Dead dog walking.

Chapter 3.

I am on a delivery for my new job. Slinging pies for the “Purple Pizza Eater” franchise. Attempting to maintain some small semblance of pride as I ride around in the restaurant's “loaner” car while mine is in the shop. The giant, one horned, one eyed, winged, purple demon looking thing emblazoned on the hood and both doors, a slice of pizza in one hand and giving a thumbs up with the other.  

Words cannot describe how badly I wish I could hold a real job.

I am on my last run for the night, an eighty six dollar order of six medium pies and a couple of two liters going to an area in town rather well known for such orders. People here tend to get the munchies about two or three hours into partying. Sarcastic and wild speculation is rampant back at “P.P.E.” as to the cause for such strange occurrences, but I honestly can't bring myself to give a s**t. As long as they pay the piper, the piper brings the pies.

I pull up to the house and it is oddly quiet. Usually orders like this are for people that are generating enough noise to be heard from the street. I walk up to the door, double checking the address as I go. According to the slip this is the right place. The door opens up just as I am about to knock, and a tall skinny kid in a black robe with the hood pulled up answers the door.

He reaches out and it is probably a bad sign as to the state of my life that it takes me a second to realize he is holding out a handful of cash, not attempting to threaten me.

Well, if he doesn't want to talk, that works fine for me. I count out his change, hand him the pies, and head back to the car. Pull out around the pickup out front, and I go back to the restaurant and fill out my mileage paperwork for the night, park that disgustingly evil car, and head home for a couple of hours of mindless TV before my weekend truly gets started. First payday was three days ago, I have a number of people to see.

Of course, I wasn't expecting somebody to be pounding on my door at four in the morning. I wake up groggy, but not so much as you might think. This kinda thing happens more often to me than I even care to admit. I call out from my bed “Who is it?” My bedroom window is open and the third floor exterior staircase somebody is standing on is about ten feet from it.

“This is officers Maxwell and Doran. We would like to ask you a few questions please. May we come in?”

Police? Huh. I haven't done anything recently. That I recall. That they would know about.

“Sure, gimme a minute to get some clothes on.”

I get up and slip on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt real quick, then give my “living roomish” area a once over to make sure I have permits for anything that is actually visible in there. A couple of minutes later I opened the door and the two introduced themselves. Maxwell is a big fella, six foot two or three. Black guy with a mustache that makes me think he liked “Hightower” in the police academy movies more than a little. Doran is about average height, average weight. White guy. He carries himself with an easy confidence though that makes me think that he knows his way around the ring if he needs to. I invite them in and motion to the couch.

“What can I do for you?”
Maxwell nods, “Do you mind if I record the conversation sir? It saves me having to write it all down now.”
“Naw, I don't care. But c'mon guys, lets get on with whatever you came here for. It is four in the morning and I am exhausted.”
Doran flips open a notebook. “Your name is Kyle Smith, is that correct?”

Sure, as far as you know.

“Yes, have I done something wrong?”

Doran clears his throat and says “No, no, nothing like that. We just wanted to ask you if you noticed anything unusual about your last delivery for the night working for “Purple Pizza Eater.”

“Why, has something happened?”

Maxwell puts a hand up, palm out. “If you don't mind we need to get answers to a few questions before we can answer any.”

I nod. “Totally understandable. The only thing I noticed that was a little odd was that the guy that answered the door was wearing a black robe, like he thought he was Vader's cousin or some damn thing.”

Maxwell nods. “A black robe? Anything else?”

“Well, he didn't talk either but sometimes people don't you know? The only other thing that was kinda messed up is that usually when we get an order that big it is for a party or something, but if there was anybody else there when I showed up they were being real quiet. No music even.”

The cops look at each other. Doran pipes up, “Were there any other cars besides yours in front of the house?”

“Just a red pickup.”

“Was there anybody else coming or going while you were there?”

“Nope.”

The questions continue in this vein for a good forty minutes. I answer honestly, but then I really don't know what they want to hear either. Finally they confer for a few seconds in hushed tones and in “cop speak” which is about half codes that they use on their radio and half English. Then they thank me for my cooperation and stand up.

