Freedogs

FREEDOGS

 

 Peter Richard Adams

 

You can tell how the war’s going by the way I have to do the job. It’s pretty simple really in my line of work. When we’re on the front foot - like a couple of years ago when the Canadians came over to our side and the North Atlantic Line got reopened - there are a lot more provisions to be had. This affects the work I do in two ways.

 

Firstly, I can go about the job as it’s meant to be done, which is using real bullets shot from a real gun. Nothing beats this. Next best is using a construction industry bolt gun but that’s only fit for purpose if you can get hold of the bolts in the first place. Sure, they’re recyclable but when you go fishing about in there you’d be amazed at how many get lodged tight and, with my workload, it’s just not worth the time trying pry them out with a screwdriver. Plus, it’s a pretty surefire way to snap your screwdriver.

 

Second, there’s a lot less dogs to shoot. Sorry, did I forget to mention that? I’m the man who shoots the dogs. Pest control. Freedogs were reclassified as vermin seventeen years ago which is when the nature of my business moved from rehousing to recycling and, when the war’s going badly, there’s more Freedogs on the streets and a lot more recycling to be done. 

 

This isn’t because people are cruel. When times are hard a family will do all they can before turning on the dog. I’ve known grown men take food from a kid in order to feed a pet before even considering that a better option might be to feed that pet to the kid. The British eh? A nation of animal lovers… Ridiculous… Even when everything’s got so desperate, the majority of folk will still dump the dog before they can face skinning it and shoving it in the pot.

 

Now this is where the health and safety legislation comes into place. It’s actually illegal to make a pet into a Freedog. Once released, Fido or Scraps or whatever cute name it has will either get ripped apart by the other Freedogs or pick up the blood-hunger while defending itself and join the pack. Either’s bad. No one likes passing a dog carcass walking the kids to school and walking past the victim of a pack attack is worse.

 

Now, lately I’ve heard from some of the trappers that the packs are getting so big they’re making some of the derelicts into no go areas. A few years ago, those old buildings were good enough places for those who’d been bombed out to rest up but now they’re just dog nests.

 

Now, the war's been going on for ages… Since long before I was born anyway. They taught me all the dates when I was at school but who really remembers any of that stuff? I finished school when I was at nine anyhow. I was supposed to stay on until I was twelve but the building got bombed out and they had nowhere else to send us. My dad got me a job down here in the dungeon with Old Gerald but no sooner had I started than he died from the water. That must have been nearly fifteen years ago now. 

 

Old Gerald always called it the Dungeon because, to be honest, it’s pretty grim down here. The concrete’s all cracked and there's always the smell of blood, piss and s**t in your nose. But what can you do? The only thing in shorter supply than bullets is cleaning fluids and, even if they had them, they’d send them to the med units rather than Freedog Resyc. It doesn’t really matter �" it’s amazing what you can get used to.

 

I like to listen to the radio. It crackles and pops a bit down here but it’s better than just listening to the barking, plus on a Tuesday there’s usually something on that’ll make me laugh. Old Gerald used to enjoy the news and would try and chat to me about the troop movements and that, but I just like the funnies really... Them and the music programmes. They help pass the time because there’s always work backing up. 

 

As soon as they arrive I have 48 hours to dispatch, recycle the bone, fur and slops, then burn what’s left over. I take no pleasure in killing. If I did I’d have signed up but personally I like doing the small ones best. The bigger ones are always pretty calm but it's the little ones that cause the trouble, yapping and biting… and they're especially difficult if you have to go in with the knives.

Every now and then you get one that's got a little collar or a decorative bow on it. You can picture the little thing a few days earlier - living with one of the richer families up on the Eastside and running off one night, maybe having been scared witless by a bomb. Then it’s caught by a trapper, bundled into a bag with a few others and delivered to me; your ever-friendly government-approved Freedog Dispatch Officer.

