Matt Hlinak - DoG

“But if we’re alive, there’s got to be more,” Constance chimed in.

Culann was buoyed by the hopefulness in her voice. And she was right. Margaret stayed on her step, but Culann, Constance and the dogs found seven more survivors.

Alistair, Julia and little Marty had all survived. There was Simon Coughlin, an elderly man who ran the general store and appeared to be blind in his clouded-over left eye.

Culann recognized him as one of the silent old coots from Alistair’s bar. And there were fishermen’s wives. Genevieve Gordon looked to be about fifty years old. She spoke with a faint French accent and a not-so-faint slur. Culann guessed she’d responded to the sight of her husband dead beside her by cracking open a bottle. LaTonya Munch was a slight woman of about forty with a hooked nose. Carla Verig was the stoic Native woman who’d waved to Culann from her doorway on his first drunken stumble up Pyrite Avenue. She again wore her raincoat despite the sunny sky. By the time the group finished their survey, the pack of dogs following them had surged to around fifty.

A survivor’s meeting convened in the tavern. They gathered around the bar’s only table. The dogs, who had pressed through the doorway as they entered, now occupied virtually every bit of floor space in the bar. Alistair poured out a few shots of whiskey to settle the nerves. Even Constance had one. Culann had four.

Between the ten of them, they could account for every resident of Pyrite. Aside from Culann, every member of the crew of the Orthrus was dead. The nine other survivors were the only people currently on the island who had not served on the Orthrus .

Not a single dog had died, but every other animal wild or tame that had been spotted was dead. Moreover there wasn’t a radio, television, cell phone or two-way on the island that could receive a signal from the outside world.

“So what is it?” asked Julia, running her finger along her broad chin.

“It’s got to be a virus of some kind,” Carla said before averting her gaze and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her raincoat. She didn’t seem to Culann to be much of a talker.

“I still think it’s pollution,” Margaret said, her once-glimmering blue eyes now dull with grief. “Something in the air is killing us.”

“But then why are the radios out?” countered Simon in a croak that suggested he was even less used to talking than Carla.

“If a virus hit the mainland,” Genevieve responded with a whiskey-thickened tongue, “there wouldn’t be anything for the radio stations to send out.”

“My mom’s in Fairbanks,” Constance said. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“Of course she is,” Margaret said with forced calm. “Your mom is fine, and we’re going to get you to her as soon as possible.”

“Don’t lie to the child,” Alistair said with such forcefulness a vein throbbed in the side of his shaved head. “This is the hand of God. We all need to get ready for His return. Are you a Christian?”

Constance nodded her head.

“Good,” Alistair replied. “Maybe that’s why we are still alive. We are the saved.”

Margaret smirked and said, “I’m not much of a Christian. Besides, do you really think the pervert here is one of the saved?”

“What about the orb?” Culann asked to change the subject. “The orb that Gus”—he squeezed Constance’s bare knee to cushion the blow of hearing her late father’s name—“took from us last night.”

They had all seen the orb last night, even little Marty, and been drawn into the debates as to its origin.

“Why do you seek worldly explanations?” Alistair shot back. “The End of Days is clearly upon us. No other explanation makes sense.”

“But we don’t know that the orb is a worldly explanation,” his wife replied.

“Perhaps it is the implement through which the Lord is doing His work.”

Alistair massaged his thick neck in tacit acceptance.

“Julia has a point,” LaTonya said while placing her hand on Julia’s arm. “I don’t know whether this came from Earth or heaven. Or hell, for that matter. I’m sure it has something to do with what’s going on.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

“But why are you still alive?” LaTonya asked Culann.

““If you found it,” Genevieve said, “shouldn’t you be the first to go?”

“What kind of name is Culann, anyway?” Simon asked with a squint.

“Irish.”

“You sure it ain’t Russian?”

“Calm down,” Julia interjected. “We don’t know anything yet, so there’s no use throwing out accusations. Where is the orb?”

“My house,” Constance whispered, her eyes never leaving the floor. Culann gave her knee another reassuring squeeze.

Julia and Marty stayed behind while the rest, dogs included, trekked back to Gus’s cabin. Constance waited outside. The grizzled old bastard was in his cramped bathroom. His bare ass hovered over the toilet seat, and his face rested against the opposite wall. He’d keeled over in the middle of taking a dump. This was the sight Constance had woken up to.

The orb rested on the nightstand in the bedroom. Culann picked it up, once again marveling at its polished shine and sturdy heft. Glancing down, he saw that the symbols had changed once more. Now they’d formed into neat rows, mostly of interlocking triangles, with a few circles thrown in. With each change, the symbols seemed to Culann to be taking a more definite shape. He looked up. Everyone stepped back from him.

“You sure you should be touching it?” LaTonya asked.

“Probably not,” he answered, “but we need to figure this thing out.”

They walked out of the cabin and headed back to the bar. Culann held the orb, fingering its odd markings as they walked. After a few moments, a scream cut through the still air.

“Julia!” Alistair shouted, and he ran towards the bar as quickly as his bad leg would carry him.

The others raced after him, the dogs charging ahead. The people had to push the mutts out of the way to get to the middle of the bar, where Julia was performing CPR on Marty. Alistair gripped his son’s lifeless hand as his wife pressed down on the boy’s chest. The two struggled futilely to will their son back to life. Finally, they collapsed into each other, their tears pouring down on Marty’s body.

The others stayed back, but the pack of dogs pressed up against the grieving parents and their fallen son, seeming to swallow the fractured family whole. Then Julia rose up from the midst of fur and wagging tails, followed by Alistair, who held Marty’s body to his chest. He laid the boy down upon the bar, kissed his forehead, and turned away.

“We’re going to die,” he said.

It certainly looked that way to Culann. Up until now, the survivors had been assuming that they were the lucky ones, that whatever this was, it could not harm those who’d made it through the night. But Marty put the lie to that notion. Now they wondered who would be next.

It wouldn’t take long to find out.

“It’s suicide to stay here,” Carla whispered.

“She’s right,” Margaret replied. “We need to get off the island if we’re going to have a chance.”

“I got a boat,” Simon said. “All nine of us can fit, no problem.”

“Get us the hell out of here,” Alistair said, his voice choked with bitterness.

Culann wasn’t so sure they could outrun whatever this was, but he voiced his agreement nonetheless. Simon hurried over to his shack to get the keys. While the others waited for him to return, a concerted whining arose from the dogs in one corner of the bar. The humans went over to investigate and found Genevieve slumped forward onto the table. Considering how much she’d drank, she could easily have passed out, but Margaret felt for a pulse and shook her head.