“So, hey. What happened?”

Doran looks up from his little notebook he is jotting some final notes in and Maxwell is shutting off the recorder. Maxwell says “We aren't really at liberty to give specifics, you understand, but to put your mind at ease I will let you know that while there were a few deaths at that residence you are not a suspect at this time. If you could verify the phone number your work gave us is accurate though in case we need to call you to follow up on something that would be great, we tried the number they gave us before we came over and you were not answering it.”

“Yeah, it is. I just shut the phone off when I am sleeping. I figure if anything is that important they can come on over and say hi, you know?”

Actually, the phone number I give work is a message phone that myself and a few of my friends use and it isn't even at this house. We all pitch in five bucks a month and Tiffany keeps the phone at her place, hidden somewhere in the basement under about a ton of camping gear so it stands no chance of being heard. I check the messages on it about once a week or so from a third party phone and so far there hasn't been one call I actually wanted to receive unless I was looking for work at the time.  

They say their goodbyes, advise me to let them know if I am going to be leaving the area, and leave.
I am on the phone before the door hits their a*s on the way out.

It takes me about ten minutes to find the number, and I have to call it three times to get an answer, it being five in the morning now. When he does he answers the phone with a fairly surly “What! For the love of god what is it?!”
“Heya Mark. This is Kyle. Remember me?"
“Yes. I do. What went wrong now?”

See, Mark and I know each other well.

Mark was a cop, until about three years ago. Now he is drawing a fat pension and disability because he is missing both of his legs at the waist. He was investigating a string of grisly accidents at a lumber mill and became one. The only reason he is even still alive and able to please the missus is because I was investigating the same thing and managed to yank him out of the chipper and strap down tourniquets to his stumps. It might have stopped there, except the stubborn b*****d got determined to figure out who I was and crawled far enough down the chain of suspects to get my “client” at the time in the hot seat. It almost got bad for me. But he didn't do like I thought he would and send a ton of badge wearing pork to my apartment. He called me. Turns out he is a seer. He can get glimpses of what is going on shadow side without having to be there. It isn't reliable. But it is what caused him to be there when everybody else had already written it off to lousy safety practices. We met at a park, about four months after the “accident” and had a little chat. I didn't tell him everything there was to know, but I confirmed everything he already knew and gave him a demonstration of my disappearing trick since that was what had caused him to want to meet me in the first place. Apparently he had seen the fight between me and the cranky old ax wielding spook that caused the problem, but he wasn't sure if it had been real or shock, or blood loss, or what. I didn't find out until I heard the safety click to the on position that the guy had a sawed off shotgun on me under the blanket on his wheelchair the whole damn time. He keeps trying to get me to “go legit” and I keep telling him I will just as soon as he figures out how. In the meantime though, he is the guy I call when I have issues that involve the local authorities. Partly because he was a badge wearing officer for nigh on thirty years and knows all the tricks of the trade, and partly because his little ability served him well until that night, and a lot of his fellow officers owe him big time. In fact, most any officer that has been with the downtown cop shop in the last 25 years will bend over backwards for the guy even though he is no longer on the force.  

“Somebody or something killed a bunch of people at my last stop of the night delivering pizzas. I need details so I can find out if this is my kind of game and I need my name as far removed from this crap as humanly possible before I end up needing to bash my way out of a cell and change my name. Can you help me?”

“What is the address of the crime, and the name you are currently using?”
I tell him.
“Smith? What is it with you criminal types and your love of Smith?”
“Criminal? Hey now, I do a public service.”

There is silence for a few seconds. “Tell me you haven't had to break into somewhere, beat up somebody, steal something, or kill any sentient thing in the last week, and I will concede the point.”  

I don't say anything.

“That's what I thought. Most of the people I would trust to muck around with your records don't make it to the office until eight o'clock, but I can probably find out what happened at that address for you now, it isn't too far from where my daughter lives so I have a decent excuse to be calling. I will get in touch when I have something. Fair enough?”
“Thanks Mark. I owe you.”
“No, you don't. Talk to you in a bit.”

