August Ansel - The Attic

“I have to pee,” Renna said, her voice starched and querulous. “But I can’t get up.”

“Hold on. Don’t wet yourself, or you’ll foul those bandages. Do you understand?” She hurried to the work table and grabbed up the shallow tin basin she used for washing dishes and shelling peas. There was more thumping and dragging downstairs. “I’m going to help you lift your bottom,” Arie told Renna. “Try to use your good leg to lift up.” She managed to slide the basin under her in the nick of time.

Renna moaned roughly. “Burns,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I imagine so,” Arie said. When she’d bathed Renna, she’d seen for herself the raw flesh between the girl’s legs. It would be a blue-eyed miracle if she wasn’t suffering a urinary tract infection as well. She trickled the last of the cool chamomile tea over Renna’s genitals, blotted her dry with a clean rag, and helped her lift up enough to slide the basin free. As she did, there was a knock that made her jump a little—Handy at the inside hatch. She hurried over and pushed the car seat-sofa aside.

Handy pushed aside the hatch cover. He was compactly made and muscular through the arms and shoulders, and when he put his palms flat on the attic floor he was able to hoist himself up in a single easy motion. “I threw it out front,” he said, “and I blocked the door shut.” There was blood streaked across his palms and bare forearms.

“Good.”

“In case anyone heard the noise.”

“Anyone or anything,” Arie said. “Did it get at you?”

He shook his head.

“Help me here.” Together they barricaded the inner hatch again. “Go up top and wash,” she told him. “I’m going to get her settled for the night. And take that basin with you,” she said. “Empty it into the compost. She’ll need it again before morning.” He climbed up, balancing the piss pot with a finicky care that made Arie turn away to hide a smile. She checked Renna’s pulse. Still too fast and feeble, but she was breathing deeply, exhausted from the day’s trauma.

Stowed under the eaves was a mildewed wooden crate that held a remnant of their grandfather’s belongings. Her hand found a compact bundle wrapped with a stiff nylon cord, and she pulled out an ancient down sleeping bag—from Pop’s backpacking days as a young man. Despite its advanced age, the manmade fabric was some sort of indestructible plastic and was in one piece, even though the goose feathers inside had deteriorated to dust. This she set out for her brother to use. From her own bedroll she removed the coverlet and pillow. She arranged them on the Packard seat for herself, meaning to move Renna off the damp spot where they’d doctored her and onto the remainder of her bedroll when Handy came inside. When he didn’t come back, she climbed onto the ladder and poked her head out.

He was squatted down on the balls of his feet, profile low in the early-afternoon light. He motioned with two fingers that she come to him, and pointed out at the street. Arie crab-walked to him and looked down. Two dogs were down below, sniffing at the carcass of the dead one Handy had thrown into the street. The more aggressive of them was pulling mightily at the rear haunch, bracing its front paws, and jerking back and forth so that the dead dog jounced on the broken asphalt as though convulsing. The other one darted intermittently forward, intent on the torn belly, but each time it did, the alpha dog, wide face matted with gore, swung around on it with a single low snarl. There was clearly no contest; the secondary animal fell back, rump held low. Its ribs stood out like a washboard under the filthy pelt, and it drooled profusely.

Arie pulled the slingshot from her pocket. Handy smiled. She hesitated for only a moment before handing it to him. Her aim was excellent, but her eyesight wasn’t, not anymore. “Here’s more,” she whispered, and gave him the three stones she always kept with the sling. He loaded the pouch and moved closer to the edge of the roof, angling himself for a more direct shot. Arie crept to her ammo pile, smallish heavy stones, sharp edged, that she collected on the regular every time she was out. She stuffed a large handful into her apron and moved next to Handy so that he could grab more at will. He cocked his head slightly to the right, sighting with his left eye, same as her.

The rock flew with an electric whisper of sound, but the missile went slightly wide. Neither dog noticed. Handy chose another stone, hefted it in his palm before loading the sling. Getting a feel for his weapon, she thought. The lines of his body were terribly familiar to her; if she’d never seen his face, she might have known his posture. He was her brother Beckman all over, though Beck was long dead, in the ground for decades.

Handy pulled the sling again, shoulder and upper arm bunching, straining the black bands taut as they could go, and the stone whistled down. When it struck the alpha dog behind one ear, the animal staggered sideways without a sound, losing purchase on the haunch it had torn almost free. The other dog jerked in surprise and then rushed forward. It buried its face in the dead dog’s guts, growling. The alpha dog swayed, holding its head low, shaking it as if to clear its vision. Suddenly its front legs buckled and it toppled over. The instant it was on the ground, the lone survivor rushed it and went for the throat. The wounded animal tried to thrash away, kicking its hind legs, but the strength of the jaw clamped on its throat was too much. In the manner intended by centuries of breeding, the attacking dog held fast, taking every chance to set its teeth more firmly and bear down harder, waiting for its victim to bleed out or suffocate from a crushed windpipe. While the alpha dog succumbed with a few final spasms, Handy reloaded. The dog now muzzle deep in the guts of his fellow took the blow in his shoulder. He leaped away with a howl and a yip and snapped savagely at the air.

“Shoot,” Arie said. “One more time.”

Handy loaded, standing this time, and let fly. When the stone struck its ass, the dog ran for the trees behind the house, silent, head forward, heavily-muscled chest and shoulders straining.

Watching it go, smiling to herself, Arie caught movement from the corner of her eye, something between the houses over there, down in the shrubby brush at the tree line. Another dog. Not a pit bull, this one. She scrambled to the sky panel and grabbed the binoculars from their nail just inside. Handy was crouched again; Arie got next to him and raised the glasses. It was a German shepherd, hunkered low in the brush, and when she got the binoculars focused Arie was startled to realize the shepherd was looking not at the street, where there was now an unattended meal to be had, but up at the roof, directly at her. The focus of its brown eyes was so clear and close through the binoculars that it caused her to duck slightly.

“What is it?” Handy asked.

“Another one,” she said. “Not a pit, though. See it? Between the houses over there, under that scrub alder.”

Handy squinted. “I do now.”

“It’s in good shape,” she said. They both spoke in low voices, almost a whisper. “Why isn’t it going after the dead ones?”

“Smarter, maybe.”

“Smart doesn’t matter when they’re hungry. Hey—” The shepherd had looked suddenly over its shoulder into the wooded shadows, then turned away so quickly it seemed to melt into the brush. As it did, Arie saw a form, back in the dark. Barely discernable, but tall. Up on two legs. Definitely human. It was there and gone, the shepherd clearly following its lead. “Shit. We have a watcher.”

Handy dropped low. “I don’t see anything.”

“Already moved into the trees,” she said. “Let’s get inside.” She automatically glanced at the rope ladder—it was up. “Get a full bucket of water. I’ll grab food.”