Funeral
Chapter 6: Funeral June 3, 1988 06:15 HoursWest Woodburn, Northumberland, North East England I suppose I should be thankful for the small mercies that God hands down to me. After the last couple of days I wouldn't have been surprised if the Soviet's began an invasion of England, starting with West Woodburn. But, amazingly, the night rounds were quiet and peaceful. I took the opportunity to work the kinks out of my muscles and groom my fur as I walked back and forth down the streets. There was little of my pelt that wasn't covered by my uniform, but what there was became at least presentable. The sun was just starting to peek over the soft green hills when I returned to my box. There was one more thing I had to do before people began arriving for the funeral. At the back of my home, side directly opposite the door, there was a swinging panel attached to the inside wall, forming a tiny closet of sorts. I'd loaded it up the day I'd first arrived and never touched it since. The hinges still creaked when they swung, I had to half step outside to give it enough room to open. Behind it, still in its full glory, was my dress uniform.
I'd only ever worn it once before, on my graduation day. It didn't bring back pleasant memories. The uniform, complete with trousers, jacket, and shirt, was a perfect virgin white with brass buttons and black stencilling on the breast. Clicking closed the door behind me, I disrobed from the too tight duty uniform and carefully, oh so carefully began to change. Everything had been exactly tailored to fit me for the day of my graduation. It was the only clothing I'd ever worn that wasn't simply 'Dog Size'. And it showed. We were all supposed to be the same size, we were bred and modified through our standard therapies to be as close to identical as biology could make us. I hadn't been the same as the others since that meeting in the basement of the Kennel. I'd become larger than was originally intended by my designers, an extra fifteen pounds of pure muscle. All police uniforms were just a shade too tight for me. My dress uniform was the only thing other than my own pelt that felt truly natural. And I'd worn it but once.
The spotless white trousers pulled up over my narrow canine hips, held in place by a wide black leather belt with an unadorned silver buckle. The pullover shirt was completely plain, but impeccably made. It perfectly conformed to my brown furred chest, hugging my overdeveloped muscles. The effect, as seen in the small mirror over my desk, was to make me look just short of angelic. Or rather that would be the case if God employed freaks of nature such as I. The jacket was the
third and final step. White again, its thick fabric fell heavy on my shoulders. The only adornments were its shiny brass buttons and a single line of black text that stood out, split above the left and right breasts. I took a moment to slowly buff the buttons before reading the words. They were upside down from my point of view, but I already knew what it said. K-9-78081842 Police Dog Last but not least, and most certainty not to be forgotten, I plucked my badge from the discarded duty uniform and placed it to sit proudly upon my breast, directly below my full name.
This was the uniform that I had been awarded that badge in, and I would never again wear it without that small piece of adornment. My entire life up until slightly more than a year ago had been in pursuit of that single thing. And while I may have not gotten the commission I was hoping for, I would never allow myself to falter. Not again. With a sigh, I quickly pocketed the new glass cylinder that Master Constable Proust had delivered to me yesterday. The sun had risen further in the east sky behind my box as I stepped out. I cast a long shadow that reached across the road to the graveyard. I walked a few steps as I pulled the seams of my uniform straight. The bright light made me squint and my eyes begin to water. Turning, I stood at rest attention on the pavement and looked across the street at the funeral. I sighed. It wouldn't be long until I'd have to watch another one. This was for Jonathan Hyatt, soon there would be another for Zack Crow. Jonathan was well loved, his funeral would be fully attended. I wasn't so sure what I would see for Zack.
It was still early, neither the family nor the body had arrived yet, but people were already starting to gather at both the grave site and the church. By the way things were going we might just have the whole town out. I could smell him long before he came into sight up the road. He was still wearing the same wrinkled uniform as yesterday, not having changed into anything other than his normal working clothes. "Sir." I straightened to full attention. "At ease, Forty-Two." He stood beside me, following my gaze across the street to the graveyard. "So this is where I find you. The single grand hope... and you're reduced to this. A backwater town so far north it might as well be in Scotland. By God, this place has only five-hundred people, and most of them are farmers!" He turned now, stepping in front of me so I couldn't avoid his gaze. "You were perfect, Forty-Two! Everything worked! You aced every test, broke every record! Then you threw your life!" His voice was rising, becoming a scream that caused even the people across the street to stop and stare. The
Master Constable paused for a moment to calm his voice, sucking in deep breaths between drags on his smouldering cigarette. "Why, Forty-Two? Your entire future was planned out. You could have been top Dog." One of his fingers shot out to stab my sensitive nose as his voice fell to a hiss, "You would have been a breeder! Everything you wanted, everything we needed!"
