Chris Pourteau - Tails of the Apocalypse

That night, he returned to the fishing hole and laid his head near the edge of the pond. Maybe the boy would come back here after all, he decided. Maybe he’d remember this place, their refuge on lazy afternoons.

As he rested, the thought suddenly came upon him: what if the boy had been bitten by a creature? He whimpered quietly. Missing his second self made him ache inside. But it hurt even worse to think of the boy as a plaguebearer. Drooling, ravenous, and spreading madness to others like the bat.

No longer a boy. No longer his boy. An un-boy.

His twin wouldn’t want that, he decided. The boy was just like him and would never want to hurt anyone. He’d only ever barked the once, when the stray had threatened them. He’d never barked again, not even when the Baby cried all the time and everyone else began to bark at one another, aggravated.

He and the boy shared the desire to never hurt another soul. Better to die a natural death than walk, eternally ravenous, through an unnatural un-life. He slipped into the waking sleep that now passed for rest.

Before dawn, a noise startled him awake. His eyes popped open. That night in the yard, he’d learned to look first without turning his head. But the noise was off to the left. His spinal fur was already up, alerted by his nose. His ears too had warned him before his eyes had opened. It was the shambling noise. The shuffling, methodical step… step… step of eternal appetite. The hungry, persistent tread of a creature that should be still and dead. He sniffed quietly, but the wind was moving in the wrong direction.

He turned his head slowly to see how many.

Only one.

The only one that mattered.

The only one that mattered at all.

He whined.

The boy’s clothes were shredded and dirty. His eyes were yellow and rheumy. His mouth was red and shredded, as if he’d gnawed his own lips away to stave off starvation.

The wind shifted and he caught the scent. It wasn’t the boy’s sweet smell, the smell of runt love and playtime and warm furs on cold nights. It was the rotting stench of un-life.

He couldn’t stop his sadness from becoming sound. His whine of fear became a moan of hope stolen away. Attracted by the noise, the boy turned and reached out for him.

He stood up. He barked. He didn’t care if other creatures heard. He wanted to warn this one away. To somehow scare the plague out of the boy and make it give his twin back to him. To be a champion again for his second self.

All his searching. All his caution.

He wanted the boy back!

The un-boy marched forward, moaning. A sad sound. But as with the other creatures, hunger ruled all. The un-boy bared his teeth through a ragged, receding mouth.

Reaching.

The dog growled and backed away. He’d never growled at the boy in anger. Only in play. But as the two of them stalked one another along the same shore where they’d shared so many afternoons dozing in the sun, he knew this creature was no longer his twin.

One moved forward, hungry; the other back, frightened.

Other sounds. Other creatures. From the other side of the shore.

He glanced to his right. There were several.

Then more.

Then many.

Too many.

He turned back to the creature that had been the boy. His whine erupted into a ragged, desperate stream of barking. The un-boy’s fingers worked the air, clutching for him. He remembered the boy’s scent, his real scent, and how much it smelled like love. How much it filled him up to share everything with the boy—to share a reason for living as a friend, each a champion for the other.

Then, he decided. Despite every instinct that begged him to run, as he’d run at the house, he stayed and stood his ground.

He knew his second self would never want to be this un-boy, hurting others. And he didn’t want it either—for either of them. But the boy couldn’t protect himself now. It was up to him to stand between the boy and the stray again. To free the boy who was his best friend from the un-life that should never have been.

A final moment to share together.

He leapt into the un-boy’s outstretched arms and ripped out his throat.

I’ve loved dogs for a long time. In fact, except for a handful of years in high school and college, I’ve never lived without one.

Dogs are slobbery. Some of them bark a lot, even when there’s nothing to bark at. Most unashamedly beg for food.

But they’re also incredibly loyal. They’ll fight for you before they fight for themselves. They can sense your moods, giving you space when you need it or resting their heads on your lap to let you know you’ve got a friend. At night, they’ll lay by your side and watch over you, just in case the zombies come knocking.

So when I sat down to write “Unconditional,” I wanted to capture that. All of it. All of what it means to be a dog: the second-class citizenry they sometimes endure; the soul-mate love they sometimes find with a special human; the undying loyalty and self-sacrifice they give instinctively.

One day in the fall of 2014, my friend, Stefan Bolz—who contributed “Protector” to this anthology—posted a photo of his dog, Ember, on Facebook. She stood in the middle of an empty country road in the fall, leaves covering everything, stock still and staring down the road’s lonely length. The perspective of the shot reminded me of similar images I’d seen on The Walking Dead a hundred times over. Ember held a determined stance, but there was also something sad in the way she stared at that empty road. Like she’d lost something—or someone—and was on a quest to find them. Her boy, perhaps. And that was the genesis for “Unconditional.” Thank you, Stefan, for posting that image.

When I first published the story, I worried about how it’d be received. It’s no Disney tale of two dogs kissing over a plate of spaghetti. I even considered giving “Unconditional” a happy ending. But no, that’s not what the story demanded. And so I published it on Amazon in January 2015 and bit my lower lip.

By and large, the response has been tremendously positive. Readers—especially dog lovers—found something in the story that spoke to them, and its reviews reflect that. And then I thought: why not an entire anthology? And with other animals too, not just dogs.

So I reached out to the most talented authors I knew, and that’s how this anthology came to be. Although I originally published “Unconditional” as a solo short story, I felt it had a place as the final tale in this collection. The story—and reader response to it—started the process that created this anthology, so there was a certain serendipitous synergy to including it. If it’s your first time reading my story, I hope you enjoyed it. And if you’d read it before, I hope you found something new to like.

If you’d like to know more about me and my writing, please visit chrispourteau.thirdscribe.comand sign up for my newsletter. Or you can email me at c.pourteau.author@gmail.comor find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/arkewall. I’d love to hear from you.

It took a huge team of dedicated individuals to put together this anthology. And though I’m sure I’ll forget someone, I want to take a moment and acknowledge as many people as I can.

First and foremost, I want to thank all the writers for their excellent contributions. I especially appreciate David Adams, Michael Bunker, Nick Cole, Hank Garner, E.E. Giorgi, Deirdre Gould, and Edward W. Robertson opening up their respective worlds in which to set their Tails stories.