Matt Hlinak - DoG

And then the second was over.

For a man who’d never fired a gun in his life, Culann had aimed remarkably well.

But not well enough. The bullet whizzed past the Captain’s head, just missing his right ear. It was obvious that the Captain had fired a gun many times in his life. His bullet caught Culann in the right hand, splintering his knuckles and causing him to fling his weapon away. It plunked into the water and was gone. The dogs, obscured by the mists, whined sharply from over Culann’s shoulder. He survived the exchange but was now unarmed and suffering incomprehensible pain. He couldn’t bring himself to look down at the mangled hand he cradled to his chest. It wouldn’t be long before he told the Captain where to find the orb.

“You’ve got more guts that I gave you credit for, greenhorn,” the Captain said.

“But in three seconds, you’re going to tell me where it is, or I’m going to destroy your kneecap.”

The Captain stood over Culann and pointed the gun straight down at his knee.

Culann shot the Captain a defiant glare and then rolled over to his belly. He started to drag himself forward on his elbows. The Captain shot him straight through the back of the left knee. The bullet shattered Culann’s kneecap and sank into the wooden plank of the pier. The dogs’ whines and whimpers grew to full barking, fifty dogs voicing their displeasure all at once. But none dared to crawl out of the fog and confront the ruthless human who now dominated Pyrite’s last man. The Captain dropped down and kneeled on the small of Culann’s back. He pressed the barrel of the gun to Culann’s spine.

“If you won’t sit still,” he said, “I’m going to have to make sure that you can’t move. You’ve got three seconds to tell me where it is before I turn you into a paraplegic.”

“One.”

Culann tried to focus on the howling of the dogs. Anything except the three throbbing wounds that screamed at his brain.

“Two.”

Culann could sense the dogs behind him, chomping and slavering, craving the Captain’s blood. But they were held back as if by invisible chains. The Captain was somehow restraining them.

“Time’s up,” the Captain said.

The collective savagery of the dogs overwhelmed Culann’s mind. They seemed to be trying to communicate with him. They couldn’t overcome the barrier the Captain had erected. But their insistent howling seemed to be telling Culann that he could.

“Kill him,” he whispered, and with that, the invisible chains snapped. Alphonse leapt forward latched his powerful jaws on the Captain’s throat. Caught off guard, the Captain struggled to raise his gun in defense, but another dog chomped down on his arm.

The entire pack rushed forward, and Culann could feel the paws press off his back as the dogs fought one another to get at their prey. The Captain started to scream, but the sound died to a gurgle as his windpipe collapsed under Alphonse’s crushing bite.

In a matter of moments, the Captain was torn to pieces, which were in turn torn into even smaller pieces. Culann pushed himself up and rolled over into a seated position.

The viciousness of the dogs melted away as quickly as it had appeared. Their bloodthirst slaked, they now enveloped Culann in a blanket of wet tongues and wagging tails.

Culann crawled on his elbows all the way up to Alistair’s. The dogs licked his face with encouragement as he went. He pulled himself up onto a barstool, reached over to snatch up a bottle of vodka, and took a long drink. The liquor burned his throat going down, and he coughed. He pulled the Swiss army knife from Williams’s belt and flipped out the blade using just his left hand and his teeth, which was a struggle. He cut his jeans off so he could treat his wounds. He found a dirty bar rag, soaked it in vodka, and wiped away the blood and grime that covered his wounds.

The wound in his right thigh bled steadily, but didn’t seem serious. The bullet hadn’t struck any bones, so Culann figured his right leg could support his weight. His left leg was another story. His kneecap was broken into at least three pieces. He was going to have to figure out a way to rig up a cast. Even with a cast, he knew he’d be permanently crippled. His hand was likewise broken in a few places and would never be the same. He was going to have to become left-handed.

Before learning to overcome these permanent disabilities, Culann needed to stop the blood pouring from the bullet holes. He cut his jeans into strips, which he doused in vodka and used to bind his wounds. He sat on the barstool in his t-shirt, underwear, socks and shoes. He drank what was left of the vodka, which did little to dull the pain that reverberated through every cell in his body. He thought he might have better luck with Worner’s marijuana, but it was all back at the cabin. Then he had an idea.

“Alphonse,” he said. The dog rose from the floor and peered up at Culann with his cerulean eyes. The Captain’s blood stained Alphonse’s muzzle. “Go get marijuana.”

Alphonse spun around and charged out of the tavern. If Culann hadn’t been in such agony, he would have laughed. As ridiculous as it was, his strange power over the dogs might just allow him survive. A couple of minutes later, Alphonse returned with a baggie containing several of Worner’s already-rolled joints hanging out of his mouth.

Culann lit one of the joints with bar matches and then slid down to the floor. The dogs settled in around him, and he felt safe and warm. He puffed on the joint, and the waves of pain began to ebb, and soon his snores mixed in with those of the dogs, and the island was once again at peace.

The pain tore Culann from his slumber. He hastily lit another joint and took a couple of hits. The smoke burned his dry throat, and he coughed, which made his wounds throb. He dragged himself back up onto a barstool and then leaned over to grab a bottle of club soda from behind the bar. He drank it down and then finished the joint. The pain receded but Culann’s head was so muddled he doubted he’d be able to function. Simply staying alive was a struggle, and Culann realized he was going to need to be sharp to survive. He could treat his pain or he could think. He couldn’t do both.

“Alphonse,” he called out, “go next door and get me some food.”

As before, the dog snapped to attention and then scurried off to do Culann’s bidding. He returned with a loaf of white bread. Culann would have preferred a little more flavor, but was still amazed the dog had brought anything.

“Good boy,” he said, scratching Alphonse behind the ears with his good hand.

After eating a few slices of bread, Culann stepped gingerly off of the stool. His right leg could support his weight, although the wound in his thigh screamed when his foot hit the floor. He ordered the dogs to clear a path, and they dutifully complied. The barstool stood at just about the right height to serve as a crude crutch. Culann snaked his right arm through the seatback, careful to avoid putting any pressure on his shattered hand, and swung the stool forward a few inches. He hopped ahead on his left leg and then swung the stool forward again. Walking this way, he slowly and clumsily crossed the bar and made it outside.

The fog had receded while Culann slept. It still covered the water just off shore, but Culann could now see around the island. He hobbled forward on the stool, collecting things he would need to properly address his injuries. Between his inefficient locomotion and his drug-addled mind, it took him over an hour to find suitable items.

He started with his shattered right knee. He sat on a barstool and rested his right foot on another stool. He slid a thin piece of plywood, a yard long and four inches wide, underneath the leg. Using just his left hand and his teeth, Culann managed to secure the wood in place with duct tape. Frank and Worner would have been proud of him.