"It's not so bad here, Sir. It's quiet, peaceful. I am calm here, Sir. Would I be calm in your plan?" "That's not the point! We have the drugs for that!" "Yes, Sir. And I've only ever had to use them once. Isn't that far better than what you planned for?" The veins were beginning to bulge in his eyes as he drew his face closer to mine. "You have no idea what you cost us, Forty-Two. We couldn't make another one of you if the empire depended on it, even if everyone knew! Half the people who made your treatments are dead, the other half are locked up in jails spread across the world. You're the only one of your kind. The world will never see another like you unless you breed." A small smile split my lips, exposing just the merest shadow of my teeth. "Then, Sir, I suppose that makes me the best of my kind." His breath came out in a wet sigh, body almost looking like a balloon with the air being let out. "Someday, Forty-Two, we will pick up where we left off. The Janus project isn't dead, not as long as you breathe."
We stood in silence after that to watch more and more people slowly file in from their homes to prepare to pay their last respects to the young child. It wasn't until I saw a black hearse winding its way up the road from Hexham that I knew proceedings had officially begun. It was followed closely by a beat up red pickup. The vehicles stopped only just up the road, in front of the church. There were no Dogs attending to the body this time, only humans. They carried the small casket up the pathway into the church, between the two oak trees that framed the entrance. The family was only a few steps behind, Trevor holding tight to his mother's black gloved hand. I stood at the edge of the churchyard, near my box and far away from the press of people. I was tall enough to be able to see over them with little difficulty. That also meant that Trevor was able to see me. He broke from his parents at a run the moment we made eye contact. "Jonathan!" He ran to me, tugging on my arm to be lifted from the ground.
The entire crowd around us gasped and stepped back as he called my new name, the same word that everyone else still attached to the corpse. Even the Master Constable was driven back a pace, eyes wide. "Hello... Jonathan." Richard
followed behind his son, pushing the stragglers of the crowd from his way. "I'm glad to see you could make it." "I made a promise, Sir. The very hounds of hell could not keep me from here." I still couldn't use his proper name in public, not with all the people watching. Gently, I pried young Trevor's fingers from my hand an urged him back to his father. "Aren't you coming with us?" Trevor asked, looking up at me. "I'll wait out here, Little-One, stand guard. I'll join you at the graveyard." He smiled at that. Then, with a sloppy but heartfelt flourish, saluted me. I saluted back. That action, coupled with the dress uniform close around me, gave me a flash back to graduation day. The family turned, making their way into the church. Soon everyone else followed them until I was alone on the pavement outside the low stone wall.
Unlike all the other times I'd passed the church, the scent of food did not waft from its open doors today, but rather that of the myriad of flowers that had been set around the casket. I preferred the scent of food. Reverend Benson began speaking from his familiar place in the pulpit, but his voice was softer this time, failing to hold the harsh and accusatory edge it traditionally did. Only just barely did his words reach my ears. He went on at length about the child, and how God would forgive him for any sins he may have committed. For he had been but still a child, young and lost. He spoke of Jonathan's life, how he was loved by all the community, and how he had endless love for all in turn. How tragic it was that his young life had been cut short by such an unfortunate accident, and how we should take this as a warning of God's fickle nature. The service continued, others approached the pulpit one at a time to speak. Family, friends, even the mayor, they all had warm things to say about him. Some people I could hear clear as day, even from this distance, others were little more than indistinct mumbles beyond the gentle hum that was always present when a large number of humans came together.
This part of the service must have gone on for hours. I was shocked to realize that the Master Constable was no longer with me. He had taken a place in the church, as near the casket as he could. He could even see the body. Eventually the words came to a close and people slowly began to spill out into the churchyard and cross the street. There was little traffic today, and for that I was grateful. The last thing I needed was another accident. I was the last to move. Everyone had left the church. It sat bare now, not a soul within. I stole a glance into its empty interior, the pews awaited even a single person to speak with God. Keeping a respectful distance, but not so far as to send a message to the family that I was hesitant to be here, I followed them onto the lush green grass of the graveyard. The graveyard was, rather paradoxically, one of the best kept places in West Woodburn. The grass here was always clipped, the headstones always clean. The yard wasn't all that old, it only dated back to somewhere in the sixties, but it was part of the community as sure as the stores or church were.
