The Death & Life of an American Dog Read online

  Hunted!

  The German Shepherd who screamed in his sleep did not know whether his visions of fire and death were vivid, terrifying dreams or actual memories. In those horrendous images, he was called Iblis. He did not think that was his real name…but he recalled no other. It seemed he had spent endless days scrounging for food, and nights trying to find someplace safe till the rising of the sun. He had no idea where he had been, where he was, or where he was going, but he knew he had to keep moving, for he was being hunted, and not by creatures of his imagination. Long ago, he had given up trying to find his way out of the darkness and into the light, but then he encountered the wild-haired Pomeranian who offered his paw in friendship and assistance, who promised security and safe harbor. Seeking a release from hopelessness and despair, the weary German Shepherd forced himself to place his trust in the Pomeranian and his friends, who called themselves the Three Dog Detective Agency. He hoped they could help him escape the walking death he had known and find his way to a new life, but he hoped even more he would not become the agent of their destruction, for in becoming his friends, they would become the enemies of his enemies.

  Also by Ralph E. Vaughan

  Paws & Claws: A Three Dog Mystery (Paws & Claws #1)

  A Flight of Raptors (Paws & Claws #2)

  K-9 Blues (Paws & Claws #3)

  Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories

  Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures

  Sherlock Holmes in The Adventure of the Ancient Gods

  Sherlock Holmes and The Terror Out of Time (Gryphon Books)

  Sherlock Holmes in The Dreaming Detective (Gryphon Books)

  Sherlock Holmes in The Coils of Time (Gryphon Books)

  Professor Challenger and the Secrets of the Dreamlands

  Shadows Against the Empire (Folkestone & Hand #1)

  Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand #2)

  Upon Unknown Seas, Under Strange Stars (short story collection)

  Reflections Upon Elder Egypt: Staring Deep into the Eye of Horus

  H.P. Lovecraft in the Comics

  The Necronomicon Murders (crime novel)

  Oh, Mr Yoda! (play) with Patricia E. Vaughan

  A Walk in the Dark (editor)

  Alternate Lives (editor)

  Ancient Nights (editor)

  Beneath Twin Moons (editor)

  Lost Lands (editor)

  Fantastic Realms (editor)

  The Horses of Byzantium & Other Poems (poetry)

  A Darkness Upon My Mind (poetry)

  Midnight for Schrödinger’s Cat (poetry)

  The Many Worlds of Duane Rimel (editor)

  The Second Book of Rimel (editor)

  Dreams of Yith (editor/illustrator)

  Fungi From Yuggoth (editor/illustrator)

  The Death and Life of an American Dog

  Paws & Claws #4

  by

  Ralph E. Vaughan

  Dog in the Night Books

  2014

   2014 by Ralph E. Vaughan

  All Rights Reserved

  DEDICATION

  This novel is dedicated to all those who fight in foreign lands and at home to keep us safe, to keep us free; to our veterans in all branches of the armed services, especially to those canine soldiers who give their all, not because they believe in any ideology, but simply because they are our protectors. It is a duty they accepted long ago, and have never shirked, no matter how unworthy we have at time proven ourselves.

  Rexo, American Military Dog (courtesy USAF)

  Prologue

  “Iblis! Iblis!”

  Fiery tongues leaped at the German Shepherd. Smoke erupted around him like thousands of dark blossoming flowers. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, choking his keen sense of smell.

  “Iblis! Iblis!”

  The German Shepherd answered an instinct to move away from whoever was giving voice to that strange cry, even though he knew it was directed at him, as if it were his name. To follow it, he knew, was to venture into the heart of hatred and death.

  Noise roared around him, deafening, as if all the wild beasts in the world were bellowing in his ears simultaneously. He did not know which way to go, how to find his way out of the turmoil and back toward safety.

  He did not remember his name, or where he was. A nearby explosion flung dirt over him, stung his flesh with pebbles, even through his work vest and rough coat. He dropped to the ground, then realized as he did so that he had not reacted to the explosion itself but to the faint whining noise that had preceded it, reacting to a regimen of training he no longer remembered.

  “Iblis!”

  Responding to primal instincts older than any training instilled by companions, he began to crawl away from the voice, away from the fire and the noise. His progress was suddenly impeded by an inert body sprawled on the ground.

  A companion!

  And then another.

  And more.

  At first he thought the companions were dead, but he did not smell the emptiness that comes when the spirit vacates the body. He pushed the nearest companion with his muzzle, heard a slight groan, saw a small movement though the companion was unconsciousness. Flames rose around him, consuming the building they were in. More explosions burst over them, and the dog almost answered his first instinct, to flee danger.

  He could not, however, leave a companion. Dim tales rose from his puppyhood, stories of First Dog, the primal being of canine myth who came out of the long night to the campfire, who first decided to assume the burden of the companions, to live and hunt with them, to protect them from the dangers and terrors of the night, to stand resolutely with companions, even when they not worthy of such loyalty, perhaps especially then.

  The German Shepherd prodded the companions and whined urgently. None could move on their own. He had to save them, but could he hope to save them all? He had to try.