I make sure the ringer is turned up on my phone and try to get a little more sleep before I have to face the day. My phone is ringing again at about seven o'clock.

“Hello.”
“Hey Kyle, it's Mark. We have a spree killer of some kind. Six bodies scattered around the premises, and I do mean scattered. According to the report I had faxed to me the coroner is going to have a b***h of a time putting the pieces back together again. Some pieces missing even, looks like there could be some evidence of cannibalism. The red pickup described by one of the witnesses was not there when the first officers made the scene and is currently presumed to be the killer's vehicle. Evidence of drug use on the premises, mostly marijuana and what looks like a couple of used needles that we don't have results back for yet. Most of the rest of it is basic crap that wouldn't mean squat to you. A couple of key points in the report though that you would be interested in include the choice of floor decoration, there is a pentagram of red paint across most of the living room floor and candles at the points of it that had burned down. There were a couple of inverted crosses on the walls, and there were prints in the blood on the floor that look like they have come from some kind of massive dog. I can get you more when the lab gets done, but for now that is about all I have. You want me to see if I can go eyeball it or are you going to break the tape and go check it out yourself without permission from the officer on duty at the crime scene?”

“I think I am going to go ahead and go with option B Mark. Thanks for your help, but do me a favor and keep some physical distance from this one. This is starting to sound like some kind of demonic animal, and they have this thing for guys in chairs. Thinning the herd and all that.”

“Yeah, whatever. Look, should I have my daughter stay up at my place for a couple of days? I mean, is this thing likely to strike again?”

“I honestly don't know. I would say you should probably go ahead and get her out of the neighborhood if you can do it without causing a fight. If it is what I think it is it'll be attracted to the kind of emotion that is experienced during a family squabble. Maybe wait until she won't be in the area and call her cell if she has one. Look, I gotta go. I need to go break the law a bunch. If you need anything else or have any more questions gimme a call, OK?”  

“Careful Kyle.”
"Will do.”

A hell hound. This is really starting to look like a hell hound. I don't know all the specifics, but if what I have heard about these is accurate this is gonna suck serious amounts of a*s. Basically, a hell hound is supposed to be the echo, or shadow, of an abused dog that died defending it's master anyway out of a sense of loyalty that only another dog or a sycophant could understand. They usually aren't a serious issue. Nine times out of ten they will go ahead and rip up the b*****d that beat them and then disappear to doggie heaven, their last task on earth accomplished. Occasionally they will stick around and guard a location for a few decades before they fade away on their own. This kind of mishmash, with a summoning circle and six dead bodies, could mean a few things.  But it most likely points to somebody trying to do something with the body of a dead animal. The problem with trying to control a dead animal is that you can't, really. You can cram the spirit back into it if you are really ambitious, and you can pour enough power into it to make it a killing machine. But the old saying that every dog is three missed meals from being a wolf is still true. They are domesticated, but they are still animals. When push comes to shove and they come across a situation that doesn't fit anything they would define as “normal” the instinct takes over and the instinct is going to be to either kill it or run from it.  

Things as powerful as a hell hound don't feel the need to run from much.

I use the bus to get back to the scene of the crime, and drop into shadow as I am cutting through an alley. Considering what is probably lurking around the neighborhood I go ahead and armor up now, then start walking toward the house. The neighborhood is pretty tame, or at least there is nothing shadow side around here that is willing to show itself to seven foot clockwork things that have double bladed axes for hands that are also used as crab pincers. There is a police cruiser out front and I can only assume there are a couple of cops in it, reality side. I head around to the back of the house and use my “lock pick,” basically I use a tool created from my mind to destroy the lock and open the door. The inside of the house is a disaster. Black smears all over the floor and walls that is probably blood, and I see the pentagram all painted out on the floor just like Mark said. The prints are enormous. The size of diner plates. This thing must have had a b***h of a time getting out of the house. I give the house a once over in shadow, and then drop out of shadow and start to look around. The first thing that hits me is the smell and the flies. Disgusting. Looking around I do see a computer, but it has been smashed up pretty good against a wall and I am on a limited time frame here as the “proper” authorities could be back at any minute. I look around until I find what I am here for, a few black hairs stuck under a counter top in the kitchen, and then I hop back down to shadow and bug out.

