Текст книги "The Pit"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 2 страниц)

“This is the police! Everyone on your knees! Hands on heads!”

Brutus finally lifted his torn muzzle from the throat of the other dog. Caesar lay unmoving on the sand, soaked in a pool of blood. Brutus lifted his eyes to the chaos around him. People fled the stands. Dogs barked and howled. Dark figures in helmets and carrying clear shields closed a circle around the area, forming a larger ring around the sand pit. Through the open doors of the warehouse, cars blazed in the night.

Wary, Brutus stood over the body of the dead dog.

He felt no joy at the killing. Only a dead numbness.

His trainer stood a step away. A string of anger flowed from the man’s lips. He threw the broken stub of his bat into the sand. An arm pointed at Brutus.

“When I say release, you release, you dumb sack of shit!”

Brutus stared dully at the arm pointed at him, then to the face. From the man’s expression, Brutus knew what the handler saw. It shone out of the dog’s entire being. Brutus was trapped in a pit deeper than anything covered in sand, a pit from which he could never escape, a hellish place of pain and hot blood.

The man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. The beast stalked after him, no longer dog, only a creature of rage and fury.

Without warning – no growl, no snarl – Brutus lunged at the trainer. He latched on to the man’s arm. The same arm that dangled pups as bait, an arm attached to the real monster of the sandy ring, a man who called horrors out of the shadows and set dogs on fire.

Teeth clamped over the pale wrist. Jaws crushed down. Bones ground and crackled under the pressure.

The man screamed.

From the narrow corner of one eye, Brutus watched a helmeted figure rush at them, an arm held up, pointing a black pistol.

A flash from the muzzle.

Then a sizzle of blinding pain.

And at last, darkness again.

* * *

Brutus lay on the cold concrete floor of the kennel. He rested his head on his paws and stared out the fenced gate. A wire-framed ceiling lamp shone off the whitewashed cement walls and lines of kennels. He listened with a deaf ear to the shuffle of other dogs, to the occasional bark or howl.

Behind him, a small door led to an outside fenced-in pen. Brutus seldom went out there. He preferred the shadows. His torn muzzle had been knitted together with staples, but it still hurt to drink. He didn’t eat. He had been here for five days, noting the rise and fall of sunlight through the doorway.

People came by occasionally to stare at him. To scribble on a wooden chart hanging on his door. Men in white jackets injected him twice a day, using a noose attached to a long steel pole to hold him pinned to the wall.

He growled and snapped. More out of irritation than true anger. He just wanted to be left alone.

He had woken here after that night in the pit.

And a part of him still remained back there.

Why am I still breathing?

Brutus knew guns. He recognized their menacing shapes and sizes, the tang of their oils, the bitter reek of their smoke. He’d seen scores of dogs shot, some quickly, some for sport. But the pistol that had fired back at the ring had struck with a sizzle that twisted his muscles and arched his back.

He lived.

That, more than anything, kept him angry and sick of spirit.

A shuffle of rubber shoes drew his attention. He didn’t lift his head, only twitched his eyes. It was too early for the pole and needles.

“He’s over here,” a voice said. “Animal Control just got the judge’s order to euthanasize all the dogs this morning. This one’s on the list, too. Heard they had to Taser him off his own trainer. So I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

Brutus watched three people step before his kennel. One wore a gray coverall zippered up the front. He smelled of disinfectant and tobacco.

“Here he is. It was lucky we scanned him and found that old HomeAgain microchip. We were able to pull up your address and telephone. So you say someone stole him from your backyard?”

“Two years ago,” a taller man said, dressed in black shoes and a suit.

Brutus pulled back one ear. The voice was vaguely familiar.

“They took both him and his littermate,” the man continued. “We thought they’d run off during a thunderstorm.”

Brutus lifted his head. A boy pushed between the two taller men and stepped toward the gate. Brutus met his eyes. The boy was older, taller, more gangly of limb, but his scent was as familiar as an old sock. As the boy stared into the dark kennel, the initial glaze of hope in his small face crumbled away into horror.

The boy’s voice was an appalled squeak. “Benny?”

Shocked and disbelieving, Brutus slunk back on his belly. He let out a low warning growl as he shied away. He didn’t want to remember…and especially didn’t want this. It was too cruel.

The boy glanced over his shoulder to the taller man. “It is Benny, isn’t it, Dad?”

“I think so.” An arm pointed. “He’s got that white blaze over his right ear.” The voice grew slick with dread. “But what did they do to him?”

The man in the coveralls shook his head. “Brutalized him. Turned him into a monster.”

