The Payment
Ghosts of the Past
Fur-fiction written by HrryNrmn
All characters and events portrayed herein are property of and copywriten by HrryNrmn and may not be used without his express, written permission. All accounts herein are fictional and any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is completely coincidental. Copyright 2007, All Rights Reserved.
I could tell you a lot of things about the Great Canine War and what I did back then. I could tell you how I stormed onto the beaches with the boys, bullets flying thick around us. I could tell you how I parachuted into the backcountry, deep behind enemy lines and fought off hordes of enemies with only my rifle and after my bullets ran out, my bayonet, and when that broke, with my own two paws, the dead piling up around me like in one of those action movies they show nowadays. I could tell you how I charged a machine gun nest, saved my whole platoon from certain death, and lost my left arm in the process and how I was awarded a whole box full of medals when I finally got home. You'd believe all that stuff too, and I can't really blame you. I'll tell you why this is so. Because you weren't there. You weren't there and you didn't have to see all the things that happened to us. You'd believe me because we are heroes, or at least that's what the press and the President and Joe on the street and everybody else wants to believe. But I'll tell you one thing: when I got home with my medals and my stuff in a trunk and stood in the dooryard of our farm I never felt less like a hero. Maybe that's why I'm writing this little diary on a crummy spiral-bound notebook too many years after things happened. I'm just an old codger that barely anyone remembers anymore, much less cares about. And when I'm dead and gone, someone will find this and learn a little about what really did happen during those dark and stormy years, when the canines went to war. Maybe if I write this down, I can sleep at night again, like a pup in school who has to write ‘I will not talk in class' one hundred times on the blackboard before he can go home. School's been out for me for years now, and I've got to get this written before I can go home. I'll tell you we never called ourselves heroes during the war. Back then, we weren't heroes. Back then, we were soldiers.
In those days, the war was nearly over. I hadn't been in it from the beginning, but by then, almost nobody had. The platoons were originally designated by breed, and then after the casualties really started to hit they were designated by type, like working dogs and stuff like that, and by the time I hit the mix they just kinda threw everyone in together. That's how I ended up with the motley group I ended up in. There were 16 dogs to every platoon and each platoon divided into groups of 8 for most duty. I can remember every dog that was in my group; I can see them just like it was yesterday, but only 3 of them, 4 including myself really matter, at least to the tale I'm telling now. There was me, everyone called me Max. I was a big, goofy-looking German Shepherd, and I guess a lot of people would still say I'm still big and goofy-looking, even though my muzzle is completely gray and my hips hurt so bad that I can't hardly walk. I may still look goofy, but I feel about as comical as a dead clown. Back then though, I could run or dance with the best of ‘em, and it seemed like if I stood still for more than ten seconds, I might just pitch over dead. Now I think if I tried to run or dance, I might just do the same. Funny how things change isn't it? There was a guy we called Chief, although I can't remember for the life of me why. He was a bloodhound with big mournful eyes, a chocolate colored coat, and the deepest voice I ever heard. I always got on good with Chief, I'd guess you'd say he was my best friend back in those crazy days. Then there was a guy named Mike, we used to call him Iron Mike and with good reason: he was tougher than a two-dollar steak, as the saying goes. He was a German Shepherd, like me, but where I was always more wiry, he was barrel-chested and stronger than an ox. I used to think you could belt him over the head with a church and not even phase him. Lastly, there was a guy named Harvey, although we all called him Squirrel. We called him that because he always had a ratty, sneaky look about him, and because he was a little crazy, you know, squirrelly. He was a French Bulldog, and everyone gave him grief about his size. He was by far the shortest of us, barely cracked 5 feet tall in his combat boots. As a result, his clothes never tended to fit him properly, and, as the farm-boy I was, I always joked he looked like a scarecrow up from the cornfield. But you couldn't let his size fool you, Squirrel was one mean ticket. I once saw him knock a guy at least a foot taller than himself right out on his ass for laughing at him. I tell you, I kept the scarecrow jokes to myself after that. Squirrel always looked like he was about one step away from really being a dangerous SOB. I guess you could say we saw how dangerous he could be, but I'm getting ahead of myself. But take it from me, even if you privately thought Harvey was the silliest looking guy on earth, you sure didn't mention it to him...
