Storymania - Winston (Part 4) by Wolfa

Winston (Part 4)
Wolfa

I cannot understand where the human has gone. I know that he has not abandoned me, for he told me to Stay, and this means he is coming back. But it has been so long, and I am so cold. I come back to the door every day, but he does not come out. Why? I know he is in there. I am so hungry. Today I ran to the door and hid in the shadows, waiting for someone to open the door for me. I've tried waiting in front of the door, but they always shut it in my face. They are too quick for me.
    A human female came out and she left the door open. I jumped up and ran, between her legs and through the door. She screamed and fell down. Inside there were millions of humans, more than you can possibly imagine. The stench was incredible. I barked as loud as I could, calling my human, the one who feeds me, but he did not come. People stood around me in a circle, whispering things in the language of humans, and I ran through their legs, breaking out. I went to the food line and I jumped up on the table where they had meat. I was so hungry.
    The humans were yelling and all I could do was eat, frantically, until finally one of them stepped up behind me with a catchpole. I am too smart for them.
    I dived off the counter and ran like a mad dog for the door. There were people trying to block it but I roared at them and jumped up, and they ran. They fear me. This is good.
    I ran out onto the street and the cold bit through my body, my feet freezing slowly in the snow. It was slippery and hard to run but I did, because more humans were chasing me, and my food-human had still not come. I do not understand.
    I had to hide, so finally I ran into another door, of another human-place. It was open, and it looked warm inside. There were no humans.
    There was a hallway, dark and empty, lined with doors. I could hear humans, distantly, and smell their lingering residue, but the hall was empty. I walked down it and at the end I found an empty space under the stairs, quite hidden. There I slept, secure in the knowledge that no humans would find me.
    I accept the food-human Trujillo as lost. Perhaps the humans have fights too, and men bet and laugh and roar. Perhaps Trujillo was a human-bait-dog. Perhaps. I do not grieve, for I feel no sorrow, fear, or pain. I am a creature without love. It is better this way. Love makes you weak. The physical world can kill you and cause you pain enough. Why should I cause myself more?

The ASPCA officer listened attentively to the woman who stood shaking her head, her arms folded.
    "Yes. That damn dog's been hanging around here for days. Weeks almost. This bum, Trullo, something like that, got killed last week, that's his dog. Poor stupid animal doesn't understand the man's dead." She shook herself, an elegant shudder. "I'm just glad it didn't hurt anyone. That thing's vicious. A killer. Big mean bastard of a dog." She narrowed her eyes. "You're gonna catch it, right?"
    "Yes, ma'am. We'll be looking out for it in this area." The ASPCA officer frowned. "How's the man Trullo get killed?"
    "One of the other bums stabbed him. Dunno why. They do things, like that, hobos," the woman said sagely, nodding. "I see it, here. They're not like us."
    "Right, ma'am. Thank you for your time."
    They left, in the biting wind.

The strains of music echoed faintly up through the halls. A party. Clink Clink Clink Clink CRASH, Laughter, Clink. Glasses bounded off glasses in toasts, each more drunken than the last. A celebratory party, celebratory of… money, perhaps, the money necessary to host such a party. An adult version of a keg party.
    One listened to the music hungrily, devouring the stray sounds, mangled ear flattened against the door. This one hadn't heard music, or indeed any sound at all, for… a long time… for a long, long time…
    The room where the thing stayed was small and cramped and filled with things — furniture, boxes, all the generic clutter of all the generic tiny forgotten little rooms throughout the galaxy. There had been a window, once, a long time ago, but things had been pushed in front of it, and through long disuse, the window had rusted shut. It had eventually been plastered over from the outside. No use there, no possible route of escape, no….
    It was very, very dark.
    The thing that existed here had prowled every corner, looking for a way out, any way out. There was none. It had discovered that the room had, in the past, been home to other unfortunates, some of which, evidently, had never left it.
    Once the room's occupant got hungry enough, it ate the remains of the room's former occupants.
    There was some water here, in the beginning, but there hadn't been for what seemed like years, now. The thing was desperate. All vestiges of rationality were fled. Every soft memory in the creature's brain was consumed in the raging fire of its thirst and growing madness. It remembered, it remembered, it remembered… being hurt, yes, pain. It remembered the burning and killing pain that ate away its flesh. Pain that bred madness. It remembered pain and viciousness. Yes. Bite. Bite, kill. Pain. Hurt. Kill.
    If it had been capable of thought, it would have thought: This is worse.
    Pain. Pain was real. It ran into a wall full speed, hoping that the shock of pain would make everything real again. It didn't. Its body was no longer capable of feeling such pain anymore. All it felt was a dull … something, followed by the dazed realization that it was on the floor and couldn't stand up. It wondered why.
    The thing knew that it had been forgotten.
    The thing knew that it was dying.
    It crushed itself against the door, feeling dimly and stupidly towards the beautiful sound like a newborn strains for the light. It scrabbled weakly against the door and then fell still and slid once more to the floor.
    It was very lucky for the thing that, not very long after the party, it was remembered at last. The thing in the room would probably not have cared to know that the one who had forgotten it was severely punished, to the point where he no longer had the opportunity to forget things, to remember things, to think at all, or indeed to breathe.