“Is there any hope for rehabilitation?”

He shook his head and tapped the chart. “We had all the dogs examined by a behaviorist. She signed off that he’s unsalvageable.”

“But, Dad, it’s Benny….”

Brutus curled into the back of the run, as deep into the shadows as he could get. The name was like the lash of a whip.

The man pulled a pen from his coverall pocket. “Since you’re still legally his owners and had no part in the dogfighting ring, we can’t put him down until you sign off on it.”

“Dad…”

“Jason, we had Benny for two months.They’ve had him for two years.”

“But it’s still Benny. I know it. Can’t we try?”

The coverall man crossed his arms and lowered his voice with warning. “He’s unpredictable and damn powerful. A bad combination. He even mauled his trainer. They had to amputate the man’s hand.”

“Jason…”

“I know. I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise. But he deserves a chance, doesn’t he?”

His father sighed. “I don’t know.”

The boy knelt down and matched Brutus’s gaze. The dog wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. He locked eyes and slipped into a past he’d thought long buried away, of fingers clutching hot dogs, chases across green lawns, and endless sunny days. He pushed it all way. It was too painful, too prickled with guilt. He didn’t deserve even the memory. It had no place in the pit.

A low rumble shook through his chest.

Still, the boy clutched the fence and faced the monster inside. He spoke with the effortless authority of innocence and youth.

“It’s stillBenny. Somewhere in there.”

Brutus turned away and closed his eyes with an equally firm conviction.

The boy was wrong.

* * *

Brutus slept on the back porch. Three months had passed and his sutures and staples were gone. The medicines in his food had faded away. Over the months, he and the family had come to an uneasy truce, a cold stalemate.

Each night, they tried to coax him into the house, especially as the leaves were turning brown and drifting up into piles beneath the hardwoods and the lawn turned frosty in the early morning. But Brutus kept to his porch, even avoiding the old sofa covered in a ragged thick comforter. He kept his distance from all things. He still flinched from a touch and growled when he ate, unable to stop himself.

But they no longer used the muzzle.

Perhaps they sensed the defeat that had turned his heart to stone. So he spent his days staring across the yard, only stirring occasionally, pricking up an ear if a stray squirrel should dare bound along the fencerow, its tail fluffed and fearless.

The back door opened, and the boy stepped out onto the porch. Brutus gained his feet and backed away.

“Benny, are you sure you don’t want to come inside? I made a bed for you in the kitchen.” He pointed toward the open door. “It’s warm. And look, I have a treat for you.”

The boy held out a hand, but Brutus already smelled the bacon, still smoking with crisply burned fat. He turned away. Back at the training yard, the others had tried to use bait on him, too. But after his sister, Brutus had always refused, no matter how hungry.

The dog crossed to the top step of the porch and lay down.

The boy came and sat with him, keeping his distance.

Brutus let him.

They sat for a long time. The bacon still in his fingers. The boy finally nibbled it away himself. “Okay, Benny, I have some homework.”

The boy began to get up, paused, then carefully reached out to touch him on the head. Brutus didn’t growl, but his fur bristled. Noting the warning, the boy sagged, pulled back his hand, and stood up.

“Okay. See ya in the morning, Benny boy.”

He didn’t watch the boy leave, but he listened for the door to clap shut. Satisfied that he was alone, he settled his head to his paws. He stared out into the yard.

The moon was already up, full-faced and bright. Lights twinkled. Distantly, he listened as the household settled in for the night. A television whispered from the front room. He heard the boy call down from the upstairs. His mother answered.

Then suddenly Brutus was on his feet, standing stiff, unsure what had drawn him up. He kept dead still. Only his ears swiveled.

A knock sounded on the front door.

In the night.

“I’ll get it,” the mother called out.

Brutus twisted, bolted for the old sofa on the porch, and climbed half into it, enough to see through the picture window. The view offered a straight shot down the central dark hallway to the lighted front room.

Brutus watched the woman step to the door and pull it open.

Before she’d gotten it more than a foot wide, the door slammed open. It struck her and knocked her down. Two men charged inside, wearing dark clothes and masks pulled over their heads. Another kept watch by the open door. The first man backed into the hallway and kept a large pistol pointed toward the woman on the floor. The other intruder sidled to the left and aimed a gun toward someone in the dining room.

“don’t move!” the second gunman shouted.

Brutus tensed. He knew that voice, graveled and merciless. In an instant, his heart hammered in his chest, and his fur flushed up all over his body, quivering with fury.

“Mom? Dad?” The boy called from the top of the stairs.

“Jason!” the father answered from the dining room. “Stay up there!”

