Doglands (11 page)

“I’ve been fooling the Traps with that one for years. Dead cats is garbage, you see—waste disposal, not animal control. Different van, different uniform—different jurisdiction, as they say. Many a time those garbage boys have shoveled me into their truck and driven me right to the dump, where the eating can’t be bettered. You wouldn’t believe the grub that people throw away these days. But tonight the dead-cat scam worked too well—one of the Traps trod right on my—” Skyver glanced at Zinni and Tess. “Well, let’s just say I barked so loud I set off half a dozen car alarms. Anyway, it’s nice to meet a fellow mutt.”

“I’m a lurcher,” said Furgul.

“Oh, I see, putting on airs and graces, are we?” said Skyver. “Well, I’ve been told I’m the scruffiest dog in the world, but you don’t hear me bragging about it, do you? Everyone’s equal in the Needles. Five days to live, or five days to die, whether you’re a purebred pedigree, the son of the son of the son of a mongrel’s son—like me—or a lurcher.”

“What do you mean?” asked Zinni.

“Once you’re in the Needles, you’ve got only two ways out,” said Skyver. “Either you get lucky and some dog lover rescues you because she thinks you’re cute—which in your case, Furgul, is a long shot because most people think that greyhounds are vicious and insane killing machines that will run down anything that moves.”

“Or?” asked Furgul.

“Or what?”

“What’s the second way out of the Needles?”

“Oh,” said Skyver. “Or you leave in the back of the truck for the incinerator.”

“The incinerator?”

“It’s the machine that they burn dead dogs in.”

“Why would I be dead?” asked Furgul.

Skyver gave a sour laugh. “If no one rescues you within five days, they give you the lethal injection. The needle—the Needles—get it?”

“They’ll just kill us?” asked Furgul.

“Some animal shelters have a no-kill policy,” Skyver explained. “They feed you and look after you until you get lucky—for as long as it takes. They don’t kill dogs—unless you’ve got rabies or you’re a total psycho. But there aren’t very many no-kill shelters around, and where we’re going isn’t one of them. For every ten dogs they take to the Needles, only four get out alive.”

Furgul could hardly believe what he was hearing. It sounded even worse than Dedbone’s Hole. Dedbone wasn’t killing six in ten of his dogs.

“But why,” said Furgul.

“Why what?”

“Why would they kill us?”

“The pound has got a fixed number of cages, see,” said Skyver. “For every dog that goes in, another dog has to go
out—one way or the other. The masters kill millions of us dogs every year. Millions and millions, didn’t you know? Cats too, though, of course, that’s no great loss.”

“I quite like cats,” said Zinni.

“I live with one,” said Tess. “They’re not so bad, once you get used to the rituals.”

Furgul didn’t know what a million was. But it sounded like an awful lot. He asked, “So because I’m going in there, some other dog has to die?”

“That’s the way it works.” Skyver shrugged. “Five days to get lucky. Then it’s our turn. You and I will take that last long walk to the death house side by side.”

“There is a third way out,” said Tess. “Your owner can come and claim you. That’s what mine will do. I’ve been in there four times. I’ll be home tomorrow in time for lunch.”

“You’ve got a name tag and collar, Tess,” said Skyver. “Furgul here hasn’t.”

“I haven’t got a collar either,” piped Zinni. “Some sneaky guy stole me, then he took my collar and abandoned me in the street.”

“What kind of weirdo would steal a dog collar?” wondered Skyver aloud.

“My collar had diamonds on it,” said Zinni.

“Then don’t worry,” said Tess. “Your owner will call the dog pound and find out if you’re there.”

“Perhaps your owners will call the dog pound too, Furgul,” said Zinni.

“Furgul didn’t have any diamonds round his neck,” laughed Skyver.

“My masters are far away,” said Furgul. “But maybe there’s a fourth way out. Maybe we can escape.”

“Dream on,” said Skyver. “The Needles is a maximum-security pound. They’re not going to take their eye off a bad boy like you.”

“I don’t think he looks so bad,” said Zinni.

“You can’t see the buckshot scars,” said Skyver. “A dog doesn’t get himself shot for nothing.”

Furgul felt his tail hanging down. He didn’t see any point in explaining why he’d been shot. Had he escaped from Dedbone’s Hole just to die in some stinking dog pound? He remembered the promise he had made, to go back and set Keeva free, and set the wrong things right.