Car door, slams. Clunk. Stepping out. A blindfold, lifted from Dana's eyes, her laughing.
    "Haha, no, this is silly, Jude, why —" an abrupt catch in her voice, trailing off to silence. A long pause.
    "….oh."
    Jude had been expecting anger, defiance, irritation, anything but the sad, lost, helplessness that had robbed Dana suddenly of her liveliness. She looked frail and old, aged by decades.
    He took her shoulders firmly and steered her up the gravel path. She did not protest. Words did not seem to be forthcoming.
    "I thought this would be good for you."
    The sky rumbled distantly, the air wet and heavy. The chill wind tasted of rain. Odd, he thought. The first snow had already come, but today was warm, for some inexplicable reason. Warm-er, at least. And it looked like rain… or hail. They would have to hurry.
    "So, where is it?"
    Dana shook her head mutely and set off in the direction of a grassy little hill at the far edge of the compound. He followed.
    There were no statues here, no elaborate tombstones, and certainly no mausoleums. A straggling row of short plinths wandered up and over the hill. There was a stunted tree with the darkest green leaves he had ever seen. The grass was rich and thick and soft, nearly as dark as the leaves. It reflected the ominous dark of the windswept skies.
    They stood there for awhile, in silence.
    It became apparent that Dana was not going to speak. "You see, there's nothing to be afraid of here. And she died…" he leaned forward slightly, squinted. "She died four years ago. It's time to let go now. Be happy. I'm sure that she would want you to be happy."
    "Yeah. I'm sure she would. Let's go now." Tone harsh. Biting.
    Jude was not going to let her escape so easily. "Who was she, your grandmother, your aunt, … not your sister, the name's not the same …."
    Cold eyes stared into his. "My grandmother. Yeah. My grandmother was twenty, four years ago, when she died."
    Jude felt a little affronted. "Sorry, I can't really see the carving. The numbers are small… so, who was she?" he pressed.
    Dana stared into nothingness, silent. Then, "Just a friend, you know. Some old friend, from a long time ago. It's nothing, really. I just visit because I'm so sentimental. You know me. Hah." She slithered out of Jude's grip and stalked away, down the path and to the car. He ran after her.
    "Dana, I know it's not just—"
    "I'm not staying here. I'm leaving. Now." Dana ran the last few steps to the car and unlocked the door. She slid in, glaring straight ahead.
    "Dana, don't —"
    She fixed him with an icy look. "You coming?" She was not crying when she slid into the carseat, and Jude did not see her cry at all on the long drive back to the heart of the city.

"…NEARLY KILLED IT! SPENT SO MUCH MONEY — SO MUCH MONEY — SO LONG — YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID — GONE FOR FOUR WEEKS — COMPLETELY FORGOT — NEARLY KILLED IT —"

In the ordinary way of things, the new dog wouldn't have been trained like that. Pain, pain was good. Pain made them mean. The old cat in the bag trick, that was good too. Strengthened their jaws. Battery acid was always useful, and fire would do. In the warmer months they used a hotbox, a tiny wooden crate with a sheet of metal for a roof, left in the sun for days with the animals locked inside. Starving made them crazy as well, and was very effective.
    But they had played it a little too close to the wire. By the time the animal was let out of the room, it was nearly dead. Its powerful frame was gaunt and emaciated, tiny eyes sunken deep into its face, muscles weak and wasted. It spent the rest of that winter and spring recuperating. It was, in fact, amazing how well the animal regained its health, quickly filling out that wasted frame to match its impressive father.
    The treatment, though accidental, had had quite an astonishing effect upon the animal. Before, it was simply mean. Now, it was beyond viciousness. Beyond anger. Beyond … anything, in fact. It was insane. It was insanity beyond insanity. Its mind was gone. Destroyed. Simply not there anymore. It was empty and nothing, and nothing could hurt it.
    The owner was quite pleased. It was perfect.
    He had a good fighting name all picked out, too. Better than the one he had originally thought. Better, yes. The sweet puppy's brother and sister were already proving themselves in the fighting rings. This one, he was sure, would go further. Certainly. It would be unstoppable.