"Why if it isn't the little man," the Dalmatian cooed, his words dripping with sarcasm. He'd been riding Harvey, whom he always called Squirrel, for days now. Harvey was just getting out of his tent, tucking in the fatigue shirt that was at least two sizes to large for him. "Isn't that cute?" he continued, speaking to everyone within earshot. "They got him little clothes to wear." He brayed obnoxious laughter. Everyone around merely cracked a smile, or just continued doing whatever it was they were doing. They had all grow a bit weary of the Dalmatian's constant belittling of Squirrel.
"Why don't you knock it off already, huh?" Squirrel said. Max was able to observe, from where he was standing, the dim flare of anger buried deep within Squirrel's eyes.
"Aw, what are you going to do?" the Dalmatian asked, stepping closer to Squirrel and bending his head down to look him in the eye. "Are you going to try to teach me a lesson?" He batted his eyes coquettishly at Squirrel, and, as he did so, Squirrel hauled off and belted him right on the muzzle with his fist. The blow damn near took the Dalmatian's head clean off, knocking him sprang on his back. Max couldn't believe that such a small form could have such power. The soldiers who were near stopped whatever they were doing and readied themselves to stop the fight if anything should get out of control. For the time being, they were content to let things sort themselves out. Squirrel was at the Dalmatians feet in a flash. The Dalmatian, for his part, was more than a little stunned. He tried to struggle to a sitting position, but he had seemed to lose all functionality in his joints. As he struggled around on the ground, Squirrel took one size 4 boot and placed it directly against the Dalmatian's groin. With a grim smile, he pressed down with all his weight, grinding the heel into the most tender part of the prone dog's body. The Dalmatian's eyes nearly bugged from their sockets as he let out an enormous scream that seemed to go on and on.
"Holy shit...look at that," came the stunned response from onlooker. "He going to grind his fuckin' nuts off."
"Are you through laughing?" Squirrel shouted, his high voice somehow rising above the fire-engine wail of the prone Dalmatian. The Dalmatian squealed in reply, violently nodding his head in a gesture of affirmation. "Good," said Squirrel, removing his foot. The Dalmatian writhed forward, grabbing the injured body part with both hands and looking as though he might vomit. Squirrel drew his bayonet and took two paces until he was right next to the Dalmatian's head. He knelt down and said in a voice that only the Dalmatian was supposed to hear, "If you ever make fun of me again about my name, or my height, or anything else, you'll wake up one morning with those cojones tied around your neck for a bowtie. Make no mistake...I'm not afraid to cut ‘em right off." His eyes were blazing with fury which left no doubt about the validity of his statement. Then, while all the onlookers were still watching, stunned, he simply sheathed his knife and walked away, without looking back, leaving the injured Dalmatian on the ground.
If you think I was going to screw around with Squirrel after that...well you must be crazy. I didn't want my balls turned into jelly, that's for sure...
We were on patrol when all hell broke loose. We were ambushed, and even though I can try to tell you what happened, I barely even know myself. Me and the three others I told you about broke off from the group and ran toward a woods that was about 200 yards away from where we were at the time. It was the longest 200 yards of my life, let me tell you. You'd could call us cowardly for running away and I suppose you'd be right, but the only thought in my head at the time was getting my ass under cover and figuring out what to do next to save my own life. I'd like to see what any one of you would do in that situation. Anyway, we half-retreated, half returned fire from the woods, all the while walking and stumbling backwards over rocks and downed trees. For a while it seemed like they were going to follow us in, and for a while I guess they did. Eventually they either gave up or were killed off, but by the time we got our shit sorted together, we were as lost as we could be. I guess you're probably wondering about why I don't tell you more about the battle. Well, the reason is that there really wasn't much of a battle, and maybe I'm a little ashamed that I ran away. And anyhow, what happened in those woods is what I'm really trying to tell you. I'll have to pick this up later, my hand is about to fall off from writing, and I think I hear the nurse coming...
Max looked around himself with a puzzled expression.
