Canis Major

by Jay Nichols

  * * *

  "Because I’m a man and that’s what men do. They take what they want, and they don’t take no for an answer."

  Mike stepped over Russell’s body and went to the living room, where he gathered the arrows and placed them in his quiver. The bow he found in the tiny foyer. Fortunately, none of the cables or lines had snapped when Russell had so carelessly tossed it over his shoulder.

  Meanwhile, at the foot of the hallway, Russell continued to squirm. During one of his spasmodic jerks, his head conked the corner of the doorframe, instigating the explosion of sparks within his sightless eyeballs.

  Michelle! What the fuck are you doing here, you lousy bitch? You should have stayed home. Oh, you should have stayed at your fucking home. It was none of your goddamn business what happened in Mike’s backyard, but you had to stick your nose in anyway. Didn’t you? You just had to see. And what did you learn? What came from all you got to see and hear and smell other than an arrow through your perfect, pretty forehead? They hate us, Michelle. They hate us for asking the questions they can’t answer. They kill us little by little everyday with their uncomprehending expressions and dismissive comments on how we need to open our eyes and see the big picture, as if their way of seeing the world is the only way the world should be seen. They force us to battle inflexible minds with the only weapons we have: our determined resolves to be ourselves at all costs. They stab us with their jealousy where it hurts us most, and they don’t stop until we stop. I’m as dead as you are. They killed us!!

  "MICHELLE!!!!"

  From the foyer, Mike called out, "Oh boo-hoo—quit yer cryin’."

  Russell rolled onto his side. His keys dug sharp angles into his left thigh, and he opened his eyes. "Oww!" he said, scooting from the hallway to the living room.

  When he arrived there, Mike was nowhere to be seen. Too drained to stand, Russell crawled to the TV and looked around. The foyer was empty, which left the kitchen as Mike’s hiding place. Russell drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs, and waited.

  Sitting with his back against the screen, he heard the soft, revving drone of a cicada. The sound quickly crescendoed to a tooth-ratting buzz before gradually dying down, only to be replaced by another crescendo. Then another, and another, until the whole house was chattering with drumming abdomens and Russell’s brain was rattling along with them.

  Mike left the door open when he ran off.

  Russell tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.

  At least he’s gone.

  While waiting for his strength to return, he breathed the incoming night air. Something about it smelled different: a familiar, acrid tinge he couldn’t quite place.

  Then O’Brien stepped into the doorframe of the kitchen, his quiver fully stocked, his bow loaded and drawn. His eyes blazed like freshly-stoked embers; his screwed-on smile morphed into a grimace.

  "What are you?" the monster demanded.

  Russell tried to speak but couldn’t.

  Mike edged closer. "I said, what are you?"

  I’m Russell, he mouthed, raising a hand to protect his face.

  "I already know who you are. Tell me what you are."

  Russell scrunched his shoulders.

  What does he want?

  [He wants to know what you are. You can’t have it both ways.]

  What does that mean?

  [What did I tell you earlier? You are two things. Tell him the one he wants to hear.]

  What are you talking about?

  [Think.]

  I am!

  [Then feel.]

  So Russell did, but the only thing he felt was impending doom looming over him. Mike had since moved closer and was now less than five feet away. Russell touched his forehead to his kneecaps and cowered.

  "Look at me," O’Brien commanded.

  Reluctantly, Russell obeyed.

  I’m in hell, he thought. I died when I saw Michelle, and now I’m in hell.

  “Tell me," O’Brien said in a strong, steady tone, "what you are."

  Russell sniveled and whispered, "What do you want to hear?"

  "THE TRUTH!! I’ve got to hear you say it before I kill you."

  "I don’t know."

  Mike ran to the kitchen entryway and pounded his fist against the wall. "Liar! Liar! Liar!" he shouted with each blow. "You do know. Why won’t you tell me? What’s the big secret?"

  "I don’t know," Russell repeated.

  Mike’s lips were a thin crimson line. When he drew the bow, Russell blocked his face with an outstretched hand. When he eased the tension, Russell lowered the hand. Then, raising the bow again, Russell blocked his face with the same hand.

  "Coward," Mike said, lowering the bow. "Always hiding. Too scared to see the light."

  Tears trickled unhindered from Russell’s hazel eyes. "Please don’t kill me."

  To that, Mike reared back and cackled a mad belt of laughter. When he finished, he said to the person sitting on the carpet, "Then tell me what you are."

