Loose the Dogs Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter Twenty

  Mailing List

  Also by this Author

  Preview Chapter of Mito

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 P.D. Workman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  PROLOGUE

  “OF ONE THING I AM sure,” Glenn declared. “These dogs are perfectly harmless.”

  Burton studied him with a frown. It was a bold statement. And Glenn was the expert, the man they had made responsible to examine the psyches of these beasts. He was the one who was to help them decide the dogs’ eventual fate.

  “How sure are you?” he prodded.

  “These dogs are not killers. They are house pets. Until recently, they were well cared for and had good relationships with their owners. I’ve talked to the family and neighbors. I’ve interacted with the dogs. You do not need to worry about it. They are good dogs.”

  “So your recommendation is to adopt them out.”

  “It would be criminal to put them down. What they did was purely for survival. It had nothing to do with aggression or violence. They are not going to hurt anyone.”

  “A lot of people are going to scream about them being killers if they are not put down.”

  “People will complain no matter what you decide. I already have a waiting list of people who want to adopt these dogs. One of them or even all of them together. I have more people than I can deal with.”

  Burton shook his head. “I don’t think it is a good idea to adopt them out locally. Who knows what kind of weirdos we’re going to get. Sure, there will be do-gooders who want to rehabilitate them or give them a good home. But how do you tell them apart from people who want a dangerous animal and will abuse them to increase aggression? Or people who want an animal with a reputation, something to show off. They’ll get bored real fast, and you’ll have the dogs back here to adopt out again. I don’t know about dogs, but I know what happens to kids who keep getting shifted from one home to another.”

  Glenn nodded. “Same thing,” he admitted. “Pretty soon they get identified as unadoptable, and we have to put them down.”

  “Rather unlike children,” Burton clarified dryly.

  “Right,” Glenn chuckled. “That wouldn’t be considered humane. Even though we would do it to our pets…”

  “Different species, different laws. Okay. So we’re going to have to do a press release. Announce they have all been examined by an expert, have been declared to be safe, blah blah blah, and will be adopted out. But we’re not going to put them up locally, and we’re not going to keep them together. We’ll split them up and ship them all out to other cities.”

  Glenn shrugged. “If you have the connections to make those arrangements, great. And you’re going to make sure the adopting families know the dogs’ history…”

  Burton shook his head, face flushing. His mouth tightened. “Not a chance. You’ve said they’re safe. Knowing their history will have no impact on their behavior in their new homes. We’re not going to tell people what happened. That will just cause the same problems as adopting them locally. Nice, quiet, stable families aren’t going to adopt them. We need to get them into good homes. So they are well cared for, and there is no chance of any future violence.”

  Glenn swallowed. He looked at the floor, scuffing the tile with his foot. “Mr. Burton… I know you’re the one making the decisions here, but I don’t think that is wise.”

  “So you aren’t one hundred percent sure the dogs are safe?”

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  “Then why would we have to tell anybody what has happened here?”

  “Just… because… they should know.”

  Burton shook his head. “No. No, no, no. That’s the last thing they need to know.”

  Chapter One

  FRANK HORCHUK WOULD NEVER forget walking into that trailer. He saw it in his mind every time he closed his eyes. He woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, seeing those eyes and those teeth, screaming soundlessly, gasping for breath. Janice, his wife, had started sleeping in the other room, because even if Frank took sleeping pills, he still thrashed around in the throes of nightmares. He kept crying, wanting to hold her and to turn on the light. All of which, it would seem, upset her own sleep cycle.

  The Johnsons’ neighbors had reported something was wrong. They could hear the dogs howling and barking when they drove past. They hadn’t seen Marion and Duane in many days, and Marion and Duane were always out and about; in the community visiting, fixing things, and of course taking the furry babies for walks. Everyone knew Marion and Duane. And they knew something was wrong. It had just been too long.

  Frank had knocked and tried the door. There was no answer, and the door was locked. He tried to look through the windows, but it was summer, and the windows were blocked with tinfoil to try to keep the little trailer livable during the day. He could smell something putrid. He could hear the dogs, barking, and barking, but there were no footsteps, no one coming to the door. He took a walk around the trailer looking for anything suspicious. But there was nothing. Just the dogs barking wildly in the trailer. Barking at him to leave or to let them out. He wasn’t a dog person. He wasn’t sure what their particular tone of barks might tell a dog whisperer.

  Frank tried again to look through the window, though he knew it was useless. He looked at the car, parked in the driveway. They only had one car registered to their names. The car hadn’t been driven for several days. He could tell by the dust caked on it by the prairie wind. The muddy streaks from the morning dew. The car had been sitting there for a while. A good long while.

