NiceStories.com: Short story: Dog. After the Apocalypse from the POV of a surviving dog. by Oscar A Rat

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story this cold spell.” “We might still find something, anything. Even a rabbit or possum,” Larry's oldest daughter answered as she trudged along behind him. She was fifteen and small for her age. Her sister, Jamie, scampered ahead of the rest. Jamie was twelve and the same height as her older sister. They were hunting anything they could find to supplement their normal fare. When low on fresh meat, they existed on pre-blast canned goods the group gathered during occasional forays to nearby towns. They and their neighbors grew fresh vegetables in the valley but, because of lingering radiation, crops didn't grow very well. Sometimes large areas of the fields produced mutated inedible vegetables that had to be destroyed. Even the few farm animals often birthed mutations. Very often creatures, as well as the humans themselves, were barren and couldn't reproduce. “Stay close, Jamie,” ordered her sister as the younger girl ran to investigate a stand of pines on their left. There were no dangerous animals in the valley, with the possible exception of the large dog or wolf that had entered a few months back. The community was still undecided about whether to hunt the beast down or not. It hadn't proven itself dangerous yet, but you never could tell. About an hour later, just as they were about to give up, they spotted a large buck deer running toward them with the huge dog chasing it. “Daddy, daddy,” yelled Jamie. Her father waited until the deer, spotting them ahead, veered to their right. He shot it before it could run into the trees and escape. The large dog came to a stop fifty-feet away. It panted for a few moments while the family waited anxiously for its next move. Larry kept the rifle on the beast, just in case. The animal growled like it always did when confronting humans. Then it stood, as though waiting for them to go away. The normal policy was to avoid trouble with the huge beast by keeping it well fed. This time the Campbell family didn't want to leave the entire deer. A rabbit was one thing, a deer another. The dog stood and waited, apparently surprised that they didn't leave. To Julie, it seemed intelligent and didn't know what to do next. Julie stood guard while her father dressed the deer. She kept an eye on the dog. “You just stay back, big boy,” she told it as she held the rifle loosely and tried to control her younger sister at the same time. “Shoot it. Why don't you shoot it?” Jamie yelled from behind her. Julie told her to “Shut up,” and smiled at the dog. Using a sharp knife, Larry soon had the meat cut into chunks and tied securely with bits of rope. “All right now,” he instructed the youngsters, “both of you grab some of these and we'll go home.” They picked up all they could comfortably carry and started out for their home, leaving the rest for the dog. After that, I followed human hunters when they left their camp. I would try to find large animals and chase them toward the humans. That always got me fed. Eventually, the humans and I became comfortable being around each other. They waved when they saw me following them. *** During my second winter there, I stumbled onto a small female human wandering through a wooded area near one of their camps. It was making a lot of noise, crying and wandering aimlessly. Curious, I went up to it. I had never seen one up close before. I don't know why but I couldn't think of it as food. Maybe because of my experience as a pup? At first, the little human cried harder. Seeing I wasn't going to eat it, the human stopped the noise. After sniffing the animal, it also seemed curious and we lost our fear of each other. I even let it touch me. It tried to pat me on the head like I have seen them pet their smaller dogs but I was far too tall. Content with touching my snout, the human bared its teeth. Fearing an attack, I backed up and watched it. Was that little thing actually going to snarl at me? I found out later that was the way a human showed it was pleased. Humans are strange as well as dumb. I walked toward the human camp with the cub following me, sometimes needing a gentle push on its behind. I had to stop several times, as the cub tired easily. During one of those stops, I wondered what the little thing tasted like -- so I went up and licked it. It let me lick its snout but pulled away as I sniffed its rear. When we arrived, the camp was in furious activity. I had never been there in the daylight before. Humans were running around as though searching for something; maybe for the little one? My mother would have done the same if I had been missing. When they saw us coming, they yelled and came out toward us. Crouched down, I was nervous and wanted to leave, but the cub clutched my ear and wouldn't let go. When I managed to shake its paw loose, I retreated a little ways, unsure as to my reception. The small female, perhaps frightened by the yelling, started crying again. *** The Johnson farm was in an uproar as Dave Johnson, his wife Emily, and five sons searched for their only daughter, Jenny. She was two-years-old and hadn't been seen for five hours. The girl normally stayed close to home, playing in a large front yard. She wasn't allowed to go anywhere near the barns or animal corrals. The Johnson's kept most of the farm animals for the small closed community. Mrs. Johnson had been cleaning the house while the rest of the family were out working around the property. The little girl was usually well behaved. “Did anyone search under the house?” asked Dave of his son Davey, sixteen. Tony, a tubby twelve, answered, “I crawled around under there already.” He headed toward the closest shed. “Sonny,” Dave then called to his oldest son, a six-foot-two skinny boy of eighteen-years, “look in those woods out back again. You might have missed her.” “She couldn't have gotten that far,” answered Sonny. “Do it,” screamed Dave, beginning to anger. As Sonny ran around the house, he almost collided with his younger brothers Pete, eight, and Joey, nine. They had just finished searching the house and the back yard with their mother. Veering around them, he hurried for the wooded section. Mary cried silently as she hurried back upstairs to look out a window. Maybe she could see more from that height? she thought. It was so unlike the little girl. She had never wandered off before. She could get hurt if she got in with the farm animals. Some of them, such as the goats, could be vicious to a small child. Or that big wild dog could get her, Emily Johnson thought, shuddering. She was constantly trying to get the men to shoot the animal before it hurt someone. Emily was frightened when she saw it wandering through the farm at night, its eyes seeming to give an evil glow. Anything that huge and wild must be dangerous. Maybe it had already gotten her little girl, she thought, pulled her into the bushes to ... she couldn't make herself finish the thought. Seeing nothing from the front window, Emily hurried around to others, to repeat the action. She stumbled over discarded clothing on the floor and nearly hit her head on the sill as she ran, in a near panic, for yet another open window. From that upstairs window she spied that wild dog, along the right side of the woods. It was clearing the treeline