Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation

  BLOOD OF THE DOGS

  Richard Cosme

  Copyright © 2018 Richard Cosme

  All rights reserved.

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  To Patricia, my partner in all things.

  To my mother and to Barbara Croissant, role models all.

  CONTENTS

  From Sarah’s Diary

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  FROM SARAH’S DIARY

  OCT 2052

  My memory is not a straight line. Nor is it complete. The first nine or ten years are snippets. Actually two brief episodes. One was a reading class. I remember Miss Croissant with mahogany skin, a big chest, and white teeth. I could see the valley of her cleavage, beneath a big necklace which she always wore. Never the same one twice. She smiled a lot.

  She taught us. Me, Malik, Cortney, Two-Tone Tommy, and One-Arm Jojo. Some other kids came and went. Every morning we went into the basement of one of the big houses and learned until we had to do chores. I don’t remember the chores or anything else about that time. That lasted from one summer to the next. Luckily, I got all I needed before it ended.

  The next thing I remember is about three or four years later, maybe age nine or ten. Would’ve been ’32 or ’33. I remember running silently, in the July darkness, with great energy and strength. I had on Nike cross-trainers, sweats, a hoodie, a White Sox hat. No socks, no underwear, no time. Fear drove me. As I ran, the fear dissipated. Distance provided relief, like moving away from a bonfire. I ran until I hit the woods.

  In the morning I began scavenging and found a library. Libraries were among the safest places to be after The Collapse. The only reason people went there was to get fire starting material. My reading improved, as did my health. Books taught me how to eat from the forest and plant and harvest vegetables. I learned about guns and knives and trapping and skinning game. And I read happy books and mysteries and romances along with the fact books. From that point on, from the running, I remember most everything. I didn’t care about much except food, survival gear, protective clothing and weapons, and my books. I didn’t give a shit about The Collapse or what happened to the people. My feet hit the ground every morning and I started a new day of life. I survived nicely for six years. I scouted clans and indies encampments. They weren’t doing as well as I was.

  Then a new chapter. In ’39, I saw Mac. Then I started to care.

  PROLOGUE

  When I was a few days old, and my parents had little time left to live, they took a strip of duct tape and wrapped something around my wrist. Our neighbors did the same thing to their kids. This was a week before The Collapse. Nobody ever came up with an official day for The Collapse because it happened different times and different ways all over the world. It took a few years to get going. The starvation came first, then the riots, then the disease, and the rot from within. The nukes and radiation brought it all to rest. When it hit our neighborhood, it was the post-nuke riot stage. They came fast, and even though everyone knew they were coming, not many lived through it. My family didn’t come out the other side. The neighbors grabbed me as the houses burned. That was the deal for whoever survived.

  They fled northwest with me and their two kids—into the woods and away from the power plants—and became indies. That was in in early ’23 I learned later. My new family never told me the details of that first night. I consider that a kindness. My dark imaginings are probably far gentler than my birth parents’ reality. When I was old enough, my new parents gave me what the original ones had taped to my wrist. They told me its significance, but it was not much more than a trinket post-Collapse.

  They were good people and never made me feel outside. Never had a doubt about raising the dead neighbors’ newborn child. They didn’t tell me about my brother and sister. They made me family. So did the kids. The survivors of the first bitter winter scavenged shovels and hoes, wheelbarrows and seeds in the spring. My family had a Smith and Wesson long-barrel .38 special with a belt holster, a Winchester 12 gage pump, and a Marlin 336 30-30 lever deer rifle with a scope. We had a dog named Daisy. Australian Cattle Dog. Early warning system. She got skunked a lot, but except for skunks, was smart like all working dogs. And she took a liking to me.

  We lived over a decade of good years up there. Found some other indies, had a little group, set up kind of a school. We learned to share our resources and abilities.

  People did what they did best—knitting, farming, hunting, building, making furniture, teaching kids to read—whatever they could. They taught us that Earth had scourged the rot and She would protect what was left. Haven’t seen that yet.

  At our peak, we had nearly 30 families. We lived off the land and took care of our own. I think maybe we got too big. A clan noticed.

  Daisy warned us when they came, and they killed her. My heart skipped at her yelp. Everyone scattered. I grabbed the only thing I had from my birth family, put it in my pocket, and ran so fast I thought I was flying.

  Clansmen hunted us down. Killed the ones they could find. Did bad things first like they always do. I was too well hidden for them and was spared.

  That was ’38. I was 15 that year. No one ever told me which day I was born. Didn’t make much difference. There were no calendars. I moved in closer to the old population centers. Scavenging was better. I stayed alone. Didn’t trust a living soul.

  Sarah found me in ’39. Saved me is a better way to say it. Her, I trusted. We never let the other out of sight for over 10 years.

