A New Breed (Part 2)

Dabney's eyes were white lanterns in the early morning dark of the living room. She listened as he explained the plan. Shell-shocked, grief-stricken, and wounded, he felt pride well up inside him as she stood there in the darkness. He rested his hands gently on her small shoulders as he spoke to her then as if she were a woman instead of his sweet, gentle nine-year old girl..

She didn't cry. She only listened and nodded when appropriate. He asked her many times if she really understood what was going on she said simply, “Yes, Dad. I understand. I don't want to be here anymore either.”

He hugged her tight against him. “I know you don't, baby. How many shirts do you have on?” He was wearing six himself, plus two sweaters and his old leather jacket. The jacket refused to zip up no matter how hard he tugged. He hiked up his crotch. The two pairs of jeans clung to his legs from within the sweatpants.

“Well, I've only got four, dad. I tried on the other two but it was too thick. I got too hot.”

“Okay. Are both jackets on? How many jeans?” He inquired. He felt they should get going as soon as possible, but he wanted to be prepared and sometimes preparation became tricky when dealing with a nine-year old.  The plan was solid though and if they acted quickly it could be pulled off with relative ease.

The most crucial part was surprise. Their timing had to be perfect and their move had to be sudden. They were relying on the knowledge that a dog's sense of reasoning and orientation were less substantial than a human beings. If this was still the case, they could be on their way in less than ten minutes.

Doug handed a can of hairspray to Dabney. She took it, along with the Qwik-Lite and grabbed his hand.

“Dad, can we pray for Mom?” She said. He couldn't see her eyes in the gloom very well, but he knew they were glistening. It was nearing four thirty in the morning and dawn was just starting to reveal the now somewhat unfamiliar terrain of the living room.

Doug squeezed her hand and smiled down at her.

“Yes, baby. We have to be quick though. Mr. Roger is ready across the street.”

She spoke quickly and Doug was amazed at how much she remembered her bygone Sunday school prayers. She really was a smart cookie. At the end, when it came to, 'now and at the hour of our death, amen', she paused. Her blue eyes searching the ceiling. Molly had done the exact thing fourteen years ago when he had proposed to her over a meal they cooked together and polished off with haphazardly made Drambuie.

“...now and at the hour of our escape, Amen.” She finished.

Doug smiled and pulled her close. “I like that, honey. I really do. How's your hand? Can you aim the can all right?”

“I'm ready, dad.”

“Me too. Let's blow this fireworks factory.”

Dabney took her spot in the middle of the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Remember,” Doug said, looking up at her. “if it doesn't work out the way I said it would, run up and lock yourself in your room. Got it?”

She nodded.

“I love you, daddy.” She said quietly.

“I love you more, doll.”

Doug hit the send button on the cell. Roger picked up right away.

“Well, sir, do we have ignition?”

Doug breathed in slowly. “Yeah. You sure you couldn't find anything better?”

“Well I thought my ex-wife left a few of her bazookas here. Or at least her favorite shotgun, but damned if she did. That lousy tramp. How dare she, right?”

Doug couldn't help but smile. He felt confident. Even perhaps a little over-confident.

Maybe that's why things went so horribly wrong.

“Okay, well I guess the bat will do.”

“I guess it will. At least its metal. Those dogs are nasty. I'd hate for my weapon of choice to snap off on some lousy poodles head.”

“Oh, Christ...if I get killed by a poodle...”

“If I make it out and you don't, me and Dabs will tell everyone it was a Great Dane what finished you off. I swear.”

Doug was grateful for the assumption that Dabney would make it out. There were no safe guarantees anymore but it felt good to hear the words, nonetheless. He felt a sudden, almost jarring love for the man. His chest hitched tightly. He began to regret all the times he could have gone over and been more social with him. Watched a few games together. Maybe they could have been close friends.

“Thanks, Rodge. Thank you.” 

“I think you would do the same for me. No matter what happens, I promise; Dabs makes it out.”

“Dabney makes it out.” Doug said softly so Dabney would not hear. His jaw was set so tight the words barely escaped.

“That's how it goes in my ending.” Roger enforced.

He took one last look at Dabney. She looked down on him sweetly. She trusted him and he would not let her down.

