DoG

powerful jaws on the Captain’s throat. Caught off guard, the Captain struggled to raise his gun in defense, but another dog chomped down on his arm.

The entire pack rushed forward, and Culann could feel the paws press off his back as the dogs fought one another to get at their prey. The Captain started to scream, but the sound died to a gurgle as his windpipe collapsed under Alphonse’s crushing bite.

In a matter of moments, the Captain was torn to pieces, which were in turn torn into even smaller pieces. Culann pushed himself up and rolled over into a seated position.

The viciousness of the dogs melted away as quickly as it had appeared. Their bloodthirst slaked, they now enveloped Culann in a blanket of wet tongues and wagging tails.

Culann crawled on his elbows all the way up to Alistair’s. The dogs licked his face with encouragement as he went. He pulled himself up onto a barstool, reached over to snatch up a bottle of vodka, and took a long drink. The liquor burned his throat going down, and he coughed. He pulled the Swiss army knife from Williams’s belt and flipped out the blade using just his left hand and his teeth, which was a struggle. He cut his jeans off so he could treat his wounds. He found a dirty bar rag, soaked it in vodka, and wiped away the blood and grime that covered his wounds.

The wound in his right thigh bled steadily, but didn’t seem serious. The bullet hadn’t struck any bones, so Culann figured his right leg could support his weight. His left leg was another story. His kneecap was broken into at least three pieces. He was going to have to figure out a way to rig up a cast. Even with a cast, he knew he’d be permanently crippled. His hand was likewise broken in a few places and would never be the same. He was going to have to become left-handed.

Before learning to overcome these permanent disabilities, Culann needed to stop the blood pouring from the bullet holes. He cut his jeans into strips, which he doused in vodka and used to bind his wounds. He sat on the barstool in his t-shirt, underwear, socks and shoes. He drank what was left of the vodka, which did little to dull the pain that reverberated through every cell in his body. He thought he might have better luck with Worner’s marijuana, but it was all back at the cabin. Then he had an idea.

“Alphonse,” he said. The dog rose from the floor and peered up at Culann with his cerulean eyes. The Captain’s blood stained Alphonse’s muzzle. “Go get marijuana.”

Alphonse spun around and charged out of the tavern. If Culann hadn’t been in such agony, he would have laughed. As ridiculous as it was, his strange power over the dogs might just allow him survive. A couple of minutes later, Alphonse returned with a baggie containing several of Worner’s already-rolled joints hanging out of his mouth.

Culann lit one of the joints with bar matches and then slid down to the floor. The dogs settled in around him, and he felt safe and warm. He puffed on the joint, and the waves of pain began to ebb, and soon his snores mixed in with those of the dogs, and the island was once again at peace.

The pain tore Culann from his slumber. He hastily lit another joint and took a couple of hits. The smoke burned his dry throat, and he coughed, which made his wounds throb. He dragged himself back up onto a barstool and then leaned over to grab a bottle of club soda from behind the bar. He drank it down and then finished the joint. The pain receded but Culann’s head was so muddled he doubted he’d be able to function. Simply staying alive was a struggle, and Culann realized he was going to need to be sharp to survive. He could treat his pain or he could think. He couldn’t do both.

“Alphonse,” he called out, “go next door and get me some food.”

As before, the dog snapped to attention and then scurried off to do Culann’s bidding. He returned with a loaf of white bread. Culann would have preferred a little more flavor, but was still amazed the dog had brought anything.

“Good boy,” he said, scratching Alphonse behind the ears with his good hand.

After eating a few slices of bread, Culann stepped gingerly off of the stool. His right leg could support his weight, although the wound in his thigh screamed when his foot hit the floor. He ordered the dogs to clear a path, and they dutifully complied. The barstool stood at just about the right height to serve as a crude crutch. Culann snaked his right arm through the seatback, careful to avoid putting any pressure on his shattered hand, and swung the stool forward a few inches. He hopped ahead on his left leg and then swung the stool forward again. Walking this way, he slowly and clumsily crossed the bar and made it outside.

