The Last Dog on Earth (14 page)

But Harold hadn't called or e-mailed since he'd hung up on Westerly weeks ago. If he'd found the paper, he would have forgiven Westerly's rudeness. Westerly's own dog was at risk. Harold wasn't
that
coldhearted.

Although … Harold might not even know that Westerly owned a dog.

Of course he didn't. Why would he?

In a flash, Westerly was at the phone, furiously punching in Harold's number. It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Come on. Come on—

“Harold Marks.”

“Harold. It's Craig Westerly.”

There was no response.

“Hello?” Westerly said. “Harold?”

“What do you want?” Harold asked. He sounded tired and hoarse.

“I, um … I wanted to know if you'd found—”

“Your paper?” Harold interrupted. “No, we haven't. We haven't found an immune dog yet, either. We're a little busy.”

Westerly hesitated. “I … I'm sorry. I didn't—”

“Sorry?” Harold spat. “That's nice. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He
spoke much more quickly than usual. “You want to know what's going on? We've got hundreds of sick dogs here and a lot of sick people. I haven't slept in about three days. So if you want to chat, now's not the time.”

Westerly clutched the phone. His hands were moist. He glanced at Jasmine, twitching on the rug. “My own dog is sick,” he said. “Jasmine.” He felt as if he were listening to someone else talk. “Jasmine is her name.”

“My dog is sick, too,” Harold said. “Cody. A springer spaniel. He's in quarantine. We're trying to get everybody in Oregon to throw out all their dog food. Do you know how hard that is? Nobody …” He paused. “Why are you calling me?”

“I … I … didn't know you owned a dog.” Westerly turned away from Jasmine and stared out at the favorite evergreen tree, unable to keep still. He shifted from one foot to the other. It was an overcast, sunless day. The tree looked as grim and skeletal as ever. It looked like death.

“Westerly, are you all right?” Harold's tone sharpened. “Did your dog bite you?”

“No, no.” Westerly shook his head. “I just …”

“Okay, listen,” Harold said. “I'm willing to forget about everything that's happened in the past. I don't know what's going on where you are, but let me tell you what's going on here. People are nervous. We've got lines and lines of dog owners outside the laboratory, and they all want to be examined. We have to put them under quarantine. The ones who are already sick are overcrowding the university hospital—”

Westerly slammed the phone down.

It was a reflex, like kicking after being knocked on the knee. He
stared at the receiver. He felt bad. He hadn't been thinking. He just couldn't listen anymore. He knew he'd made a mistake … yet some part of him also knew that more talk wouldn't do either of them any good.

Talking only got in the way of doing something.

The trip to Joe Bixby's general store took two and a half hours when Westerly hiked it, sticking to the mountain paths. The drive only took about fifteen minutes. The trouble was, he hadn't sat behind the wheel in well over three years. He had no reason to drive anywhere. Jasmine didn't like riding in cars. They made her nervous.

The beat-up old two-door Honda sat in a ditch at the edge of the dirt drive. Westerly climbed in and turned the key.

It didn't start.

He tried again. All he got was a loud, mechanical stutter, like a person choking.

His jaw tightened. He grabbed the gearshift and put the transmission in neutral, then hopped out and started pushing the car down the road. He groaned and winced under the strain, but gradually the car picked up speed.

Within seconds, he was jogging just to keep up with it. He jumped in and turned the key, and the engine roared to life, belching black smoke.

“Yes!” he whispered, slamming the door.

The muffler rattled the whole way. He didn't pay any attention to the noise, though. He just drove as fast as possible.

Joe Bixby's dog may be immune
, he said to himself over and over.
Sam looked healthy the last time I saw him. Sam may be immune….

He hardly even noticed the caravan of black ambulances passing him in the other direction.

“Westerly. Good golly. Are you all right?”

Westerly stood panting in the doorway. He'd nearly crashed into the place. There were tire marks on the road outside. Bixby must have heard the screech. He squinted at Westerly from behind the counter, his eyebrows knit with concern.

“I'm fine,” Westerly breathed. He struggled to get a grip on himself. “Listen, Joe, can I ask you a favor?”

Bixby shrugged. He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out a pack of gum. “I suppose so,” he mumbled. “It depends, I guess.”

“Is Sam around?” Westerly asked, scanning the aisles. He noticed that all the dog food was gone. Bixby must have gotten word that it was infected.

“Nope.” Bixby shook his head. He folded a stick of gum into his mouth and started chewing. “I left him at home today.”

“You did? Why?”

“No reason,” Bixby said. He stared hard at Westerly. He had a look on his face that Westerly had never seen before. Usually Bixby was polite, smiling—even jovial every now and then. His brown eyes always had a sparkle. Today, that sparkle was gone. He almost looked as if he were about to challenge Westerly to a fight. “What's going on? You think he's got that disease people keep talking about? POS or whatever?”

Westerly shook his head. He started to feel queasy. “Well, I don't know. Is he sick? Does he seem dizzy? Has he been staggering at all? Drooling more than usual?”

Bixby leaned across the counter. He stopped chewing the gum. “You want to tell me what this is about?” he asked.

“It's just …” Westerly's mind raced. Sam must be sick. Of course he was. But Westerly had been
counting
on Sam. Sam was the only other dog besides Daisy he knew for miles. He'd seen a couple of other dogs around town over the years, but he'd never met the owners. And yes, it was insane to think that of all the dogs in the world, Sam would somehow be miraculously immune—but Westerly wasn't exactly thinking like a sane person. Not with Jasmine on the rug at home. Just a few weeks ago, Sam had looked so healthy, and Westerly didn't know where else he could possibly turn….