“I won’t give up hope,” he said.

“Good for you,” said Skyver. “As my long-suffering mother used to say: ‘Skyver, life is like a bowl of dog food. Most of the time it’s like eating your own poop. But every now and again somebody leaves a raw steak lying on the table.’ ”

A sudden buzzing and squawking exploded from the radio inside the driver’s cab. The driver squawked back. A siren wailed. Then the dogs were thrown against the bars of their cages as the truck made a sharp turn and picked up speed.

“Blue lights!” said Skyver. “Some big bad dog is causing havoc somewhere!”

• • •

The truck hurtled along and took several more violent turns. The other dogs became quite frightened, even Skyver, but Furgul had a funny feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but he was exhilarated. The truck screeched to a halt. The Traps jumped out of the cab and they weren’t smiling anymore.

Outside, beyond the doors, Furgul heard the sound of a roaring dog.

It was a roaring such as he had never heard before—proud and defiant and enraged. It made all the hairs on his shoulders stand on end, but not with fear. It made his heart pound faster in his chest and his tail wag high in the air. The roar was savage, yet it thrilled him. It was a sound such as the last free dog in the world might make.

Tess cowered in her cage. Zinni was full of curiosity. Skyver slunk down as close to the floor as he could get, like a pile of cowardly dead cats.

As well as the savage roars, Furgul heard the terrified shouts of the Traps. He heard the wailing of sirens. Flashes of dim blue light winked around the inside of the truck. It sounded like a battle was being fought. Then the snarling roars were choked off and replaced by a low, monstrous growl. Something slammed into the doors of the truck, and a Trap cried out in agony. There was scuffling and shouting and groaning. And then even more shouting and more yells of pain.

Furgul could smell the great dog that stood beyond the doors. He had never picked up this scent before—and yet he felt as if he had. There was something in the scent that he recognized, something he could not describe—as if he’d known that scent from the very first day he was born. Or even before that. Though he did not know why, the tiny flame of hope in Furgul’s chest burned brighter.

The other dogs seemed to sense something too.

“I don’t believe it,” said Skyver.

“It can’t be,” whimpered Tess.

“What do you mean?” piped Zinni.

The doors of the truck were flung open, and Furgul blinked.

Night had fallen outside, but the headlamps of several vehicles lit up the darkness. In the background a man lay moaning on a little bed on wheels. Two other men pushed the bed into the back of a white van with a flashing blue light on the top. Another man sat in the road, holding his head with both hands. Several other men—cops and Traps—were standing around with clubs and guns.

In the middle of the chaos stood the biggest dog that Furgul had ever seen.

He had the rough red coat of an Irish wolfhound, but his huge head was shaped more like a lurcher’s. Keeva had told Furgul something of the history of the wolfhounds. They had roamed the wild Doglands for thousands of years, in the old times long before masters—before fire, before the wheel,
before collars and leashes and muzzles. They had fought for the ancient Celts as dogs of war. They had struck fear into the ancient Romans. They’d even fought and killed lions in the arena. They had fought against the English and dragged the knights in armor from their horses. They’d killed wolves and wild boars. In those long-gone days the wolfhound had no equal on the earth.

The great hound outside the truck fought against three of the nooses on poles that were looped around his neck. Each pole was held by two Traps, and the dog was so strong he almost pulled all six of them off their feet. He rolled his huge shoulders and strained the muscles in his neck. His jaws gaped open, panting for air. Blood gleamed on his fangs. Behind him another man locked a chain around his ankles. Then all seven of them tried to manhandle the mighty hound into the truck. Even though he was choking, the hound dug his paws into the ground and would not move.

“It
is
him,” gasped Skyver, with awe.

“Who?” squeaked Zinni.

“Is it true he’s escaped from prison a dozen times?” asked Tess.

“More,” said Skyver. “Stone and chain cannot hold him. They say he’s cheated every executioner that ever tried to kill him. Some places down south they use a gas chamber, not the needle. One time they dragged twenty-five dogs in there and gassed them for thirty minutes. At the end of it he was the only one still standing. They were so amazed they let him go.”

“I thought he was just a legend,” said Tess. “I didn’t think he really existed.”

