Read Online This Is Not The End: But I Can See It From Here (The Big Red Z Book 1) by Thomas Head - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thomas Head
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I’m nowhere near done. It’s like I’m trapped in some kind of upper room of my mind, the only way out is a mile of torture for him. Death along for the ordeal, and I remember things, dream things, quill after quill, as I pull them out. Even in this cold, black bend of consciousness, fearful and trying not give a shit all at once, my mind wanders, but I keep my face calm. Maybe after we get this shit out of his mouth, he’ll live, or howl and run off, but that’s a big damn maybe.
Sure isn’t happening yet.
***
In the morning it’s done.
And he’s not dead yet.
There is no epiphany or thanks. Just a dog named Early, asleep with his head on my ankle. I pet at the wet tendrils and think, this dog needs a beer, to wash his face in, if nothing else.
I pour some water out for him to frink.
Early looks up, scoots away.
He is lying a few feet away from me, breathing heavy. He looks at me, then looks away. He seems to consider something. Gets up again and walks a few more feet away. He does a few turns and returns to his belly, eyeballing me as I approach.
I feel stupid for petting his sore mouth. It was probably a mistake to think he would appreciate what I was doing. More than probably. He walks off into the bush without looking back at me.
I catch up with more than just a little effort.
My best friend back home, besides Emily, is Doc. Hard to explain why. Friendship at first sight kind of thing. My uncles, all five of the cantankerous old bastards, love him as much as I do, which makes it better, somehow.
And finally, I see this dog waiting for me, and I feel something close same thing. Love at third or fourth sight will have to do.
Chapter 16
We just walk.
There’s two of us now. Better than one, bet your ass. We move to higher ground, get out of the brush somewhat, and Early doesn’t lead or follow. As it should be. He just looks at me like if I ever pull anything out of him again there’s going to be some bigtime flesh getting ripped out someone.
We halt atop a gorge, on a rocky and thin trail, where we stop to take a light meal of jerky and biscuits. The dog, I shit you not, chews his food more than I do. He sits his dusty butt on a rock, a mottled tongue draping his lower canines after he finally swallows.
I’m dizzy again. Thirsty and sore all over. No telling how Early feels. Swollen goofball face still.
We don’t complain to each other about it.
He looks off and growls.
Get my binoculars, chewing. A pack of the undead crouch at the edge of the field below. Loud sons of bitches. Maybe it’s the rocky cliffs at our back. They are after some prey, far beneath us. A pack of nine, they scamper up a rocky hillside, their yelps rising like distant hawk screeches as they reached an ivy-etched pole of some sort. Here, they overtake a small troop of monkeys, whose own screeches rival theirs. The dog shifts his weight and gives a low, disapproving noise.
Catch myself half-laughing as I put the binoculars in front of the dog’s eyes.
“Nasty fuckers, aren’t they?”
The fierce German Shepherd licks my thumb and looks up at me for a biscuit.
I again glass the far hillside without giving in to his request. Early gives me a playful bite as the pack settles in, some disappearing to the ground with the unskinned, ungutted meat they carried. Others sniff each other and take dominant or submissive positions in the flattened weeds around the nest.
That semblance of culture. It could be a weakness if it was consistent. But they’re not like wolves or chimps.
I could take them out. Not a problem. It’s not bragging to say I am absurdly accurate with a rifle. Best shot you know. Comes from focus. Pathological focus. My aunt, Slutty Gene, told me my focus was a curse, placed on me at my conception, because my parents had screwed in the fog.
I resist a
Sure isn’t happening yet.
***
In the morning it’s done.
And he’s not dead yet.
There is no epiphany or thanks. Just a dog named Early, asleep with his head on my ankle. I pet at the wet tendrils and think, this dog needs a beer, to wash his face in, if nothing else.
I pour some water out for him to frink.
Early looks up, scoots away.
He is lying a few feet away from me, breathing heavy. He looks at me, then looks away. He seems to consider something. Gets up again and walks a few more feet away. He does a few turns and returns to his belly, eyeballing me as I approach.
I feel stupid for petting his sore mouth. It was probably a mistake to think he would appreciate what I was doing. More than probably. He walks off into the bush without looking back at me.
I catch up with more than just a little effort.
My best friend back home, besides Emily, is Doc. Hard to explain why. Friendship at first sight kind of thing. My uncles, all five of the cantankerous old bastards, love him as much as I do, which makes it better, somehow.
And finally, I see this dog waiting for me, and I feel something close same thing. Love at third or fourth sight will have to do.
Chapter 16
We just walk.
There’s two of us now. Better than one, bet your ass. We move to higher ground, get out of the brush somewhat, and Early doesn’t lead or follow. As it should be. He just looks at me like if I ever pull anything out of him again there’s going to be some bigtime flesh getting ripped out someone.
We halt atop a gorge, on a rocky and thin trail, where we stop to take a light meal of jerky and biscuits. The dog, I shit you not, chews his food more than I do. He sits his dusty butt on a rock, a mottled tongue draping his lower canines after he finally swallows.
I’m dizzy again. Thirsty and sore all over. No telling how Early feels. Swollen goofball face still.
We don’t complain to each other about it.
He looks off and growls.
Get my binoculars, chewing. A pack of the undead crouch at the edge of the field below. Loud sons of bitches. Maybe it’s the rocky cliffs at our back. They are after some prey, far beneath us. A pack of nine, they scamper up a rocky hillside, their yelps rising like distant hawk screeches as they reached an ivy-etched pole of some sort. Here, they overtake a small troop of monkeys, whose own screeches rival theirs. The dog shifts his weight and gives a low, disapproving noise.
Catch myself half-laughing as I put the binoculars in front of the dog’s eyes.
“Nasty fuckers, aren’t they?”
The fierce German Shepherd licks my thumb and looks up at me for a biscuit.
I again glass the far hillside without giving in to his request. Early gives me a playful bite as the pack settles in, some disappearing to the ground with the unskinned, ungutted meat they carried. Others sniff each other and take dominant or submissive positions in the flattened weeds around the nest.
That semblance of culture. It could be a weakness if it was consistent. But they’re not like wolves or chimps.
I could take them out. Not a problem. It’s not bragging to say I am absurdly accurate with a rifle. Best shot you know. Comes from focus. Pathological focus. My aunt, Slutty Gene, told me my focus was a curse, placed on me at my conception, because my parents had screwed in the fog.
I resist a
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