  Duke came in ’48. His vigilance gave us the courage to move in close to the Fox River. We were out from the indies, but close enough to scavenge if necessary. The river is what lured us. It had so much to give.

  Weasel joined
us in ’53. He changed our lives more than anything up ‘til that time. Until Stevie showed up.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  STEVIE B.

  MARCH 2054

  ROUTE 59

  In 2054, a year after Weasel had become part of the family, winter arrived early and angry. In March it was still going full bore. We always put back fruit and vegetables from the garden and grape vines and apple tree, so winter’s severity hadn’t affected us. And we could still ice fish is the Fox River shallows. But the bitter cold impacted the game. Deer were moving south, seeking better forage. Many succumbed to starvation. Weaker members of herds were easy pickings for the wolves. There were signs of dog packs’ recent incursions into our area, seeking carrion or easy prey. As the winter dragged on we also noticed clan movement closer to us than ever before.

  Craving fresh meat, Sarah and I were on a hunting trip, moving south on Rt. 59 to a forested area we thought might harbor a herd. The temperature had not gotten above freezing since a week before Christmas, but snowshoes weren’t necessary. Snow was sparse in early ’54.

  Sarah was carrying the Browning 12 gauge pump, in case we ran across some turkey or pheasant. I had the Heckler and Koch HK81 with a scope. One of Weasel’s many additions to our arsenal, it was an assault rifle that I used for hunting purposes. It fired a 7.62mm round, equivalent to about a .32 caliber, held a thirty-round clip and could be fired one shot at a time when I set it on semi.

  A reliable army weapon, the HK was sturdy and able to take more abuse from dust, dirt and moisture than any 20th cen hunting rifle. Able to expend thirty rounds at full auto in just a few seconds, the assault rifle also served as an enforcer in the unlikely event we ran into any clansmen.

  I also carried a Glock 17L, another of Weasel’s contributions, holstered under my jacket. Semi-auto, seventeen 9mm rounds, light weight, easily accessible. I wasn’t anticipating any trouble this far out, but being prepared had become habit, thanks to Weasel’s tutelage. I was hoping we’d bag some venison, but a turkey would do nicely.

  Duke was back home, guarding the fort. When we began dressing and gathering the weapons and gear, he started chasing his tail in circles, pausing every few seconds to bark a hurry-up message. He was plenty pissed when we made him stay behind. He’ll sulk for at least two days, Sarah had said. But we both feared for his safety with the wolf and dog packs so close to our territory. Weasel promised to take him hiking close to the compound a couple of hours after our leave-taking.

  We picked up deer sign about three miles south, a small herd, about a dozen, heading southwest.

  “Look at this,” I said to Sarah. I squatted across the game trail, counting the herd size. Overlaid on the hoof impressions was a boot print, about my size. The tread prints in the snow were very indistinct, indicating the boots had just about seen their last days. The right boot had a little circular hole in the bottom. The boot’s owner probably had a wet foot. Not a big problem as long as he was moving and the temperature didn’t get below fifteen or so, but a potential danger for frostbite when he stopped for the night, unless he made a fire and dried out his gear.

  Sarah knelt next to me, inspecting the sign. “Let’s forget this herd and get out of here. We don’t know what kind of maniac might be making these tracks.”

  “That’s exactly why we need to find out who it is. We’re only about three miles from home with a perfect trail leading right back to the compound. We may have to take this guy out.”

  “Shit,” she replied, regret in her voice. “Just because the poor guy is in the wrong place.”

  “…At the wrong time,” I said. “Maybe we won’t have to. Hell, I don’t know. Let’s just go see what we’ve got.” I took the safety off the HK. Sarah did the same with the 12 gauge.

  The trail entered a vast wooded area about two miles down—the deer searching for saplings that had not been picked clean by other herds, the man following behind. Two miles into the woods we came across pack sign joining the trail and skirting it on either side.

  We stopped to examine it. “Dogs,” I said. No matter how big a dog got, its paws were always smaller than that of a wolf. There were about twenty distinct sets of prints in the snow, mixed sizes, another indicator of dogs. Wolf paw prints generally ran about the same size. The signs in the snow told us the pack was between the man and the deer.

  “Unless this guy’s got a machine gun, he’s in deep shit.”

  “Then let’s leave it be,” Sarah replied. “Let nature take care of our problem.”

  I was tempted. But not enough to drop it. I was also curious and concerned that our unknown hunter might follow our tracks back home. We needed to play the scene out.

  We separated, each ten meters off the trail, moving slowly, frequently checking our respective outside flanks. The sounds came to both of us simultaneously, the braying of the hounds, the screams of a man.