He brought his own can of hairspray out of the back pocket of his jeans and removed the cap. He prayed the Qwik-Lite would ignite. It hadn't been used in quite a while.

Doug moved to the window. More Dog's had gathered on the Hershmann's lawn. The animals picking clean the bones were lighted a uniform cobalt hue with the rim of the sun poking its brow over the horizon. They moved low, snouts to the grass. There was something terrible about how they all seemed to weave and move in and around each other without so much as glancing up.

“How many?” Roger asked.

“Count about eight in all, 'least those are the ones I can see.” Doug replied.

“So it's a safe bet there are at least twice that number in around the neighborhood.”

“I wouldn't exactly say that bet is 'safe' but accurate; yes.”

Roger sighed heavily. “Well, lets not let our balls drop yet. Numbers won't mean much if we move fast. You two ready?”

“I think we're all set, Rodge.”

“Okay, buddy. See you two in a minute.”

The call dropped. Doug opened the blinds just as the large, white Suburban revved into life. As the headlights bloomed Doug heard a sharp yelp then saw something small and furry scurry out from beneath the vehicle.

The Suburban lurched forward.

“He's coming baby! Get ready!” Doug yelled over his shoulder to Dabs.

The SUV dipped into the street from the driveway and veered slightly right. The twin beams bared down on Doug as the Suburban picked up speed. The glare went skywards for a moment as the vehicle mounted the curb on Doug's side. In that brief glance Doug saw through the after-image at least half a dozen shadows following the SUV'S wake.

They had estimated the Suburban could make at least forty-five from Roger's house to his own. They weren't mathematicians but each thought it feasible that the large vehicle could encounter the resistance of wood, plaster, and glass and smash through it at that speed with no trouble.

The living room grew brighter and brighter as the vehicle reared down until, at its zenith, Doug Clopper's living room turned into what appeared to be Heaven's waiting room. He bounded towards the stairs and seized his daughter's hand. It felt rough and leathery, a mummy's hand. He realized he had grabbed the injured, bandaged hand. He looked up and saw that her mouth was open wide. Whether screaming in pain or fear, he couldn't tell. All sound yielded to the roar of the engine.

Everything for the next few seconds happened in slow-motion in Doug's mind.

Before they had outfitted themselves, he had moved the loveseat away from the window, as well as the coffee table, figuring the upscale furniture and accessories would become obstacles not only to the velocity of the vehicle but to themselves as well. Once the wall was breached, the less shit they had to scramble over, the better. It was a wise decision because the Suburban more or less obliterated the wall. The window disintegrated into a million sparkling diamonds as the metallic beast charged through with almost no resistance. The wheels stopped rolling, now locked as Roger slammed down the brakes. Just before Doug wrenched Dabney down the stairs he heard a thick ripping sound as the Berber carpet became an unwilling slave to the SUV'S violent marriage of friction and centrifugal motion. The carpet ripped from its seams as the vehicle slammed into the wall, but thankfully did not excavate it. The impact sent what portraits or shelves lined on the walls crashing down and the headlights blinked out of existence, leaving the living room swathed in moonlight. The banister cracked, revealing a more intimate peachy meat than the polished mahogany surface, but this went unnoticed as Doug saw a frenzy of movement in the reflection on the dark television screen.

“Get into the passenger side! Go!” Doug screamed, shoving his daughter forward.

He had to cut off the advance of the dogs.

He raised the can of hairspray. He pressed down on the nozzle, thumbed the safety bar on the Qwik-Lite up and pressed the trigger.

An amazing arc of flame bloomed into life, the tip of which extended perhaps eight or ten feet in front of him. He aimed it low, directly at the freshly made hole where his living room window used to be.

If even one of the bastards got through somehow, he would be done for.

He stole a perfunctory glance backwards and his stomach dropped.

Dabney was yanking on the door handle desperately. Illuminated by the fire's arc, her face was a contorted mask of panic, frustration, and fear.

“Fuck! Roger!” He screamed.

He began to inch backwards. He was then perhaps fifteen feet from the back of the Suburban.

He glanced back once more. He couldn't make out Roger at first, but then he saw movement.