An hour later I am back home and calling Mark again.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it is Kyle again. Look, I went down to the crime scene and took a look around. I think there is good odds that somebody is trying something spooky with a dead dog. I have some black hairs I collected from the scene, if I dropped them by your place could you take them in to have them analyzed? Find out what kinda critter they came off of, maybe see if anybody has reported a missing animal of that type or a missing corpse of an animal of that type?”

“Sure, but what is your angle here? I will need to bend a couple of rules to get that done, what is the payoff if it works?”

“Think about it Mark, this is a dog. It is a lot of other things now, but first and foremost it is a dog. I am willing to bet it is going home. If I can't get there first there are good odds it is going to rip up whoever is there now, and then it won't have a home anymore. There will be pretty much no way to track it. Chances are it is only here in reality, able to cause the kind of carnage it did, at night. So I have until dark to find this place or I am probably going to lose it altogether and we will just spend the next few years or decades reading about mysterious animal attacks in the city.”

“OK, I gotcha. I am convinced. Drop it by soon though. It is almost noon now, and I would need to have it down at the station by three to get any turnaround on it today.”

“Huh. I am kinda without car at the moment, could you meet me at Jefferson park and pick it up there?”

“What happened to your car? No. Never mind. I don't want to know. Yeah, I will be by in about an hour to pick it up. Don't keep me waiting.”

“No worries. I am gonna head down there now, there is a foot long frank with relish and mustard that is calling my name.”

As good as his word, he arrives about fifty minutes later and I hand him a small black plastic bag with a couple of hairs in it. He is in the back of a cab, he must not have been able to scrape together enough to get one of those cars with the special controls yet. We don't say anything, and he calls out to the driver to take him to the downtown police station. I snag another hot dog and spend a couple of hours doing all the things I was hoping to be able to get done earlier. Paying the rent, my Internet bill, electric bill, stopping by the store and getting some food that isn't pizza.  

Definitely not pizza.

I call in and check on the status of my car only to find out that the poor thing needs to have the engine pretty much rebuilt from the ground up, which will cost about three times what the old beast is actually worth in the first place. I tell him to scrap it and keep whatever he makes on it to go toward my bill, as I am a little behind on my payments for the last time I had to bring the thing in. Then I head back to my place and have a beer. A nice cold beer. The phone rings three times, once is an out of state number that I don't recognize that I let go to voice mail. The second is Tiff. I, of course, show all proper courtesy to the ladies at all times.

“Heya sweet cheeks, how are you holding up?”
“OK I guess. Look, we haven't really gotten together since Dennis' funeral last month. I have an extra ticket to a show I am working and I was wondering if you wanted to come down and play on your day off?”
“You still bouncing at “The Reaper?”
I can almost see her eyes roll from where I am sitting. “Yes I am, and stop saying that like it is a bad thing.”
I laugh. “Have they ever figured out how to turn the volume down a notch, or is it still a “come at your ear's risk” establishment?”
“If the music is too loud, then you are too old.”
“Then I am ancient. Look, I would except I have a date tonight.”

She makes a “squee” sound. I can't describe it any other way.

“A date? Who is she?”
“Not positive. I know she has dark hair and likes it rough.”
“A blind date? That doesn't seem very much like you.”  

There is silence for a few seconds.

“This is a case, isn't it? Something having to do with those deaths I heard about?”

My curiosity is peaked. “How did you hear about it?”

“Oh, c'mon Kyle, most of my normal friends are in college and that whole damn neighborhood may as well be a dormitory. I got a call a couple of hours ago. A friend of a friend, etc. was found among the bodies. It sounded pretty gruesome.”
“Yeah, it was pretty bad. It looks like I get to spend the evening playing chew-toy to a hell hound, assuming I can find the stupid thing.”
“You need a hand? I got a few guys that owe me favors, I can get out of work if I need to.”

