Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales (36 page)

It made me wonder… what did he live for?

Was there someone he missed, a young owner? Had War Daddy been raised just to become live transportation for opium bags? Or had the big fella been dognapped? Was there, even now, a distraught family awaiting his return?

I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.

But first, we had to survive the trek across the desert, and now, in this third week of our journey, we had to survive the marauders.

ike the Middle Eastern version of an American wagon train, we were grouped together within a semi-ring of camels and tents and watchmen. The watchmen had AK-47s. Serious stuff. I was weaponless, other than a curved jambiya I’d found among the bleached-white bones of a forgotten trader. I found these remains one night while pitching my tent and prudently kept the discovery a secret. Now, I wore the traditional curved short blade at my hip, under my belt. Still, I felt naked. I itched for my government-issue Walther. Then again, I often spent time in the field. As such, I rarely carried my weapon with me.

Granted, my fieldwork often consisted of returning prisoners to their home countries, not dogs to their rightful owners.

If there even was one.

It was our third week in the desert. The caravan was well-stocked and should, baring incidents, find its way even to Timbuktu without much problem. Yes, there is a Timbuktu, and I’d been there, though it’s not quite as enchanting as it might sound.

However, an attack that left us without supplies could be the death of us all, and it would barely take a day or two for the entire caravan to not look much different than the bleached bones I’d found a few days ago. I suspected, buried in these shifting sands, were many such bones, long forgotten, their stories capable of filling epic adventure novels.

I sat here now, enjoying the cooling night, which would reach freezing temperatures soon enough. On average, the Sahara is covered in a depth of about three hundred feet of sand, or about the length of a football field. Vertically, of course. Surely enough sand to bury whole cities, much less caravans. Even now, how many bones lay beneath me? How many lost cities? Lost families? Gold? Jewels? Or maybe nothing? Maybe it was just hundreds of feet of sand and then solid bedrock, ground smooth as a baby’s bottom.

I rubbed War Daddy’s neck. He seemed on high alert this night, which put me on edge, and kept me from slipping into sleep, despite my exhaustion. It had been a long day full of steep climbs, arguments, and too little food and water. I was not used to the simple diet and meager rations, but given enough time out here, this would change. For now, though, I was always hungry and thirsty. Mostly thirsty. Because I was sharing my water ration with War Daddy.

As the night wore on, the traders, exclusively male, told stories and shared food, while a few stole some quiet moments in their tents. War Daddy, with his thick front legs and massive paws, suddenly stood on alert. He stared off into the near distance, toward a dune that rose opposite the moonless night sky. He barked once, twice, the timbre so deep, I felt the sand grains shift around me. He stepped forward, his wide paws perfectly adapted to the moving sand. Indeed, they acted as sort of sand shoes for the big fellow. He barked again, and I reached up to hold his collar. His tail was stiff and straight. No movement. Now, our fellow travelers looked up, their tales petered out, even their water jugs forgotten.

And then, the rest of us heard them, too… and shortly, a wave of raiders on camelback descended from the dune, followed by shouts and gunfire, and now, I was moving, too.
Fast.

irst, I snapped on War Daddy’s leash.

I didn’t want to lose him in this battle. I didn’t want to lose him,
period
. As the days piled up, as the weeks came and went, as the shifting sand blew into eternity, I had grown closer to my charge. I did not want to feel anything for him. I had not planned on it. He was, after all, just another assignment. But as we slept together, in my simple tent, as I cleaned the dust out of his eyes and nose and whispered that I admired his resiliency and strength and loyalty, I fell in love with him. God help me.

But now, we had to get out of this alive.

And this, from all appearances, was a full-scale attack. By whom… Well, what did it matter?

The traders were fighting men, too. You had to be, to travel this ancient route. I’d paid my way into their group, keeping a low profile, even though I knew there were those who whispered behind my back. There was no such thing as social media here, and no cell service in the middle of the Arabian Peninsula. Still, more than once, I had earned their respect, pushing camels and provisions up steep hills, breaking my back right alongside them, sweating and laughing with them. I let them drink first, and only accepted the water skin when it came my way. I asked for nothing extra, and gave them everything I had. Within the first week, I had become one of them. I thought about that with some pride. These were hard men, perhaps as hard as they came.

Now, as the attackers descended upon us, I did not run, but I did not lose sight of my dog either. Yes,
my
dog. T’aul, the leader of the caravan, shouted my name and tossed me an old rifle. A lever-action Winchester 1892, ten rounds fully loaded. Good enough. I nodded and ran for cover behind the closest dune. War Daddy came willingly enough.

I was not fully prepared for the intensity and depravity of the battle. Nor was I fully prepared to witness what I witnessed. There was apparently a reason why the dog was called War Daddy.

We had over sixty men. The enemy had about the same number. But it was a moonless night, and they were many. They ambushed us, coming from the northern hill and now, from behind us, too, where I was hidden. Explosions flashed from their muzzles, the pop-pop of firing weapons filled the air.

I scrambled to my feet and headed over to a small collection of wooden chests, packed full of trade goods, and only recently unstrapped from the camels for the night. There, I hunkered down between two such chests and with War Daddy next to me, took aim at the closest rider.

My shot was true, and he tumbled from his camel to land face-first in the sand, hands outstretched, sliding briefly before he came to a stop. I knew that within days, his body would be covered and he, too, would be forgotten. Many of these desert scoundrels are loners, banding together for survival and raiding parties, with no loyalty to anyone, probably no real friends, probably no life at all. The lowest of the low, in other words, desperate animals attacking the innocent, stealing from the hard-working, taking real pleasure in murdering and hurting and destroying.

I took careful aim, time and time again, squeezing shots off into chests, always the biggest target. Head shots were for snipers with clear targets, not late-night desert warfare. In a battle, we were taught to aim for the chest, always the chest.

Seven of my first eight shots were true, but I took no great pleasure in watching man after man tumble to his death. I was methodical and calculating, and even as some riders made it into camp, I held my place. The wooden chests absorbed many bullets, and so far, they served me well, keeping me out of harm’s way, and War Daddy, too.

Two more shots, two more fallen bandits. Which brought me down to my last bullet. Luckily, we seemed to be holding off the bastards. I saw some of them hightailing it up over the closest dune, fleeing and shooting randomly behind them like the cowards they were.

I had been so intent on tracking them, waiting for the perfect last shot, when two things happened simultaneously: War Daddy erupted in barking and I was tackled from behind.

I pitched forward, my weapon flying from my hands. Powerful knees jammed in my lower back, followed by the distinctive whisper of a blade being unsheathed. It all happened so fast and, as much as I hated to admit it, the man was stronger than me. That, and he had the element of surprise on his side. As I struggled, knowing that at any moment a blade could sever my spine or pierce my heart or plunge into the back of my neck, I heard the hellacious growls and barks above me, and the next thing I knew, the man was dragged off me. I turned, drawing my jambiya. And saw something I would not soon forget: War Daddy had his jaws around the man’s throat, crushing the life out of him. His blade, I saw, was firmly planted in War Daddy’s hindquarters. The dog didn’t seem to notice or care, and by the time I had crawled to my feet, I could see the massive damage to the man’s throat. Irreparable damage. He gave me one last confused look before he quit struggling.