It was at that moment, standing behind a sea of men, women, and children dressed in dark suits and sombre dresses that I realized just how out of place I was. And not merely due to my species. My dress uniform stood out like a beacon of light amongst the waves of blackness. I was the only one wearing white, looking more like I should be attending a birthday party or other merriment. I had to fight the urge to duck my head and slink back to my box in shame. This was no way to pay my respects to the child whose name I had appropriated. How could I have been so foolish? And that led to the other side of the coin, I hadn't even the slightest how I should be behaving. I'd never attended a funeral before - they don't hold them for Dogs. We aren't buried, we are disposed of in whatever manner is most convenient. I'd attended autopsies, but never a funeral. The closest I'd ever been to a funeral was the cremation of one of my brothers back at the Kennel. His lifeless and twisted body had been done away with in the same manner as all Dogs. Burnt to ashes within the furnace of the medical wing, then shovelled into garbage bags to be removed with the rest of the trash. We'd been brought down to watch while we were still quite young. It had been as an example. There is no future in failure, only perfection.
My hands began to shake as the memory came to mind. I didn't want to think about the deaths of any of my brothers and sisters. There was one in particular that turned my gut to water... At least the death of Jonathan had nothing to do with me. It was an accident, plain and simple. It was tragic, it was horrible, but it had been an accident. It had nothing to do with me, I hadn't caused it. A couple of the townsfolk turned briefly towards me while I composed myself. I shuddered again and kept my gaze to the ground. With even the slightest touch of luck they would simply assume it was nothing more than my reaction to Jonathan's death. In part, it was. In its own good time, the service concluded. One by one, every man, woman, and child filed past the open grave to throw upon the casket either a flower or a pinch of dirt. I was the last one to pass by, much of the crowd already gone. I was neither a man, woman, nor a child. Looking down at the small wooden
casket at the bottom of the hole, it was already half obscured by the debris that now covered it. I didn't know what to grace him with. I hadn't brought any flowers - I hadn't known to - and it in some way felt wrong to send him on with nothing more than a pinch of dirt. I would have thrown a glass of water if I'd had one. That was, after all, what I had lifted him up from not so long ago.
I tarried there long enough that the grave digger who stood beside me must have thought I was done. He began filling in the hole with his shovel, one labourers scoop at a time. The digger himself looked just as well like he belonged here. Skeletal, skinny, and frail, it was an amazement that he could lift the earth at all. "If you don't mind, Sir, I'd like to help you." I held my hand out to gently take the shovel from him. The old man just shrugged, letting it come free from his grasp before walking to lean against the stone fence that surrounded the graveyard. Behind him, next to my box, I could see the Master Constable watching me. Waiting. I didn't bother to pay any concern to my pristine white dress uniform as I moved the soil. I'd never wear it again, why should it be of any concern of mine if it became irreparably stained? No more than twenty minutes later the grave was filled, and I was coloured a dingy brown. Dirt and grass covered not only my uniform but my own fur as well. I patted the earth down with my shovel. The only thing I could think to say as the task completed was, "Good-bye, friend. I only wish I could have known you better in life." My throat felt rough.
I handed the shovel back to the grave digger as I departed, across to my box. I'd still be able to see Jonathan's grave from my door... as soon as the Master Constable moved his car. Proust paused only a moment to take in my stained white uniform before turning and walking down the street without so much as a 'follow me'. All he did was snap his fingers and I fell in line behind him. There was nothing else I could do. Jan actually looked up at me this time when I walked into the main floor of the 'Crown's suits. I hadn't expected to see her again this soon after Zack's death. He had been the only reason I ever came in here. I was almost surprised she recognized me without a drunk hanging from my shoulder. Proust and I made our way up the stairs and into the second floor room he was renting. It wasn't the same room Zack had been in, it was next door. He let the door click closed behind us and barred it securely with the deadbolt. The walls of the 'Crown were thick, not even I could hear the voices of the other patrons in the building or the wake below.
