“All of it. Now!”
Billy clenched his teeth. The muzzle of his pistol bobbed like a buoy on rough seas. He’d never liked Alvin Stewart. Crater-faced Stewart, the kids in the neighborhood called him. The old man filled the paper sack with his green bills, earned night after night selling beer and lotto tickets. Billy shivered at the smell of him, stale like dirty clothes left in a hamper.
“Hurry up, Old Man.” He shoved his left hand underneath the gun to steady it.
To his right a display of Slim Jim beef jerky stood. It had been there as along as Billy could remember. He’d never left the store without one.
He stared at the red and yellow wrappers, remembering his father, the ever-present Lucky dangling from his lips.
“Daddy, can I have one?”
“Sure, kid, in a minute,” he said.
Billy raked the pistol across the display, knocking it from the counter. It crashed to the floor sprawling wrappers like leaves across the gray tile. He shivered with power and excitement. He could take anything he wanted.
Behind the counter, Stewart moved. Billy shoved a few of the jerky into his pocket. He kept his eyes focused on Stewart’s face.
“What are you doing? Hurry up.”
Something was wrong. Stewart, his face unreadable, reached below the counter. The hum of the electric Marlboro clock buzzed in his brain. Where‘s his hand?
The bullet ripped Billy’s shoulder, tearing flesh and bone. Crimson flecks splattered the counter. He felt the bite of cold tile.
Stewart stood motionless. A small Deringer gleamed in his hand.
Billy watched the odd red veins creeping like spiders across his vision. Warm blood tickled his arm, filled his sleeve, and spread into a small pool on the floor. The room expanded and twirled like the fun house at the carnival. In the distance, he heard sirens and somewhere far off, his mother’s voice. For a moment he thought it was real.
Stewart moved from behind the counter. In his right hand he held a phone receiver and reached for Billy’s pulse with his left. He never saw the bullet that killed him.
The lethal shot exploded into Stewart’s neck. He lurched backwards and tumbled into a stack of Camels. His fingers peeled the green packages off the shelf as he struggled to stand. The second pounded his chest. A bright red patch appeared and floated across his white shirt. He sank to the floor, bony knees bent inward in a frog-like perch.
Billy swerved and sent another arc of bullets behind the counter. Cigarettes blew off shelves like autumn leaves. The window shattered and rained thousands of shiny needles into racks of Dorritos and Strident.
Billy noted how the cigarettes continued to fall, one by one, like dominoes to the floor. He heard the sound, fluttery like the tumble of his father’s poker cards on Friday night.
After the bullets stopped, he realized his finger was still pressed hard against the trigger. His hand went limp, letting the pistol slip across his palm to the floor. The Marlboro clock listed forward, strained to hang on, then clambered behind the counter. At first, the crumpled shape on the floor startled him. He listened to a final moan rising from Stewart’s lips. They were oddly blue, choked by a trickle of blood spilling down his chin.
He saw his own father, standing over him, smoke pouring from the edge of his mouth.
“What did you go and do that for, son?”
Billy shook his head. The sirens blew and deafened his ears. His mother wouldn’t stop crying. The beatings happened more frequently now. No, that was then. The din rose until his head ached. In the distance, he heard a man’s shout.
“Someone’s been shot!”
The ice around Billy’s legs cracked. He stumbled to the shattered window, his left hand cradling his shoulder. More shouts issued from outside.He wanted to bolt but something held him back. The gun.
It lay still and hot on the floor. Billy scooped it into his pocket and rammed through the door. The orange “Open” sign reeled and twirled. The door slammed behind him.
Outside, his eyes burned from the sun. Shouts and screams struck him from every side. A man crossed the street by the bus stop, his arms waving wildly. From far off, he heard the sirens.
He darted to the right, searching for a place to lose himself. The scrape of his tattered Nikes on the broken concrete betrayed each step.
At the edge of the street, a dark hole beckoned him. With a push, he thrust himself towards the growing blackness and stumbled inside. The alley wrapped itself around him like a blanket. He stopped and relished the enveloping darkness. They could no longer see or accuse him. He didn’t exist.
The alley reeked of rotting meat. The smell assaulted his nostrils, shoving the contents of his stomach to the fore. Fierce spasms shook him. His knees banged the pavement as he heaved in the darkness.