His view of Dabney was cut off as he made his way closer to the back of the SUV.

Had she gotten in? Was Roger okay to even drive?

“Damnit!” He screamed. He could see dogs prowling the entrance, their bodies weaving in and out of one another's path, waiting for an opportunity to slip through.

The reach of the flame had begun shorten and one could easily fit through at an angle, if quick enough, and not even be singed--if it dared to brave the flame.

He began to move left. He could release the trigger in time to turn around and scramble inside...

Something heavy collided with his right shoulder, sending the jet astray. The curtains on the adjacent wall went up like a torch.

He whirled around, already preparing himself for the first set of incisors.

The back of the Suburban had opened and Dabney stood there, her eyes wild. “Daddy, get in! Mr. Rogers is hurt!”

Doug dropped the can and the Qwik-Lite and hopped in behind Dabs.

He reached up and grasped the frame of the dome light to bring the door down, which came as a small struggle. His hands were sweating and it took more muscle than would have normally been necessary. The door clicked just as half a dozen claws went to work on the paint job.

Doug clumsily scrambled over the backseat, taking in the large marshmallow that had grown out of the steering wheel. The bag was swiftly deflating.

Roger was still, but his eyes were open. They blinked twice rapidly. His chest rose as he swallowed a large gulp of air.

“Think—pretty sure I got a broken rib. Hard to breathe.” Roger said quietly. Doug noticed his right hand was trembling.

The airbag should have prevented any injuries, at least to his torso. Then he saw it.

The metal baseball bat was leaning against the door, propped up partway by Roger's left leg. Doug knew exactly what happened and cursed the man's foolishness.

He had rested the bat between his legs as he drove into the house, probably expecting to use it the moment the vehicle came to a stop. But he hadn't thought of the airbag. It had deployed, sending the business end directly into his stomach, more than likely with the force of a heavy-weight prize fighter.

He could easily have broken ribs, not to mention half a dozen other internal injuries.

“I think driving's out for you, bud. Can you move?” Doug asked.

Roger coughed harshly and Doug was dismayed at the small trickle of blood that ran down his lower lip. “Yeah, I think so. But the prospect doesn't seem too inviting.”

A large, bulky black shape bounded on the hood, rocking the SUV mightily and making all three jump. Roger winced in pain as the beast's claws frantically scratched at the glass. Its almost certainly foul breath began to cloud the windshield.

Roger flicked on the washer jets. The wipers swished back and forth lazily. The dog cocked its head then swiped a mighty paw. One of the wiper blades snapped off. The animal pressed its snout on the glass, leaving behind a film of drool, foam, and mucus, before it went to work again, scratching furiously at the windshield.

Roger looked at Doug heavily. “Man, it hurts a lot.”

“I know, man. You can't drive though and we need to beat feet fast.”

“Yeah. Hey there, kiddo. How ya holdin' up?” He said to Dabney, who crouched still where Doug had left her in the carriage space of the vehicle.

Dabney spoke in a trembling voice, “I want to leave. Can we leave now, please, daddy?” She hugged herself tightly.

“Yeah, we're about to, babe. Sit tight, okay?”

The claws outside worked fruitlessly but loudly. Dabney covered both ears. “Now, dad. Now!”

“We have to go, Rodge.” Doug said. He hated the fact he had to move an old man with broken ribs and probable internal bleeding, but there was no other choice.

“Yeppers.” He said, grunting heavily as he shifted position. He raised a knee onto the seat as Doug moved quickly to the backseat to make room.

“Gooww—owwwdamnithellfuck!” Roger yelled.

Doug thought he heard a small crack, like a twig snapping. “Oh, fuck, man. I'm sorry.”

Doug's heart went out as the old man moved with great pain over onto the passenger seat where he more or less collapsed, breathing hard, his eyes closed tightly.

Doug hopped into the drivers seat. At this new trickery from within, the animal on top of the hood growled, the sound undulating through the glass. It stopped scratching and watched as Doug shifted from park (thanking Roger silently in his mind for having the presence of mind to have put the vehicle in park in the first place) to reverse.

“Dabs, ass in seat—now!” He yelled gruffly.