  Gripping the nearest companion’s harness in his powerful jaws, the German Shepherd dragged as fast as he could. His muscles burned with excruciating pain, his eyes watered in the dust and acrid smoke, and he was losing lifeblood from his own wounds, but he did not stop pulling.

  Back…back…one paw after another, step after agonizing step.

  Then the companion vanished like smoke.

  He tried to pull others from the deadly fire. Some companions wore uniforms with flags like the one on his harness, others did not. He tried to save them all, but, one by one, they all turned to swirling smoke. He could not hold them. He saw another dog under burning debris, but when he tried to pull her to safety, she, too, became smoke which eddied away from him.

  The dog whimpered with frustration.

  He could save no one.

  “Iblis!”

  The entire building vanished.

  The German Shepherd looked up, the weird cry close and loud. He saw a pack of dogs glaring at him across a smoky chasm, a half-dozen Gull Dongs and Bully Kuttas led by a fierce Afghan Hound who towered over the stouter dogs.

  “Iblis!” the Afghan Hound called through the fog of war. “This is not the end!”

  As the enemy pack charged, a wall of smoke and fire seemed to close about them.

  “Iblis!”

  The German Shepherd screamed in nightmares without end.

  Chapter 1

  Yoda was on a rare solitary patrol when he heard the frenzied yelps of the screaming dog.

  Usually, when operatives of the Three Dog Detective Agency made the rounds in their Chula Vista neighborhood, they did so as a pack, with Levi, their alpha, at point, Sunny and Yoda flanking. Once in a while, though, each of the canine detectives would make a lone patrol of a portion of their
territory, which helped each dog develop the self-reliance and sense of responsibility mandated for all canines by First Dog, that primal being who was the first to approach the campfire from out the darkness. Both traits were vital to every dog successfully carrying the burden bequeathed by First Dog—the care and guidance of the companions. Additionally, many neighborhood animals, pets as well as strays and ferals, felt more comfortable approaching a lone dog than a whole pack, even a pack that was only a trio. For the individual operative, it allowed the opportunity to foster relationships that could be mutually beneficial and to cultivate the informants that were necessary to all detectives, no matter how many legs they had.

  It was almost noon, with Yoda approaching the intersection of F Street and Broadway, normally the westernmost limit of their patrol area. He was thinking about turning left, heading southward, but he was also thinking about lunch.

  Yoda often thought about lunch, or breakfast, or dinner, or elevenses and threes, or snacks at various times. Despite his preoccupation—some called it an obsession but he denied it—with food, Yoda could never be called fat, even though there was no denying that he was a giant among Pomeranians. Yoda had been the runt of his litter, but after only a few days it was apparent, as his growth outpaced that of his siblings, that he was some sort of atavistic throwback, for he was fully as big as Pomeranians had been back before Queen Victoria decided to breed the species down to fit her lap. While Yoda was still a lapdog, at nearly twenty pounds it had to be a sturdy lap. As if his primitive size were not enough, there was also his fur, his flaring and wild fur that could have thatched two more dogs his size. Though sometimes teased about his mass of hair he was still very proud of it, bordering on vain, especially when the wind was blowing just right—eat your heart out, Fabio, he thought on such breezy days.

  Not fat, no one could fairly charge him of being that, but Yoda always appreciated a good nosh; as far as he was concerned, there was no bad time to snack.

  The intrusion of food into his consciousness was not his fault, he told himself, but a matter of time and place. Noon—midway between his morning and afternoon snacks—and approaching the Cali Baguette and Pho just as the lunch crowd was sitting down to the flavorful soups of Vietnam, and sandwiches made from all sorts of meats. Was it any wonder, then, that Yoda’s mind was distracted from the task at hand by visions of delicious cows, lambs and pigs gamboling across fields of soft bread, wonderful bread?

  Then he heard the screaming dog, and Yoda instantly went into alert mode, hindquarters crouching down slightly as he raised his head. All thoughts of food were shunted aside as he started scanning for the source of the sound with his large and sensitive ears, which others often likened to radar dishes, though usually not within his hearing, which actually covered quite a distance.

  The Pomeranian honed in on the cluttered and jumbled area behind the Vietnamese restaurant. He barked, but the sound was lost in the din of traffic from nearby busy Broadway. His first instinct, almost acted upon, was to dash across F Street, but he very quickly squashed the impulse. Crossing any street was always dangerous to dogs, but here it was particularly risky—for most of its length F Street was only a single lane in each direction, but as it approached Broadway it suddenly flared to five lanes (including a left turn lane), which of course was an invitation for companions to speed around corners, shoot across lanes, and otherwise act even more maniacal than they did normally when behind the wheel of a car.

  The unseen dog on the other side of the road screamed again.

  He growled impatiently at the cars that careened around the corner and those turning left from Broadway, the cars speeding to beat the changing signals, and those that ran the red lights, but he kept his wits about him. Letting his natural feistiness stampede him into doing anything rash was not going to benefit anyone, least of all himself.

  He whipped around and ran east on the walkway, not slowing till he reached a point where the road abruptly closed down to two narrow lanes. Maniac motorists were here forced to hit the brakes, and with the quickest of glances left and right Yoda shot across the street, little more than a wild-haired blur to the few drivers not texting, putting on makeup or doing some other foolish thing.