  Eventually, Frank found himself on the doorstep again, this time taking out his lock aid to unlock the door. He fitted it in and pressed the button. Presto, the lock clicked. He turned the handle and paused before opening the door. He could hear the dogs moving frantically up and down the trailer. They weren’t locked up or chained. And they weren’t going to like an intruder.

  “Hello?” he called. “Marion? Duane? This is Frank Horchuk, county police. Are you there? Do you need help?”

  The dogs were on the other side of the door, barking, snarling, scratching at it. As he pushed it in ever-so-slowly, paws came around the door, grasping, trying to pull the door open far enough they could escape. He would have to step in with his leg blocking the door and push it shut behind him. Otherwise, the dogs would get out and be running loose on the property. Hoping they wouldn’t bite him; hoping if they did, his heavy pants would protect his legs; Frank pushed his leg through the door, and slid the rest of himself into the trailer sideways, shutting the door behind him before those barking, snarling, furry babies of Marion’s could escape.

  Frank was immediately assaulted with the stench of the trailer. He could hardly breathe in the stifling enclosed space. He wanted to open the door immediately
and slip back out. But he breathed through his mouth and waited for his eyes to focus in the dimness. There were no lights and the sunshine was well-blocked by the tin foil in the windows. He stood there, hands held out toward the dogs in a friendly, nonthreatening greeting. They were growling at him, but they didn’t attack, and the barks had quieted. Some of them were whining.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he closed them to shut out the gruesome sight. He couldn’t physically bear to look at all of it at the same time. He held his hand over his eyes. He squinted through his fingers at one small part of the room, then closed his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth, and trying to process it before squinting again and immediately closing his eyes. He was like a child watching a scary movie on TV, pulled in by the fascination and curiosity, trying desperately to shut out the horror. It was too awful to take it all in.

  The dogs had been shut in the trailer for a long time. The floor was caked with urine and feces. He might just have to retire his shoes after the call. But that wasn’t the only smell. There was an overwhelming smell of decomposing flesh. The dogs had matted, dark muzzles. They’d been eating something and had not been properly cared for. Marion and Duane should have cleaned them up. Frank looked more carefully to see what they had eaten, though he had already seen too much. He already knew, his brain just couldn’t accept what he had seen.

  The desiccated remains of two bodies were laying in the living room. On the floor.

  What was left of the bodies.

  They were mangled almost too badly to be recognized as bodies anymore. Parts were missing, some of them scattered around the floor, where the dogs had each dragged their own portions to eat unmolested. Bits of bones and mangled flesh. Blood was spattered and smeared all over everything. The carpet, the walls, the dogs themselves.

  The dogs were a sorry sight. Thin to the point of emaciation, their fur dull and matted. Their eyes crazy with fear. When he looked at the ones growling, they cowered before him, showing submissive behavior, even though he had made no threatening moves toward them. He reached slowly toward a golden retriever a foot or two away from him, rolling its eyes and crouching in submissive body language. As soon as he reached toward it, the dog’s demeanor changed. It growled, showing its long sharp teeth. When he got too close, it snapped at him, and Frank jerked back, startled. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his heart.

  Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  A big black rottie advanced toward him, snarling. Long, pointed teeth, flecked with foam and blood.

  Unable to comprehend what had happened, Frank turned the handle on the door behind him, slowly opened it and slipped back out. Slamming the door to the trailer, he stood on the front step, gulping down the cool, clean air, trying to clear his head and figure out what to do next.

  It had been a long time before he was able to reach for his phone and call for backup and animal control. He stuttered and stammered on the phone, unable to describe what he had seen.

  Those beasts, those horrible beasts. Were they the victims here? Abandoned to their own devices?

  Or had they attacked their owners, unprovoked?

  Frank was trying to focus on his model trains when Janice called him into the living room where she was watching the news. He knew by her voice something was wrong.

  He hurried out, expecting to see a train wreck or a terrorist attack, maybe a hurricane off the coast of Florida where their daughter Elsie had just moved. Instead, he saw only a man in a suit, labeled ‘Jim Burton’ on the news screen, addressing a small scrum of reporters.

  “What—” he started.

  Janice waved him to silence. Frank stood back and listened to the suited man as he smiled and reassured the reporters.

  “All of the dogs have been examined and watched by experts,” he soothed, “and have been determined to be perfectly safe and nonviolent pets. They have been determined to be appropriate for adoption.”

  “The dogs…?” Frank repeated hollowly.

  He saw them in front of him… the wet, matted muzzles. The crazy shine in the Rottweiler’s eye as it advanced on him in the trailer, stifling with the smell of feces and urine and blood and decomposing flesh.