and she could see it coming toward the farm. She couldn't restrain a cry as she thought about it finding the girl first. Emily shivered at the prospect. Her fear turned to relief as well as wonder when she saw her daughter walking behind and almost alongside the beast, at first hidden by its bulk. She was stupefied as the tyke stumbled and grabbed onto the ear of the huge beast. Recovering, she yelled out the window, “Dave, behind the house.” Emily screamed again and ran for the stairs. She arrived at the back door in time to see the little girl clutching the toothy animal's ear as he pulled away. Her family came rushing around both sides of the house. About that time the dog freed itself and hastily retreated to the trees. It stood for a minute and then turned and left. *** After that, we got along. One time, years later, I was very ill and the humans found me. They gave me strange-tasting meat that made me feel better. During that time they fed me, even staying near and tending a fire to keep me warm. Sometimes they made pleasant sounds at me -- particularly the female I had led home. *** “Oscar, Have you seen that wild dog lately?” asked Jim Thorpe, owner of the Thorpe Farm. His son looked up from where he lay under a Ford four-door sedan he was working on. Oscar was the de-facto mechanic of the colony. He had an instinctive talent for keeping the vehicles running. It also kept him out of field work, which he considered a big asset. Oscar was a small skinny man, thirty-one years old. He had a limp from when a vehicle fell on him when he was only twelve. “Nope, he hasn't been in the garage lately,” Oscar joked. Jim shrugged and left his son to his task. “It probably decided to leave the valley,” he called back. The two of them, and wife Jane, had the smallest farm of the four in their small isolated community. It was just as well, as his wife was uncomfortable among larger groups. *** Olaf Peterson was of Scandinavian ancestry and proud of it. He also prided himself on his great strength. Although not very bright he was both a solid and calm man. He raised his daughter, Marlene, and son Olaf jr., to be the same. Olaf's wife, Helga, was as sickly as he was strong. They owned the fourth farm in the valley. Younger Olaf was twelve and would grow to be a carbon-copy of his father. Marlene, sixteen, was beginning to look closely at the Johnson boys. One warm summer day, Marlene and Sonny Johnson had been walking in the woods about a half mile from her farm when they'd come upon the dog, lying in a pool of vomit near an edge of a clearing in the trees. Dog seemed to have trouble raising his head at their approach, whining a little at their appearance. The huge canine appeared to be thin and undernourished. The two kids could see that he was very ill. Returning to the Peterson farm, they found her father working on fencing around the chicken coop. “Pa, please help us,” Marlene pleaded. “That big dog that saved Jenny is sick. I think he has a bug or something,” she continued, with some agitation. Olaf finished twisting a wire, closing a hole in the rusty fence, before acknowledging. “We'll see,” he answered. “Tell your mother where we're going while I get some stuff we might need.” He put down his pliers and stood. In his fifties, leg muscles stiffened after spending time in a crouched position. Due to lingering radiation and a lack of medical skills in the community, life expectancy was short within the group. Olaf was the oldest except for Andy Jackson's parents. Marlene left to tell her mother about the canine and where they were going. “You think you can help him?” asked Sonny, a little anxiously. “Might,” Olaf answered as he started for the nearest barn. Entering the faded red structure, Olaf headed for a room where he kept limited veterinary supplies. Not knowing what was wrong with the animal, he chose a variety of remedies: Splints, pain killers, various medicines and even simple surgical tools. He would also take a pistol, in case it were necessary. The animal might have distemper and have to be killed. He sent Sonny to a storage shed for food and water. He also told him to grab anything else that might be useful. He knew was that the massive animal must be hungry and thirsty. Olaf didn't want to bring the dog to the farm. Moving it there might stir up some of the other animals. Also, how could he move it? It would be too heavy for even him to carry far. With their current shortage of vehicles, he didn't have anything available to carry the huge animal in. Back in the front yard, he joined the others. “Lets get going,” Olaf instructed. “You'll have to show me where he is.” They hurried out to help the animal. The dog was where they had left him and Olaf set to work. He had a plenitude of practical experience to help him. At first a little anxious about touching the animal, Olaf found it didn't snarl or try to bite him. The dog seemed all right physically with no obviously broken bones. It didn't want to touch the food but gulped down a good deal of water, which left out distemper. After a brief examination, Olaf still wasn't sure of the problem. Maybe the beast had eaten something he shouldn't have? Olaf thought. He put a dose of all-purpose medicine into a chunk of meat and, holding the animal's nose closed, forced the food into its mouth. Dog swallowed reflexively and lay his head back down. Olaf decided that they should wait and see what happened. He didn't want to shoot the animal, but would if it continued to suffer. For the next few days, most of the community came at one time or the other to visit the animal, keeping a fire going for his and their comfort. After saving Jenny, Dog had become an accepted member of their community. The animal's condition slowly began to improve and, one day, he simply rose and went off on his own. *** The Johnson's, with help from the Campbell's, finished planting the last of that year's seed-corn and, meeting at the truck, drove back to the farm. On the way home they spied the big dog in the distance. It looked like it had caught a small animal. It didn't seem to see them as they proceeded back home. The old vehicle sputtered and threatened to quit. There were only two trucks left in the valley. It was about time to leave and search for others. Often it was easier to find other vehicles than to repair the ones they had. Since the “Big Blast," the countryside was filled with abandoned vehicles. There were no records of the exact time of the “Big Blast.” Only that it had been several generations ago, before any of them had been born. During the first few years, people were too busy simply surviving to bother keeping records, at least that those in the valley knew of. Due to their location, away from any large targets and surrounded by mountains, they were spared destruction. Directly outside the valley, most people had been killed by a clean bomb without damaging nearby property. The area outside their haven was mostly unpopulated except by a few bands of traveling brigands and a scattering of small family holdings. Still slightly radioactive, it was barren of most vegetation and couldn't be easily farmed. Some survivors had tried in the past, only to grow mutated or stunted crops before moving on. However, since other humans avoided the area, they had a near-endless store of pre-disaster items to scrounge. Most of the non-perishable food