D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (10 page)

Suddenly, the bigger dog, Bradley’s pick, lashed out with a speed and force that surprised both his opponent and the onlookers. The match was competitive again. There was a cheer from the crowd, which made a rough circle around the dogs, themselves in an earthen pit of hard clay. It was possibly a foot deep, a foot and a half at most, but not nearly deep enough for Bradley’s taste. From his perspective, on its very edge, he could hear every growl of aggression, every grunt and yelp when the dogs met for battle. He could see the rippling of their muscles and the snapping of canines and the desperate look in the eyes of whomever was losing at the moment. He could also see clearly that hollow, beastly expression when on the attack. He took it all in, poised precariously on the lip of the pit, the massive hand forcing him to look upon the grisly scene below.

There was chatter in Spanish. An exchange of money was taking place. The bigger dog, nameless as far as Bradley could tell, was effectively striking now. People were adjusting their bets. A man in a guayabera and khakis was running the betting. A fat cigar hung from his lips as he compiled notes with professional efficiency. He was flanked on either side by men in tight jeans and stern faces. At least one had a gun, a revolver tucked down the front of his jeans. That was part of what put Bradley in his present situation. The other being a generalized arrogance, or stupidity, that led him to question these men and what they were doing.

There were a few women, too, but they stayed far back, sitting on pick-up tailgates facing the dusty road back to Mexico City. A breeze carried the smell of tortillas cooking but Bradley couldn’t determine from where. His line of sight was limited to the dog pit and a square of sky beyond it. In a glimpse up from the fight below, he saw the sun steadily dipping into the horizon. He wondered if he would experience dusk. That would be appropriately symbolic, Bradley supposed, dying at dusk. When the light was gone and the darkness took over, he thought. Again he shook the thoughts from his head.
Idiot
. Must be the Lit student in him causing Bradley to think of such nonsense.

There was still sunlight. And his dog still stood, however bloodied. Bradley decided in that moment to call it Cooper, after his own pet when he was a kid. Cooper would have died to save him, he was sure. His old Retriever would have fought valiantly to free his master.

He found himself yelling “Cooper!” over the shouts of the crowd. Most didn’t understand the word but traded amused looks anyway. Perhaps only his captor knew. He spoke in English to Bradley: “Your dog fights well. Maybe you can take him home with you.” He laughed. It was deep and surprisingly jovial, that laugh, as if lives were not at stake. Perhaps in another world he would have been a used car salesman or an elementary school teacher. But he was from a poor barrio on the outskirts of Mexico City and was not either of those. Instead, he held Bradley’s neck nearly down to the dog’s themselves, making sure every scent and splash of blood was recorded at the most visceral level.

Bradley found himself less angry with the man than himself. He had known what the men were going to do. It shocked him, a suburban boy from Baltimore, to see animal cruelty. He knew it happened but not to such a blatant extent as this. Perhaps that was what offended him—making no attempt at all to hide this barbarity. It wasn’t their fault, he said to himself, these were poor people. They shared the streets with dogs like these, no doubt wild and dangerous, everyday. Bradley knew dogs here were not treated like almost-humans as they were in Baltimore. His own Retriever had spent a large part of its life inside, despite being, in effect, an “outside” dog. But that sense of injustice was strong in Bradley. He had carefully erected it in college and had planned to cultivate it when he started his first job next month with a humanitarian organization.

Even the anger at himself was at a low ebb. Increasingly his mental energy was being channeled to Cooper, returning now to the dog that only a few minutes ago was tired and near defeat. Bradley made eye contact with it, hoping to establish some tenuous mental bond that would push him that extra mile. In spite of himself, Bradley drove the dog forward with thoughts of violence, of ripping his enemy apart, then turning on their captors in a bloody fury.

“Kill him Cooper!” he heard himself yell. It came off his tongue oddly. He thought that he would never utter such a statement and mean it.

His captor provided a patronizing pat on the back. “Good! That’s the only way. He needs you. You need
him
.”