  A hill fronted us and we ran to it, belly flopping in the snow on its crest.

  Below us, in a clearing split by a small stream running fast enough to keep from freezing, a fawn lay in the shallow water. The pack brought it down and gutted it. Our mystery man, wielding a huge dead branch was charging the pack, screaming and attempting to drive the dogs away from their kill.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sarah hissed. “He’s fucking crazy.”

  I took the binoculars from my pack and examined the frenzied scenario below us.

  “No he’s not,” I said. “He’s half starved to death. Take a look.”

  The man had temporarily beaten back the pack and was squatting in the water by the carcass, eating what looked to be the liver, screaming and waving his club at the pack between bites of the raw flesh.

  After a thirty second look, Sarah dropped the binoculars and grabbed my shoulder, yanking me face to face with her. “My God, Mac, that’s not a man. That’s just a little boy down there.”

  The concept of a little boy wearing size twelve shoes was a bit alien to me. I picked up the binoculars. Our mysterious quarry was dressed in rags, gloveless and hatless with long matted, dirty blonde hair. Scraggly tufts of facial hair sprouted from his chin. Even with his frame covered with his rag-tag winter outfit, I could tell he was emaciated.

  She was right. He was tall and skinny and wild eyed…and only about thirteen or fourteen years old. Not a little boy to my mind, but Sarah often saw the world differently than I. The boy was either too young or too hungry to realize that he could not win a fight over food with the pack. In a few minutes the hungry animals would recognize that he was no real threat to them and add his bony frame to their meal.

  As I watched, the three boldest of the pack were already edging in on the boy, taking blows from the club on their shoulders and backing away, just out of his reach, then feinting back in again. They, too, were hungry. Snarling in defiance, they began to surround the boy, employing the most successful strategy of all pack animals, including humans. I watched his eyes and saw in them the awareness that he would soon share the same fate as the fawn.

  Then he did an amazing thing. He threw down his bloody prize and waded into the pack, screaming and whirling the club.

  In my peripheral vision I saw Sarah jump up. “Fuck that shit,” she screamed at me. “I hate those goddamn dog packs. Come on, Mac!”

  She was already halfway down the hill before I could respond. I heard the sound of her chambering a shell into the 12 gauge and took off running after her, leaving the assault rifle behind and pulling out the Glock. I couldn’t chance spraying bullets into the pack with Sarah and the kid nearby.

  Sarah angled in from the side, keeping the boy out of the line of her fire. She started blasting from the hip when she got to within five meters, taking out three dogs on the outer edge, the 12 gage’s force hurling their bodies three meters back.

  Her attack drew the attention of half of the others away from the kid, who was still on his feet and swinging the branch, screaming at the top of his lungs. Eight of the pack whirled
to face Sarah, the clamor of their snarling and growling added to the whines and yelps of wounded animals, making a wall of piercing sound, an ungodly cacophony.

  The eight were attempting to circle Sarah, presenting themselves high rumped and low shouldered, no animal bold enough yet to step forward to deliver the first charge, all barking and howling and snapping and yelping, adding to the volume of the unholy din. I recognized mixed breed shepherds and labs and some watered down pit bulls and a mastiff—nasty, tough, city dogs, moved out of their regular urban turf by the extended winter. Sarah swung left to right, firing at the edges, protecting her flanks.

  I got down on one knee and took out three on her left who were not in Sarah’s or the kid’s line. The retorts of the Glock were almost lost in the discord of the dog sounds and screams from three human throats. The 12 gauge reverberated four more times, Sarah guarding her right flank. The dogs that hadn’t been downed by our shots retreated.

  The kid still had six around him when Sarah and I burst through their circle, firing only when we were side by side and the boy was behind us. When four more succumbed to the pistol, the remaining animals scampered up the hill on the other side of the stream, out of range.

  And then…silence, sweet silence. A meter over our heads, a thin layer of smoke hovered, still and impervious to the winter breezes that were deflected by the hills that surrounded us. The air was thick with the smell of cordite. I looked to Sarah. Her legs collapsed and she sat unceremoniously in the snow, which was no longer white, but flecked with pink. She gave me an upthrust thumb and a sheepish grin. She was uninjured.

  I turned to the kid. Wild eyed and bedraggled, he backed away, darting glances between Sarah and me. “If you think I’m gonna share this deer with you,” he snarled, “You’re fuckin’ nuts.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  JANUARY 2053

  HOME

  It was a crisp, clear winter morning, temperature right around zero, and I could tell it wouldn’t be getting any higher. It had snowed about six inches last night and the compound, the house, barn, stables, outbuildings and surrounding countryside had a clean, pristine beauty about them. If you didn’t know what lay beneath the white covering, you’d think it was a beautiful land.