"Where the hell are we?" he asked, not for the first time. He continued looking around himself, as if he expected an answer from the trees. Naturally, they gave no sign, standing quietly in their places.
"I don't know," replied Chief. "Any of you guys got a map? Maybe we can find out where we are by landmarks, and make our way to help from there." Mike slung the rucksack off his back and fished around in it for a moment before pulling out a well-grimed map. He studied it silently before saying,
"It looks like these woods are pretty big. I think we can get back with the platoon if we head north, although if the platoon even exists anymore is anyone's guess. If it were up to me, I'd say we ought to start walking." He picked the rucksack up and slung it over his shoulder. "It'll be dark soon," he added, staring nervously up at the sky.
"Heh. Never though we'd get lost with a bloodhound and two shepherds in our group," said Squirrel darkly and just loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Man, shut up Squirrel," Chief retorted. "I've had about enough of your wise comments for one day. Being a smart-ass isn't going to get us un-lost you know."
Squirrel dropped his pack and drew himself up to his full height of 5'1''. He sneered at the bigger dog, his voice high and piping with barely controlled anger. "Oh, yeah? You wanna make me, big guy? I'll say any damn thing I want. I've had a hard day and I ain't about to put up with being told what to do by you." Tactfully, no one chose to point out that everyone in the group had had as hard a day as Squirrel. Squirrel, for his part, looked angry enough to throw a punch at Chief, even though Chief outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds and was more than a foot taller.
Thankfully, Mike stepped between them. "Both of you calm down. We're still in a war you know, and we're in this together. Come hell or high water, we need to get out here. Once we make it out with our skins first, then you guys can fight it out if you still want to."
This seemed begrudgingly agreeable to both, and, somewhat mollified, the group set off into the woods, with Chief and Squirrel walking as far away from each other as possible.
They walked for most of the day, growing more and more nervous the entire time. It indeed began to grow dark, which did nothing to raise the spirits of the lost group. Being as they were ostensibly still near the enemy, and the battle of the day still lodged firmly in their minds, none of them dared to use a flashlight. Instead, they formed a tight group, back to back, enabling them to ‘see' all around them, in case of a surprise attack. It was, of course, slow going in this formation, although the relative security that it afforded them seemed to pacify even Squirrel, who was positioned next to Chief and hadn't even said anything for nearly an hour. He seemed content to simply hold his rifle close, peering into the dark and jumping at shadows. The dark made everyone jumpy, so one can imagine the sense of relief when they spotted a light in the darkness. Max, for one, was all for heading toward the light.
"It might be a cabin, and we can crash there for the night. Heck, maybe we can even get some food," he whispered.
"Are you out of your mind?" Squirrel whispered back. "We don't know who lives there, or what they do. It might be a bunch of enemy soldiers, hell, the same ones that we fought with today for all I know, shacked up in an old hunting lodge."
Max seemed to chew this over in his mind. "Well, I suppose you could be right. On the other hand, it might be a family of civilians. There's no law against taking food and shelter from civvies, as long as you don't hurt ‘em in the process. I say we check it out." He paused before saying, "I don't think we're on the right course anyway, this hike shouldn't have taken nearly this long. We musta gotten off track somewhere..."
Yeah, it was me who was lobbying the hardest for going up to that cabin. I wish to God and the Blessed Dog-Son that I hadn't. I could sit here and tell you about what all was said while we stood there in the dark at the edge of the clearing, debating in hushed voices about what to do next but it was all academic from there. My argument eventually won out after Iron Mike agreed to it. Looking back on it now, Iron Mike made most of the decisions in that group, but it wasn't like he was the commanding officer or something. It was like he was everyone's older brother and whatever he thought was best, everyone seemed to go along with, even Squirrel, who would normally drag his feet at anything that didn't go his way. Well, we got Squirrel to sneak up next to the cabin to try to see who was in it, if anyone. When he sneaked back to us, he had a grin on his face about a mile wide. He told us there were only a couple of Doberman pups in the cabin, the older one couldn't have been more than 13 or 14 years old. I remember exactly how he phrased it...
