Matt Hlinak - DoG

“We got to get out of here,” Alistair cried. “Maybe it’s this bar. Everyone died indoors, right? We need fresh air.”

They all ran to the doorway, pushing dogs out of the way as they scrambled for fresh air. They stood outside panting in the humidity when Carla dropped to the ground in a heap, her straight black hair fanned out onto the grass. She’d been standing right in front of Culann, showing no signs of distress, when her legs buckled. Her face revealed no pain, no fear, no shock. She looked like she’d fallen asleep. But she was dead.

“God in heaven,” Alistair cried. “It’s the orb.”

“Yeah,” LaTonya added. “We have to get rid of it.”

Culann agreed. Nobody had dropped dead before they pulled this thing out of the sea. He took a running start and heaved the orb into the water. It plunked beneath the surface and disappeared into the blackness. Truthfully, though, the water could only have been about five feet deep, which didn’t seem nearly deep enough to Culann.

“I don’t want to die,” Constance sobbed.

Culann reached out for her and pulled her close. She pressed her head against his chest and he could feel her tears, hot and wet, soaking through his shirt. He rubbed her back and then rested his fingers on the exposed skin of her neck. Her soft hair tickled his knuckles.

“Simon should be back by now,” LaTonya said.

They all knew she was right and what that meant.

“Forget it,” shouted Alistair. “We’ll row across. It’s not that far.”

Down by the dock, they found two small rowboats. All six couldn’t fit in one, so they decided that Alistair would row one and Culann would row the other. Julia and LaTonya got into Alistair’s boat with him. Margaret dropped dead while they were trying to decide, so it was just Constance and Culann in the other boat. The dogs swarmed along the dock, howling at the last five humans as they pushed off into the water.

Alistair’s boat shot out into the water. Culann wasn’t much of an oarsman, and it took him a while to get the hang of it. Though it was a warm day, a cool breeze blew across the water. Constance shivered in her t-shirt. Culann gallantly removed his shirt and tossed it to her. She smiled, wrapped the shirt around her bare legs, and then fastened her gaze to her feet. The sun and the breeze felt good on Culann’s skin. He stroked harder, more smoothly, and started to catch up to Alistair’s boat. Constance lifted her eyes. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and he felt like he could row forever.

Of course, he then reminded himself, he didn’t have forever.

They overtook Alistair’s boat about two hundred yards offshore. It wasn’t moving. An oar floated past. Julia lay huddled over Alistair, whose head rested in her lap.

He’d evidently died first. LaTonya’s feet were caught under one of the seats and the rest of her body leaned over the side of the boat. Her head was submerged, leaving her hair to float up to the surface like a bloom of brown seaweed.

“We are the only ones left,” Constance said.

She’d said we . Him and her. We . Culann felt a fluttering in his chest despite the cloud of death behind him. We may be about to die , he thought, but he was alive now. He leaned forward and kissed her.

“Eww, gross. What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Are you some kind of pervert?”

“You just looked so beautiful.”

“My dad just died. We’re probably going to die. What is wrong with you?”

“Sorry.”

“Put your shirt back on. It smells anyway.”

She flung the shirt at Culann. Humiliated, he started pulling it back over his head.

He then felt the rowboat rock and heard a splash. He pulled the shirt down from in front of his eyes. Constance lay face down in the water. A cascade of tiny bubbles churned the water around her. He was alone.

The mainland was still a good half-mile away. Culann didn’t know if he’d live long enough to make it there, and he didn’t know if it would do any good if he did. He sat there for a minute, feeling the gentle rocking of waves beneath him. He could hear the faint echo of the dogs barking back on the dock. They were still alive and so too was he, at least for now, and he felt suddenly guilty for abandoning them.

As he pondered his options, he heard another sound from over his shoulder. He turned and faced the mainland. A motorboat was coming towards him with what looked like two people in the front seats. An overhead light flashed blue and red as the boat came closer. It was a police boat, and Culann’s little rowboat was clearly its destination. He pulled the oars in and waited.

I’m reading a book I found at Worner’s place called The Pagan Saints. It’s all about how the Christian practice of venerating saints is really just a way of syncretizing ancient beliefs into modern religions. There a lot of saints associated with dogs in here –

I’ve been reading these parts aloud to entertain my companions. There’s an illustration of St. Christopher represented in medieval iconography as having the face of a dog. I held this up for the dogs to see. Alphonse raised his head up and down like he was nodding. At that point, I put the pot away.

The most bizarre entry in the book was St. Guinefort, a greyhound who lived in France in the Thirteenth Century. According to legend, a hunter came home and found Guinefort sitting in the room of the hunter’s infant son. Blood covered the walls and dripped from Guinefort’s jaws. Overcome with grief at the loss of his son, the hunter shot an arrow through the dog’s heart. At that exact moment, the baby cried out from the cradle. The hunter saw that the child was unscathed. Under the cradle, the hunter found a dead viper. Guinefort had saved the child and been killed for it. This tale of canine martyrdom resonated with medieval Christians, who revered the dog for nearly a hundred years until the Church declared the practice heresy.

That’s an impressive dog — sainthood sounds appropriate to me. I wonder if any of my dogs would ever do anything so heroic. Hell, I’ve never done anything close, and my life is probably about over. It’s one thing to be un-heroic, but another to realize the time for heroism is almost up.

“You’re Culann Riordan, aren’t you?” asked the first officer, a short and stocky young woman wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap, both bearing the words Alaska State Trooper .

“Yes.”

Culann’s little rowboat floated next to the police boat, the bow of which rose about five feet above the water line. Culann had to crane his neck to see the officers. The second officer, a tall, middle-aged black man—the only black man Culann had seen in Alaska—tossed down a line.

“Please tie one end to your vessel, Mr. Riordan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Riordan,” the first officer continued, “we have a warrant for your arrest.

You’ve been charged with statutory rape in Illinois, and we’ve been asked to extradite you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’d like you to climb up onto our vessel. Officer Williams is going to help you, and we would like you to cooperate with us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Please climb aboard.”

“There’s something you should know,” Culann said.

“Why don’t you climb aboard so you can tell us?” she replied.

“It might be dangerous for you to be near me.”

“Are you threatening us, Mr. Riordan?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Get in the boat,” she said with such authority Culann found himself clambering aboard without consciously deciding to do so. Officer Williams pulled him up by the arm, and before Culann realized what was happening, he was face down on the boat bottom with his hands cuffed behind his back.