She responded at once, scurrying over and belting up in the passengers side back seat. This time she didn't cover her ears, instead she smacked both hands over her eyes. “Wanna go I wanna go I wanna go I wanna go I wanna--”

“Here we go.”

Doug slammed the pedal down. At first the vehicle acted like a printing press on the carpet, bringing lengths of the fabric towards it, lumping it around the tires in slopes and dunes. But then it hit a friction spot and slowly went backwards, at last catching up with its own spinning gears and rocketing back the length of the room, bucking over the bunched up carpet and sending the dog on the hood sliding backwards, claws clicking frantically as it disappeared from sight.

The car backed out of the hole, tore up turf on the front lawn, and came to a halt as Doug slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street, throwing them all back against their seats.

Roger screamed loudly, clutching his ruined ribcage.

Doug threw the SUV into D1 and peeled out as dozen of dogs converged on the escaping vehicle. A small dog disappeared under the tires, lifting the vehicle up slightly as Doug then pushed down heavily on the gas.

Five Mph became twenty—became forty—and the dogs still followed. They raced after them, painted slate-gray in the cool light of dawn, like stone statues given horrible, hungry life.







They had reached the Balmont highway bridge at close to half-past seven as the new day shook out rain with angry fists. It promised to be a nasty one.

Dabney was fast asleep in the backseat. She didn't snore, but she made low whines from time to time. Once he had looked back and saw her staring out the window. Tears flowed silently down her flushed cheeks. He hoped she hadn't picked up a fever. He would have to change her bandage soon and rinse the wound out again.

He pulled over when they entered the underpass but did not turn off the engine.

“How's it hangin, Rodge?” He asked.

Rodge lifted his head slowly. Had he been dozing? Doug had been focused on the streets and roads, the bodies and the abandoned homes and cars. They had passed through Hamilton less than forty minutes ago. It had been the worst, by far. He had been forced to slow down to fifteen mph in places where the bodies littered the streets in great, stinking swaths. Carcasses lined the roads as well, but not as many as he would have liked to have seen.

As they had neared the town's exit, a man raced past along the street right in front of them. Doug had slammed on the brakes and the SUV had come to a shuddering stop in the torrential downpour.

He had thumbed the power window, leaning his head out as the man ran headlong for an alley.

“Hey!! Hey, you! Get in!” He had shouted.

The man stopped dead and turned around. His face had mostly remained hidden behind long, scraggly brown locks and his clothes looked filthy.

Rodge then seized Doug's arm with surprising force. “I don't think we should do this. He looks...”

Doug had sized up the man as he stood there with only a sweater and jeans to protect against the elements, both benign and deadly.

Something hadn't felt right. He should have flagged them down, especially with the state of things. Doug would have. Hell, he would have thrown himself on the roof and pleaded.

But the man had just stood there motionless. Had he been afraid of them? How could he have been?

“Sir? Are you okay?” Doug had yelled.

The man then moved forward a few paces, but still he had regarded them with what appeared to be apprehension. He cocked his head, almost like the dog on the hood of the SUV had done.

Something had definetly been off. And had he really wanted a filthy, unknown man next to his sleeping daughter in the back seat. Sure it was the decent thing to do, but these were new circumstances and new dangers. Civility and trust began to step aside for assumption and precaution.

Yes. It had been a mistake to even stop.

Doug had thumbed the windows again as the man came forward in a shambling gait, his filthy locks bouncing on his head, hiding his eyes.

Before the man could get within twenty feet Doug slammedt his foot on the gas and the strange vagrant grew smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.

The unsettling event had lasted only a couple minutes but Doug had been going over it in his mind for the better part of half an hour.

He now sat in the quiet of the Suburban, thoughts muddled, questions stacking up.

Where would they go? How long before help showed up to them, or to anyone? Just what in the blue fuck was going on, exactly?

Now roger hooked a thumb in the air. “Peachy keen, jelly bean.” He responded to Doug's query.

“We'll get help for you. And for Dabs.” Doug said. He meant it.

“Yeah. Too bad about your boss, though.”