"Sit." He directed the command to me while opening the briefcase
he had laid out across his bed. There was only a single chair in the room, and it was obvious that it was not for me. I lowered myself to the ground, down on my knees, pulling my tail around like I had when I sat in the lecture halls of the Kennel. This was to be my long delayed yearly review, but I was sure that more than the standard metrics would be covered. The Master Constable had still been a Handler last I'd seen him, during my final day at the Kennel, and that meeting had not ended well. He surprised me by pulling out the normal documentation from his disorganized pile of papers. One of the folders had my full name on it, the same folder that Dr. Brophy had held so long ago, and the other one simply read 'West Woodburn'. The man sighed as he fell back heavily into his chair. He sat there for a moment, silent, just looking at me. "Fine, Forty-Two, let's get this over with. You're smart enough, you already know what I'm going to say. It's not like you could mess up much in a backwards little hole like this."
I felt my whiskers twitch as he spoke disparagingly of my territory. He was right, however. I knew what he was going to say, almost word for word, before he said it. He reviewed the crime statistics of the area, discussed my relationship with the regional headquarters in Hexham, and brought up the two deaths that had occurred in the last forty-eight hours. I was almost beginning to think that he may have discounted our entire history together, that I was such a disappointment that he wouldn't bring it up again. It was when he had returned to talking about the Hexham Dogs, and the reports they had filled out on me as my superiors, that he suddenly threw his papers to the ground. "Damn it, Forty-Two! Why are you here? Why did you do this? We deserve an explanation, at least that much! You're the best Dog we've ever had. We still haven't bred another half as good as you! Why did you have to throw your final? An eighty, you just avoided disposal by a fraction of a percent! You should have aced that with a perfect score! We all but fed you the answers for Christ's sake! You should be in one of the top posts of London, set for a name! You should be halfway to being retired for studding by now. What happened, Forty-Two?" His voice had risen as he spoke, almost to the point where I had become concerned that he might strike me. Now his voice fell. He no longer sounded mad, simply tired. Tired and beaten. "Why, Forty-Two? You were going to change the face of Goddard's animals. God, you were going to change the entire world, bring the colonies back in line, make England the grand empire she should be again!"
"Sir," My voice was level as I spoke, tightly controlled. We'd gone through this conversation once before,
and now I'd had over a year to ensure my words were perfect this time. "My allegiance is, as it has always been, to Queen and Country. It has been bred into me and will never change. I did the very best I could to ensure that I fulfilled the obligations set upon me by my birth. I am exactly as you made me, Sir. And," I could no longer hold my eyes to the man, they fell to my lap and my black clawed hands that lay there, "I like it here, Sir. I'm making a difference in the lives of the people of England. Isn't that what I was created for?" Now he did strike me. I had only once been struck before. It didn't hurt, did no real damage, but the blow sent me falling backwards to the floor all the same as a yip escaped from my stunned lips. When I next opened my eyes he was above me, straddling my chest. One hand held the now torn front of my dress uniform, the other grasped my whiskers. His face was mere inches from mine.
"Not you! Not you! You were going to change the world, you were going to be our ticket to power, immortalize us in the history books as the men who threw the shackles off England and restored her to her proper glory. You were going to be the Dog we were to present to the Queen, the tool we were going to use to show her the future!" I didn't fight as he cracked my head back against the floorboards, sending stars shooting through my vision. I was larger than him, stronger in all measures, I could have tossed him off of me in a heartbeat... but I couldn't. He was still my Handler... he was still human... he was still better than I. As quickly as he had set upon me he was gone, back sitting calmly on his seat as though nothing had happened. Leaving me shaking my head as I lay on the floor. "Then, Forty-Two, we have simply the matter of your samples. We need to ensure your body is ageing properly." He paused for a moment and eyed me. "That after all the money the government has on the books for raising you... we need to make sure there are no... aberrations."
He reached back into his briefcase and withdrew three vials, one of blood, one of saliva, and one of urine. All three were already filled and labelled with my name and today's date. He set them before me on the floor, holding out a pen before continuing. "All we need is for you to sign off on your review and we'll call this farce to a close." "These aren't my samples, Sir." I didn't take the pen from his hand. "Are you daft, Forty-Two? Of course they're not! We had to engineer a whole 'nother Dog with the genetic profile you're supposed to have! He cost almost another quarter what it took to make you! God, Forty-Two, he's working in some dark hole under the London archives, never to see the light of day. That's what we
should have done with you too! I get woken in the middle of the night and dragged across half the country just to keep the patchwork covering you so no one figures out what you are. Do you even have the slightest idea what would happen if anyone realized what we did to you? What you've become?"
