Hung (26 page)

"
D
on't worry
, little buddy, I'll be back," I croon reassuringly, turning to explore the rest of the horrific facility. That's what it is – not a kennel, but a
facility.

I
go
to the kennel opposite, snapping a picture of an injured dog with a dressing around its paw. As it comes to the front of its cage, I notice it's hopping, not even daring to put any weight on its last leg. "Oh my god," I whisper under my breath as I notice, shocked, that the bandage around the dog's foot is yellow with seeping pus. If he was one of my patients, I'd have ordered that his dressing be changed at least twice a day, but this clearly hasn't been looked at for three days, or maybe even more. Just because he's a dog doesn't mean he should be treated like this – far from it.

T
oby's water
bowl is empty, too.

D
aisy's
still got a dribble of water left in hers, but when I go to the front of her kennel, she just looks at me with deep, sad eyes and refuses to get up – if I were a betting girl, I'd put good money on her being depressed.

C
ooper's bowl – empty
.

S
o is Rocky's
, but at least he's got a pile of food – a pile of food which, I notice, hasn't been touched. I've had a dog, and my parents have had more, and I know that healthy dogs don't refuse food. This place is sick, sick to its core.

I
take pictures of everything
, the seeping bandage on Toby's paw, Daisy's sad, deep depression, the emptiness of all of the cages, barring the filthy dog shit on the floor, the lack of toys or any other form of mental stimulation. It's like solitary confinement, I think to myself. What have they done to deserve that?

T
he last cage
I come to has a big, eighty-pound German Shepherd sitting as politely as can be inside it, and I know even without looking at the nametag scrawled in unkempt, barely readable handwriting stuck to the lock, that it's Jake.

"
H
ey
, Jake," I say in a quiet voice, "you okay? I'm going to get you out of there, yeah?" I know he doesn't understand what I'm saying, but I'm pretty sure he gives me a nod back.

"
W
ho the hell are you
?" a loud voice cries from the other end of the warehouse. "And what the hell are you doing in my facility?" The shock of the voice almost knocks me over from where I'm squatting in front of Jake's cage, phone in hand, but I have the presence of mind to stay down for a second, tapping away on the small touchscreen.

"
I
said
," the voice comes again, threateningly, from behind me, "who the hell are you?" A large male hand descends on my shoulder, spinning me round and pulling me up. "And what the hell have you got in your hands?"

H
e grabs
my phone out of my hands before I have a second to fight him off and a crushing sense of fear descends upon me as I realize how – quite literally – criminally stupid my actions might turn out to be. I bite my lip, hoping beyond all hope that my last couple of seconds tapping away on the smart phone had been successful.

"
W
ere you
," the man barks while continuing to pull me up and spin me around to face him, "taking pictures? If you were, young lady, then you're going away for a very, very long time…"

H
e grins
, ominously, and I watch as a twisted smile spills across his overlarge, pockmarked face. My stomach turns, and I don't know whether that's because I'm scared of him or what he's saying.

"
I
n trouble
?" I start bravely. "You should be the one who's worried! How can you look at yourself when you treat these poor animals like this?"

T
he man scoffs
, pulling his upper lip back, and sneers at me. I wouldn't have thought it possible that any expression could look uglier than his smile – but I would have been wrong. I could see how I might feel sorry for him, having to live with an affliction as unpleasant as his appearance, if it wasn't for his equally unlikeable demeanor.

"
Y
ou think
you're threatening me, do you?"

"
N
ot threatening – just pointing
out the obvious," I reply, doing my best to draw myself up to face him – a difficult job, since his hand is still anchored to my shoulder, keeping me slightly off-balance.

"
I
f I were you
," he leers at me, raking me up and down with a lascivious stare, "I'd be begging me for a way out of your predicament?"

"
W
hy
?" I ask, still acting way more confidently than I actually feel. I get the sense that the man standing in front of me in rankless, black military fatigues is like a caged animal himself in some ways, and worse in others – I get the sense that he's not a victim, but a sociopath: cold, violent and emotionless. My best way out of this isn't by trying to bargain with him – it's by standing up to him, even if that means threatening him. I noticed that something about him doesn't scream military – he doesn't have that kind of bearing, or that sense of honor that almost every other man on this base gives off. No, I think he's a contractor, and the thought gives me an idea – and some leverage.

"
O
h
," I say, shooting him what I hope is a devastatingly unimpressed glance, "and what kind of way out are you suggesting?"

H
e gives
me that up-and-down piercing stare again, and I feel like he's mentally undressing me. It's disgusting; I feel affronted, my personal space invaded. I know exactly what it is he's suggesting, but I want him to say it.

"
M
aybe
," he says, his tone of voice altering noticeably to a vulpine hiss, "we can come to an arrangement – just you and me."

"
W
hat kind of arrangement
?" I reply coldly.

"
Y
ou know
…" he trails off, cowardly. Like many predators of his type, he's not brave enough to actually vocalize his darkest thoughts – he just wants to dance around the topic until I suggest it. That's never going to happen.

"
I
don't
, actually."

