Mickey Reichert: The beasts of Barakhai

The man who looked like the king's brother appeared first, guarding his head and throat as he charged through the opening. Then, Zylas' rat-head emerged over the battlements, panting around the translation stone. From the direction of his abrupt arrival, he had clearly waited on the roof ramparts, between the two towers, and had climbed the final floor of the tower from the outside. "Jump," he managed to gasp around the quartz.

Collins looked down. He could never survive a seven-story fall. The goats labored hurriedly beneath him.

"Jump," Zylas repeated, his voice a harsh wheeze. He clambered wearily onto Collins' hand, across his wrist, and into a tunic pocket. "It's our only chance."

A guard appeared beside the royal, and Collins could hear more clambering behind them. They approached him with slow caution, swords drawn. He had only two choices, and they knew it: leap to his death or surrender.

"Trust me," Zylas said.

Famous last words. Collins realized that, whatever his fate, at least Zylas was brave enough to share it. Closing his eyes, he jumped.

"Hey!" the guard yelled. "Hey!"

Air whooshed past Collins. His hair and clothing whipped around him in a savage tangle, and sheer terror scattered his wits. He screamed, utterly helpless, incapable of opening his eyes. Then, stems jabbed and shattered beneath him, slivering into his flesh like a thousand needles. The hay wagon, he realized before velocity carried him through the piled hay to the wooden slats of the wagon. Agony beyond thought thundered through him, and he knew no more.

Benton Collins awakened to a rush of pain that drove an involuntary groan through his lips. He opened his eyes to a whitewashed ceiling and a repetitive beeping sound that perfectly matched the rhythm of his heart. He tried to speak, but only a croak emerged from his parched lips.

A woman in a white dress with a pink stethoscope around her neck and scissors poking from her breast pocket peered at him. "Are you awake, Benton?"

Collins licked his lips and nodded weakly. "What happened?" He mouthed more than spoke the words, but apparently the nurse understood. "You tell me."

Collins shook his head, wondering if his experiences in Barakhai were all some sort of hallucination induced by the pain drugs they had obviously given him. "Last thing I remember, I was taking care of rat experiments in Daubert Labs."

"That's where they found you this morning." The nurse turned, clattering some objects on a metal tray. "In an old storage room. Your mom's on her way. Couldn't locate your dad." "He's in Europe with his girlfriend." Collins glanced around, still trying to sort real from imagined. "Am I going to be okay?" The nurse returned to his bedside, smoothed his pillow, and rearranged the covers. "You broke your pelvis, your left leg, both arms, some ribs, and you've got a small skull fracture." The list sounded terrible. "Gosh."

The nurse apparently was not finished. She picked up a spiral-bound chart from a bedside table. "Ruptured spleen, which seems to be healing on its own. Kidney contusion-you'll have some blood in the urine for a while, but that should heal. Pneumothorax."

The last word eluded Collins. Pneumo, he knew, meant air. "What?"

The nurse set the chart aside. "Lung deflated. They put a tube in your chest to reexpand it."

"Did someone beat me up?" Collins tried to smile.

The nurse shrugged. "Only logical explanation. Looks more like you took a bad fall, but that doesn't make any sense where they found you." She lowered her head, and strands of dark hair slipped from beneath her hairpinned hat. "You're lucky that professor found you when he did. Said a very persistent dog led him to you."

"A dog?" Collins swallowed. Is it possible? "Where is this dog?"

"In the pound," the nurse said.

"The pound?" Collins tried to sit up, but pain and wires held him down. "What if they-"

The nurse put out a hand to stay him. "Don't worry. No one's going to hurt the hero of Daubert Labs. If you don't want him, there're about thirty others in line to adopt him. I think he's getting filet mignon for every meal."

Collins had to know. "Gangly hound with floppy ears. Brown and white."

"That's the one."

"I want him."

"I'll let them know."

"He's… my dog. Can you hand me the phone?"

The nurse gave Collins a stern look. "I said I'd call. I'll call as soon as we're done here."

"Thank you." Collins felt very sleepy, but curiosity won out over fatigue. "His name is Korfius."

"Korfius?"

Collins nodded.

"I'll tell them." She started out the door, then stopped and turned back. These are your things, if you want them. It's everything you had when they found you. I'm afraid they had to cut off your jeans." She smiled. "I don't think you would have wanted them anyway. Dirty and bloody. You must have taken off your sweatshirt before… whatever happened. It needs washing, but it's salvageable."

Jeans? Sweatshirt? "Thank you," Collins said, accepting the plastic bag. As the nurse left, he poured out the contents: his cell phone, his watch, its face irreparably smashed, and a piece of paper torn from a scratch pad advertising a laboratory supply company. Scrawled across it in wobbly lettering were the words:

Ben-

Thanks from all. Me okay. Fall on you. You me pillow. Ha ha. You hurt too bad for Lady. Put old clothes and bring here. They fix, we hope. Korfius stay. Not send back. He want you.

It was signed only with a tiny paw print.

Collins lay back, imagining the effort it must have taken for the rebels to drag him, in animal form, even as far as they had. Korfius was lesariat, he remembered. He had gotten his wish to remain a dog forever, and now Collins had gained the smartest, longest-lived pet in the world. My world. He smiled through the pain.