I closed my eyes and focused on the single sense. I wanted to hear something besides the pounding of my own heart.
Then I did. A rustling. Soft footsteps across the ground cover. Wet heavy breaths. The breathing grew louder. I sighted the carbine in the direction of the disturbance.
A pair of large brown eyes glistened in the moonlight through the brush, no more than six feet away. Propped on one knee, I inhaled and slid my finger next to the trigger.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Whatever was in the bushes didn’t give a shit about discretion. Its breathing alternated between sniffs and muffled huffs. The leafy underbrush thrashed. I steadied the carbine. My fingers ached with tension. I waited.
A dark football shape rolled out of the brush. I strained my eyes, tried to make sense of it. Covered in green and brown feathers, a long neck flopped to the side. A dead duck. No visible wounds. No odor. Realizing I’d dropped the barrel, I raised the carbine back to the breathing shadow.
Two tan paws slid out along the ground. A dark wet nose settled between them, eyebrows twitching and brown eyes shifting upward.
I sat back and squeezed the carbine to my chest as it was the only thing I could hug. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The dog’s tail swished somewhere behind it in the brush, rustling the ground litter. Relief poured out of me in a long deep breath.
It inched forward and nudged the duck.
A gift? If I moved to pick it up, would I scare it?
Another nudge. Then it scooped up the duck in its mouth and flipped it to me. A smile took hold of my lips as I pulled the offering into my lap.
The dog watched me with puppy dog eyes, crawling ever closer on its belly.
“Hi.”
It lifted its head and barked once. Then it rose and sat before me, panting. A German shepherd. Larger than me, he bore a muscular and well-fed frame. Golden tan markings outlined the black on his back, tail and muzzle. Large pointed ears defied gravity, flicking back and forth.
I extended my hand. He pressed the top of his head to my palm so I could scratch between his ears. I held up the duck. “Dinner?”
The dog followed at my heels. I kindled a small flame and cleaned the duck. My anticipation for a fresh meal overruled my worry about attracting threats with a fire. He watched while I cooked the bird on a spit. A thick pink tongue hung from the side of his lips, which seemed to curl in a smile that matched my own.
Where did he come from? I hadn’t seen a dog since the outbreak. Though humans were the only species that could contract the virus, aphids fed on all mammals. How had he escaped them for so long?
I knew the breed was intelligent. Opa, my grandpa, held membership in the Vereinfür Deutsche Schäferhunde, the German Shepherd Dog Club of Germany. He bred and trained dogs for a living using Schutzhund style training. A style that focused on tracking, obedience and protection.
We picked over the duck and the dog lapped up water from my camel back. Then I extinguished the fire and crawled onto my bed roll. The dog settled on the other side of the clearing, watching me. Alone in the woods all day, my senses were strung out from patrol. But as I watched the dog watch me, my muscles began to relax. My vigilance eased little by little, comforted by his keen stare. He looked at me as if waiting for instruction. Had he been trained? Opa taught me a few Schutzhund commands. I tried to remember some as I fought the increasing weight on my eyelids.
A howl pierced the haze. Darkness pinned me down. A string of whines rang out, high-pitched and relentless. I jerked up, landed on the balls of my feet, the carbine in high ready.
My eyes adjusted. A fog hung over the glade and clung to my skin. Moonlight thickened the haze into a squatting cumulonimbus.
The dog stood a few feet away, nose pointed at the tree line, haunches up. His withers spiked in golden tufts. His whine deepened into a throaty growl.
I trained the carbine on his point. Through the scope, through the fog, through the shadows of the raving sweetgums, a silhouette flickered. A tennis court length away, the distance was nothing for the carbine and scope. But spirally stems and broad leaves concealed the kill shot. I inched into the clearing.
The hunched-back figure pulsed, varying its illumination. Alien vocal cords filled the air with a screech as it sprang forward with the strength of its mutated legs. The dog spooked and darted into the woods. The bending and snapping of woody hurdles narrated his parting. The crackling faded and eventually died. He was gone.