A young woman, bent over the battered desk, filling out forms in her raggedly elegant handwriting. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face, wearily, and then looked up as the man bent over the desk.
    "Yes, how may I help you?" A strained attempt at politeness.
    The man smiled at her, more like a leer. "We're the people filming a doc on pit bulls, we called you the other day?" Two more people, a man and a woman, stood behind him with a camera and mike.
    "Oh. Yes. Well. Right. I thought you wouldn't be here till later … Most of the seizures are in the back." Dana stood, wearily, and stretched. She pressed the intercom button and informed Alison that the doc people were here. "Follow me." Dana led the trio down the halls, through the medical office in a shortcut, out into and across the small courtyard, and then to a dull, locked door at the far end of the courtyard. She unlocked it and stepped inside. Rows of kennels here, all occupied.
    A thunderous barking reverberated through the hall, accented by the clink and crash of the chainlink kennels as dogs hurled themselves at the wire. "Wait here," said Dana hurriedly, motioning towards the wall. The lead reporter started to protest.
    "Now, come on, Miss, why don't we just take a few —"
    "Look." Dana's suddenly cold expression halted the man. She strode swiftly over to one of the nearest kennels, containing a lean, scarred pit bull, deep brown in color. It was slavering madly and threw itself at her, jaws agape.
    "You see this dog? This dog's a good dog. I've known him for months. And do you want to know what he would do if I opened the door of this kennel?"
    "Look, Miss Donna, we —"
    "He'd rip my arm off. And if I opened it all the way he'd jump up, tear my throat out." The dog in question tried to chew through the metal, hopefully. Dana stalked back to the reporters. "If you want to get eaten by a mad dog, fine. I am going to go get Danny. He will show you around. Now. Wait. Here." She turned and walked down the row of kennels to the door at the end, where the small, special clinic for aggressive dogs was.
    Danny was inside, peering into a cage. She couldn't see what was inside, but she could guess fairly well. The cage shook suddenly as whatever was inside threw a fit, roaring and snarling. Danny straightened. "What is it?" Tall, black hair, glasses, thin. He reminded her of a wading bird sometimes. Or maybe an adult, socially inept, veterinarian version of Harry Potter. Probably there was a Dr. somewhere in Danny's name, but he wasn't a Doctor. Just a Danny. Right now he had the keen, thoughtful, slightly hopeful look he wore whenever he got a new dog.
    "Camera crew. They're doing part of a doc here, remember?"
    He smiled lopsidedly. "Animal Planet again? Animal cops? Ha."
    "Ha. Don't try to get out of this." Dana was stern. "I'm sick of these people." She wandered over to the cage. "I'll watch him for you."
    "You should be careful, that's a nasty one, here, maybe I should just —"
    "Go." Mock ferocity, but serious. Danny left, shutting the door slowly behind him. There was a renewed bout of barking from outside. Dana sighed and jumped up to perch on an abandoned counter, idly flipping through a battered copy of DogFancy that someone had left in the examining room. DogFancy. Huh. Probably Danny's. Just because they worked in a goddamn pound didn't mean he had to sit around reading dog magazines all day, she thought irritably. Your Alaskan Malamute and You. Valuable Tips for Training Your Dog. Like he didn't already know all of this stuff.
    She turned the pages idly, reading through articles about various dog shows and grooming tips. Not the most stimulating material in the world.
    The cage growled.

The dog trotted wearily through the freezing slush that covered the streets now. It had been snowing, on and off, for a few days now, and the sun was taking the opportunity to wreak vengeance on the intruding drifts of snow. Mounds of swiftly-melting snow disguised piles of trash and other things, rusting the bits of metal into oblivion. An ice slick covered the streets and sidewalks. It was unsafe for cars, but that didn't matter here. Not many people had cars and the city officials wouldn't have paid to clear the streets in this area in any case. Old bits of cars and other pieces of trash littered the street. An ancient Cadillac hunched down over bare wheel-rims, swiftly succumbing to rust and the weight of the lingering snow. It was a desolate scene. The only thing moving was the dog.
    Wet, tattered, starving, scarred. The proverbial street dog. But there was a bounce in its gait that spoke of strength and better times, once, long ago. It wasn't ready to go to the grave yet. A woman sitting on the stoop of her building eyed the dog warily, drawing in a deep breath from her cigarette. It looked like one of the local boys' fighting dogs, but she'd never seen it before and there was no owner in sight. Usually the dogfighters took their animals to the local park to train them, terrorizing mothers with children. She'd never seen it in the park, either. Hm. But it had to be a fighting dog; it had a spiked collar, as was popular, and it was covered in scars, just visible through the dark, matted fur.
    She watched the dog idly as it trotted around the street, nose held low, attempting to sniff out something to eat. She tossed her cigarette butt to the ground, and stood. The sudden motion attracted the dog's attention and it froze, head up, stiff little ears standing upright like devil's horns. She laughed hoarsely, feeling a sudden empathy with the creature. It just looked bedraggled, not dangerous. Down on its luck. She could sympathize with someone who was down on their luck. She walked back to her ground-floor apartment, grabbed a cold half-eaten hamburger out of the battered little refrigerator, and walked back out to meet the dog.
    It was still there, rummaging through a half-frozen heap of rusted car parts. She whistled brokenly, and it looked up at her once more. She tossed the hamburger out into the street and the dog jumped nervously, prepared to flee. It hesitated, and then trotted forward to eat the hamburger. The woman laughed again, the harsh noise startling the dog.
    She leaned in the doorway for awhile and then went inside, after watching the dog make off with the hamburger. She was vaguely pleased and quite amused. It had eaten the remains of her lunch… she was planning to eat that for dinner. Oh well. She could go buy something, somewhere else… or not, she wasn't really hungry…
    She decided to have another cigarette.