and alcohol in nearby towns had been taken by others, but clothing and vehicles were still plentiful. Luckily, their own predecessors had accumulated a large stockpile of canned foods and other items. Now they rarely had to leave the valley. If strangers entered, they simply weren't permitted to leave. The valley survivors had long ago torn up and hid the one narrow road to their relatively fertile colony. At first, barriers had been maintained at the entrance to the valley. Needing all the manpower they could get for other tasks, guarding had been reduced to one observer stationed at the entrance. Very few outsiders ever found their way to it. Lingering radiation had left many of the people barren, but they still managed enough progeny to maintain the community. They were blessed with plenty of water and arable land to survive. The game trapped within the valley's parameters was plentiful, even for the large mutated dog that had moved in with them. Although that dog had been a source of consternation when they first spotted it. It turned out to be not only friendly but an asset. “I'm glad you're home, honey,” Larry's wife Molly greeted him as he walked in the back door. The Campbell family farm was the largest of the four in the community. At the present, about thirty individuals in the vally were of working age, four of them living on that farm. His youngest, at twelve, was old enough to do his share of the work. “The generator stopped again,” Molly continued. “I tried most of the morning but couldn't get it going., She complained, “You have to bathe in cold water.” Their small old-fashioned bathtub was too short for Larry's six-foot-four-inch frame, without the inconvenience of cold well water. His wife was much smaller at five-six and, of course, the two daughters had no problem. The entire family stood out among the others with their bright red hair. “Well, that's the last straw,” Larry answered testily. “We have to schedule a trip to town. This is as good a time as any. If we wait too much longer, cold weather will be here.” He sighed. “I'll bring it up to the other families tomorrow.” *** Leaving their haven was dangerous. There were few people outside, but some of them were very dangerous. If they were to run into trouble they might be seriously out-gunned. They had, between them, only a handful of shotguns. There was also a handgun or two, and a couple of rifles. The original survivors had originally concentrated on food and other necessities after the Big Blast, without putting any priority on weapons. By the time they realized that more and better firearms were needed, it was too late. The few other people outside had grabbed them up. At the moment, they still maintained the ones they had started with but very few others. The community made a point of hunting with .22 calibers. The small cartridges made less noise, and ammunition for them was easier to find. “Outsiders” tended to favor the larger calibers, and left plenty of .22 cartridges behind at the stores. The remaining residents of the community lived on a large estate formerly owned by a movie celebrity and built across the valley from local farmers. The owners of the large complex had been away at the time of the Big Blast and never returned. Most of the current residents there consisted of people who had wandered in over the years and their descendants. Some of them had intermarried with the farm families. The other workers consisted of the Jacksons and Andy and wife Suzy with their children Mary 12, Pete 14, and John 20. Also living there, were Andy's parents, Jerry and June. The Jacksons, Jack and June, were the only blacks in the valley. Other families lived in abandoned homes near the Estate. They included John Peters with wife Jane, and Al and Mary Rivera. Since the large Estate didn't have any cultivated land or farming equipment itself, the residents helped out on the farms and other projects wherever needed and shared in the produce. Money was useless but labor itself of immense value. *** I was making a routine check of my territory, urinating on the boundaries, when I scented other dogs. I knew it wasn't any of the farm animals. Searching, I soon found tracks. The prints were large. Some were even larger than my own. Following their spoor, I noticed that they were approaching one of the human nests. Now knowing exactly where they were heading, I followed at a run, assuming there would be trouble. *** Hearing the noises of farm animals and scenting humans, an invading dog pack cautiously drifted that way. They had somehow evaded the lone observer at the entrance to the valley -- which wasn't surprising, since the teenager wasn't very alert. Observer duty was a preferred task, compared to heavy labor. Nothing ever happened on that job, so it had become mostly honorific -- a means of getting an occasional day off. A huge mutant male led the hungry pack. There were a handful of other large animals in the pack but it was, in most part, made up of normal canines. Even the non-mutated ones were dangerous. The dogs arrived soon after dawn, while residents at the farm were sitting down to breakfast. The canines stopped on a small rise at the edge of the barnyard and studied the area carefully before continuing at a run, heading for defenseless penned up domestic animals. Their only perceived adversaries seemed to be a few peaceful farm dogs tethered to wooden stakes. Molly Campbell was hard at work preparing the family breakfast. In post Big Blast times, making breakfast was a long arduous task. She had to get up early and gather wood -- no convenient gas or electric stove. The small generator wasn't capable of running an electric stove along with lights and other needs of the home. She then had to stoke up a wood-burning stove. While it was heating, she would go outside and pump water with a hand pump, take it inside to put it on the stove to heat. They grew their own wheat for bread and ground their own cornmeal. She would mix biscuits or cornbread, sometimes both. A pot of yeast was kept alive on a back corner of the stove, at the edge farthest from the fire box. At least she still had baking powder in sealed cans from before the “Big Blast.” Her farm didn't have any chickens but received eggs from the Simpson farm. It was found to be easier for the four farms to specialize in different enterprises. Molly's farm grew vegetables and the community hogs. The Johnson farm, possessing the largest barns and grassy areas, kept most of the other farm animals, mostly cattle, horses and sheep. Molly cut thick slices off a smoked ham. She set two cast-iron skillets on the stove to heat, one for the ham and another for eggs. There were also biscuits to mix and put into the heated oven. One trouble with wood stoves was that you had to continually turn a baking pan around while cooking. The oven contained relatively hot and cold spots. They also possessed a large stock of canned coffee, so another small pot of water was set to boil. After the family had been aroused, dressed, and finally wandered into the dining room, she started frying eggs. *** As they invaded the Johnson farm, the dog pack made considerable noise. Farm dogs were swept aside as wild canines entered openings in the barns and then stormed into hog pens. The smaller of the dogs seemed to pick on the largest farm pigs while the larger invaders began decimating