Read The Last Dog on Earth Online
Authors: Daniel Ehrenhaft
The Last Dog on Earth
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Sylvia Waugh
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Sylvia Waugh
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Nicky Singer
REMOTE MAN,
Elizabeth Honey
THE TRUE PRINCE,
J. B. Cheaney
MACARONI BOY,
Katherine Ayres
MADE YOU LOOK,
Diane Roberts
AKIKO AND THE ALPHA CENTAURI 5000,
Mark Crilley
TROUT AND ME,
Susan Shreve
THE HEADLESS CUPID,
Zilpha Keatley Snyder
For Cecily and Josh
ROLOGUE
THE SHE-PUP
Before the sickness, the pack had always hunted at night. The darkness gave it power. At night, the pack could be one—a stealthy, many-headed beast: dozens of eyes, hundreds of sharp teeth bared for an attack. The creatures who hid or burrowed underground during the day would emerge in the shadows, and the damp air would ripen with their mingled scents: beaver, chipmunk, deer—all nearby, all feasts for the taking.
Tonight, as always, the forest was full of possibilities. But tonight the pack was too weak to hunt. The sickness had all but destroyed it.
The she-pup stood beside Mother at the mouth of the cave, whining softly. The emptiness in her belly was a sharp, gnawing pain. Mother had been still for days. She had to start stalking prey again—not only for her own survival, but for the rest of the pack … and mostly for the she-pup and her brother, White Paws. Both were only six months old. Too young to fend for themselves.
At last, Mother growled. She shook herself and stretched. The wait was over. The she-pup's belly rumbled in anticipation. She sat, every sense focused on Mother's movement. Foam dripped from Mother's mouth. Her legs buckled. There was a foul odor coming off her, but the she-pup ignored it. She wagged her tail and rubbed against her mother's body, welcoming her back to the world of the living.
Mother turned to her. Their eyes locked. The puppy's tail fell still.
Mother's eyes were not her own. They were clouded, dull, seeing but not knowing. A thousand generations of canine instinct flowed through the puppy's veins, and they all boiled down to a single command: Run.
She darted out of the cave.
Mother lunged at her. Her jaws closed within inches of the shepup's tail. The she-pup sprinted through the forest as fast as her starved body would carry her. Mother followed close on her heels, barking. The sound was savage, ferocious. Mud flew; twigs snapped; the puppy lost her footing several times. But Mother lost her footing as well. She staggered more than she ran.
Eventually, the she-pup grew too weak to continue. She whirled to face Mother, her heart pounding. Mother closed in on her with great wheezing gasps.
And then she collapsed.
The puppy hesitated. She took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing. There was a new scent in the air now….
Like fear, it had been burned into her memory since before she was born. But she'd also encountered it firsthand—whenever she'd hunted at Mother's side for a night's meal.
It was the scent of death.
Redmont County Sheriff's Office
June 15
Officers Vasquez and Roper, responding to a domestic disturbance call, went to 719 Nakootick Way. At the scene, homeowner Michelle Thompson reported that her Labrador retriever, Jellybean, had attempted to maul her eleven-year-old son. “He just went crazy. I've never seen anything like it,” Mrs. Thompson stated. The boy was unharmed, but when the dog continued its violent and aggressive behavior, Mrs. Thompson and her son vacated the premises.
Officers determined that the dog was still inside the house, and loud barking and thudding noises indicated it was still agitated. Officer Roper, formerly of the Portland canine unit, entered the house in an attempt to soothe the animal, at which point the animal began to pursue Officer Roper. In the course of evading attack, Officer Roper jumped through a picture window. When the dog came through the window in pursuit, Officer Vasquez was forced to shoot. A veterinarian was summoned and the dog was pronounced dead at the scene at 6:18 P.M.
JUNE 20–21
HAPTER
ONE
“You know what the Wallaces' dog can do?” Robert asked. He slapped the steering wheel. “He can fetch his own leash when he wants to go for a walk. Can you believe that? Otis fetches his own leash!”
Robert had an annoying habit of slapping the steering wheel while he was talking and driving at the same time. Logan hated that.
Logan Moore hated a lot of things.
Mom said that
hate
was a strong word and that Logan shouldn't use it. Logan didn't agree. If
hate
was a strong word, then that was fine by him. If there had been a stronger word, he'd probably have used that one. In fact, hating was such a big part of his life that he kept a running list of all the things he hated.
The list changed from day to day. It could change from hour to hour, even. Sometimes it was bigger, sometimes smaller; sometimes it was just one word—
Robert
—so Logan never wrote the list down. He kept it in his head, where he kept everything else that mattered.
Right now the list read as follows:
Being in the car with Mom and Robert
Listening to Robert jabber on and on and
never shut up
about the Wallaces' dogThe Wallaces
Their dog
The name Otis
Devon Wallace
Being angry
The list always ended the same way, because even on a beautiful June afternoon—with summer vacation just starting and the sun blazing and the wind whipping through the open car window— Logan could count on being angry for one reason or another. At the very least, he could always be angry that Mom had married Robert, whose pockmarked face looked like the surface of an asteroid and whose mission in life was to be the All-Knowing Dictator of Everything. Logan could also be angry that his father had run off when Logan was seven and was now living the high life somewhere in the boondocks in a mansion he'd built by himself that probably had a hot tub and a trampoline—but Logan wouldn't know because his father had never invited him to the place and never would. (Not that Logan even wanted to go.) And of course he could be angry about being angry all the time, since it was a lousy way to feel.
But Logan had gotten used to all that sort of stuff. He'd
had
to get used to it, or else he'd go crazy. And then, who knew what could happen? He might turn violent. He might turn to crime. Then he would end up being one of those kids you see on talk shows: the kids whose heinous behavior
proves
to the studio audience that teenagers are, indeed, very evil—and isn't it high time we did something about it?
Today Logan was just angry because Robert had burst into his room without knocking.
Again.
Then he'd torn the place apart,
searching for the TV remote control.
Again.
He couldn't find it, of course, because Logan didn't have it. But that didn't stop him from throwing all Logan's stuff all over the place … his clothes, his books,
everything—
even the lousy baseball mitt that he never used because it was so stiff that it felt like concrete, and besides, there was nobody to play catch with, anyway.
Then Robert told him to clean up the mess.
And on top of all that, Mom and Robert were dragging him to the Wallaces' Summer Kickoff Barbecue for the eighty billionth time. Logan would rather have his eyes poked out with a sharp stick. He'd rather be hurled into a pit full of poisonous snakes. He'd rather do
anything
than be stuck in the same place as both Robert and Devon Wallace.
But there was no point in dwelling on what he'd rather be doing.
Every year, the Wallaces hosted the same Summer Kickoff Barbecue. Everybody in Pinewood was invited. That was the Pinewood spirit. Pinewood was the lame housing tract in the lame town where they all lived—that being Newburg, Oregon, otherwise known as Lameville, USA. And every year, the star attraction of the barbecue was Devon Wallace, the King of Lameness himself.
Devon was fourteen, just like Logan. They'd been in the same class since they were five. They were both going to start ninth grade at the same high school in the fall. Given Logan's luck, they would probably go to the same college, work at the same office, and end up buried in the same cemetery, too.
For the longest time, Mom and Robert had been putting up a fight to make Logan become better friends with Devon. It didn't
take a genius to see why. From an adult point of view, Devon was perfect. He was a perfectly adequate student. He had perfect blond hair and perfect teeth. He was one of those kids who looked as if he belonged in a toothpaste commercial. He played about a zillion different sports, too, including soccer and water polo—yes, water polo—all perfectly.