I knew. They hadn't told me when I'd first agreed to this, but I knew now. My discovery would result in far more than simply my disposal - though that would be part of it, eventually. They would take me apart, muscle by muscle, bone by bone. But not before they had first extracted every scrap of knowledge from my mind. Finding out who had done this to me, and exactly what it was they had done. If anyone discovered me... it would not be only I that would be disposed of. There were few offences that still warranted the death sentence in England, but this was one. Not even General Train would be immune from the fallout of my nature... there was not a single country that had failed to enact the Goddard's animals convention, and this would be enough to start a war if it ever came out. "I understand, Master Constable. I will sign the samples." I took his pen and verified the false vials. It wasn't until he had packed the forgeries away with the rest of the paperwork in his briefcase and clicked it closed that he withdrew three more vials from the inside pocket of his coat. These ones were empty. And unlabelled.
"And now for the real show. Though I haven't the slightest what we'll do with them now that Brophy is dead." "As you wish, Sir." I focused my eyes in the middle distance as Proust took his needle to my arm. He was long experienced at this by now and made sure that not the slightest scent of blood met my nose. The saliva was simple to provide, nothing more than spitting in a tube. The urine, however, did leave me feeling uncomfortable. It wouldn't have been so much as a thought back in the Kennel, but now the action was... embarrassing. It may be hard to explain this to a human, but I was raised without clothing, without concern for any personal dignity beyond the base minimums that were required for my training. It wasn't until I'd almost left the Kennel that I'd even so much as worn my first real pair of trousers. Providing a urine sample in the past would have been an easy thing, right out in the open. Now... I took the tube from his hand and turned to the small attached bathroom of the suite.
The Master Constable looked at me oddly, making a quick jot in his personal notebook as I turned from him. It didn't go onto the papers that were included in my official report. Closing the door behind me, I clicked on the dim light only to be affronted with my own face in the mirror. Inhuman blue eyes
stared back at me. It was a shock to see myself not dressed in the blue of my duty clothes nor the brown of my natural fur, but the stained white of what was left of my dress uniform. During the time I'd been here in West Woodburn, apart and isolated from the other police forces, I'd almost been able to think of myself as a normal officer again. Almost. Certain fears had always run rampant at the edges of my mind, but I was able to almost be myself amongst the people who saw me as nothing more than just another Police Dog. The return of Master Constable Proust had done away with that. I was not human, and had never been, I could never count myself amongst their society, but neither was I any longer a Police Dog. I had been born a Dog, it had been drilled into me since the first day I could remember... that was who and what I was. But I wasn't anymore.
I wasn't a Dog, and I wasn't a human. They had no name for what I was now. The only word that came to mind was monster. Unzipping the fly of my trousers, I proceeded to fill the small bottle, forcing my mind to focus on the menial task. One last look in the mirror before I left showed me nothing but the tired, haggard blue eyes again. They looked exactly the same as they had before I'd agreed to this devil's bargain, to everyone but me. They were still blue, the colour of the more liberal experiments. Back in the main room of the suit, I handed the Master Constable my filled vial. It was still warm. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir, or is our business concluded?" I wanted to get out of this room as soon as I could, away from him. "Forty-Two," He was leaning back in his chair now, looking as old as I felt, "I'd kill you in an instant if we could make another like you..." His eyes drifted shut, "We can still make this work, Forty-Two. We just need you to come back, to prove to the force that you can be the top Dog everyone expected of you."
I shook my head to his closed eyes. "I'm afraid that's impossible, Sir. We are both aware that the score recorded on a Dog's Final Exam is immutable. And it is extremely rare for a Dog to be reassigned, save promotion." A lazy smile crept to his lips. "There aren't that many steps on the ladder between here and London, you know. We could still do it. Dogs die all the time, positions open up, there are never any investigations." "I'm sure you're aware that you're describing murder. Sir." It didn't matter if it was a Dog or a human. It was still murder to me. Even if not to the law. "You'll come around, Forty-Two. I'm sure of it. You're better than this." "Until then, Sir, I assume we are finished here?" He waved a hand in my direction, never opening his
eyes. A heartbeat later I was out the door and down the stairs, touching my brow as I passed Jan on the way to fresh air. Master Constable Proust always smelt of stale cigarettes and burnt matches. That was why I didn't recognize the smoke in the air at first.