"We got it knocked," Squirrel said. "We'll get those pups to show us where we are on the map and we'll be back safe at a base in time for cornflakes. They gotta know where they live, so they'll be able to show us where we are." The logic of this was inescapable, so the group approached the front door of the cabin.
"Open up in the name of the Imperial Armed Forces," Mike said. There was the sound of whispered discussion on the other side of the door, and after a few seconds the door began to slowly open. With a loud exclamation, Squirrel kicked the door all the way open, knocking the small dog on the other side sprawling. Squirrel burst into the room like a whirlwind and grabbed the prone dog before anyone could react.
"On your feet, on your feet," he barked, roughly jerking the smaller dog up.
"Please, don't hurt my brother," pleaded the other occupant of the cabin. He was smaller than his brother and looked no more than 7 years old. He looked about ready to burst into tears.
"Diego, be quiet. Everything will be fine," his brother assured him, after Squirrel let go of him. Diego did not seem to take much solace in these words, but nodded in agreement to his brother.
Mike quickly took stock of the room, for that was all the cabin was. One large, double bed stood in the corner, with a homemade comforter on it. Against the wall, next to the bed, was a small chest of drawers with a slightly cracked mirror above it. Working clockwise around the room was a wood-burning stove with a kettle on top of it. In the middle of the floor on the left of the stove was a kitchen table, with a red-checked tablecloth. On the table was a small oil lamp, which provided the only light for the cabin. There were no knickknacks nor were there anything on the walls save an old black and white portrait picture of a young, female Doberman. The occupants of the cabin were two young Dobermans, dressed in clothes that were clean but obviously old. The younger of the two was wearing hand-me-downs that had ostensibly been worn by his older brother. The older one was wearing a well-patched set of shirt and pants that were several sizes too large, and had probably been his father's at one time. It was clear that they lived alone in the cabin by themselves.
"Squirrel, take it easy on the kid, will you?" Mike said. To the older of the brothers he said, "Ok, we're not here to hurt you, but we're going to need you to answer some questions for us. If you do what we say, we'll leave here and you'll never have to see us again. Do you understand?" The older brother nodded that he did. "Ok. First off, are there any parents or adults that live here?"
"Our mom is dead," the older brother said. "Our dad is off in the war. I live here and take care of Diego until he comes back," he added, with a touch of pride in his voice.
"Well, you certainly are very brave and I also admire your honesty," Mike returned. "Secondly, what have you got to eat around here? We're starving and could do with a meal."
The younger brother gestured with his paw, "We keep the food outside in a small shed. The shed locks and there's no place to keep food in here."
"Sounds good. If you'd be so kind as to give me the key, Max here and I will go fetch something to eat. In the meantime, why don't you have a nice chat with Chief and Squirrel in here." Max tossed the map in Squirrel's direction. "See if you can get him to show us where we are." He lowered his voice to a whisper that only Squirrel could hear. "And even though you need to make sure he gives us the correct directions, try not to beat the shit out of him or anything, ok?" With that, he and Max left the cabin.
When they were outside, Squirrel drew a bayonet with a nine-inch blade and laid it on the table. He took his time, calmly unfolding the map and spreading it out on the table. When it was arranged to his satisfaction he gestured the two dog brothers over.
"Now," he said, his voice syrupy and sweet, "let's just see where we are, shall we? If you answer me quickly enough, no one will have to get hurt." As he said this, he put on a toothy smile, and laid his paw on the handle of the bayonet. Diego's eyes grew wide at this, and he seemed to be on the brink of tears again.
"Squirrel," Chief said reproachfully. Squirrel ignored him completely.
"Wh...wh...why should we tell you anything," the older brother stammered. "You're the ones who are trying to kill our father." Squirrel's smile decayed somewhat at this.
"Well, my young pal, that's just how we do things around here. See, I'm the one with the guns and the knives, and you're just some punk kid living in a shack in the woods. So," he continued, poking the Doberman in the chest with his paw to punctuate his words, "I'll ask the questions, and you answer them, alright?"
"Squirrel," Chief said again, more force in his voice this time. Squirrel continued to ignore him.