  "I told you: I don’t know," Russell cried. "This isn’t fair."

  "Too bad. You need to grow up. Look at you crying like a little bitch."

  Russell began to bawl.

  [Are you just going to sit there and take that? Fight back.]

  What’s the point?

  [You know what to do. You know what to say, so say it.]

  "Little baby, little baby, little baby…" Mike taunted, skipping circles around the hazy room. "Look at Rusty crying like a little baby. Little baby, little baby, little baby…"

  Russell opened his mouth but closed it before words could escape.

  It wasn’t time yet. So much of music boils down to timing. The notes on a guitar or piano anyone can play, but the true musician works his magic in silence, and the true musician—and only the true musician—decides how the piece is to be performed.

  Life is the same way.

  Because all of life is just one great, big performance, and you either nail it or you botch it up completely.

  There is no in between.

  "Speak!" Mike commanded.

  Russell waited, his left hand still outstretched, protecting his face.

  It’s not time yet.

  "Speak, motherfucker!"

  Russell remained silent.

  [What are you doing? Tell him what he wants to hear. If you say what I think you’re going to say, you’re committing suicide. Tell him now before it’s too late.]

  I have to wait.

  [No. Now. That’s all you got. There is no later. Say it now.]

  Russell waited.

  [You’re blowing it.]

  I know what I’m doing.

  [You don’t know shit.]

  Who are you?

  Beneath the din of screeching cicadas: a patter of paws on the kitchen floor. Two seconds later, a large Doberman crept into the living room, circled Mike, and lay down before the killer’s scarred and bloodied feet.

  Freddy?

  The dog eyed Russell coldly, then flashed its ravenous teeth at him. Russell averted his gaze to the dead bulldog on the carpet, but the Doberman (Freddy?) rumbled a low and menacing growl, compelling him to look back at it. Russell tried his hardest not to shake.

  That’s smoke I smell. Pine smoke.

  More footsteps in the kitchen—dozens of nails skittering across the linoleum floor. Russell looked to the doorway in time to see a large Bullmastiff and a Saint Bernard enter the room and sit next to the Doberman. They were shortly followed by a Great Dane (not Apollo; different coloring), a German Shepherd, a large, gray Schnauzer, an enormous black, curly-haired mutt, a Golden Retriever, a Rottweiler, a Greyhound, and another mutt.

  Then they poured in: multitudes of filthy, mangy thoroughbreds and mixed breeds squeezing the space out of the room with their hot panting bodies. Russell retreated to the foot of the hallway and settled under the doorframe to the piano room, where he steeled himself against the malodorous abominations.

&n
bsp; One after another, they spilled through the kitchen doorway, crowding the already-cramped room. The carpet disappeared first, followed shortly by the furniture. When a pair of feral mutts sniffed Russell’s face, he pushed them away with the butt of one hand while blocking his view of Michelle with the other. Their eager, prying noses moved to his crotch, where they, in their canine way, checked to see whether he was friend or foe. When his hand was no longer enough to keep them at bay, Russell lifted his leg and pushed them with his foot.

  In the middle of it all, Mike stood knee deep in the animal water, looking around in pride at the tableau he had created. His eyes locked with Russell’s, who fought to look away but couldn’t.

  I’m dead, Russell thought as O’Brien pulled the drawstring and took aim. At that same moment, a tall Standard Poodle moved in front of Russell, licked his knee, and panted hot, rank air in his face. Not realizing what he was doing, Russell pushed the dog out of the arrow’s projected path. The Poodle looked down at him, cocked its head, and turned to sniff a crossbreed’s anus.

  This can’t be happening. This isn’t real.

  "Now are you going to tell me what you are?"

  All of the dogs’ ears perked.

  An impossible chill shot down Russell’s spine

  What’s going on here?

  He felt instantly dizzy, as if he were spiraling down a never-ending drain pipe.

  No. It’s a black hole. This is what happens when the conveyer belt ends. You don’t stick to it and go around to the other side, and you don’t float off into outer space. You fall, and you don’t stop falling. Ever.

  "Tell me!" Mike shouted.

  Russell tried forcing the words out of his mouth, but his tongue refused to cooperate.

  "I’iiiibba waahh n.rrrttt hteeshhhtttt."

  "Speak up!"

  "Nahhhhhrrrrrr…ssshhhhttt—ist! Ist! Ist! Ist!"

  Mike looked around at his dogs and asked, "What’s he saying, boys?"