The renewed threat drove Bradley into desperation. He pleaded with the dog to continue just as he had pleaded with the man to let him go. His captor had simply shaken his head, using that extraordinary laugh as he told his lackey to keep a gun trained on the
gringo
. There had been animosity when he first pushed his way into the crowd, and implored in broken Spanish to spare the dogs and go about their business. That seemed like hours ago instead of minutes. One tiny corner of his mind, the only one not willing his savior to a victory, thought back to his entrance among the people of the shanty town with its picked over land and miserable sloping shacks. He had crested the dog pit like a pretentious twat, the Ugly American, his backpack high on his shoulders like a beacon of civilization. It only took moments to realize his error.

Then he was given a choice. A bet.

“Kill him! Kill him!” Bradley screamed.

Cooper was on the verge of defeat, his ears torn, the fur on his head soggy with blood. His thick body strained for breath in great heaving sighs. There was little fight left in him it seemed, the last burst of energy expended. Like all opponents sensing victory, the other dog strode forward confidently, despite its own severe wounds, taking the fight to Cooper. Bradley doubted that either dog would battle another day; but no other day mattered. No other fight mattered. Escaping the man with the gun and his captor with the impossibly strong hands was Bradley’s only concern.

Bradley eyed the possible winner, a pit bull. Its block-like head was huge; its black gums and bloody teeth were exposed as it panted, circling Cooper in short, quick strides. Its body was lean but powerful. He didn’t have to imagine that the dogs had been starved or to imagine how fresh meat would taste to the victor. That was the only way to provoke dogs like this, certainly. Starvation was part of their training, like endurance or power. Food was their reward for winning. The punishment was obvious.

Money was no longer changing hands. The fight was nearly over. It only took one more attack to end things. Cooper was on his hind legs, tongue lolling out of his mouth permanently now, exhaustion impeding the survival instinct. Again Bradley’s mind railed against it.

“Get up, Cooper. Get up, boy. You can do it. Do it!”

In that moment the pit bull turned its cold, merciless stare on Bradley. He felt a rush of cold adrenaline under that stare. The flight response. It was as if the dog knew, that it understood what Cooper meant to Bradley. He suddenly had an insight of how the gazelle felt when it was separated from the herd and the lion had it sighted. The point where your final breaths could be enumerated in double digits. It was a lonely feeling, despite the other eyes in the small crowd watching him as well. There was an odd mix of sympathy and excitement on their faces. They knew now.

Bradley would be
la cena
. The dinner.

That had been the bet. If Bradley chose the winner he could go free. If he chose the loser, he would be fed to the winner. His captor had not let him know just how long it had been since either had been fed. But there was desperation in their hunger. And they knew whatever was thrown into the pit would be their next meal.

Bradley held the dog’s stare, knowing that it could probably smell his fear, even over that of Cooper. Bradley tried to return the look with defiance and hatred. He hoped his anger would overcome any other emotion he might emit.

The exchange lasted no longer than seconds, perhaps only one second, but that was enough for Cooper to rush in with fangs bared and sunk his teeth into the Pit Bull’s throat. The dog gave out a surprised bark but all other sounds were strangled as Cooper’s jaw snapped shut with terrifying strength. Blood pumped from the pit bull’s neck like spray from a garden hose. Sprinkles tattooed Bradley’s face, which might have repulsed him twenty minutes ago, but now was as welcome as cool rain in the summer.

“Yes!” he said as the blood pooled. “Yes!” he repeated, the pit bull collapsing into a heap in the clay ring. “Yes!” he screamed when Cooper let go and let loose a howl of victory.

Others in the crowd looked onward in shock. Soon there were shouts of anger. One of the men in tight blue jeans, with the gun, drew it from his side in warning. The man with the cigar shook his head and began counting the money. The spoils. His captor finally let go of Bradley’s neck, which was pinched and cramped, but he hardly noticed.

“
Gringo
,” he said, with his cheerful laugh. “Your dog won! You have been saved! Celebrate!”