The fog had receded while Culann slept. It still covered the water just off shore, but Culann could now see around the island. He hobbled forward on the stool, collecting things he would need to properly address his injuries. Between his inefficient locomotion and his drug-addled mind, it took him over an hour to find suitable items.

He started with his shattered right knee. He sat on a barstool and rested his right foot on another stool. He slid a thin piece of plywood, a yard long and four inches wide, underneath the leg. Using just his left hand and his teeth, Culann managed to secure the wood in place with duct tape. Frank and Worner would have been proud of him.

With his knee sufficiently splinted, he moved on to his mangled right hand. He dragged two stools together so that they were about six inches apart. He laid two foot-long dowel rods on the stools and pressed his right arm on top of them, palm up. He used the gap between the chairs to wind the duct tape around, fastening the dowels to his forearm. Then he raised his arm and delicately worked up to the hand. The dowels immobilized his right wrist, which Culann hoped would allow the hand to heal.

He’d found a push broom which he now turned upside down to serve as a less-cumbersome crutch. He took a clean sheet and tore it into strips that became fresh bandages. He wrapped another sheet around his neck like a cape to keep warm since he didn’t want to try pulling clothes on over his broken bones.

As the pot wore off, the pain returned. Culann struggled through it, vowing to lay off the drugs and keep his drinking to a reasonable level until he had the situation under control. His wounds were clean and the fractures set, so Culann was reasonably certain of his immediate survival. His longer-term survival—and that of the dogs to whom he now owed his life—was another story.

The next couple of days were hard for Culann. His pain lessened, but his injuries made challenges of even the simplest tasks. Alistair, Julia and Marty had lived in a room at the back of the bar, which Culann now claimed as his home. It was closer to Wal-Mart Jr. and the dock than Frank’s place. He kept supplies of water and food in his bedroom and on top of the bar. He’d fed the dogs a few bags of dog food, but knew the supply wouldn’t last much longer. Fortunately his rain-catchers had worked, so the dogs had water, at least for now.

He thought about a longer-term solution. The pipes coming out of each cabin slipped under the soil, so he couldn’t easily determine where they led. Eventually though, he found a water storage tank about a quarter-mile from the main road back behind McGillicuddy’s trailer. A large pipe coming out of it looked like it led down to the well.

There was also a spigot on the side. When Culann turned it on, water poured out onto the grass. He figured this was just what was left in the tank, but it was probably enough to make a difference until he found a way to get at the water below. He shut off the faucet and limped back to the shore.

Culann perched atop a barstool he’d dragged out onto the dock. He’d put in a full day’s work—or at least its equivalent since the sun still didn’t let him know whether it was day or night—so he smoked the last of Worner’s pre-rolled joints. It would probably be a good week before the pain lessened enough that he’d be able to sleep without marijuana. Worner had a couple of bags of dried weed in his shack, but Culann was going to have a hell of a time rolling joints with just his left hand. A little high already, he giggled at the notion that his continued survival depended on his ability to master the use of drug paraphernalia.

Fog still covered the water and obscured the sun. The fog seemed to be keeping people from coming to the island. Culann figured the orb had something to do with this.

It was as if the orb felt bad about all the carnage it had wrought and wanted to prevent any more. Or maybe it was Culann who was somehow creating the fog. But Culann didn’t know how long the fog would work. Sooner or later, people would row through it, and Culann would have to watch them die.

He glanced out at the water to where the orb rested beneath the surface. He thought about the Captain who’d been so sure he’d be able to control it. But to Culann, three decades spent obsessively scouring the seabed sounded more like the actions of a slave than a master. And why did the orb grant Culann the power over the dogs that saved his life? Culann had no illusion about his ability to control the orb. This thing was beyond human understanding, and perhaps it was the failure to admit this that drove the monk and the Captain to madness. It had