  All at once the dogs barked, filling the smoke-filled house with their deep, honking chorus. As their song waned and broke apart, O’Brien nodded and smiled. "That’s what I thought he said. But, you know what? I kinda wanna hear him say it."

  Then, without provocation or command, the animals began aggregating to the center of the room, scrambling on top of each other, and in between each other, buoying Mike up like a cork in water, until he alone sat atop the giant, jumbled dog pile. When the canines had settled into their awkward positions, the crown of O’Brien’s head scraped the ceiling. The grin that played on his face was a victorious, sly grin—the type of grin that only adults knew how to make. Look at me, that smirk seemed to say. Look at how much better I am than you.

  From his perch, Mike looked down and said, "What are you?"

  Oh my fucking God! Holy shit!!

  Russell drew his knees to his chest and briskly rocked his body back and forth.

  This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.

  [Tell him what he wants to hear.]

  He’ll kill me if I say that!

  [He’s going to kill you anyway. Tell him what he wants to hear and maybe he’ll make it quick. If you don’t, he’ll draw it out for sure.]

  "This is the last time, Rusty: What…are…you?"

  Russell looked at the kid sitting on the mound of twisted, knotted dogs and opened his mouth:

  "I’bb-buh-duh-ddaaahh."

  Goddamnit! Why can’t I speak?

  Russell swallowed only to find that he couldn’t.

  I can’t swallow!

  I can’t swallow!

  And I can’t speak.

  Then the magic ding! rang in his mind. The light bulb flashed, and the answer rushed to him as he knew it would.

  I get it! I see!

  Russell allowed the collected saliva to sluice between his bottom row of teeth and flood over his lower lip. Seeing him drool, O’Brien smiled even wider.

  Russell opened his mouth again, this time with the fortitude he had always possessed but had temporarily forgotten.

  [Don’t say it.]

  I’ll say what I want, when I want, because…

  "I’m an Artist!"

  Mike’s smile twisted to a sneer. "Liar! You’re not that at all. Why would you lie and call yourself that? Don’t smile. I hate you. You…meanie!"

  Russell wiped the spittle from his chin. "You thought I was something else, but I’m not. I’m an Artist. Always was and always will be." Looking up at Mike’s filthy, blood-splattered body, paying close attention to the large red patch on his right shoulder, the place he had wiped his fist after punching him, Russell said, "I think I know what you are, though. But like you said, ‘I’ve got to make sure before I kill—‘"

  Before he could finish, Mike raised the bow and fired. But Russell was quicker than O’Brien had estimated, for at the last second he blocked the shot with his left hand. The arrow pierced the center of Russell’s palm, stopping midway through.

  Russell screamed. Searing bolts of lightning shot up his forearm and thundered in the nexus of his brain. He collapsed to the floor and flailed about wildly.

  "MY HAND!! MY HAND!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!"

  Then, eying the shaft that skewered his flesh and bone and grasping the long-term implications, he screamed even louder.

  Meanwhile, at the top of room, Mike reached into his quiver and drew another arrow. Notching it through the line, he called out, "Look at me."

  Surprisingly, Russell did just that. He sat upright and gathered his knees to his chest with his uninjured hand. Staring at the monster posing as a human, he shouted, "Kill me! Do it! You already ruined me, so you might as well!"

  Mike held the bow horizontally to accommodate for the now-lower ceiling. He steadied his arms and aimed for the soft spot below Russell’s Adam’s apple.

  Russell watched hopelessly as Mike took aim (My throat; he’s going to shoot me in my throat!). Then O’Brien’s expression changed from triumph to disgust. At first, Russell was confused. But gradually he came to understand as the warm liquid bloom spread across his crotch and inner thighs, dampening his cargo shorts in the familiar, forgotten pattern.

  Repulsed, O’Brien turned away. "Look at you. Pissing your pants…like a baby."

  Russell’s fear melted to shame. He straightened his legs and covered his crotch with his good hand. As he made the movement, he nudged the arrow, sending rockets of electric fire racing up his arm. He fell over at once and began writhing and bellowing like a toddler in tantrum. Because that’s what it was: a tantrum. Earlier, it had been a fit of pain and agony, but now it was a dance of failure. Failure and shame—not for pissing his shorts, but for being weak and stupid and for allowing the best of him to be taken away by an idiot he should have toppled long ago.

  You should have died in that field. I had my chance but I blew it. Just like how I’m blowing it now.