The leader stepped farther into the room. He shoved his gun out, holding it crooked. “Old man, sit your ass down!”

“What do you want?”

The gun poked again. “Yo! Where’s my dog?”

“Your dog?” the mother asked on the floor, her voice trembling with fear.

“Brutus!” the man hollered. He lifted his other arm and bared the stump of a wrist. “I owe that bitch some payback…and that includes anyone taking care of his ass! In fact, we’re going to have ourselves an old-fashioned barbecue.” He turned to the man in the doorway. “What are you waiting for? Go get the gasoline?”

The man vanished into the night.

Brutus dropped back to the porch and retreated to the railing. He bunched his back legs.

“Yo! Where you keeping my damn dog? I know you got him!”

Brutus sprang forward, shoving out with all the strength in his body. He hit the sofa and vaulted over it. Glass shattered as he struck the window with the crown of his skull. He flew headlong into the room and landed in the kitchen. His front paws struck the floor before the first piece of glass. He bounded away as shards crashed and skittered across the checkerboard linoleum.

Down the hall, the first gunman began to turn, drawn by the noise. But he was too late. Brutus flew down the hall and dived low. He snatched the gunman by the ankle and ripped the tendon, flipping the man as he ran under him. The man’s head hit the corner of a walnut hall table, and he went down hard.

Brutus spotted a man out on the front porch, frozen in midstep, hauling two large red jugs. The man saw Brutus barreling toward him. His eyes got huge. He dropped the jugs, spun around, and fled away.

A pistol fired, deafening in the closed space. Brutus felt a kick in his front leg. It shattered under him, but he was already in midleap toward the one-handed gunman, his old trainer and handler. Brutus hit him like a sack of cement. He head-butted the man in the chest. Weight and momentum knocked the legs out from under the man. They fell backwards together.

The pistol blasted a second time.

Something burned past Brutus’s ear, and plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Then they both hit the hardwood floor. The man landed flat on his back, Brutus on top. The gun flew from his fingers and skittered under the dining room chair.

His trainer tried to kick Brutus away, but he’d taught the dog too well. Brutus dodged the knee. With a roar, he lunged for the man’s throat. The man grabbed one-handed for an ear, but Brutus had lost most of the flap in an old fight. The ear slipped from the man’s grip, and Brutus snapped for the tender neck. Fangs sank for the sure kill.

Then a shout barked behind him. “Benny! No!”

From out the corner of an eye, he saw the father crouched by the dining room table. He had recovered the pistol and pointed it at Brutus.

“Benny! Down! Let him go!”

From the darkness of the pit, Brutus growled back at the father. Blood flowed as Brutus clamped harder on his prey. He refused to release. Under him, the trainer screamed and gurgled. One fist punched blindly, but Brutus ground his jaws tighter. Blood flowed more heavily.

“Benny, let him go now!”

Another sharper voice squeaked in fear. It came from the stairs. “No, Dad!”

“Jason, I can’t let him kill someone.”

“Benny!” the boy screamed. “Please, Benny!”

Brutus ignored them. He wasn’t Benny. He knew the pit was where he truly belonged, where he’d always end up. As his vision narrowed and darkness closed over him, he let himself fall deeper into that black, bottomless well, dragging the man with him. Brutus knew he couldn’t escape; neither would he let this one go.

It was time to end all this.

But as Brutus sank into the pit, slipping away into the darkness, something stopped him, held him from falling. It made no sense. Though no one was behind him, he felt a distinct tug. On his tail. Holding him steady, then slowly drawing him back from the edge of the pit. Comprehension came slowly, seeping through the despair. He knew that touch. It was familiar as his own heart. Though it had no real strength, it broke him, shattered him into pieces.

He remembered that tug, from long ago, her special ambush.

Done to protect him.

Ever his guardian.

Even now.

And always.

No, Benny…

“No, Benny!” the boy echoed.

The dog heard them both, the voices of those who loved him, blurring the line between past and present – not with blood and darkness, but with sunlight and warmth.

With a final shake against the horror, the dog turned his back on the pit. He undamped his jaws and tumbled off the man’s body. He stood on shaking limbs.

To the side, the trainer gagged and choked behind his black mask. The father closed in on him with the gun.

The dog limped away, three-legged, one forelimb dangling.

Footsteps approached from behind. The boy appeared at his side and laid a palm on his shoulder. He left his hand resting there. Not afraid. The dog trembled, then leaned into him, needing reassurance. And got it.

“Good boy, Benny Good boy.”

The boy sank to his knees and hugged his arms around the dog.

At long last…Benny let him.