"Besides," Squirrel went on, "if you give me the wrong directions or refuse to tell me at all, I might decide that I need to take your brother Diego along with me. And if I get lost," he said, drawing his face close to the Doberman's and dropping his voice to a deadly whisper, "I might just decide that I'll put his eyes out with my bayonet and send him back to you blind. Or maybe I'll just shoot him, and leave him for dead. Either way, it'll make your worst nightmare look like a blessing."
Chief could see the hatred in Squirrel's eyes and hear the horrible threats he was whispering.
"Squirrel!" he shouted.
Squirrel wheeled around, his eyes blazing.
"What!?" he shouted at the top of his voice. "What do you want? What do you need?" He picked the bayonet up and slammed it down hard enough to drive the blade into the table. "Damn it!" he shrieked.
"You don't have to be so rough and violent with him," Chief said. "He's just a pup."
"Just a pup?" Squirrel roared. "Just a pup? Well, I'm sorry, but I'm trying to make sure that I get out of here alive. In case you haven't heard, there's a war going on; there are dogs out there that are trying to kill us. So if you'd like to play Officer Friendly and pretend to be the kid's dad then that's fine, but do it on your own damn time and with your own damn life. He's sitting here being a wise guy like I'm playing some sort of game. Well, I'm not. I've never been more serious in my entire life! Right now, I'm trying to keep myself from wringing his head off because he's giving me a bunch of grief about a stupid question and you're standing there acting like I'm the bad guy. Well, I ain't no bad guy. I was having a perfectly good life until these people decided they had to have a war. It's their fault, not mine. So, if I wanna take the kid's brother with me, I'm damn well going to do it, and ain't nobody going to stop me, not you, not anyone." He yanked the bayonet out of the table and turned around to face the pups again.
Then, everything began to happen at once. Outside at the shed, Max and Mike heard the yelling.
"Ah, shit, what's that?" Max said, looking over his shoulder at the cabin.
"Who knows, could be an ambush. Get your weapon ready," answered Mike, unslinging his rifle.
Meanwhile, inside the cabin, the older Doberman had moved with what seemed like lightning speed while Squirrel's back was turned. He grabbed the teapot off the stove and slung it in Squirrel's direction.
"Run, Diego! Run to the woods and hide!" he shouted.
Diego hesitated, but only for a moment. He took off for the front door. The teapot struck Squirrel squarely on the nose and staggered him momentarily.
"Ah, you little bastard! I'll kill you! I'll kill you for hitting me!" he shouted, simultaneously grabbing the bayonet and his own nose, which was beginning to bleed, and diving for the older Doberman. He tackled him and had stabbed the bayonet through the pup's throat before anyone had time to react. The older Doberman had time for only a strangled exclamation before his voice was silenced forever. Squirrel crouched astride him, his arm pistoning up and down as he drove the blade home again and again.
Just as Diego reached the door, it flew open as Mike kicked it. Max was on one knee with his machine gun at his shoulder and had just enough time to see a dog rushing toward him. Instinct took over: he drew a bead on the form and pulled the trigger. Four quick bangs and Diego was lifted off the ground like a rag doll. He landed halfway on a chair at the table and his momentum spun his body halfway under it. Squirrel was still perched atop the older Doberman and was continuing to stab at his face and upper body. Blood flew in a crimson spray. Chief simply stood, rooted the ground, a look of stupefied horror on his face.
The cabin was an abattoir now. After what seemed like minutes, but could actually have been no more than a few seconds, Squirrel stopped his assault. He was panting heavily, as though he just run a mile at a full-on sprint. He looked down at his weapon, noticing that he had broken two inches off the steel tip during his barrage. He flung the bloody weapon into the corner and said softly to no one in particular,
"There now. That will teach you to hit me."
He slowly turned his head toward the shocked dogs standing in the doorway. With dawning horror, Max saw Squirrel's eyes were glassy and strange, like the eyes of a dog under hypnosis. With each pant he barred his teeth, something that made him look simultaneously feral and terrifying. Max looked at Chief and Mike and saw they were nearly trembling.
"They're scared green," Max thought to himself. "Shit, I am too."
"Easy, man," Chief said, his voice soft and soothing. "Take it easy...it's all going to be alright."