  "It’s not fair!" Russell cried out hysterically. "You had a weapon and you cheated!"

  From atop his pile of dogs, Mike looked down and shook his head. "I can’t believe I wasted an arrow on you. You’re not even the one."

  After saying his piece, O’Brien turned the Great Dane (not Apollo) to face the kitchen. The mound then moved en masse, squeezing through the doorway like a clot through an artery. Mike ducked and cleared the top of the frame. Once in the kitchen, he ducked again to look down at Russell, who stared up at him with runny bloodshot eyes from the living room floor. "Artist," Mike said contemptibly. "More like Pansy to me. What did I say to you the day you kicked me out of your house? Right before you did it, what did I say to you? I know you remember. You had so many chances, so many fuckin’ chances, but you blew them all. You’re just one big scaredy cat, Whitford, and I beat you. I won."

  A wall of gray smoke billowed in from the left and filtered through the clot. Mike’s head snapped to the sound of the screen door closing in its jamb.

  "Hey, Hector!" he called out. "Long time no see."

  The door squeak
ed open and wheezed shut: Hector fleeing. The Artist watched the dog pile slide in the direction of the unseen back door.

  Run, Hector, run!

  More smoke poured into the kitchen as the dogs and their master exited the house. The shoddy lamps on the end tables now cast the living room in a hazy glow. Their shades bore twin halos of light.

  The traitor spoke:

  [Get out there. You’re not dead yet. Fight for your friend.]

  Russell eyed the arrow through his hand. Leave me alone. Just let me die.

  [You’re not going to die. Quit being so dramatic and go out there and finish him.]

  He’ll kill me.

  But even while thinking this, Russell knew it wasn’t true. Mike wasn’t going to kill him now.

  Because I confused him. I outsmarted him. I beat him.

  [No. You just confused him. But Hector can’t do that. Go out there and save him.]

  How?

  [You’ll know when you get there.]

  Russell climbed to his feet and swooned at the sudden change in elevation. Holding his bloody, damaged hand to the chest, he stumbled to the kitchen, turned left, opened the inner door, then the screen door, and stepped onto the porch.

  Outside, flames from the tops of ageless pines licked the sky, painting the underbellies of low cumulus clouds a red-tinged mauve. The old pecan tree in the middle of the yard was lit up like a giant torch; burning branches snapped and fell to the grassfire below. What Russell first thought to be falling embers turned out to be lit, kamikaze cicadas. One streaked through the sky and landed in a buzzing ball of fire next to his feet. He quickly stamped the repugnant thing into a goo of entrails and sizzling skin.

  And Russell saw everything. And Russell heard everything.

  He heard the approaching police siren as clearly as he heard Mike utter those beastly words to the kneeling form of Hector Graham.

  "What are you?"

  With the adrenaline of a never-ending fall coursing through his veins, Russell peered up at the tower of dogs from behind a support beam in the porch. The grass on which the canine structure stood was a scorched obsidian crisp. The dogs themselves had tripled in number, forming three concentric tiers. At the base were the big dogs—Bullmastiffs, Dobermans, Danes. The ones along the fringe growled and bared their deadly teeth, fire scintillating off their shiny canines. The next layer up were the Collies, Basset Hounds, mid-sized mongrels, Retrievers, Bulldogs, Beagles, and the like. These formed a double layer—the upper ones standing squarely on the backs of their brothers below. On top of those, and forming the final tier, were the pipsqueaks: the mini Schnauzers, Bichon-Frises, toy poodles, and other lap breeds.

  And on top of it all—standing on the upturned faces of twin Chihuahuas—was Mike O’Brien. His faced burned with reflected fire as he pointed his loaded and drawn weapon at the kneeling figure at the foot of the tower.

  "What are you?"

  Don’t answer him, Hector.

  Russell knelt behind the trellis.

  [You don’t need to hide now. You’re meaningless as far as he’s concerned.]

  Don’t let him kill Hector. He never did anything to Mike. It was all me.

  [Then save him.]

  I can’t. Look at him!

  Russell craned his head around the beam and looked up at the giant who had been a kid only three weeks ago. The runts twining Mike’s ankles playfully nibbled and lapped his shins and calves, oblivious to the gravity of the situation and of the kneeling figure’s fate should he fail.

  And he will fail. He’s stupid.

  [Rescue him.]

  I can’t!