smaller animals, mostly the younger pigs and chickens. The Johnson family took one look and grabbed the few firearms available in the house. The two shotguns they possessed were well-oiled but most of the ammunition in another room. They hadn't been used in years, except for an occasional rabbit or deer hunt. Afraid to run into the yard to accost the pack, they concentrated on firing from the back windows, which left a good many of the dog pack unmolested in and behind the farm buildings. The family, of course, possessed no telephones. They were on their own and would probably lose much of the community's meat supply. *** I soon came to the same rise the pack had used to enter the nest and saw what was going on. I didn't care about the livestock, but sensed that the humans were in danger, including Jenny. After a quick look, I bounded over the rise and ran toward the nest. Intuitively, I sped to accost the leader of the wild pack. Ancestral instincts took over. In my rage, superior intelligence was pushed aside as I butted the largest invader in the side. As the fight progressed, some of the pack stopped to watch. Silence reigned in the immediate area of the fight, although I could hear the bedlam continuing throughout the rest of the farm. We fought so intensely that our spittle and blood splattered the side of the nearest building. The mongrel shoved me headlong into the barn. I fell to my knees and shook my head to try to clear it. I could finally see, through a red haze, as the huge animal grabbed my right rear leg with a death grip and, jerking, tried to break the bone. Holding in my pain, I twisted to, in turn, grip the other dog's leg in my teeth, and bit down. By that time, the rest of the pack had gathered to watch the fight, hunger forgotten. It was an individual fight such as they had rarely seen before. *** The gunfire had, in most part, ceased as the farmers also watched the battle. The humans didn't know why the large animal was saving their livestock, but appreciated the effort. They never did realize that it was purely by instinct. Glancing at each other, they gathered up their remaining ammunition and headed for the barnyard, knowing the dog couldn't do it alone. Meanwhile, sounds of gunfire alerted other valley residents who, arming themselves, raced to the scene. Even the errant observer at the road woke and, leaving his post, hurried to the battle. He was carrying one of the few large-caliber rifles. While that was going on, Dog gained the upper hand over his adversary. He acquired a good grip on the other dog's throat and, through a herculean effort, bit through both fur and muscle. Strong teeth tore into the other dog's carotid artery. Through a spray of the huge mutant canine's arterial blood, Dog threw the animal off its feet and into a nearby barn. The fight was over. The other animal thrashed around, bleeding to death. Humans arrived and dispatched or drove off the rest of the disheartened pack. Later, the farmers would have to hunt them down and kill them. But ... that was for later. The huge canine became not only a friend, but a hero. To Dog, though, his efforts were both instinctively against a territorial threat, and to help the little girl he had saved earlier. After letting the humans treat his wounds, the animal limped back through the pasture. He was tired and sore, wanting to be alone to recover and rest. *** "All right," Larry Campbell informed the others, "we'll go down old route twelve to Jonestown. It's close, and a fairly small place. If I remember right, it has one new and three used-car lots, all at least partially covered. That so, Olaf?" "Guess so, Larry. I don't rightly recall." Larry looked over the others. There were fifteen all together. "Does anyone remember?" he asked. "We have to know for sure. Otherwise, we'll need to go all the way to Aghsburg, in another direction entirely. I know they have car lots there, but maybe also more chances of trouble." "Yeah," Oscar Thorpe, the mechanic, replied, "three of them." "Well, if we're ready, get in the trucks and let's get going. We want to be back by nightfall. That way, we won't have to advertise with headlights." They crowded into the two available vehicles, a large flatbed and a pickup, and started out. The expedition carried all their available weapons except for one rifle left with the valley lookout, Davey Johnson, sixteen. He was pissed that he couldn't ride along. It wasn't often that anyone left their sheltering valley. The trip was only ten miles, and passed without incident. They saw nobody along the way, but had to manhandle a couple of fallen trees off the road. At one point, they backtracked to a smaller road because of a collapsed bridge, which took a little time. "Keep a watch," Larry called back from the front seat of the flatbed. "We're coming into town. If we're gonna have problems, it'll be right about then." The town had changed since the first, and only time, Larry had been there as a teenager. More store-windows were broken out, along with debris drifted against empty storefronts. He could see bullet-holes in many of the parked vehicles, along with whiskey and beer bottles thrown around. The good part was that there was rust around the bullet holes, indicating it hadn't been recent events. "Turn right at that hardware store, Olaf," Larry ordered. "Wait a minute ... stop." Both vehicles halted at the corner. Larry walked back to the pickup and told Andy Jackson, the driver to, "See if there's anything of value in that hardware store. You know, like plumbing and building supplies we could use." "And if there's a lot? We might need the room for other things, you know." "Just you pile it up right inside the building, not on the sidewalk. With any luck, we'll have more working vehicles to take back. You'll find us up Elm Street. That's where the new-car lot was, I think. If not, we'll come right back to help. We don't want to split up too much if we can help it. So hurry up." On Elm Street, they passed a former liquor store, obvious by the broken bottles outside, and a nearby burnt-out building. There were also a couple of human skeletons in the gutter. There must be quite a story in that, Larry thought as they passed by. At least nothing seemed recent. It could well be that the town had been looted of booze and any gangs had left long before. Larry hoped so. "Here we are," Olaf said, pulling into a car lot lined with rusty autos. "Hold it a minute," Larry said, getting out on the running board to yell into the back, "Sonny, you and Marlene got it easy. Get out and wait for the pickup. We're going to the back of the building, looking for loading docks. Keep a gun with you and shoot if you see trouble coming." They went around to the rear of the large one-story building. Backing up to an overhead garage door, they broke the lock on a manual door beside it to get inside. Oscar Thorpe, being their most experienced mechanic, toured the building, looking for any vehicles that he might get running. Larry sent a couple of people to look for fuel and usable tires. "They're probably up front in the showroom," he told them. "Shouldn't we search the entire town while we're here?" John Peters asked. "Depends on several things," Larry replied, watching Oscar check under a Ford pickup. "On how long it takes us here, when Andy gets back with the pickup, and whether we run into any