Squirrel stood mechanically to his feet. He looked like a poorly designed idea of a robot, all stiff moving parts and no expression. His clothes were a mess, soaked through with blood and gore and his face was streaked and dripping with blood, both the pup's and his own. He walked stiff-legged to a chair by the table and suddenly dropped heavily into a seat. He took a battered pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and held them in his hand. From the intent, vacant look on his face, Chief wasn't sure if Squirrel planned to smoke them or simply eat them up. By degrees, he seemed to come back into himself. The glassy look disappeared from his eyes and he seemed to become more fluid in his reactions.
"God," Mike said at last. "What the hell are we going to do now?"
"Well," said Chief reflectively, "I think we're probably going to go to jail, right after our dishonorable discharges. We killed these people, these unarmed civvies. They were just pups."
At the mention of jail, Squirrel's head snapped up like it was on a string. "Jail?! Forget that, if anyone asks, the kid pulled a knife on me."
"No jury in the world would buy that, Squirrel, and you and I both know it." Max said. "Four Imperial Army soldiers couldn't handle a couple of pups? Come on."
"Well, then all of you will string up just as high as me. You were all here too," Squirrel countered. "And I know you wouldn't just sell me up the creek to save your own sorry hides, either. And what about you, Max? You blew the other pup away." An evil light began to glint in his eyes.
The group chewed this fact over for a few minutes. After a time, Mike shuffled slowly over to Squirrel, his shoulders slumped, his head down. Suddenly, Max knew what Mike would look like as an old, old dog. "Gimme your lighter," he said, his voice a rusty croak. "We'll burn the place down to make it look like an accident. There has to be lamp oil around here somewhere. We'll burn it to the ground and no one will ever know. We'll never speak of this again. Not to our mothers, not to our priests, not to anyone." He looked at Squirrel and his eyes hardened. "You. You are a disgrace to this army," he said. "You're nothing more than a murderer and you know it."
Squirrel shrugged and looked at the crumpled bodies laying near the table. "Well, better them than me," he said, and lit a cigarette.
I know what you're thinking. How'd we let a creep like Squirrel get away with it? I don't honestly know. I know I was scared of the guy, even though he was little and there were three of us to his one. I also know I had just gotten done shooting a 7-year-old pup to death with a machine gun for no reason. I didn't want to go to jail. So we burnt the place down. We spread lamp oil all over the bed and the table and the bodies and lit it with Squirrel's Zippo. The cabin was all wood and burned like a torch. We stood there in the clearing and watched it go. I looked over at Squirrel. The crazy bastard still hadn't wiped the kid's blood off his face and was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He started snickering, softly at first, but as he got going it got louder and louder until he was howling with laughter, tears running down his muzzle. Chief asked him rudely what he was laughing about. I remember him asking in words that were choked with chuckles if anyone had remembered to bring the marshmallows. I never saw him look happier than when we were burning those pups' bodies in their crummy cabin in the woods. It chilled me to the bone, and it still does when I think of it, 65 years later. Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you. We made it back to base just fine the next morning. The war ended, and all of us shipped back home to our girlfriends and parents. We never did get court-marshaled and as far as I ever knew, no one found out about the incident in the woods.
Well, here I am at the end of the story, at least the part that takes place in the past. I live in an old soldiers' home now because my hips are so bad I can't go up stairs anymore. My legs and hands are bad, but my hips are an absolute misery to me. Besides, I like living off the government dime for a while. I sure paid my dues, as far as I'm concerned. I've lived here for the past 2 years of my life, and since I've been here I've seen my roommates come and go. Some die, some get moved to nursing homes because they can't handle living without 24 hour supervision anymore, some transfer to other facilities. A month ago I got a new roommate, and things changed so quickly I swear I almost don't know how it happened. I came in the room from breakfast, and I bet you'll never guess who was sitting on the bed next to mine...
"Chief?" Max said. It was true; it was Chief sitting on the bed. Chief rose laboriously to his feet and looked at the dog that had come in the door.
"Max?" Chief said. The two dogs embraced each other. "I haven't seen you since the war ended," he said.
"I know," Max replied. "It's been a very long time." Both dogs sat on the edges of their respective beds. "So..." Max continued, gradually trailing off. He found himself at a loss for words. "...tell me what happened with your life..."