  Crawling out from the tower’s base came the Doberman, the one that bore a striking resemblance to Freddy—a dog he and Michelle had spent hours…

  I loved her

  …searching for in vain. It moved lithely toward Hector until its muzzle stopped less than a foot away from Hector’s fat, sweaty face. It then barked six times, turned, and merged back into the structure.

  Mike widened his legs and fired the first arrow. Hector flinched as the point penetrated the charred earth in front of his knees.

  "Tell me!" Mike screamed. "Tell me what you are!"

  On the porch, Russell stood, bumping his right thigh against the support beam. Not thinking, he reached out with his left hand for the handrail, causing the arrow point to rake across the trellis.

  He winced. But he also reached into his right pocket, because he was sure he had heard something other than his thigh knock against the beam. The sound had been too loud, too sharp, to have been just his leg.

  Russell’s fingers knew what it was before his mind did.

  My keys are in my left pocket, so this is…

  He pulled out the rusty sparkplug Apollo had found in front of Pete’s house two weeks earlier. He held it in the flickering light and felt the importance of what he had to do flow through him like a raging torrent of energy.

  [You know what to do, so do it.]

  Obeying his traitor, Russell reared back and adjusted the balance of the slug in his hand. It had to be positioned just right to work. He knew that. And if he missed…

  What happens if I miss?

  [Don’t worry about that. Just let it go. Send it on its way. All you have to do is give it forward momentum. Your aim will be true.]

  But my arm is all messed up. Hector’s Jeep—

  [KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!]

  Russell hesitated and stepped out of his throwing stance. Looking down at the brown, metal slug in the center of his shaking palm, he delayed the charge asked of him.

  [What are you waiting for?]

  I don’t know.

  [Throw it!]

  At that, the plug exploded into a radiant diamond of heatless white light. Transfixed both by its beauty and perfection of design, Russell stared attentively at it. Where did you come from? his elated mind asked, and where will you go after I die? The blinding orb in his hand pulsated in rhythm with his frantic heartbeat and shot shards of opalescence into the fiery night. Then, almost as quickly as the light came to life, it petered out. The chip of glowing, celestial rock became once again a dirty, rusted-out old sparkplug. Russell watched helplessly as the hunk of metal fumbled over the tips of his trembling fingers, fell to the porch boards, rolled through a hole in the trellis, and disappeared in the flowerbed below.

  [YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF—]

  Russell cut the voice off. He didn’t know how he did it, but he did.

  I’m sorry, Hector. I’m not like you.

  On top of his dogs, Mike reached behind his back, plucked an arrow from his quiver, and strung the shaft through the bow. The Chihuahuas continued to balance his weight on the tips of their glistening noses.

  Blue and red lights swept across the periphery of Russell’s vision. The scream of the siren was now deafening.

  Yet he, Mike, and Hector did not turn.

  On the ground, Hector gazed up at Mike, his fingers interlaced in what was either a prayer or a request for a pardon. His lips moved rapidly but issued no sound.

  Russell tried his best to read what words those flaps of skin formed, but gusts of smoke blurred their lines.

  "Say it again!" Mike ordered from above, steeling a quick peek over to Russell.

  But Russell saw the furtive glance because Russell sees everything.

  And he saw Hector’s lips move again. This time he knew what they said.

  "I’m an animal," was all he could make out before the head that spoke them slumped in defeat.

  Hector…

  Mike steadied the bow and pulled the line to his ear.

  Staggering down from the now-burning porch, Russell yelled up at the abomination, "Don’t, Mike!! Don’t do it!!"

  The dogs growled and barked at the interloper, but Russell ignored their threats and they did not attack.

  Once more, Mike flicked his eyes briefly to Russell’s before fixing them back onto his quarry. In that split second, what R
ussell saw behind those orbs was what had lurked there for a lifetime—lifetimes—just beyond the façades of ignorance and insanity, of obsequiousness and loyalty, logic and linear structure. Where everybody had something, Mike had nothing.

  "Kill me instead," Russell pleaded. "You hate me. Hector’s your friend."

  Mike didn’t bother looking away this time. He was too focused on his prey to do otherwise.

  "Don’t!" Russell screamed. "Please don’t do this!"

  Behind them all, the police siren shrieked like mad. To the Artist, the ululating whine mimicked exactly the slowed-down call of a cicada.

  Then, as the Artist always knew it would, the hunter’s fingers let go and the arrow pierced the red, opaque night sky.

  "ORION!!!!"

  Coda:

  Good Dog