trouble." "Shit, Larry, we haven't found anyone yet, and no signs of life. Why don't we send the pickup to find food? My wife could use cloth and sewing supplies or, better yet, store boughten' clothes." "I'm afraid it's far too late for any usable foods," Larry replied. "By now, it's either eaten, spoiled, taken, or the rats have it. There have probably been plenty of looters through here. Clothes might be easy, though. That and items like cleaning supplies. We'll see, after we get some vehicles going." Oscar finished his inspection of the Ford. "I can get this one running if we find good tires ... and a new battery without fluid," he told Larry, wiping dirt off his forehead. "Maybe," he said, looking around again, "even four or five more, if we have the time. The seals will be bad by now, but if they make it back home I can work on them later. Right now, we need spare tires, batteries, oil, and fuel. One of the women came back to report. "There's an auto supply section up front. Even engines in sealed plastic drums." "Get on it then, and put these people to work. Oh, and Oscar, pick the best and the largest vehicles that'll work off-road. Maybe some of those four-wheel-drive trucks outside?" "They're pretty much rusted." "So? Who cares about the rust? If we have one or two that can make it back, we can carry that much more supplies. If they break down on the way, so what?" "Okay, boss." Oscar took off to organize a labor force from the few travelers. *** By mid-afternoon, they had two large panel trucks running, along with the Ford pickup, two more pickups, another flatbed that had been inside for an oil change or something, and two sedans. Most of them had been parked inside, away from the elements, and the flatbed had been raised off the floor, its tires still good. It looked like everyone would be driving back, or at least starting that way. Oscar had been kept busy, even getting a large forklift to run. Since it ran on solid tires, they were no problem. It was used to load the vehicles with spare parts, especially replacement seals and oil drums. A pile of five-gallon fuel-cans were also filled from a large elevated gasoline tank outside. All that was necessary was to unbolt the electrical pump and let gravity fill the cans and tanks – after water was drained from the bottom of the tank. It was slower, but it worked. He could reinvigorate the fuel later. The pickup with Andy and his group arrived to help, finally driving two pickups to the hardware supplies he'd accumulated. Nobody had looted them over the years. Andy even found three high-powered rifles and a small stock of ammunition hidden in a back room. Probably the owner's personal weapons. They were finished by about five pm. Most of the recovered vehicles smoked from burnt oil, and were hard to steer or brake, but they did move, which was the most important part. It took every experienced driver and some that had never driven a vehicle before. There were now twelve trucks and cars, and only fifteen people. "Okay, now, listen up, and turn those engines off," Larry called out. "We don't want to waste fuel or burn out anything. Change some of those hardware supplies out of the better vehicles and into the worse. I want to have at least one of them empty in case we need it later." One by one, the running vehicles were turned off. "We'll leave the new drivers here to be taught by Oscar and to guard things," he continued. "The rest of us will investigate the business district. And for Christ's sake stay together and alert." "Ain't nobody here but us chickens," Sonny Johnson joked. "We don't know that. So be careful," Larry replied. Finally, about six p.m., one large panel truck, the flatbed, and two pickups left to inspect the town. There were ten people in all, the others being left back at the car lot. They found quite a few small items to take back. Past looters had concentrated on fuel, guns, food, and liquor. In most part, cleaning supplies and clothing had been left alone. Except for rodent and water damage, much of it was still serviceable. *** "Look! Over there, smoke?" Suzy Jackson nudged Larry as the convoy smoked and gasped its way out of town. "So? haven't you noticed these burnt buildings? Probably nothing to interest us." "Maybe we should look, Larry. It's not far and it might be cooking or heating smoke?" "We have to get back. We only have a couple of hours of sunlight yet." "Hey, come on, Larry? It's not far out of our way. And might be interesting?" Oscar suggested. “And we're not finished training the new drivers.” Against his better judgment, Larry gave in. After all, they were finished and had a little spare time. "All right," he said, "but only the flatbed and good pickup. We don't want to screw up anything with the others. As it is, they might not all make it back." With everyone else stopped, a few explorers piled into two of the best running vehicles and set out to investigate the smoke. *** It was found to be coming from a small factory building on the outskirts of the town. A tower of black smoke that could be seen for miles, Larry thought, black and thick. A loading dock door stood open. Larry and a couple of others, armed of course, crept up the steps to look inside. A large room contained a mass of piping and a dozen large tanks, fires burning under some of them. A strong smell of burning oil met them as they peered inside. It was a complex setup, apparently for some obscure purpose they couldn't fathom. There was also a man, large, rangy and on the far side of sixty, standing at one side, spinning a large metal wheel. Larry and Oscar glanced at each other. Now that they were there, neither knew what to do. Larry shrugged, handing Jim Thorpe his pistol. "Cover me. If he makes any threatening moves, don't hesitate. Shoot." Larry walked inside a ways before coughing loudly. He didn't want to alarm the man. The other spun around, a large wrench in hand. Luckily for him, he smiled and laid the tool down on an oil drum. "Here to buy?" the man asked. "What'cha want? I got some diesel left over, low on gasoline, though." "Gasoline? You sell gasoline?" Larry asked. Fuel was hard to come by. The Peterson farm had a couple of small oil wells, shut off since they were pretty much useless. Impure crude oil wasn't good for much. Long before, the colony had acquired several large tank trucks filled with fuel. Now, though, it was scarce. "Sure. When I got it, and I ain't got much right now." Meanwhile, Oscar was looking the place over, trying not to alarm the man. An avid reader of books on mechanics, he recognized distilling equipment when he saw it, the coils and tanks especially. Fluids were constantly dripping into oil-drums and a careful feel and smell of one told him it was diesel fuel. The man paused to wipe both hands on a greasy rag. "Name's Abner Mathews. You wanna' buy or not?" "Sure. What you want, and how much you got?" Larry asked, shaking hands. "Want mostly ammunition and guns, specially the ammo. They're good for trade. And I got three drums left." That put Larry in a bind. The fuel was needed, but they had little in the way of firearms, and might need them later. Trading them might leave the people in a bind. On the other hand, if Abner was alone, they could simply take what they wanted for nothing, which was also against his principles. "Let me show you something." Abner grinned, pulling a