We talked to each other for the better part of 3 hours. It was difficult at first, because what do you say to a dog you haven't seen for 60 years? Once we got going, it was a lot like old times. He told me about his wife who'd passed away, and the family business he had owned and his grandkids and all that stuff. I told him about my wife, who'd also passed away and about my dead-beat grandson who wasn't worth the powder to blow him up. He eventually drank himself to death at the ripe old age of 29. You never saw a bigger waste of a life in all your born days. I told him about my bad hips and he told me about his bum heart and I guess we compared ailments as the elderly are wont to do sometimes. But, I guess what we really did was make friends with each other over again. It really felt good to do it, like someone threw the blinds open on my life and let some sunshine back in.
It was just after breakfast. Max and Chief were sitting in their rooms, watching The Price Is Right on the TV. A Chow who looked slightly confused was trying to guess the first number in the price of a new car when Chief said in a voice that was so low that it seemed to come from somewhere in the floorboards, "Max...do you ever think about...it?"
Max turned to him, a look of honest puzzlement on his face.
"Think about what, big guy?" he asked.
"About what we did...you know...a long time ago..." Chief said, his face filling up with a look akin to agony.
"No," Max said, his face hardening. "No, I don't think about it at all." He grabbed the TV remote and turned The Price Is Right up louder. On TV the Chow was capering happily around the stage. He'd won the car.
Chief took the remote from him and at that moment Max thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He sharply took in his breath and snapped his head around, scanning the corner of the room. There was, naturally, nothing unexpected in the corner. However, now it seemed he could just see something off to the other corner of his eye, just out of sight. He snapped his head back around and realized that Chief had said something that he hadn't caught.
"Max, are you listening to me?" Chief asked.
"Sorry...I...what?" Max asked, somewhat perturbed.
"I asked you if you ever see anything strange," Chief asked.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Max said, lying through his teeth. "I don't see anything strange, not usually, and certainly not now."
Chief laid back against his pillow and seemed to drift away. "I see the older brother a lot of the time. Sometimes the younger one is with him. It's the most God-awful thing to look at."
Max turned to look at him and his voice was steely. "Listen, soldier," he said. "I don't want to talk about this nonsense. It was over 60 years ago. I don't care what you see or don't see, but I'll tell you this, what happened was not our fault. It was that crazy loony Squirrel's fault and that's all. But, for what it's worth, the dead are dead and they stay that way. There's nothing we can talk about that will fix it at all. I don't want to hear any more about it. You know, I was having a perfectly good life until all that junk tried to mess it up."
"You know, you sounded just like Squirrel for a moment there," Chief said.
"I did not," Max said, dropping his eyes. "Now that's enough."
Chief slowly nodded, sadness brimming up in his eyes. "Alright...alright." To Max's shock, Chief began to weep quietly, in the soft, unremarkable way that only old dogs seem able to cry.
I started seeing them too. The older Doberman at first, and only off in the corner of my eyes. There were just disquieting glimpses at first, things I half thought I was imagining. Then I came back in my room from dinner one day and nearly had a heart attack and died. The Doberman pup, 60 years dead by now, was standing in the corner of my room, dripping blood from his ruined face onto the floor. I'm not ashamed to say that I wet my pants right there, like I was no more than a pup myself. I'd like to see your reaction to something like that. He stood there, like a statue, until he gradually faded away, like smoke. I started seeing him more often then, almost every day. I'd come around a corner and there he'd be, down at the end of the hall, or maybe 3 tables away during dinner, or in the corner by the flag during bingo. I never saw him move, and he never spoke to me at all. No one else could see him. I think Chief knew about it, though. I could see it in his eyes; he wanted very badly to talk about it. I suppose he'd been seeing the pups all his life. I was amazed that he was still sane. But I couldn't talk about it. It wouldn't have done any good you see, and I suppose some part of me hated Chief because I'd never seen these things until he showed up.