“It's just
what
?” Bixby demanded.

Westerly looked Bixby straight in the eye. “Listen, Joe. I don't know if you know this, but I'm a scientist. I worked with—”

“I know all about it,” Bixby interrupted.

Westerly blinked. “You do?”

“Yup. You worked at Portland U., but you got fired. So you moved out here.”

Any warm feelings Westerly might have once had for Joe Bixby died right there.

“Look, I want to help Sam and Jasmine, but I need to find a dog that's healthy and get it to Portland University,” Westerly said. “Do you know of any?”

Bixby laughed. The sound was brisk and harsh, like a slap. “You really
do
keep to yourself, don't you?” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” Westerly asked. He felt sick to his stomach again, even though he wasn't sure why.

“There aren't any dogs left in this town,” Bixby said. He lowered his voice and glanced around the deserted store. “They're all dead.
Either that or they've been rounded up by the government. A couple of folks around here have even taken to shooting dogs or beating them to death because they're scared of getting bit. So if I were you, I wouldn't come around asking a lot of questions about dogs. I'd just keep Jasmine at home and pray.”

Westerly turned and bolted out the door.

He could still hear Bixby talking about prayer as he gunned the engine and tore back down the empty highway.

The scent was almost impossible to detect at first, but in time, it grew stronger. Jack's sense of smell was her most powerful tool. A whiff on a fallen tree branch, a sudden shift in the breeze … She was getting close. With each footstep, her starved and beaten body begged for a moment's rest. She hadn't slept; she'd barely eaten—just some measly scraps on the side of the road. But her desire to reach the boy overpowered the suffering.

So did her fear.

She was being hunted.

Every human she'd encountered since her escape had threatened her in some way. Some chased her. Some hurled rocks at her. All of them barked at her. The wild was terrifying—even more so than the dark place. She slunk through the shadows, hiding even as she tracked the scent. But the boy would protect her. He would protect her the way he always had….

Crash!

Logan's eyes flew open. He bolted upright.

He had absolutely no idea where he was. Sleep still clung to him in a heavy, uncomfortable way, like wet clothes. He was much too groggy to make any sense of his surroundings. All he saw was gray mist.

Gradually, he realized that his clothes really
were
wet.

He was cold, too. He shivered and blinked. Something had woken him up. A big crash, like a falling tree branch …

Oh, right. He remembered now. He was in the woods. Specifically, he was
lost
in the woods. And apparently branches were falling around him.

Great. Just great. In about three seconds, one would probably smack him on the head. It would either kill him or give him lifelong amnesia—in which case he would end up wandering into some weird place and getting brainwashed by one of those bizarre, starry-eyed religious cults, the Brothers and Sisters of UFO Eternity or something, and he'd live out the rest of his days with a name like Shadrach, eating wheat germ in a remote mountain compound and never remembering anything.

If he even got that far.

Logan scowled and rubbed his bleary eyes. He blinked until his
vision cleared. Being able to see didn't do much good, though. He was still shrouded in fog. He stood up straight and tried to dust off his soggy jeans and T-shirt. That didn't do much good, either. He was damp and filthy. His stomach rumbled. Hunger was starting to pick at him in a pretty irritating way. Thirst, too. (Which was doubly annoying since it was so
wet.
) Sergeant Bell's spaghetti had run out yesterday. At this point, a big bowl of wheat germ didn't even sound so bad.

“So,” he whispered. He sounded like an eighty-year-old man. “This is what running away is all about.”

For three days, Logan had been stumbling around the mountains with a plastic garbage bag full of worthless junk, trying in vain to figure out which way was
west—
so he could find the stupid dirt road that led back to the highway that could take him home. But no. He couldn't. Because he couldn't find the stupid sun. Leave it to Private Moore, Maggot First Class, to run away the night before a long stretch of lousy weather.

The first day, it had poured. The second day, it had drizzled. And now, well … now it just seemed to have settled into a nice thick fog. The sun was still nowhere to be seen, of course. Oh, no. It could be anywhere. Here, there, up, down … there was no telling.

If only Jack were with him. All those dumb training books talked about how dogs were supposed to have these built-in homing devices so they could basically sniff their way back home no matter
what
the weather—

Crackle, crackle, crack …smash!

Logan flinched. There it was again. This time it sounded like more than just a branch falling. It sounded like a tree. Logan heard the wood splintering as the trunk hit the forest floor.

He didn't get it. Was somebody chopping down trees around
here? Actually, the question was, did the tree choppers have potato chips and soda? Logan grabbed the dripping garbage bag and hurried in the direction of the noise, his feet sinking into the sopping layer of dead leaves and sticks that covered the ground.

The farther he ran, the more the fog started to clear. He also began to notice other sounds: animals scurrying through the brush, the babbling of a stream, the
plop-plop
of something falling into water….

The trees abruptly disappeared.

Logan stopped. He found himself surrounded by stumps.

He stared at them curiously. They were all squat and pointed, like sharpened pencils or a village of miniature tepees. He looked around. A couple of long, skinny tree trunks lay at his feet. Each one looked as though several bites had been taken out of it. They reminded him of half-eaten corn on the cob. He shook his head. If this had been done by a lumberjack, he was the weirdest lumberjack Logan had ever—

Plop-plop.

Logan squinted through the fog toward the stream's edge—just in time to see a furry brown creature with stumpy legs waddle into the water.