“No offense Tiff, but this thing is a bit more than I would want you tangling with unless there was no choice.” I let that sit for just a second, then follow up with “I mean, sure you could beat it down but it would probably get a taste of ya first and if I had to go on with the knowledge that I had caused perfection to become scarred like that I don't know if I could live with myself.”
She laughs. “You lie nice.”
“Yes. Yes I do. Look, if I get this out of the way before stupid late I will try to make it to the show, leave the ticket at the door OK?”
“Gotcha. Catch you later, and be careful OK?”
“Sure, just for you.”

She is laughing again when I hear the phone hang up.

The last call is from Mark, and he does not sound happy.

“Kyle, are you there?”  
He blurts this out before I even have a chance to say “Hello.”
“Yeah, I am here. What do you got for me?”
“Look, are you sure about all this? Because I have something that fits, but if it turns out you are wrong there could be trouble. Hell, if it turns out you are right there could be trouble.”
“Look Mark, just spill OK, damage assessment is my job."

“Fine. The hairs you got most closely resemble those of a German Shepherd. And I do have a report of a dead dog matching that description turning up missing. Some freaks dug him right out of the ground about three days ago.”

“Pet cemetery? Can I get a name and address? We are kinda on a time line here.”

“Look, follow me along here, the pieces make sense if you look at it right. One of the people in that house was a twenty one year old college kid named Amanda Swanson. She was raped about three years ago, held against her will for a couple of days and cut on pretty good as well. She nearly died. US marshals caught up with the situation and she survived, but the piece of s**t that did it to her, a real piece of work by the name of Charles Erickson, beat the death penalty and got it commuted all the way down to a ten year minimum in the state getaway for the criminally insane.  Possible parole after that if the psyche boys thought he was up to it. The dog that was dug up was a guard animal at that facility. Spent the last nine years of it's life there.”

“So you think this Amanda chick got involved in a little bit of dark magic trying to get some revenge, got a bunch of friends involved in it, and now the damn thing is heading to the asylum?”

“You tell me. You are the expert.”

“I think it was a sad day for the force when they made you retire. Gimme that address, I still need to get there and it looks like I am taking a bus.”

The bus ride takes almost two hours. Like most such places, this one is on the very edge of town. It has a large maintained grassy field all the way around it and while it does not have the massive concrete walls that some people associate with such an institution, it does have enough chain link fence topped with razor wire to sink a battleship. Guard towers sit prominently in six different locations. Once actually inside it looks a little like a high school, cheerful construction and an exercise yard complete with basketball hoops and a track that I can see a few people running around.

By the time I arrive it is already getting dark. I get off the bus, let it get a block or two away, and drop to the shadow world while I am walking towards the asylum. I throw up my armor almost instantly, as the asylum looks really uncool from this side. There is a cloud of darkened color that comes off of it in waves. Reminds me somewhat of the dark version of a mirage in the desert. All kinds of nasty things are attracted to the insane, and people that have gone a little around the bend tend to have a much better connection to the shadow lands, so if there is any kind of echo of them it tends to be a lot more potent.  

Strong I am, but able to leap tall buildings in a single bound I am not. But then, if I am right than I shouldn't need to leave the shadow to fight this thing, so I don't really give a s**t. My claws make short work of a six foot by four foot section of fence and I stride through heading for the main buildings. I am sure there is all kinds of sirens going off and people running all over the place. If the situation wasn't quite so serious I am sure I would be laughing. I turn around at the front doors and keep an eye on the perimeter. Listening intently for anything unusual. But I don't hear anything over the odd moan or cry from inside the building. I don't see anything particularly unusual.

So I wait. The front doors open a few times, so I know that people are coming in and out of the building. But I don't see any kind of dog. Then finally hear something. The tinkling crash of broken glass from the window just to my right. I look over and I can see bodies, appearing on the ground as their life energies leave them.  