I remember the exact moment when I decided that Chief needed to die, and that I was going to murder him. He'd gone off on one of those crying jags again, like he was a weepy teenager or something. I wanted to tell him to pull himself together, that he was a soldier and an adult. Then he told me that he knew that I saw the specters too and asked me why I was refusing to talk to him. For some reason, this made me more furious than I have ever been in my life, more furious than I was during the war, more furious than when I found out my son was going to marry against my wishes, more furious than when my grandson told me he didn't care what I thought, that he was going to drink as much as he damn well chose. I decided right then and there that I was going to kill him. I had the perfect way too. Chief's heart was weak and he kept a bottle of pills to take on the nightstand next to the bed, in case he woke up in distress during the night and couldn't call for the nurse. I was simply going to take the pills and knock them off the nightstand to where he couldn't reach them and then replace them in the morning before he woke up. Then, he'd die in the night and I wouldn't have to hear him weeping or trying to talk to me about a bunch of ghosts that should've stayed buried.
Chief died less than a week later. And I will swear to you on my mother's name that I had nothing to do with it at all. He simply up and died one night, and when I woke up in the morning he was stone dead and that was that. I called the nurse. She called the undertaker and he was buried in the graveyard with a full-dress ceremony. I didn't go; my hips hurt me so badly that day that I stayed inside.
The ghosts didn't die with him. In fact, they got even worse, if that's possible. I see them all the time now, they are with me when I'm eating, and they're with me when I'm watching TV. The older one stands right next to the TV and the blood from his face drips down onto the television and makes it hard to see. When the nurse helps me shower, he stands there in the shower with us, the blood swirling around the drain. Sometimes, I see the one that I shot. He's less gruesome than the other one, but he's also more active. He's run down the hallway, blood pattering down on the floor as he goes. He'll bounce silently on the bed next to mine, Chief's bed, blood flying up to the ceiling. Some of the blood even spattered on to me, and I fainted dead away. The nurse came by and though I'd had a heart attack. No such luck. They scare me...I don't know what I'm going to do.
I'm going to put this journal away now, on my bookshelf. I've written everything I need to write. When I'm gone, someone will read this and realize what happened to me.
Max woke up in the middle of the night. Moonlight was streaming in through the window, lighting up the room in milky whiteness. It would have been eerily beautiful had it not been for the specters standing at the foot of the bed. On the left was the old Doberman. His face was a dripping ruin. His muzzle was nearly indistinguishable from the rest of his face, one jagged tooth jutted haphazardly. His eyes were gone, the empty sockets yawning from his face. One of his ears was hanging by a shred and on the left side of his face, white bone showed through his scalp. His upper body was drenched with blood, ugly stab wounds were everywhere on him. He was naked.
The other dog was just as frightening, although less gruesome. His chest was etched with 4 bullet holes. If he had turned around, one could have seen the exit wounds, each large enough for Max to put his fist into.
They were closer to Max than they ever had been in the past.
"Go away, damn you," he whispered. "You're dead."
In response, the dogs walked around to the sides of the bed. They were standing, one on each side of Max now. He could see Diego begin to grin, his tail wagging. His lips parted up and back, farther than any grin should have been able to do. He looked vulpine, then vampiric. His teeth seemed to be at least a foot long. They were bloody.
Max's heart was trip-hammering in his chest. He felt himself begin to sweat, a cold, sickly sweat that seemed to come from all his pores at once. He put his paws up over his eyes.
"Don't you want to look at us?" the older specter rasped. At this voice, Max thought his heart would explode out of his chest. He felt a heaviness in his groin as he wet himself.
"No..." he whimpered. "I don't want to look. Please..."
"I think you better look at us, " the younger one croaked.
Max slowly lowered his paws. The elder Doberman grinned, a malignant, blighted grin. The muscles in his face squelched and fresh blood pattered down on the sheets of the bed. With a move like lightning, both dogs wrapped their paws around Max's throat.
"Remember," the elder dog said. "In the end...all debts are paid." They began to squeeze, their grips like iron, forcing the air out of Max's lungs.
With a final wheeze, Max pleaded, "For the love of God...!"
The older Doberman grinned wider. "Yes," he said, and his voice was like the rattle of bones in a crypt. "For the love of God."
Max was pronounced dead the next morning, of natural causes. There were no signs of foul play at all.