Matt Hlinak - DoG

A few people tittered at Alistair’s gloomy prediction, but the rest at least entertained the possibility they were facing something beyond worldly explanation.

Whatever it was, people were concerned for their dogs, happily romping through the field of death. The festivities came to an abrupt halt. The dogs and their owners retreated to the safety of their homes. Frank and Culann snatched a keg to take back with them

“Alphonse, come,” Frank shouted at the dog, who was busy chewing on a bird.

Frank called again, but the dog ignored him.

“Goddamnit, Alphonse. Come!”

Alphonse paused for a moment to scratch his ear with his hind leg, but then he resumed gnawing on the bird.

“Come on, Alphonse,” Culann said with a clap of his hands, and the dog suddenly cast aside the bird and trotted over to the cousins.

“What the fuck was that?” Frank asked.

“I guess he likes me now.”

“Yeah, well that makes one of us.”

The last time I’d seen Frank before coming to Alaska had been at his second wedding. He and I drank together at the Holiday Inn bar just outside of the hall where the reception was taking place. We were both drunk and not paying appropriate levels of attention to my date or his new bride. We reminisced about all the good times we’d had as boys, lamented how we’d grown apart and made false promises to spend more time together.

My date was Darlene, a girl I’d been seeing for about three months. She taught at the junior high school in my district, so we were acquainted through work but didn’t actually work together on a daily basis. This cut down on the awkwardness that I might have otherwise experienced after getting so drunk that night that I wet the bed. Darlene barely spoke to me as we drove home the next morning, and never spoke to me again afterwards.

Frank didn’t fare much better. One of the last things I remember about that night was seeing Alison arguing with him and wiping her mascara-stained tears on the white lace sleeve of her wedding dress. They would split up within six months. When my dad told me about their impending divorce, I vowed to call Frank and offer my sympathies, which I never did.

Culann awoke to Alphonse’s insistent tongue against his face. He pushed the dog away and forced his eyelids open. Frank was still out cold. Alphonse whined up at him.

Culann got up and pushed open the front door for him, but the dog evidently didn’t need to use the bathroom. Culann certainly did, so he shut the door and went into the tiny WC

for a long leak. He tried to flush the toilet, but nothing came out. After finishing, Culann almost tripped over Alphonse, who pressed against his leg as he returned to the living room.

“Frank, there’s something wrong with your toilet.”

He didn’t answer. Culann went into the kitchen, Alphonse clinging to his heels the whole way. Culann poured himself a bowl of Cheerios. Alphonse sat at his feet, staring up at him. Figuring he was hungry, Culann poured kibble into his dish, but the dog ignored it.

“Frank, do you want any cereal?”

He didn’t respond, so Culann ate the cereal dry with Alphonse lying over the tops of his feet. After finishing, Culann tried the radio again. Not even static came out.

“Hey, Frank, wake up.”

He continued to lie still. Culann reached over and shook his shoulder. No response. Employing an old trick from boyhood slumber parties, he pinched Frank’s nose shut. His face felt cold.

Culann jumped up and wiped his hand on has pants. He charged out of the trailer to look for Worner in the ridiculous hope that the piss-poor paramedic could somehow raise the dead. Alphonse followed closely behind. As they ran the quarter mile to Worner’s place, every dog in Pyrite began to bark. Those dogs that were outside and unchained followed, while the rest shouted encouragement to the others rushing by.

Not bothering to knock, Culann shoved his way into Worner’s shack. Alphonse and three other dogs crowded along with him into the humble living room. Worner lay face down on the floor, not moving. An orange housecat lay on its back beside him like an overturned table, its tiny pink tongue hanging from its mouth. The dogs whined up at Culann. He backed out into the road and dropped to his knees, stunned by the sights of Frank and Worner dead, and the realization that others were likely gone, too. He’d fled civilization to live with these rugged outsiders who died just after they’d accepted him.

Frank was the only person in his life he could rely on, and he’d grown close to Worner and McGillicuddy in their time at sea. Yesterday he’d imagined that they’d formed a lifetime bond through their adventures. Today Culann was alone in the world.

“My dad’s dead,” a small voice called out from behind him.

He turned and saw Gus’s daughter, looking every bit as beautiful as the night before. Her hair hung down to her shoulders. She wore a UAF Nanooks t-shirt that came down to the tops of her thighs. If she wore anything else, Culann couldn’t see it. Her eyes were puffy from crying. He rose to his feet.

“Worner’s dead, too,” he said. “And my cousin, Frank.”

She nodded. Culann walked over and put his arm around her shoulder. She fell sobbing into him. He inhaled the lilac scent of her hair and squeezed her tightly for a few moments, savoring her sweet vitality while contemplating the death around him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pushing away. “I don’t even know you.”

“My name’s Culann.”

“I’m Constance.”

“Something bad has happened. Something big. We need to figure out how big.”

She nodded.

“I’m going to check each house. You can come with me if you want, but you might not like what you see.”

She thought about it for a second and then said, “I want to go with you.”

Culann extended his hand, and she took it. A tingling ran up his arm as her slender fingers clutched his hand. They crossed the street and opened the door to the cabin. Two dogs bounded out and joined the pack swirling around them. Inside they found a dead fisherman on a cot. Constance turned her head away.

“So, do you live out here year-round?” he asked, wanting to distract her from the horrors surrounding them.

“No, I live with my mom in Fairbanks. I don’t see my dad all that much.’

“What are you doing out here now? We were supposed to be gone for another week-and-a-half. How did you know we’d be back early?”

“I didn’t,” she replied with a smirk. “I thought I could get two weeks to myself by coming up before he got back.”

“Why would a girl your age need two weeks by herself?”

“It doesn’t really matter.”

The two worked their way from dwelling to dwelling, finding only dead fishermen and live dogs. Along the way, they stepped over dead birds, dead squirrels, dead raccoons. About a half-mile up the road, a woman slouched against the front door of her trailer. She raised her hand to her lips and puffed on a cigarette. Culann and Constance raced over, the dogs nearly enveloping the woman in their enthusiasm.

She looked up at them with blank eyes. It was Margaret McGillicuddy,

McGillicuddy’s wife, although she was drained of the effervescence Culann had found so charming the night before. He had a hard time recognizing her at first.

“Moses is dead,” she said.

Culann nodded.

“Neighbors are dead, too.”

He put his left hand on her shoulder, careful not to let go of Constance’s hand with his right. Culann explained what he’d found out so far, who he knew to be dead.

Margaret listened without speaking. She smoked her cigarette down to the filter and then lit another one.