small box from under his belt, a blinking red button visible on one side. "All it takes is a press of this here button, and this whole city block will go up in one bang." He grinned again. "Just a little insurance one of my customers fixed up for me." He paused, then added, "I'm a good judge of character, Mr. Campbell. You seem okay, but I deal with a lot of rough bastards. How about some real coffee? I got a stock of the instant stuff in trade." "You have enough for fifteen cups ... Abner? My people would kill me if I didn't share." "Sure, bring'um in." Larry sent someone back to get the others – it was on the way home. The rest of them waited as Abner turned a tap, letting boiling water into cups, and spooned out coffee granules. "It must get lonesome here, Abner?" Mary Rivera asked. "Especially at your age. One of these days some gang's going to call your bluff." "I guess I have to take the chance," Abner replied. "Nothin' much else to do." Mary looked over at Larry. "Maybe you could use a more stable environment, Abner? And we could use your skills," she asked the distiller, ignoring Larry's surprised look. "We'll have to have a talk, first," Larry replied. To his thinking, taking on a stranger was a big decision. "Right now, we'd like to buy fuel." Finishing their coffee, Larry left Elmer to make a deal for fuel, and called the others outside for a conference. "What's the idea of inviting a stranger, Mary?" Larry asked. The others gathered around one of the trucks, sitting on running boards and any other seating available while they drank coffee. "He seems like a nice old man, and we can certainly use his skills," Mary explained. "Look, Larry, we have those small oil wells, sitting idle. This guy has the know-how and equipment to distill it into usable fuel. Something we have no way to do on our own." "And one more mouth to feed," was Larry's reply. "Besides, we know nothing about him." "We know he'd be useful," Andy Jackson, argued. "And we have room at the Estate," John gave his opinion. "I still don't like it," Larry told them, "but I can see your point. Let's have a show of hands? Everyone for it, raise your hands." Most of them approved, and left it to Larry to ask old Abner to join them. "I dunno." The old man was perplexed. "I got a business going here. A good business." "But you said, yourself, that it's come and go, sometimes good, and other times bad. And you're getting older, steadily older," Mary argued. "With us, you'd have security in your old age." "And you never know when someone's going to come in and take what they want," Andy reminded him. "Maybe kill you. You can't, alone, fight off a bunch of punks." Abner finally decided to move in with them. It took the rest of the day to load Abner's equipment, as much as they could lift. If wasn't easy, but they did manage to drive the forklift from that car dealership over to help. The group spent the night in town and left the next afternoon. *** Lying in weeds near the valley entrance, I watched as the humans returned to the valley. For some reason I couldn't fathom, I'd spent the time -- between hunting for food -- hanging around the entrance. Maybe, I thought, it was instinct or protecting MY territory? Something like when I'd been out hunting as a pup and would find my mother staying up until I returned to the nest. Or, maybe, only curiosity? In any case, I was relieved to see them return. The convoy split up on entering, each going to their own quarters to rest up before returning to work in the morning. With them back home, all seeming right in the world, I trotted off to survey the valley in case anything had changed during my long vigil at the entrance. I'd been spending a lot of my time at the Johnson farm, playing with little Jenny. Her mother now trusted her alone with me. I sometimes slept under the front porch of the farmhouse, where the kids made me a soft bed. *** With help, Abner set up his distillery in a large shack on the Estate. The building had to be repaired first, taking over a month with Estate residents hurrying to get it done before harvest time. The promise of alcohol worked wonders. Eventually, the new man not only produced fuel for the vehicles, but set up a smaller distillery to make whiskey -- something previously used sparingly. Even then, the excuse was that they needed it for medicinal purposes. Finding the equipment among his spares and in the colony, Abner also built a small brewery, and produced beer. Since even canned beer made pre-Blast had gone flat long before, it became a popular item in the valley. It wasn't long before many valley residents congregated at Abner's shack at night, which required a new lean-to and tables along with a building extension planned for later. Even that huge dog sometimes showed up and was given a pan of beer. Although it served to tighten and enhance the social life of the community, alcohol also brought its own problems. Productivity on the farms began to decline. Also, Abner, while becoming a popular resident, also evolved into somewhat of a vocal troublemaker. "What we need is some sort of order here," he would argue with anyone willing to listen. "We don't have any real leaders – no one person to make vital decisions." "What for?" people would reply, sopping up Abner's product. "We ain't never needed none before?" "What if we're attacked? What if we have an emergency, and need to have a quick decision?" the old man would argue. "Without someone in charge, we'd be lost." As a result of many drunken arguments, the seed of rebellion was planted. Of course, Abner thought of himself as that leader. Since he was making and dispensing liquid refreshment, a few of the others tended to agree. After all, Abner had that barrel of good, aged, pre-Blast whiskey he kept for his friends. Among many other arguments, heavy drinkers among the residents brought up how the estate people did most of the hard manual labor, working under the owners of the farms. That they had no chance to eventually move into better quarters, such as the farm houses. Alcohol, and its maker, developed a rift between what became "the farmers" and "the workers." At least a dozen Estate residents gathered to write a set of "worker's rights" to present to the ruling "farmer" class. *** "What's this crap?" Larry Campbell asked Andy Jackson, the workers' rights spokesman. "What the hell's this for? We're all equal here. Are you overworked? Don't we labor right alongside you?" "Well, you give the orders, while we do the hardest labor." "So what? It's MY family farm, since long before the Big Blast." "Abner says we should all have a say on the work schedule." "Screw that old man. You do have a say." "But you're the ones that make the decisions, and tell us where, when, and what to do." "What the hell? Someone has to do it, and it's my farm -- owned by me and my family. We share the output equally. What the hell else does that old man expect?" "He says we should help decide how the farms are run, form a committee to discuss such things. You know, like whether we should paint the barn right now or not? How much corn to plant for whiskey, and that sort of thing?" Fighting to keep his temper, Larry handed the papers back, saying, “And which of you workers actually knows when to plant, what to plant, and when to harvest? None of you. "Whiskey? That's the reason, isn't it? More whiskey for you