 

So yeah, I have 48 hours to push them through according to the latest guidelines and it’s best to always try and stick to them or you’re liable to end up with someone down here sticking their nose into your business. Talking of which it was a Thursday when the policeman came visiting. I know it was because the trappers always make their drop offs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The only difference being that on the Thursdays they always have the lad with them. Now, he's not too bright this lad and he doesn’t realise it but the other trappers always make sure he carries the real nasty looking dogs �" the ones that might have something… So he’s always getting a nip here or a full on bite there. It's pretty funny really as he’s only young but he couldn’t count to his full age on the fingers he’s got left.

 

This particular Thursday the kid had been bitten pretty bad and I was just putting away the med kit when the policeman came visiting. Now, apart from the trappers and the annual health visitor I don't really get many visitors here - especially not from the police - so I starting to worry a bit. Who doesn't worry - especially when they’re knocking at the door dressed in their blues? I actually reckon half the trick with them is the uniform. I wish I had a better one but the police are Level Seven while I’m just Level Three and probably only that because some Level Nine bureaucrat doesn’t know where to stick Freedog Dispatch in the structure. So yeah, the Sevens all get their blues and I get a new leather apron every thirty-six months. Mustn’t grumble but you do hear that the level Sevens get a few changes of their uniform per year while I just get the one apron which has to last… and it’s not like you can wear a blood spattered leather apron down to the Service Canteen now is it?

 

That’s what I do on a Monday afternoon. I take my Level Three Service Pass and make my sanctioned weekly trip three stops up the line to the Canteen have a couple of gins, take in the entertainment and have a decent bit of food. Apart from the uniform I don’t think I’d change being a Level Three for the world. It’s good fun hanging out with boys at the Canteen and I also get other tiny bonuses such as larger rations and toothpaste. Not that I want the paste but it's amazing what people will buy on the black market - especially if they have kids. I don't have kids… or another half. I like to think of myself as a lone wolf, always on the prowl. I earn a fair enough wage but it’s good to have a few pounds extra in your pocket incase you fancy a bit of the other. There's some cheaper girls down by Birdport Street and they'll go for even less if you take them a dog leg or two.

 

I have access to a lot of meat. There’s so much going spare that I’m one of the few people I know who carries a bit of extra weight. The Pickup Men may count them all out and make sure it's all correct against the log book but chuck them some slops and they’ll always tick a few through. Officially if you’re even one out that’s supposed to be a black mark against your name but I think there must be stuff going missing at every level... Sometimes I wonder just what it is the incinerators are burning to keep the lights on.

 

I usually take a few of the spare carcasses up to the borough market early on a Sunday. You can easily make a few extra bob passing them on to the butcher boys. I always prefer to sell through a butcher as it gives a shade of anonymity to the proceedings, just in case. Frankly I’d make a killing if I set myself up a stand selling meat every Sunday, but if there’s something wrong with it and people start getting sick then you don’t want them tracing it back. It’s not worth it for the money and it’s a sure fire way to get the police sniffing around the Dungeon which, as I say, I now had on this particular Thursday.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I know we’re on the same team. Our cheques are signed by the same guy. But that guy also pays the hangman and there’s been a fair few blues strung up over the years as well as the likes of me. So when the police are about you start thinking about not just what you’ve done, but who else might have screwed you over along the way; tampering with the goods along the supply line. It’s good quality meat when it leaves the Dungeon but who knows what it’s like when it reaches the consumer. By the time a family sits down to eat it could have been mixed with bread, oats, sawdust… I’ve even heard of fertilizer and rat poison being mixed in. If it’ll expand and it’s edible they’ll inject the meat with it. The black market has no honour… If someone thinks there’s a rope coming they’ll soon try and push the blame back up the line.

 

Now this policeman, he comes in and starts chatting to me… almost as if a mistake had been made and I’d been let into the Canteen on a Wednesday, which is Level Seven day. We’re talking about everything; business, the weather, radio shows… we even touch upon the war when he hits me with it… out of nowhere… just comes right out and asks me:

 

“How much for a carcass a week? For the Sevens?”

 

Now, you can tell how the war’s going by the way I have to do the job. It’s pretty simple really in my line of work. So when that policeman paid me for a carcass to feed his workmates, that’s when I first knew we were losing the war.