Richard DuBois - Last Resort

It is amazing how deeply I can sleep on hard soil with mosquitoes buzzing about when I am thoroughly exhausted. I awake at dawn, covered in bug bites and dusted with dirt and twigs. The jellyfish marks are no longer puffy and only the palest pink now, and my calf does not throb with every step, though I dare not put much pressure on it for long. I head inland, eventually finding a cracked and pitted road. A cacophony of birds fills the air. I cannot see them; a hedgerow separates us, but I can hear their excited calls and the dry rustling of their wings. I push through the hedge and hundreds of birds scatter. There are so many birds, flying in every direction that I cannot see for a moment. The birds clear away, and I realize what drew them all to this spot: a dead body. The bloody, shredded remnant of a garish tropical print shirt tells me this is Curtis’s body. Nelson is nowhere in sight. I pray he got away. I cover my mouth and gag. I assume Curtis is face up. I cannot be certain for his face is gone. Disemboweled, scraps of his innards litter the landscape. Dogs. I back away from the corpse, scanning for any sign of the loathsome hounds. I do not see the dogs, but they probably are not far from their kill. Remaining in the open countryside is far too dangerous. A two story dwelling sits atop a small hill about two hundred yards away. No doubt, Curtis tried to make it to the dwelling but could not outrun the pack.

The dwelling is too sturdy to classify as a shack, yet too derelict to classify as a house. I hobble over to the side door of the dwelling, making as little noise as possible. To my relief, the door is unlocked. The dusty wood floor of the dwelling creaks with every step. The interior reveals a large eat-in-kitchen. I slide the simple but sturdy rectangular table to the door to block it from opening. Cupboards and a chipped counter top line the outside wall. A manual water pump, like something from out of the Old West, stands next to the sink. A dusty, multi-paned window is over the sink. Looking out the window, I see a table set directly beneath the window outside the home, and beyond that a rusted car on cinderblocks, but no dogs. I work the pump. To my great joy, water pours out of the opening. I stick my face under it, mouth open, gulping the water down to the point that my belly starts to cramp.

Next, I turn my attention to scavenging food. The nearest cabinets hold plates and cups, but nothing edible. The owner of the house most likely did not live on the island, for the refrigerator is almost empty, and anything inside spoiled not long after the power went. There is a closet at the back of the room beneath the steps leading to the second floor. I open the closet and tumble to the floor as Nelson falls from the closet into my arms.

“Nelson!”

Several bite wounds mark Nelson’s arms and legs. I can tell from the brown, crusty blood that the wounds are old and likely not fatal, though he does appear to be in shock.

“Curtis, Curtis,” he gasps, eyes feverish and distant. “I tried to save him.”

I help him to his feet and he slumps onto a wooden chair

“Where are the dogs now?” I check him for further injuries and find none.

Dazed, Nelson does not answer me, so I shake him and call his name.

“The dogs? I don’t know,” he finally responds, his voice hoarse and frail. “They were everywhere. We ran. They got Curtis. I tried to beat them off. He kept screaming for me…”

Nelson closes his eyes and a shuddering sob hunches him over. Dirt and dried blood cakes a cut above his eye.

“Here, let me clean that cut,” I grab a dishrag lying on the counter and soak it with water from the sink.

I hear a deep growl and look up. The leader of the dog pack is right in front of me, face to face, standing atop the table on the other side of the kitchen window. I am close enough to see strands of saliva drip from its glistening fangs. Before I can react, the hound shatters the window and lunges for my throat.

Instinctively, as I fall to the floor I bring my hands up to protect my neck and thrust the thick, wet dishrag into the animal’s snapping jaws. In a blur of movement, the rest of the pack clambers onto the outside table and tries to follow the lead dog.

“The window!” I shout to Nelson.

Grabbing the nearest object—the chair on which he sat—Nelson jams it in the window frame, trying to keep the rest of the pack at bay like a lion tamer wielding a stool. I hit the floor, the ravenous beast atop me, and tuck my legs under it and kick it to the side. In a flash, the hound attacks again before I regain my feet. It catches me in my left buttock. I yelp in pain and grab a ceramic lamp from a nearby table. Turning, I smash the lamp over the hound’s spine. It has no effect. The hound releases my buttock and aims once more for my throat. Everything is a blur of snapping jaws and furious motion. Nelson yells something unintelligible. I hear what sounds like a thousand snarling dogs, and feel the hot breath and spittle of the hound on my face. I cry out. Wrestling the hound from my neck, it bites my shoulder, instead. If I lose my hold on the dog, I will die. I snaked the electric cord from the shattered lamp around the hound’s thick neck. I roll from beneath the hound, but instead of trying to escape, I immediately return and grapple the beast from behind. It snaps at my face, and I pull back on the cord, like a cowboy yanking the reins on a horse. The hound whips back and forth, snapping furiously, trying desperately to free itself as the cord clamps tight on its throat.

I lean back, digging my knees into the animal’s spine, using all of my weight to tighten the noose. “Die… you… mother… fucker!”

A hacking cough, and then a rattling gurgle emit from the hound. The head drops—the tongue lolls out. I realize I have not been breathing, and with a gasp, I laugh triumphantly. I grab the rolls of skin on the back of the dog’s neck, lift its head up, and slam it down.

“Help!” Nelson struggles to keep the other dogs from entering the kitchen.

I grab the square end table and jam it into the window frame, wedging it tight. The snouts and snapping jaws of the other dogs poke around the sides of the small table, but they cannot break through. The rest of the pack lacks the determination of their fallen leader. Realizing they cannot enter the kitchen via the window, they retreat, howling and barking.

I climb off the dog. Nelson kicks it, shrieking “Ha!”

I peer around the table wedged in the window. “They’ve encircled the building.”

“My God, your back,” Nelson exclaims.

I touch my backside and my hand comes back covered with blood. I feel faint. Nelson steadies me.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly. Drop your pants,” Nelson says.

I manage a woozy smile. “This is hardly the time or place.”

Nelson unbuckles my shorts and drop them down. The grimace on his face alarms me.

“What? How bad is it?” I demand.

“Let me get a wet cloth,” he says. “It’s hard to tell with so much blood.”

Nelson finds a clean washcloth and wets it with pump water. He dabs at my wounded buttock. To try to distract me from the pain he quips, “And here I was thinking I’d never have a young man’s ass in my face again.”

Nelson presses a dry cloth against my rear. “Here. Hold this in place. The good news is the punctures are not that deep. The bad news is you’ll probably have a scar. I’m afraid your career as a butt double in movies is over. My biggest concern is infection.”

He rummages through the lower cabinets.

“Aha,” he exclaims, and holds up a large bottle of light rum. “It seems a shame to waste this on your rear end, but this is 100 proof. We’ll use it to disinfect the wound. I’m not going to lie to you; this will probably hurt a little bit.”