drunks? Right now, output is down, what with hangovers and sick days off. I knew we shouldn't have taken that asshole in." "I'm not a drunk." Larry was correct. Out of a population of around fifty individuals, counting children, a dozen of them spent most of their spare time drinking, meaning four or five missing or late on any one work day. With all that drinking, the labor force WAS harder to control. Fights and feuds, previously almost unknown, were now common. The same with marital problems. That night, Larry took the list of "worker's rights" to a meeting of farm owners, held at the Johnson farm. "Uh, uh. No way." Olaf Peterson was adamant. "Next, they'll be splitting our families up, figuring they get to take turns living in our homes." "It's not a democracy. Our families settled this valley, and it belongs to us," from Dave Johnson. "We were good enough to let them in, to live in that playboy mansion. They don't know nothing about farming. Nothing about rotating crops or reading the soil." "That Abner is working them up," Jim Thorpe said. "Playing them for fools. I think he wants to be in charge, and get out of gainful work. It's the whiskey and beer talking." "Granted, Jim," Larry said. "I like a swig of booze once in a while, but not as a way of life. Without workers, we'll starve." "So, cut down on their food until they come to their senses," Olaf suggested. "That wouldn't be fair to the good workers," Larry said. "They'd only share theirs with the slackers. It wouldn't solve anything." "Send Abner packing. We didn't need him before, and don't need him now," from Olaf. "But we do," Jim said, shaking his head. "He's got those small oil wells pumping, and has set up the oil distillery. Fuel's almost impossible to find outside." "I can only see one solution," Larry said. "We have to take complete control over the liquor and beer. And I mean all the way from production through consumption. Luckily, he's using and living in that grain-storage barn on the south side of the Estate. We'll give Abner a harsh choice, to go along with us or be booted out of the valley." "Uh, Larry ... we can't do that. If he leaves, especially angry, he might seek revenge by telling others about us," Jim said. "We can't have that." "That's right. I want you and Olaf to go over to the distillery. You put strong locks on all doors and windows. Also, explain this to Abner. Make sure he knows the ramifications. "Number one. After we have, let's say, two barrels of whiskey, shut it down. Production of beer will be cut way back but, since it doesn't keep long, he can keep making it. Secondly, the finished product will be stored in that barn until rationed out, starting today. Abner, if he wants to stay alive, will put his energy in fuel production. Make certain he understands that he has no choice in the matter." "Who's gonna enforce all this shit?" Olaf asked Larry. "Unfortunately, we'll have to post guards on that barn, 24/7. I hate to do it, and hope we won't have to confine or kill Abner, but we'll do what we must." Larry looked over at Dave Johnson. "Dave, if you can spare them, have David and Tony go over to 'help' the old man, and to make sure he follows the rules. "Have them take clothing with them. We'll relieve the two in a week or so. It should be like a vacation for the boys. Make them understand that at least one of them must be there and alert at any given time. "They're to let no one but Abner inside the barn. And tell them that they're guards, not workers. They can help with the heavy labor, but are there to guard. No whiskey is to go out without my approval. The adults can have beer to take home, but none to drunks and no staying there to drink it." "Uh. They gonna take guns, too, Larry?" Dave asked, looking worried. "I hope not. We'll have to see, though. I hope it doesn't come to that. We will not become a society that rules by force and fear. I'd kill Abner before I'd turn this valley into an armed camp. We'll make sure he knows there will be no second chance, period." *** "I won't. I won't do it and no wet-behind-the-ears kids can order me around." Abner stood, glaring up into an embarrassed Olaf's face. Olaf wasn't a leader type himself, but was the strongest man there and could follow orders. "You will do as Larry ordered. If not ... well, I'll shove your butt into that back room, myself, and be damned with you, old man." He waved at David and Tony, standing in an open doorway to Abner's barn. "These boys will help you, but not let you out'a here without Larry's permission. "I see six barrels of whiskey. Production WILL stop, immediately and all but one barrel sealed. Take down the equipment. You'll brew beer as needed and refine oil into fuel -- and that's all. No visitors will be allowed inside this building." "And if I fucking refuse? How will you run your trucks? Tell me that?" "Abner. We done it without you, and can do it again." He grinned down into Abner's face. "Better than you can do without food. Only workers eat around here." Abner had no choice but to comply. At first, he tried to befriend his young guards. "Come on, David. You can come with me. I'll even carry the whiskey. Larry won't know." "No can do. If you have a party at the Estate, my father is bound to find out." Next, Abner tried to overwork the kids, maybe to exhaust them, but they simply refused. Either of them could best the old man in a fight, so that was out of the question. The weak point in the forced arrangement was that Abner was armed, while the kids weren't. Only fear of the farm owners kept him in thrall. *** While roaming the northern hills, I came upon the remains of a gopher. Strange. Although I sniffed around the area, there was no spoor, human or otherwise. Yet, it was torn apart, the best parts gone. How could that be? I thought. Even if a human firestick had killed the animal, whatever had eaten it should have left an odor or pawprints behind. The remains of that dog pack have been killed or forced out of the valley long ago. Circling around, I eventually came upon dog tracks, slightly smaller than mine but larger than those of nest dogs. Still no odor, though. Following the occasional tracks, I came upon non-smelling dog droppings. Everything must have an odor, I knew. I sniffed bushes and earth, and found it normal. Night fell, along with a cold drizzle. I sheltered under thick bushes. In the morning the tracks were gone, washed away. I hung around that barn where the new human worked. Most of the time I stayed in bushes and shadows, though sometimes, when there was a lot of laughing, I'd go in to join in the fun. I admit, I sometimes grow lonely and the local dogs don't interest me much. They aren't very good companions, so weak and unintelligent. I've picked up a few more words and their emotions attract me. Human emotions are strange. It wouldn't take long before someone poured me a drink that made me feel good. It also caused me to feel silly and sociable, staggering around and sometimes falling over, but I loved it and the petting and companionship. Now, the parties have stopped, though the new man still gives me a drink when he sees me. Where there used to be many humans and excitement around the building, now there are only three and they don't make much noise. *** Abner would sit and simmer as he drank. The more he thought, and drank some more, the angrier he became. Living on his own, he'd