Bradley found himself doing just that, laughing and jumping up and down in a crazy dance. Those in the crowd frowned, then laughed, as the
gringo loco
jumped and screamed and cried like an imbecile. He was alive, he would go free. He wanted to hug Cooper but instead he cried. He couldn’t restrain himself; the tears were hardly noticeable mixed with the sweat but his sobs were likes howls. Moments later he sunk to his knees, exhausted.

His captor looked on. His face was on the verge of another cheerful laugh that never arrived. There was coldness in his eyes. “That was my best dog,
amigo
. He should have won. This will lose me money.”

Bradley could say nothing. He brought himself back to his feet and stood as straight and steady as he could manage. He glanced at Cooper, who was laying next to his dead opponent, head between paws. No one was giving him a second glance now.

The keeper followed Bradley’s stare. “Your dog will fight no more. But now he has something to eat.”

The laugh finally did come as he pointed to the corpse of the pit bull. His men also laughed, despite the language barrier. They understood all too well.

“Yes,
amigo
, you have cost me money but I will keep my part of the bargain. I will let you go.” He paused. “But I would not stay here long.
They
lost their money today,” he said, pointing to the crowd. “And they don’t have much to lose.”

Bradley did not need to be told twice. The stares of the villagers were hostile now. The looks of amusement at the crying and dancing
Gringo
were gone now. A mob was developing.

Bradley stumbled from his position on the pit and made his way towards the road out of town, towards the highway. He ignored his backpack, full of useless guidebooks and designer clothes. His only concern was leaving and not looking again at the angry locals. The only glance he spared was to Cooper, matted with dry blood, calmly eating his opponent.

Frogger

JW Schnarr

We both grew up in the eighties.

I was a big fan of video games even then. I loved my Atari. Little black joystick, bright red button on the top. I remember it cost my mother a fortune when it first came out.

We had to turn the controller sideways when we wanted to play Q-Bert. You remember that little round guy who jumped on the pyramid?

My sister wouldn’t play that one. She always said it was too hard to figure out where to go.

It’s
easy
, I’d tell her, and then we would fight about it. There were a lot of games, though, so eventually we’d find something to play. Pac-Man. Combat. Mouse Trap.

I loved Frogger more than anything though.

You remember that game, don’t you?

You were the frog at the bottom of the screen. You had to get to the top of the screen where four little frog-holes were waiting. Your home in the swamp.

You only had four lives, so you couldn’t die even once if you wanted to make the high score.

And there was traffic. A lot of it.

Large multi-colored rectangles for cars and trucks. Even bigger ones that represented semi-trailers. Four long lanes of traffic, bumper to bumper, humming along at a steady pace. Everybody was watching the car in front of them, and nobody was watching the side of the road for the little frog.

He only wanted to get home.

So busy, these commuters, always driving in one direction, or another. Never watching what was going on around them.

There were little gaps though. Tiny spaces where a smart frog could gain some ground.

And so he’d begin.

If he was smart enough, and quick enough, he would make it out onto that first lane.

If he could make it through two lanes, he might even catch a breather in a thin little strip of grass between the two sections of busy commuters.

Eventually, though, he would have to go on.

So he’d jump.

Sometimes he’d be crushed flat under the rolling tires of the traffic.

Sometimes his head would hit the windshield of a commuter car and burst like a melon. His broken body would sail through the air as the shocked driver hit the brakes and swear to God that the little frog hadn’t been their but a moment before.

Of course, there were times when he made it.

He would be so close to the swamp that he could smell it. He knew once he got there he would face other problems, of course. Like logs in the water, and crocodiles.

None of that mattered at this point.

So he’d watch. And he’d wait. Eventually, it all came down to guts.

Was this little frog fast enough to take the plunge and jump into traffic? Of course he was. Even stuck in that little frog position like that, he could move as fast as he wanted. Was he smart enough? That’s tough to say. Certainly he was clever enough to recognize the patterns in the traffic and react accordingly.

But was he brave enough?