“He’s there. In the alley.”
He labored to his feet and pushed frantically against the blackness. Cold, rigid stone pressed back. Down and down he struggled until he thrust his whole body desperately against the unrelenting concrete wall. He rolled a few feet. Darkness gave way. He fell into a cool, blue light that silently welcomed him.
A large steel door swung closed. Outside the voices faded. The warehouse slept soundly, its methodic breathing hastened by the wind. Two cold glass windows watched Billy with their broken panes.
A sigh escaped him. He tried to move but his limbs blazed with pain. Carefully, he dragged himself across the concrete floor. Each movement screamed through his body. Inch by inch, he slid until his head banged against something hard.
In front of him, a monstrous piece of machinery, long abandoned to rust, stopped his flight. The air stank with decay and oil. Billy felt his chest rise and fall in rhythm with the labored swish of the wind through seamless planks and pipes. Leaning back, he peered into the darkness. Ears alert, he listened.
After some moments, he became aware of a presence. From his right, a slow wrenching moan rose from the blackness. He jerked his head upward and stared blindly at the towering machine. It stood a silent stranger. The moan sounded again, nearer this time, just steps beyond. Shadows trickled across the floor. Billy blinked his eyes hard. The darkness shimmered and swayed. He blinked again, forcing his eyes to focus.
“Grreessh.” A flash of teeth ripped the blue light.
Billy shot up. His fingers groped the concrete behind him.
Two snake-like eyes watched him. Foul, hot breath brushed his face. Pain fled Billy’s body. Fear numbed him. He struggled to free himself and run, but the hulking shape of the machine stopped him.
“Grrrmmm.” A cloud of steaming vapor drifted from the teeth. The wide mouth opened slowly then snapped shut.
Billy strained to see his tormentor clearly. Blue light flickered off the beast. Two eyes shone like green islands in a murky sea.
“What are you?” He leaned forward and spat.
The creature startled by the sound, slunk back. The whites of yellow tinged eyes grew brighter. Out of the shadow of the machine now, his tormentor appeared smaller. A motley fur stood disheveled along a lanky backbone.
A smile split Billy’s face. Nervous laughter rose in his throat. He haltingly stretched out his hand. “Good boy.”
He waited for the familiar wag of a tail.
The dog returned his gesture with a snarl and a snap. It rose unsteadily and lunged forward. The edge of its teeth slammed shut a mere inch from his hand.
From the depths of the warehouse, Billy heard a scream. A moment later he realized it was his own.
The dog froze, a rigid weapon. Its moldy eyes narrowed; wetness foamed around its swollen lips.
Billy remembered the first time he saw a rabid dog. He was twelve. The dog devoured a cat underneath his bedroom window. He would never forget the look of its eyes, glassy, hungry but not with natural hunger, daring anyone to interfere with its grisly task. He remembered that look well, the cold stare that beckoned death.
Billy forced his eyes away from the dog. Never look a mad dog in the eye. He cringed at the putrid breath. Every nerve in him begged him to bolt. Go ahead and take your chances out there. He couldn’t die this way.
A long moment passed. Death waited. A light breeze pricked the tiny hairs on Billy’s arms. Silence. Then a soft swish of a dog’s paws.
Turning his head slowly, Billy took care to keep his eyes above the dog’s range. He stole a quick glance downward. It was gone. The dam of terror broke and relief flooded his body. He started to laugh when a movement in the shadows to his left disturbed him.
A few feet away in a small pool of blue light, the dog lowered its thin body to the floor. Billy could see from the way it ambled, it suffered pain to match his own. The dog’s features stood etched against the somberness of the warehouse.
Fascinated, Billy studied its form. Black and brown patches dotted a coat stuck and matted with filth from a hundred gutters. Ragged smears of blood painted sharp bones that protruded in a jagged range along its back. The deep eyes, now reflected, lacked the brilliance of life. Scars of neglect gaped like open wounds on its haunches. A crushed back leg fell useless to one side.
The look of the animal sent shudders through Billy. He felt an unusual sensation rising inside. His hand brushed his pocket. The scratch of a wrapper reminded him of the stolen jerky. He pulled one out, considered it for a moment and then carefully unwrapped it, his heart racing at every rattle of the plastic. He shoved the jerky in measured movements towards the dog.