  Yoda bounded over the curb and the verge, landing directly on the sidewalk. His rear went into a slide as he executed a full-speed ninety-degree turn, but he churned his hind legs to compensate and tore down the concrete like the Flash on caffeine. A cat named Gus, watching from a nearby front-room window, later told the cats of a clowder to which he belonged that he saw friction-smoke rise from the little Pomeranian’s back paws, but he was an excitable fellow and his story was greeted with the cat-calls it deserved.

  The Pomeranian’s paws felt as if on fire, and energy was ebbing from his frame, but another canine scream came to his ears. Jaws clenched, head lowered and paws spinning like pinwheels in a hurricane, Yoda careened into the alley behind the restaurant, honing in on the jumble of cardboard boxes behind a wall..

  Just as he skidded to a halt before the restaurant’s trash area, another chilling cry arose from the midst of the tumbled-together boxes, from the darkness at the heart of them that persisted in spite of the sunniest of days.

  “Hey!” Yoda shouted. “Who’s in there? Are you all right?”

  The wail suddenly ceased, replaced by a sort of snuffling noise, such as a dog might make when awakening suddenly.

  Yoda took a step closer, peering into the artificial gloom. He saw nothing but a vague dark shape surrounded by deeper shadows. He squinted, trying to penetrate the darkness, but he doubted even a sight-hound could have seen much more. He heard small breaths, as if someone was trying to control his breathing, trying to remain invisible to sharp canine senses. Curiosity gnawed at Yoda, but he did not move any closer, kept at bay by primal senses of danger and wariness that even twenty-three thousand years of domestication had not dulled.

  “Are you all right?” Yoda asked again, but softly this time.

  A low and menacing growl emanated from the shadows and a stray shaft of light glinted off hard glassy eyes.

  Yoda’s fur stood on end as a chill swept through him, not that an observer would have noticed much difference given the natural wildness of his hair. Every instinct in him told him to step back, to tuck his tail and flee the unknown menace, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand his ground, swallowed the whimper that wanted to make itself heard.

  “My name is Yoda, and I don’t mean you any harm,” the little Pomeranian said, forcing into the tone of his voice a calmness that he certainly did not feel. “I heard you cry out and…”

  “Leave me alone,” warned a voice that was low and gravelly, yet tinged with panic. “Go away!”

  Yoda’s ears pricked up, catching nuances of terror and hysteria. His vision was not nearly as keen as Sunny’s, and he doubted there was a dog alive who could match the sensitivity of Levi’s nose, but the pointed ears rising from his foxy head were not just oversized ornaments. There was a huge dog dug in amongst the boxes, a big guy who needed help, and Yoda was not going to turn his back on a dog in distress, was not going to obey the instinct telling him to run.

  “I want to help you,” Yoda said.

  “Leave!” the unseen dog cried. “You’re going to give away my position to the enemy!”

  Yoda looked about, swept the alley and the adjacent parking lots with his ultra-sensitive hearing, extended his survey to the nearby Motel 7 and the dismal alley across the street. Other than the usual street traffic he heard, and saw, nothing.

  Screams came from the alley behind the Cali Baguette & Pho Restaurant

  “Who are you afraid of?” Yoda queried. “There’s just the two of us in the alley, that’s all. No one else.”

  “The alley?”

  “Do you know where you are?” Yoda asked, an idea forming in his mind. “Do you know what city you’re in?”

  After a very long silence, the dog hiding amongst the tumbled-together boxes
murmured something so softly that even Yoda’s ears could not separate it from the growl of traffic and the hiss of tires upon the roadway.

  “What did you say?” Yoda asked.

  “I’m not in Kandahar, am I?” the unseen dog sighed.

  Yoda’s ears pricked up even higher.

  “I don’t even know where that is,” the Pomeranian admitted. “You’re in Chula Vista.”

  “Chula Vista,” the dog said slowly as if he had never before heard the words. “Chula Vista?”

  “In California,” Yoda prompted. “You have heard of California before, right?”

  The dog uttered a ragged sigh, an outrush of despair mixed with a pitiful little whimper. For a moment, Yoda though the big fellow was going to howl again, but he did not. Instead he moaned softly, as from a deep pain of the spirit.

  “I didn’t know where I was.”

  “How did you come to be here?”

  “I don’t…I don’t remember.”

  “Why not come out where I can see you,” Yoda suggested.

  “I shouldn’t break cover…the enemy…”

  “It’s just us, big guy, just the two of us, and you’re covered in boxes,” Yoda said. “That’s no way to carry on a conversation.”

  “I feel safe in here.”

  “I found you,” Yoda pointed out. “There aren’t any enemies around, but, if there were, they would not have any problem finding you too, what with you howling to wake the dead.”

  “Howling?”

  “That’s what drew me to your lair,” Yoda explained. “Didn’t you know you were howling?”

  “I thought I was…I must have been dreaming.”

  Yoda shook his head in disbelief, rattling the identity tags on his collar. “That must have been a doozey of a dream. What were you dreaming about that was so bad?”