“There he stands,” said Skyver. “But they’ve got the old outlaw cold this time.”

“But who is he?” cried Zinni. “I’m dying to know!”

Furgul wanted to hear the answer too, though he already knew it in his bones. Outside the outlaw hound had still not budged an inch, and the Traps were sweating and cursing. The Trap at the back opened a long gun—a bit like Dedbone’s shotgun—and slotted a plastic cylinder with a bright shiny needle into the barrel. He snapped the long gun shut.

Furgul clawed the bars of his cage.

“Don’t shoot him!” he barked at the top of his lungs.

Furgul’s bark was so fierce that all the Traps stopped and looked at him.

The great hound looked at him too. His gaze met Furgul’s, and Furgul felt the world shift beneath his paws. The hound’s eyes were like tunnels bored back into the long-gone days when wolfhounds and greyhounds roamed the vast wild Doglands in absolute freedom.

As the wild hound stared at Furgul, his rage seemed to melt away. He reared up on his enormous hind legs, and the Trap raised his gun. But the hound didn’t fight anymore. He put his forepaws on the floor of the truck. He looked at the Traps as if to say, “It’s over. Let’s go.” The Trap lowered his gun.

Again the hound looked Furgul right in the eye.

The hound said, “You’re the dog who runs in darkness.”

Furgul remembered the whisper on the wind that he had heard inside Dogsnout Mountain. It had said the same thing. Furgul swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s me.”

“Strange winds,” said the hound. “Strange winds blow us here tonight.”

He climbed into the truck. The Traps released their nooses, and he backed into the cage facing Furgul. The Traps locked the door and closed the back of the truck.

Furgul couldn’t take his eyes off the wild fighting hound.

“Please,” hissed Zinni, “just tell me who he is!”

A whisper came from the heap of fur, as if Skyver hardly dared to speak the name.

“It’s Argal.”

T
he Trap truck rumbled through the night toward the Needles.

Argal was squeezed into the cage facing Furgul’s. Skyver, Tess and Zinni lay in silence, in awe of the renegade hound. There wasn’t much light in the truck, but Furgul could see Argal’s face and the gleam of his eyes in the gloom. Furgul himself felt intimidated. He dropped his gaze in respect.

“Don’t turn away,” said Argal. “Look at me.”

Furgul looked at him. Argal didn’t say anything. He just stared back at him—for ages and ages and ages. Furgul wanted to look away again. He didn’t know why. Argal’s deep wild eyes were overpowering. They were frightening. Furgul ground his teeth together. He just knew he would have to turn away soon. Then Argal spoke again.

“You look like Keeva more than you look like me,” said Argal. “That’s good.”

“So I am your son?” Furgul still couldn’t quite believe it.

“You’re asking me for reassurance,” said Argal. “That weakens you. Don’t ask me, ask yourself. What does your nose tell you? What does your instinct tell you? What does your heart tell you? If you can’t trust those, you won’t survive.”

“You’re my dad.”

“Yes. I’m your father. Wildness flows in your veins where blood should run. And that will make your road in life tougher than you can imagine. It already has, otherwise you wouldn’t be locked in that cage with only five days left to live.”

Argal’s face came closer to the bars. If pieces of flint could have burned like coals, such would his eyes have looked like. They were cold yet full of fire.

“Think hard, son,” he said. “Are you ready for such a life? For the hungry days and the lonely nights? For the killing, the fighting, the scavenging? Living on the run, hiding in the dark, waiting for the Traps to come? If you try to live without a collar, every man will turn his hand against you. Are you sure that’s the way you want it to be?”

Furgul thought hard, though he already knew the answer.

“If you’re smart,” said Argal, “you’ll turn away from the wild and rambling road. You’ll take my advice. Learn how to please the masters. Flatter their vanity. Learn how to live with their whims and their rules. Love them if you can—and if you can’t, pretend to. Quench the fire that burns inside
and live a long, comfortable, well-fed life. Be a pet.”

“I’ve already been a pet.”

Argal nodded slowly, as if he were sad for Furgul but also proud of him.

“You should listen to Mister Argal,” said Skyver. “He knows what he’s talking about—and so do I.”

Argal gave Skyver a look. Skyver groveled on his belly in fear.

“You might not remember me, Mister Argal,” whimpered Skyver.

“No. I don’t,” said Argal.