The animal lifted its nose and sniffed the air. It arose and crossed, balancing on the injured leg like a child with a too large crutch. After a cautious whiff, the dog devoured the jerky in one swift bite.
Billy unwrapped another piece and tossed it at the dog. Again the mut gobbled the meal in a single sweep of the tongue. Billy continued feeding the dog until his pocket was empty.
The dog ate with unrestrained greed. Raspy smacks echoed through the warehouse. When it finished the last morsel, it hungrily rooted the concrete floor for more.
Billy threw his hands into the air. “There’s no more, champ.”
The dog did not retreat. Hunger now drove every movement.
“No more, sorry.” Billy shook his head. The pain in his shoulder returned and he started to feel faint.
“Sorry, ole boy.” Words from another time. Sorry, ole boy, we can‘t go to the park now. He remembered the scruffy little spaniel with one eye he found abandoned in the laundromat parking lot. Its head was covered with lice and fleas and a thin line of drool spilled on the pavement. Billy had taken care of the bugs, but the drool remained. That mangy cur is not coming in this house.
“Sorry, ole boy, we can’t go to the park now.” It was his father not him who spoke those words. Billy never saw the park with his father nor his mother. She tried one time, but the makeup would not cover the purple blotches on her cheeks. When those went away, his father would return from another night of Poker and beer and new ones would take their place.
One day, he found the little spaniel dead inside the trash can. He never asked why.
“Grrrrrr.” His companion moved closer.
“Get back, you mangy cur.” He kicked his feet. The motion set off an alarm in the dog’s body. The eyes darkened. In a leap, it lunged at Billy’s chest.
He struggled against the dank fur, the smell of the beast bringing another wave of nausea. He pounded the bony flesh with his fists, ignoring the searing pain in his left wrist.
“You disgust me,” he screamed.
With all his strength, he shoved the dog away. The animal slid a few feet, the useless leg dancing like a streamer behind it.
Billy wrapped his right hand around the wetness pouring from his left wrist. With a rip, he jerked a section of his jacket free and wound it securely around the wound.
“Damned dog.” He gritted his teeth.
Billy stared at his captor. It lay, calm and weak, its tattered fur barely covering the peaks of bones that threatened to break through. Sorry, ole boy. He thought of his father, dressed in a new jacket won in a game, walking out the door for the last time. They found him shot through the head behind Lester=s Bowlarama. Then he thought of Stewart. No one would call him Crater-face again. His own son would never again hear, “some other time son,” or “you sure are a stupid little SOB, aren’t you?”
But maybe Crater-face never said things like that. Maybe, he took his son to the park, fed the squirrels, talked about baseball, and brought treats for his spaniel. And now, because of Billy, his little boy would never see Stewart or the park again.
The room expanded. The dog grew large, its eyes swimming like two purple blotches on his mother’s face. The sensation that was building, now burst forth, filling his lungs until he could no longer breath. He felt sorrow for this pathetic creature with its shattered leg and unabated hunger, sorrow for his wretched mother with the swollen eyes and lip, sorrow for Stewart lying in his own blood, sorrow for himself.
Outside the sirens had ceased, but the muttered shouts and voices continued. He knew the police were there, walking up and down, collecting clues. Down the alley they would return and hunt him out. A new plan etched his mind and he gave himself to it. Stretching full upon the floor, he stopped breathing and held his body rigid. He waited.
No movement disturbed the quiet of the warehouse. He waited more. Still, nothing stirred. Finally, after ten minutes of holding his breath and gasping for air, he raised his chin and regarded the dog. It was curled, tail around its head, fast asleep.
“I guess there=s some things too rotten for even you to eat,” Billy sighed, rising with much pain to his feet. “Sorry, ole boy.”
He stumbled to the door and braced his right shoulder against it. It swung open, revealing the dim light of the alley. He stepped without caution into the open air and let the door slam with a bang. Lucky. His name was Lucky. Billy smiled at the memory of the one sad, brown eye and moist, dripping chin.
Turning toward the end of the alley, he heard the distant murmur of men and the muffled bark of a bloodhound. Sorry, ole boy. His time had come. Adjusting his wounded shoulder, he lifted his head and walked towards the voices.