The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [27]
There’s a boy, about five years old, sitting in the passenger seat. He’s wearing an orange parka and a rainbow-colored hat that looks like it was knitted by somebody—maybe his mom. He’s holding on to a stuffed green dinosaur.
I know I should do something practical. I should check the back of the car for supplies, or see if the man has any ammo, or a knife, or anything I could use. But I can’t. I can’t go any closer to the car at all. All I can do is turn and walk away, shaking. I want to unsee that little boy more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, but I know, somehow, that I never will.
I walk for hours, following the freeway, keeping out of sight as much as possible. I hear a couple of cars on it, but I’m staying far enough away that I don’t see them. Mostly I can stick to green areas with some cover made up of bushes and the occasional tree, but sometimes I’m forced to travel along frontage roads. I don’t see any sign of life along them, but I have a feeling that doesn’t mean much. I try to be as quiet as possible, and keep out of sight.
Navigating in the dark is hard. I risk the flashlight a few times, but Gus said to try to avoid that—he said my eyes will adjust better if I don’t use light. He also said that the flashlight is like a beacon to anyone looking. I don’t want a beacon, that’s for sure. Who knows who’s out there looking.
Gus gave me an old-fashioned wristwatch—the kind that you have to wind. It reads eight p.m. when I decide I can’t go any farther and I stop for the night. I find a spot about fifty yards off the freeway, a spot with four or five really tall bushes. Their leaves look gray and sort of withered, but they still provide cover. Tank runs right into the middle of them sniffing, but he doesn’t flush anything out, and he doesn’t act like there’s somebody hiding in there, so I guess it’s safe.
I crawl through the branches into the middle of the bushes. It covers us pretty good—I bet we can’t be seen by passersby. Before I do anything else, I wind the watch like Gus showed me, not too tight, then I unroll the sleeping bag and get in it. Tank watches eagerly while I rummage through the pack and choose our dinner: one can of tuna, one handful of dog kibble, and a bottle of water to split between us. He eats his kibble while eyeing my can of tuna the whole time. When I’m finished with it, I pour some of the water into the can and set it out for him. It helps remove some of the tuna smell, which can’t hurt. Who knows what’s creeping around out there.
Once I am as far down into the sleeping bag as I can get, Tank snuffles. I try to ignore him, but he snuffles again, and when I uncover my head he’s sitting right next to me, shivering and looking at me with his big brown eyes.
“You’re kidding, right?” I wait as though he might answer me. “A big tough guy like you?” He keeps staring and shivering.
He knows he’s got me when I start unzipping the sleeping bag. He waits patiently, and then when I hold it open and pat my side, he settles down, lying with his back to me. I fold the sleeping bag over both of us, but I can’t get it zipped back up with him in it. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter, because Tank is like a heater. I am warm and toasty all night long.
It isn’t a sound that wakes me. It’s the feeling of Tank, tensing his entire body. Just as I wake he starts growling, so low in his throat that if he wasn’t lying right next to me I wouldn’t be able to hear it. I put my hand on his shoulder and feel the vibration of his growls. He’s looking away, toward the direction we came from last night.
Then I hear it: the sound of people walking, pushing through the tall grass. I move my hand to Tank’s muzzle and bring his face around to me. I put my finger up to my mouth.
“Shhhhhhhhhhh. Quiet, Tank.” I sure as hell hope he knows what that means.