  He heard all the dogs barking, snarling, and whining, as if they were so deranged they didn’t even know what they felt.

  And those bodies… torn to pieces… dragged around the room… pieces of bone and flesh hidden in corners, where each dog had dragged his own take.

  The dogs were like ghosts. Like zombies, their ribs sticking out, their fur matted with blood, their eyes wild and crazy. They had tasted human flesh and Frank wasn’t going to stick around to see how they liked it.

  The reporters were all shouting questions at Burton, who was smiling serenely and nodding.

  “They are not violent. They are not dangerous,” he repeated. “We have had them examined by the top psychologist in the field. These dogs are the victims. They went through a terrible ordeal, and in the end, they did what they had to in order to survive. They didn’t choose for this to happen. They didn’t attack their owners. They were left to fend for themselves when their owners passed away of natural causes. They simply did what they had to in order to survive, the same as humans have been forced to throughout history. If we, being logical, thinking, moral creatures, can, in the direst of circumstances, be driven to eat human flesh, then why not these animals? They may love their owners, but after the weeks pass… they just did what they had to to survive. They are not a danger to their new owners.”

  “Who do our viewers talk to if they want to adopt them?” a pressed, coiffed woman at the front of the scrum asked.

  There was shocked silence for a moment while the other reporters stared at her. Then they all looked to Horchuk for his answer.

  “If you want to adopt a dog, you can go to the Humane Society and fill out a form,” Burton said smoothly. “There is no special process for these dogs. There are no special requests for these dogs. They will go to the family they are best suited to, just like any other adoptable animals.”

  “But surely you will tell people if the dogs they adopt are part of this group?” one of the male reporters demanded.

  “That’s all the questions I can take right now. There are press releases on the table to your right. There are some binders of pictures of animals currently at the Humane Society for adoption. Thank you.”

  He walked away from the microphone, answering no more questions.

  Frank stared in horror. “They are letting them go?” he said to Janice, in shock. “They are letting them all go?” He was aware he was shouting at her, even though it wasn’t her fault. “Those animals should be destroyed! They are killers! You can’t just unleash killers on an unsuspecting public!”

  Janice shook her head, the expression in her eyes mirroring the horror and anger welling up in him. Outside the house, a dog barked. Frank jumped, his head whipping around to locate it. Again, he saw all those dark, wet muzzles surrounding him, barking, showing their teeth. Hungry, mad beasts.

  He covered his eyes and rubbed his forehead, trying to wipe the images away. He dropped his voice. “Oh, Janice… how could they do this? How could they be so stupid?”

  “Maybe they’re right,” she offered. “Maybe it was just a matter of necessity. We don’t know.”

  “You didn’t see those dogs,” he snapped. “He—” Frank pointed at the TV screen, even though Burton was gone and forgotten by the cheerful news anchors back at the studio. “He never saw those dogs. How could anyone make such a stupid decision, knowing what they did?”

  “We don’t know they did anything wrong, Frank. They said the dogs didn’t kill the Johnsons, they just… were starving, because no one was taking care of them anymore. It was just survival.”

  “How could they know? How can anyone know?” He was yelling, hurting his throat with the vehemence of his words.

  “The autopsy—”

  “Janice, all that was lef
t was bones! How could they decide from the bones? I never even heard what the Cause of Death was. Did you hear a determination of Cause of Death?”

  “I’m sure they must have figured something out.” Her voice was calm, trying to make him see reason. “They wouldn’t just release the dogs without knowing for sure, would they?”

  “Wouldn’t they? Bureaucrats! They just don’t want to upset the bleeding hearts! The animal lovers! Well, you can love a wolf without unleashing it on the public!”

  “But maybe they’re right. Maybe they really are sure the dogs are not a danger.”

  “How can they be sure? They can’t talk to the dogs. Even talking to a serial killer, people can’t tell. The experts can’t even prove what is going on in a person’s head. How can they prove what is going on in a dog’s head? If there is even a mental process. What if they just act on instinct? How can they be sure the dogs won’t attack a live person? Is it really worth the risk?”

  “I don’t know… maybe they know,” Janice repeated, stuck on that thought, unable to conceive that Frank could be right and the dogs could be killers.

  “They don’t know. If you put the dogs down, then you know. Then you know they’ll never attack anyone again. If you let them go… if you let families adopt them—” Frank’s brain flooded with pictures of babies and children, torn to bloody shreds.

  “Oh no…” he moaned, holding his head. “If they let families adopt them… how can they risk children’s lives like that?”

  Chapter Two

  AS THEY GOT READY to leave the house, Brenda swung the baby seat at her side. Her arm ached with the weight and she really hoped Erin would stop fussing and go back to sleep.