F
or a short
, barely noticeable microsecond, the man's shoulders constrict inwards and his grip on my shoulder loosens as he builds up the misguided courage to bully me into fulfilling his sick desires. Then, like a flash, he stands up tall, as though he has summoned up the requisite strength, or his dark, twisted innermost desires have finally overruled his common sense.

"
Y
ou're going
to make me spell it out? Fine," he spits, wet flecks of spittle landing on my cheek. "You're going to fuck me, right here, or you're going to be locked up for a very long time. Your choice."

I
t's the cold
, emotionless way he spells out my two options – or at least, the two options he thinks I have – that I find most sickening. It's like he's done this before, and honestly I wouldn't be surprised if he has. He seems like the type.

"
O
r maybe
," I reply, summoning strength from my conviction that what I'm doing here is right – not just getting Jake back for Mike, but hopefully saving all of these dogs from this sick man's tyranny, "I'll take door three."

I
pause
, letting my impudence hang heavy in the air between us. His features twist once again in anger, and he squeezes my shoulder, deliberately trying to inflict pain. I bite my tongue surreptitiously, but do my best not to give off any other hint that what he's doing is having any affect on me. Like I said, he's an animal – and if you show fear or pain to a predatory animal, they'll take advantage of it. He's just the same.

"
W
hat's your name
?" I ask, keeping my voice steady and level.

"
M
y name
?" he asks, brow furrowed in confusion as he tries to figure out how this exchange has taken such an unexpected turn. "Why are you asking that? And what the hell's door three?"

"
I
'm glad you asked
," I say while reaching up and firmly pulling his fingers off of my shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief under my breath as the blood begins to rush back into the affected area. "Oh – and I didn't get your name?"

H
e answers almost
as though he's on autopilot, and that kind of makes sense to me – after all, it's not exactly like he's got an enormous brain. Even though I don't actually have any power over him, I'm acting like I do – and that seems to be enough, for now at least. If I don't use my trump card soon, though, my little act might prove to be just that…

"
F
red
," he grunts, momentarily resting his hands on his waist. For the first time since he caught me, he doesn't look like a coiled spring, ready to snap and lash out at me at any moment, and I decide to press my advantage.

"
N
ice to meet you
, Fred. If you'll give me back my cellphone?"

H
e looks at me warily
, and I realize that I might be pressing my luck – after all, he did catch me trespassing in a restricted area, and I'm probably legally breaching the Espionage Act, or something equally terrifying. "I just want to show you something," I quickly add.

H
e hands it over
, but in doing so, he changes his stance so that he is resting on the balls of his feet. Damn – he's back to that caged animal thing. I'm going to have to handle this carefully.

"
L
ook
," I say, bringing up the gallery app and scrolling through the pictures of the insidious insides of his animal gaol. He cranes his neck and looks down. "These aren't exactly the kind of pictures that your bosses would be happy about the media getting their hands on, are they?"

H
e has
the good grace to look nervous, a slight sheen of sweat appearing from nowhere on his brow as I scroll through to the image of the weeping bandage on Toby's paw.

"
I
t looks
to me like this is the kind of thing that could lose your company a whole load of contracts, and you wouldn't want that on your head, would you…" I notice more sweat building up on Fred’s forehead, and know that I’m on the right track. "It's disgusting," I continue, building up with righteous anger. "How can you treat these animals like this?"

"
T
hey're just dogs
," he scoffs, "and no one tells me what to do – not you, not nobody. What's stopping me from just taking your phone and deleting them right now?"

H
e reaches his arm out
, ready to grab it off me. I decide to take the wind out of his sails and hand it right to him. "Here you go…" I say airily.

F
red shoots me a confused
, quizzical look. "Why did you hand it over so easily?"

"
I
s there
a tick at the top of the screen?" I ask. "Just a little icon."

"
Y
eah
, so?"

"
S
o
," I say confidently, "they're on the cloud now. Good luck trying to delete them."

H
e shoots me a hunted
, wounded look, and I hold my breath hoping that he's as stupid and technologically illiterate as he looks – because I'm bluffing. For all I know, he can still delete them. I just hope he doesn't know that.

A
pause builds
up between us.

"
W
hat do you want
?" he finally mutters, eyes cast directly at the floor, then the wall – in fact, everywhere except directly at my triumphant stare. I let out the breath that I've been holding – slowly, just in case he realizes how close he came to calling my bluff.

"
F
irst things first
," I say with wholly deserved, hard-earned confidence, "I want Jake."

"
W
ho's Jake
?" Fred asks with unfeigned confusion – he actually doesn't know.

"
Y
ou're a disgrace
, you know that Fred?" I say with disgust written on my face. "He's one of the dogs you're supposed to be taking care of…"

"
H
ow am
I supposed to remember all their names?" he replies defensively, looking somewhat outraged. I decide not to bother arguing with him – I get the feeling that it'll be like trying to punch a brick wall.

"
T
here are only
–" I start with reflective irritation before catching myself, "it doesn't matter. He's that one," I say, pointing at Jake.