This is not good. I really believed the damn thing would have to coexist in both shadow and reality to have the kind of power it obviously has, but if I have to go to reality to fight it, well s**t.  

The glass that it has punched through is a couple of inches thick, obviously bulletproof glass of some kind. Looks like it wasn't hell hound proof as the damn thing charges right on through the next set as well, leaving the room and into the hallway proper. I drop my armor and pull my gun, for whatever good it was likely to do me, then climb through the two windows and follow the path of destruction. After a few minutes of following along I see a door that leads into “Cell Block C” taking an impressive amount of damage. Every few seconds a new dent will just appear in the security door, sometimes accompanied by a smear of blood, sometimes not. But every few seconds, without stopping. I drop out of shadow.

I see the animal. It is a monster. It still has the basic look of a German Shepherd, the same perky, forward pointing ears and the same wagging tail when it is excited, but this creature is huge, eight feet long from the tip of it's nose to the base of it's tail, and it looks emaciated. I can see the ribs, every one down the line. The bumps along the spine, each one indicating a different vertebrae. It is losing blood from a hundred gunshot wounds, a thick syrupy substance that is shot through with white and yellow pus. It turns to face me as I pull back the hammer and the gun makes an audible click. It's face is the real horror show. It's lips and jowls are mostly torn off, leaving a grinning dog skull. One of it's eyes is split open like an over ripe grape, and the other is a milky white mess. None of this seems to stop it from looking right at me. I crank off six shots in about two seconds and manage to hit with more than half, then when it leaps toward me I try to drop back to shadow. Just before I can make it out the thing grabs my right shoulder in it's jaws and gives me a solid shake that causes me to scream in pain as I feel my shoulder become dislocated and my gun goes spinning off into the corner by the door. Then the pressure on my arm is relieved when it disappears, my having made it to shadow.   I am covered with blood on my right side, a  set of puncture wounds seeping badly from the bite.

Then it reappears. I desperately try to throw up my armor before it can snag me, but it closes it's jaws around my left leg before I can get a chance. It picks me up by the leg and throws me through the air into another sheet of that glass. I manage to get my armor up before impact and I smash through it into a big room full of tables and chairs. Cafeteria maybe. It leaps through the window after me and I scramble to my feet, my armor's tight fit and mechanism forcing my arm back into joint when I try to move. The pain causes me to drop to my knees again. Then there is an irresistible pressure on my chest that forces me on my back, my legs still bent at the knees and underneath me in a position that would probably break them if the armor would let them bend that far. There is a loud sound of scraping around my ears and then my head starts shaking violently back and forth. I reach up with the left claw and simply shove it in front of me until I hear a crunching sound, then I open the claw and my eyes. The thing is still here, trying to remove itself from my claw. I ignore the pain coursing through my right arm and open the claw all the way, use the impaling claw to pull him down a bit, and take off the things head. It falls to the floor and then disappears, the rest of the body following suit a few seconds later.

I get to my feet and make my way out of the building, collecting my gun and leaving a blood trail as I go that will be visible in reality.  Unfortunately that can't be helped. I keep going until I am off the grounds, my armor the only thing keeping me standing. I wander into a gas station, still leaving a blood trail behind me, starting to feel very light headed from blood loss and the shock of the injuries, and go into the bathroom there. I drop out of shadow and sit on the toilet. Then I call Tiff. I end up leaving a message.

“Hey Tiff. I need help. I got him, but the thing ripped me up good. I can't run any more and I think I just left a blood trail from the asylum to here. Can't think. Call Mark. He will know where. Gas station. Bathroom. Thanks.”

I hang up the phone and lock the stall door, then I pass out.

When I wake up I am in my apartment on the couch and my wounds are patched up. There is a saran wrapped ham sandwich on a plate and a bottle of beer in an ice bucket on the end table. There is also a note that says:

“I don't like scars on you either, next time take me along or I am kicking your a*s.”

I smile, take a couple of aspirin that were sitting on the note with a swallow of beer, and go back to sleep.