A low smoke filtering through the air of West Woodburn was hardly an unusual scent, many people here still have fireplaces that they use on occasion. The stench of burning insulation and drywall, however, was not so common. The scent was still faint, nearly lost behind the everyday odours that surrounded my sensitive nose, far too subtle for any human to yet notice. I followed it up the street, still too faint for smoke to be visible. It was coming from the north... for a moment I almost feared my box was burning. I was close. It was the church next door. Picking up the pace, I fell to all fours in an effort to move faster. There was no fire brigade in West Woodburn, we were too small a community. There was only me. It would take a truck at least twenty minutes to call from Hexham. Up the road, the buildings on either side were little more than a blur to me now. I passed the Green Grocer to my right, yelling, breathless, at him to call for help. I'm not sure if he heard me, nor if he would do as I asked even if he did.
Past my box, I leapt the ancient stone fence that surrounded the churchyard. Truth be told, this was possibly only the second time I'd ever set foot on the hallowed grounds. I could only hope that Reverend Benson was down at the 'Crown with the rest of the funeral party. The front door to the of the church still sat open, undisturbed, yawning wide. Within the wooden structure I could just see the wisps of smoke forming into vague warnings. I normally liked puffy white clouds such as those that floated through the sky on a warm summer's day like today, but these struck me cold. Still I could not yet hear the crackling of fire, nor feel its heat as I raced through the doors. If it hadn't been for the smoke swirling around me and the scent of the flames I would have just as well thought I was dreaming. I searched frantically through the pews and behind the pulpit, but couldn't find the source of the danger. I'd only once, long ago, been any deeper through the church. Turning towards the strongest scent of smoke, I threw open a heavy wooden door.
The hallway beyond led down a narrow set of stone steps to the cellar beneath the structure. It was dark down here, but the new flickering orange glow shed some unwelcome light. I would just as well been happier if it had remained dark. The basement was filled with wooden barrels and boxes, scripture paper and signs. Perfect fuel for the flames that were now spreading like
living things. "Fire! Fire!" I doubt it did any good, but I yelled it at the top of my lungs anyway as I worked my way towards the far side of the room, pushing books and old furniture from my way with every step. The acrid air burnt my lungs each time I took a breath. Pulling the jacket from my shoulders, I used its already dirty fabric to beat at the flames. Above me I could see the exposed wooden tresses of the floor under the pews. If the fire reached them... This building was far too old to have any form of fire suppression system. I hadn't even seen any extinguishers as I ran in. Thankfully my jacket, whatever it was made of, didn't seem to burn. I had the flames at a standstill, but that was all. It took everything I had to simply prevent them from spreading. This entire room was a tinderbox. I could stay here all day, fighting until I collapsed either from exhaustion or exposure to the smoke.
Turning, I ran back up to the main floor, claws slipping on the bare stone steps. There was a baptismal font up here, built into the woodwork next to the pulpit. I'm sure what I was doing was sacrilege, but I ripped it from its moors anyway. The pipe within began spraying water into the air. I wasn't sure if it was holy water or not, but it felt good on my hot and smoke stained fur as it rained across my face. There wasn't a bucket in sight, and I didn't have time to go searching for one, so I took a scrap of the ruined font and pooled what water I could to carry down the stairs. I'd likely lost at least half my payload by the time I'd made it down, but I tossed what I had on the growing flames anyway. The water gushing above was starting to soak through the floorboards, dripping down into the room. It did little to extinguish the flames, but it did keep the rest of the church from going up in a blaze. The building was ancient, and likely as dry as tinder. It was nothing short of a miracle that it hadn't caught the flame already.
