Theaella

23

The sirens were louder now, compounding the racket inside the cafeteria. In the arena below, the pit-mastiff was going insane, hurling himself against the wall beneath the rope ladder.

Matthew glared at the vet, his teeth grinding. He felt the weight in his holster, the ARES calling to him.

But he turned to head for the far exit.

At the periphery of the chained fighters, just out of reach, another animal lay facing away, a hump of fur matted with blood. At first Matthew wasn’t sure what it was. A mammal yes. But it took a moment for him to register that it was a dog.

He took another step and saw the duct tape wrapped around the dog’s muzzle, depriving him of the use of his mouth. The tape had been in place long enough to start digging through the flesh, the surrounding skin inflamed. Another ring of shiny silver tape bound his hind legs. His chest had been gashed, and a flap of skin hung loose from his cheek.

A strip of reversed fur down his spine identified him as a Rhodesian ridgeback, like the one Matthew had grown up with in Jack’s house. This guy looked to be a puppy around a year old, tall but not yet filled out with muscle. Oversize paws showed that he was going to be a big boy.

He’d been bound and tossed to the larger animals to rile them up further.

A bait dog.

He’d managed to squirm his way barely out of the orbit of the fighters, who snapped at him now from either side. Quivering, he lay on the tiny patch of safety between the snarling mouths.

His eyes rolled imploringly to Matthew.

Matthew’s jaw set. He looked at the bait dog, debilitated and thrown to the others as a living plaything, an appetizer to whet their appetite for blood.

Matthew turned around. Glared at the vet. Dangling from a loop on his tool belt was a roll of duct tape.

The vet stumbled away from Matthew on his twisted ankle, circling the edge of the sunken arena. Below, the pit-mastiff roiled, raging against the walls. “Look,” the vet said. “It’s necessary to rile up the main contenders. It’s just my job.”

Matthew said, “If you ever do anything like this again, I will find you. And I will do to you what you did to that dog.”

“Okay,” the vet said, holding up his hands, the stink of fear emanating from him. “Oka—”

The dog nearest him lunged, fully airborne before the chain snapped him back to earth.

The vet jerked away, stumbling on his injured ankle, and slipped over the edge. He screamed on the way down.

A clang as he hit the metal crate.

More screaming. And then the sounds of the pit-mastiff doing what the vet had primed him to do.

Matthew rushed to the edge and peered down, but it was too late, the vet’s screams terminating in a failing gurgle.

Matthew staggered back to the bait dog. The prong collars forked into the flesh of the surrounding fight dogs as they strained to tear the puppy to shreds. Crouching, Matthew grasped the ridgeback’s bound rear legs and slid him gently through the narrow safe zone, fishing him free.

Hoisting him up into his arms, Matthew ran for the rear door.

Outside, the gamblers flooded from the studio lot into the surrounding streets. Sirens chirped, cops on their loudspeakers issuing orders for everyone to freeze.

Cradling the injured dog to his chest, Matthew sprinted up the street, losing himself in the fleeing crowd. The missing boot lopsided his gait, a grime-heavy sock flapping from one foot. As he jogged to the car, the dog looked up at him with bulging eyes. He didn’t whimper or whine. He didn’t make a noise.

At Matthew’s back, police units made progress up the packed road, veering through the gamblers. Cops spilled from vehicles, rounding everyone up, closing in.

Matthew reached his car and fumbled at the lock, juggling the injured animal. The old man in the recliner watched him with dark eyes from the porch.

“Beveria darte vergüenza,” he said angrily, stroking his tiny dog. “Nos deberias hacer a perros pelear.”

He stood with a groan and set his dog down lovingly on the blanket behind him. Stepping forward, he raised a hand to alert the cops to Matthew.

“Le estoy rescatando,” Matthew said. “Tengo que llevarlo al veterinario. ?Me ayuda?”

The old man studied him.

An officer broke through a cluster of handcuffed gamblers. Matthew was right in his line of sight, but the cop was focused instead on the old man.

“Sir?” the cop shouted. “What is it, sir? Did you see someone getting away?”

The old man hesitated. Then pointed to the alley next to his house, away from Matthew. The cop bolted up the alley.

Matthew rested the puppy gingerly in the backseat and pulled out. Driving away, he nodded his thanks at the old man. The old man nodded back.

I Know What You Did

“I dunno, man,” the young woman at the animal shelter said. “It looks pretty bad. The vet might be a while.”

The exam room smelled of ammonia, the linoleum floor showing streaks from a recent cleaning. Matthew sat on the floor with the bait dog in his lap, stroking his ears. The dog hadn’t made a sound, his golden-brown eyes still fixed on Matthew.

The duct tape remained dug into his muzzle. His hind legs, wrapped together, twitched.

“How long?” Matthew said.

“At least a half hour.”

“Can you at least cut the tape off his mouth?”

“I’m not messing with that,” she said, tugging at her septum ring. A spiderweb tattoo clutched the back of her neck, and she wore a loosely stitched black sweater and an armful of metal bracelets that jangled when she moved. “Don’t wanna hurt him worse, poor guy.”

The service bell dinged up front, and she shot the dog an apologetic look and vanished, closing the door behind her.