“What are you doing!?!” shrieked Freddy. “Clayton!?!”
Clayton rammed the bolt into the clasp and twisted it down, locking it.
Freddy’s face appeared in the window, tears filling his eyes. “Clayton!” He tried to open the door, rattling the lock in the clasp. Seeing it was locked, his mouth started moving, spitting out sounds before he was able to form words. “Let me out! No! What’d you do? Please!”
A chubby arm extended through the feed window, slapping at the door, trying to find the lock. The fat of his arm squished and bulged inside the tight space, expanding around his elbow. The doughy skin kept him from reaching far enough out. He pulled his arm back inside, and put his face to the open space.
“Clayton! Come on, man. Let me out!”
“Shouldn’t have made me do that, Freddy...”
“Do what? It was your idea to get the dog...”
“Not that...”
Freddy’s eyes looked away, as if searching through a catalog in his mind of instances where he’d wronged Clayton. He must have found it, because regret washed over him. “I was just messing around! Come on, man! Don’t be mad about that. It was a joke!”
Jagger’s growls overpowered Freddy’s pleads. Freddy whipped around, putting the back of his nearly bald head to the window.
Clayton took a step back.
“Stay back, dog!” Freddy shook his head. “Jagger! Stay back! Sit!”
An angry growl resonated from inside. Freddy’s back pounded against the door, pushing it against the lock. The bolt started to bend.
Moist tearing sounds combined with the tearing of fabric, and Freddy’s screams rose in pitch, shrill and childlike. Through the small open space, Clayton could see Freddy swinging his fists in a downward thrust. If he was actually hitting the dog, it had no effect.
Slowly, Freddy began to slide down. His cries lowered in volume, becoming gurgled and phlegmy.
His head dropped out of the frame.
And then all Clayton could hear were the juicy crunches of Jagger’s chewing.
A blob of blood oozed out from the crack of space at the bottom of the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mark was called to the scene of a gas station robbery and had been held up with questioning and reports until after six. He was supposed to swing by the station to see Pierce at four, but was just now getting there.
He parked his cruiser in his designated spot, shut off the engine, and climbed out. The building blocked the sun, which left the parking lot draped in shade. On his way to the rear entrance, he twirled his keys on a finger.
Though it was definitely cooler back here, the sticky heat still made it hard to breathe. Like trying to inhale through a plastic bag. By the time he reached the back door, his hair was damp. His armpits were sweaty and made squeaky sounds as his arms moved.
Mark pulled the door, stepped inside. Cool air swarmed him, making his skin prickle. It felt great, yet made him flinch when his damp shirt brushed his back.
He took the hallway to the break area. He entered. A firm rump was sticking out of the opened fridge, swaying slightly as small tanned arms dug around inside. A brown skirt was hiked up high on the sleek legs. Hands pulled a lunch bag toward her.
Mark recognized the curvy shapes right away.
“Hi, Carla.”
Her pretty face appeared over her shoulder as she looked back at him. “Well, hello there.” Her eyebrows curled upward with her rising eye. She made a face as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. “Guess you’re getting an eye full, huh?”
“Nothing that’s hard to look at.”
Laughing, Carla grabbed a water bottle. She stepped back, stood up, and shut the fridge. She leaned against it, jutting out her breasts. Her shirt was made out of a material that made it look wet and shiny under the light. She started to smile, but it fell a little flat. “You look like you’ve been swimming.”
Mark laughed. “Feel like a roasted hog.”
“You need this more than me.” She tossed him her water bottle.
“Thanks,” he said, catching it. “You sure you don’t want to finish it?”
“I’m sure. That much sweat, you’re probably pretty parched.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled. Carla was short, but her body was lean and curvy and packed in the right places. She was a little pudgy in her stomach, but it was hardly noticeable unless she was sitting down. The African American officers always commented on her ass, which Mark had to agree was plump and perfect. There was a tiny dark dot of a mole above her lip which he found incredibly sexy.
Seeing her now made it even harder to resist her. So far, he’d done so without making her think something was wrong with her, though she j
oked often that she thought he was gay.
He unscrewed the cap, raised the bottle to his lips, and gulped down the rest of the water. It was cold and refreshing as it washed over his tongue and down his throat.
Finished, he lowered the bottle and sighed. “That hit the spot.”
Carla smiled, watching him. “I bet so. I liked watching your throat work.”
Mark felt himself blush, which brought a laugh out of Carla.
“So,” he said. “Done for the day?”
“Yep. A little late, but not too bad.”
“I was surprised to see your car still out there. Any problems?”
She shook her head, hair bouncing. “Not really. Just that robbery. Was it bad?”
Nobody was killed, which is always a plus.
“Not really bad. The lady was in pretty rough shape, mentally.”
“The employee?”
Mark nodded. “Took her a long time to stop crying.”
“Well, I guess that’s what having a gun shoved in your face will do.” Carla winced. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Mark knew she was referencing his own gunshot incident. “No harm.”
“I say the stupidest things sometimes.”
“Hey, it’s fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.”
“How about you come over tonight? You get off in what—half an hour?”
Mark checked the time on his watch. Not quite half an hour, more like forty minutes. “Close enough,” he said.
“I can cook you some supper?” Carla lifted her eyes, sucked in her bottom lip. “What do you say?”
It was hard to decline her offer. Really hard. But for some reason, he kept thinking of Amy. Like he was letting her down in some way. Lunch had been fun, though she’d spent a block of the time in the toilet. She’d claimed it was the food not settling well, but he knew it was really nerves. She was a wreck inside, though holding up a good front. Being someone surrounded by people like that on an almost daily basis, he could see through her charade.
“Rain check?” he asked.
Carla’s disappointment was easy to pinpoint, but she quickly put on a smile for him. “Sure. The offer always stands. You know that. I don’t offer to cook for everybody, just so you know.”
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