I'd made a half dozen trips back to the font for water before the men of the village began to arrive, first the grocer, then Richard and the others from the funeral party at the 'Crown. Now that I spared a half second to look around me, the decorations of the funeral were still on the walls. I could have smelt the flowers piled about if it hadn't been for the smoke clogging my lungs and making me light headed. "Downstairs," I gasped through shallow breaths as I gathered up another load of spilt water in my arms and rushed back underground. Half the men followed me, the other half spread out, searching for buckets. While I alone had been able to do little more than keep the fire at bay, together we were able to make short work of the devil that had tried to consume the building whole. Every splash of water we threw seemed
to result in the flames screaming and pulling back another inch as they belched out yet more bellows of noxious black smoke. We had the flickering backed into a corner, almost dead, when yet another fowl blast of smoke took me in the face full force. I felt my legs fall out from under me, no stiffer than pudding as I pitched forward. I landed only inches from the flames, distantly smelling the fur on the tips of my ears as it began to singe.
There was yelling from behind me, but I couldn't make it out. It sounded like nothing so much as the birds chirping away on a calm summer's evening. But yet it was I who was calm. I knew that death waited but a hand's span from me, ready to consume me whole, but I felt nothing but peace. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, saw nothing but pinwheels of light as indistinct shapes danced in front of my eyes, but, for possibly the first time in my life, I felt completely and indisputably calm. I must have blacked out, though I don't remember it. The next thing I could tell I was being dragged up the narrow stone steps of the church stairwell, much like I had so often carried Zack home on the countless nights he had been unable to fend for himself. There was a prickly, pins and needles sensation on my skin, skittering under my pelt. The two men who carried me were pressed up under my arms, holding me close as my greater weight bore down on them, nearly forcing them to the ground. "Oof. How heavy is he, Richard? He must be made of pure muscle under that fur coat."
"Search me, Wayne. I've never been this close to him before." They nattered on like a pair of old betties as we worked our way up through the main room and out the door. They had to be careful not to slip on all the spilt water from the font. Heh. I'd just realized that I'd sprayed myself and the rest of the church in holy water. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that it was only the fire that had burnt me. They laid me on the lawn, propped up against one of the mighty oak trees, and sprinted back inside the church. For a moment I heard nothing but the faint moan of the wind. Then, like a gun shot slamming me in the back of the head, the world came again to focus. The wretched stenches of fowl smoke and burnt fur, the harsh sounds of people yelling and screaming all around me, the roar of engines on the road. And, behind it all, in the distance, the wail of approaching sirens. There was one voice above all the others that I could make out, in no small part as it was directed my way.
"Let me to him, the abomination! That beast tried to burn down my church! I'll send him back to his master for this!" Prying my stinging eyes open, I could just make out that it was Mary Hyatt that
kept the raving Reverend Benson at bay no more than a stride from where I lay. With how intent the Reverend was to get to me he didn't notice the form that stormed up from behind him until he was already held by his white ringed collar. "Reverend Benson, I presume?" I'd never heard Master Constable Proust speak in such calm tones. It made me fear for the man of the cloth's mortal coil. "He is already with his master, Reverend. And that is I." "This creature is an abomination! How can you consort with such a thing?" The Reverend's face was alight, bright red as he tried to brush the Master Constable's hands from his collar. They didn't move. Proust only chuckled under his breath at that remark. The Reverend hadn't the slightest what he was truly saying. "I believe that Forty-Two here just saved your church. Minus a little smoke and water damage. If he were such a beast, why would he not simply let it burn and watch calmly from his box?"
"He set it alight in the first place! Why else would he be in my cellar-" "Putting out the flames?" Mary Hyatt's quiet and still voice broke through their yelling as sure as a scalpel through flesh. "We all saw him run down the street, yelling to Wayne. There's no way he could have lit the fire, then had time to let it grow before raising the alarm. And anyway, why would he?" "How could the beast have known of the flames? No one else could tell. He must have set it." "What do you think, you moron?" Proust's voice was rising, "He's a Dog! He's bred and trained for this! He's the best we have!" The Reverend backed down, but a nasty smile cracked his thin lips a moment later. "If he's the best you have, then why's he all the way out here with us?" The Master Constable didn't have any words to answer him, at least none he could say publicly. All he did was stand and seethe at the Reverend's retreating back, draped as it was in his black robes of office.
"When you become active, Forty-Two, and you will, I'll bet my soul on it, I want you to prove yourself on him." The Master Constable spoke so softly that I, no more than a foot away, could barely make him out. "And you needn't worry about the town. No matter what happens here no one from the service will be sent to investigate. No one will come to handle you but I." I wasn't sure if I should interpret that as a command. I didn't want to.