It was indeed too bad. He had tried to call Reggie again and take him up on his earlier offer, if it was still on the table. The cell phone had buzzed loudly in his ear when he tried, a protest he knew meant one of two things. Either the phone was shit or the reception was shit. The phone had worked fine earlier so the network must be down. And that posed further questions.

Just how far does this thing go? Oregon? California?

“I think we should turn on the radio.” Doug stated.

“I think you're right.”

“Hit up the am stations first. I need to change her bandage.”

Roger complied and skirted through the stations on the am channel.

Doug listened while he worked. Dabney whined a bit, but didn't have the strength to put up much of a fuss.

A voice crackled through the speakers. “--separation of government. It's pretty much a case of don't know, don't care. Most Americans--”

He tuned out as he stared, horrified. Her wound looked worse. Much, much worse.

Doug dabbed the alcohol swab around it, wincing as the swab probed the raised, reddened skin. But the color wasn't the most troubling aspect. Nor was the fact that the wound had begun to coagulate and stink. The seepage was dark red, almost black.

Panic started to chew on his insides. If he didn't get her to some kind of medicine other than Tylenol soon she could could go into shock. Because the worst part were the stark red veins that arched out from the center of the wound. Little angry red rivers carrying disease to her bloodstream. To her heart.

Breathing heavily, he barely heard the voice on the radio as he bandaged her back up. He kissed her forehead and was amazed at how hot her skin was.

Definitely fever. A bad one. Maybe 104. Probably higher.

A very skilled and very angry drummer began to practice the mandolin inside his brain.

“Listen to this, Doug.” Roger said, his voice urgent.

“--Staggering lack of reprisal. I am truly amazed we have not been able to get this under control!” The voice seethed. Another voice, female this time, fired back coolly. “I'm sorry, Hans. Are you suggesting that the government has not done all it can do here? I mean look around. This is a global crisis. This isn't some local incident that can be blanketed with the CDC and HLS. I want to stress--”

“Save the bullshit for your reports, Laura. I know, you know, and the American public knows when they have been set out to tether.”

“I appreciate the frustration that we all share, I do. But what people must understand is that this incident, this event has completely caught us all off guard.”

“Oh, I'm sure it has. And how does the president feel about it in his bunker, fifteen miles beneath the surface of the earth where the residents above are being drug through the streets and murdered violently by man's best friend?”

“We're done here. I won't discuss matters of this importance with a brick wall.”

Doug heard a muted click. Probably the woman throwing her mic down and smashing it.

“Well friends, that was Laura Puck, administration head for president Collins. I suppose by now you're wondering, 'well, if the government can't or won't help us, whatever are we to do?' Well, I can tell you this; Its a waste of time to hope for help. Its a waste of time to call 911 because the operators are home with their families, cowering in the closet with a shotgun and a roman candle. Oh, did I mention half the country is without power? Well, I'm sure if you're unfortunate enough to live in those areas you already know that. But I digress. My advice to you, gentle people, is to act. Do not sit at home in the dark and wait patiently for the cavalry to storm through and make everything all right. That won't happen. Not now and not ever. Go out with weapons high. Go out into the streets, act as one. Unify or die.”

Roger hit the seek button.

“I hate instigators.”

Doug stared ahead. The rain continued unabated, sheet after sheet of it. A small waterfall cascaded silently down the lip of the underpass's stone roof.

“...know that the bites carry something in them.”

“There.” Roger said. “Maybe we can get some unbiased opinion here.”

The announcer's voice was shaky, but relatively in control. His tempo was off and Doug thought he might be very new to his line of work.

“If someone you know has been bitten, do not attempt to move them. Quarantine them as best you can. Something happens once the fever burns out. Again, this information has just come through our channels and it has not been verified, but we are receiving dozens of reports of aggression in people after being bit by these animals. It is alarming to think--”

Doug's brain seemed to come to a screeching halt. Roger must have had the same thought because his face went slack. All the color, of which there wasn't much to begin with, drained out of his face.

Doug looked back at Dabney. A thin line of drool ran down her chin. White foam began to creep out of the corners of her small mouth.

“Dabs? Baby?” Doug said. The words came out as toneless breaths. His lips were numb.

Dabney opened her eyes but they were not the eyes of a little girl.

They were a predators eyes.

Black and pitiless.