become used to making his own decisions. Now, he was under the control of those damned farmers. He should have stayed in town. With his skills, he'd thought he'd be high up in valley hierarchy, but there wasn't really much of a hierarchy. Well, except for Dave Johnson, who seemed to have the most to do with his present house-arrest. If it wouldn't be for Dave, he could maybe have more influence on the other farm patriarchs, or so he thought. He'd sit alone, working himself into a drunken rage. Abner knew he couldn't best that Dave in a fair fight, but he was an excellent shot. Back in town, he'd spent a lot of free time in practicing with pistol and rifle. "I'll bet," he told himself, "that if I snuck myself over to that ridge over there, I'd have a clear sight of the Johnson house. Shit. It'd only be a few hundred yards, not a bad distance for a 30-06." He grinned and took another swig of whiskey -- to help his thinking. "They'd blame it on an intruder. Without Johnson around I could turn the whiskey loose, and soon take over. I could own the valley.” *** There. In the distance, I see a female dog. Clear as day, she's loping slowly along a rise on the northern hills. She's almost my size, carrying a rabbit in her jaws. "Oooohhhhh," I cry. She turns her head, looking me in the eye before veering off and out of sight. Heart beating fast, I rush in that direction. Again, though there are tracks, no odor except for that of rabbit. Rabbit is enough. Although tired, legs quivering, I speed ahead, following the smell of rabbit blood. The trail leads to a large stand of berry bushes, a tunnel visible among the thorns. I stop. Forgetting caution, failing to look around, I struggle into an opening slightly too small for me. In seconds, I'm trapped. It's painful to go forward, or back, with thorns biting into my head and flanks. "Grrrrrrrr," I hear behind me, as teeth clamp onto my hindquarters. Stranger yet, sounds but not sounds -- more like pictures or thinking -- fill my head. Sounds like humans make, but that I can understand. That's never happened to me before. A sense of laughing, mixed with fear and relief, cause me to stand still. It's a trap, one SHE has made to catch food -- something I've never thought of doing. SHE purposely led me here, to trap me. The biting stops, but not the mental laughter, as I feel thorns leaving my flanks. I have a mental picture of myself backing out, and manage to do so. As my head emerges, I see strips of sinew pulling back on both sides and the top of the trap, enlarging the opening. SHE is standing back, the ends of those strips in her teeth, somehow holding the trap open while I squeeze out. As I turn to face her, SHE releases them, and I hear rustling as the trap closes again. We start by sniffing each other. At least SHE does. I smell nothing, nothing at all, as I try with her. I sense, in my mind, loneliness and comfort. We lie together. I try to show her my life, even as SHE pictures hers in my mind. SHE was running with that wild dog pack, and saw me besting her mate. Not wanting to fight me, SHE ran for these hills, and has been hiding here since then. SHE's wanted to meet me, mate with me, but has been afraid to try. Sensing that, I snuggle closer, rubbing heads with her and nibbling on her ear. We mate, me for the first time in my life. I wasn't lonely before but never knew the comfort of having a real mate. I no longer have to sleep alone, but can cuddle in the warmth of a female. We share hunting. Later, SHE changes in small ways. SHE becomes heavier than me, and her belly changes. Neither of us knows why. I hope SHE isn't sick. SHE doesn't seem to be, but I find I'm doing most of the hunting for us both, as SHE spends more time in the nest. It frightens me ... both of us. *** Julie Johnson and David Campbell decided to marry. It was to be the biggest occasion of the year, the ceremony to be held at the Johnson farm. The entire colony was to attend, except for the guard stationed at the valley entrance. On the afternoon of the ceremony, all but the Rivera's and old Abner were there, eating and drinking while waiting for the ceremony to begin. A barrel of whiskey had been unsealed and opened for the occasion. The Rivera's were to come later and nobody really missed Abner. Abner, though, was closer than they thought. He lay flat on the ground at the apex of a hill overlooking the farm, only two-hundred yards distant, a rifle propped on a log lying in front of him. "First, Johnson," he muttered to himself, "then Campbell. If I'm lucky, I can get all four of them." He'd already snuck up and knifed the sentry at the valley entrance, leaving a false trail both ways, to and from his firing point. That, Abner thought, should reinforce his alibi about intruders. Now, boots off and wearing footgear made of flat boards to avoid prints, he planned to shoot as many of the farm owners as possible, as fast as he could, then retreat back to his barn. In their hurry, pursuers would destroy the evidence while rushing to the valley entrance. Then, with the farm owners dead or nearly so, he could take control, living a life of luxury. That was Abner's plan. However, few such complex plans work as expected. * Dog was also on his way to the party. SHE was still afraid of humans and stayed at the nest. Besides, SHE didn't feel like moving around much. SHE hadn't slept too much the night before, whimpering in pain for most of the dark hours. Curious at seeing his friend lying there, a firestick in front of him, Dog slowed down and silently approached. He could see down the hill, where many humans were partying. Although mouth watering at the thought of a drink of beer, Dog still wanted to satisfy his curiosity. "Keep quiet, mutt," Abner told him. "I'm busy." The man picked up his weapon, aiming down the hill at Dave Johnson, who was talking to his wife, young Jenny standing next to them. Dog was looking in the same direction, attention on his best human, Jenny, when Abner fired the firestick. Of course, Dog knew about those things by then. He saw Jenny stand straight, even as her father threw up his arms, blood spurting from one shoulder. Dog didn't hesitate. Given a choice of Abner or Jenny, he attacked the old man, knocking him over, rifle flying down the hill and into brush. Abner, in pain with Dog's muzzle and sharp teeth holding his neck in a tight grip, reached into his belt to pull out a .22cal pistol. Pressing the barrel against Dog's fur, he fired several small bullets into soft flesh. Dog, in pain from the lead pellets, slammed Abner's head against the ground, repeatedly. When the colony reached the top of the hill, they found both Dog and Abner dying, the animal lying on top of the old man. "Why did he shoot my Papa," Jenny cried, holding Dog's head in her lap, "and this poor doggie?" The last thing Dog saw was Jenny's hand and face as she gently stroked his bloody neck. *** SHE was too busy birthing to miss Dog. Six pups were born that day. They were large mutants, one looking exactly like its father. The End.

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Dog. After the Apocalypse from the POV of a surviving dog. (standard:adventure, 11333 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1450/950	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Dog is an intelligent mutant, born after mankind is virtually wiped out. This is his story.