Savant

concentrated sewage, the stench in the next room was the worst in his experience, as was what he faced.

It was true that perhaps sixty dogs were barking. But there were well over a hundred in the pen. The sight hammered his heart as badly as anything in his adult memory—even worse than the children he'd come upon in Hong Kong that time, or the animals the clown kept in the trailer. This was instantly worse and closed off a part of his mind.

THEY

WERE

IN

A

BABY'S

PLAY

PEN.

OVER

100

STARVING

OR

DEAD

AND

OR

ABUSED

ANIMALS

SQUEEZED

TOGETHER

IN

THEIR

OWN FILTH.

He did not know what to do could not think had ever had such an experience was not prepared could not force his mind back into operation did not know what he was seeing did not understand could not would not did not should not.

Before he could think he was, back in kicking the bound faggot like a big football, 15EEEEE kicks low on the legs so as not to kill him, oofing noises escaping the gag, forcing himself to move back, rip the sides open, forcing his mind to deal with it. They were packed in slimy shit. Dead ones. Live ones. Collected from the streets, he supposed. Should he feed and water them first? He walked around through the barking puppies and dead bodies and newspaper—the fucking shit slime monkey dick-sucking faggot had fed them strips of newspaper.

Newspaper.

He realized he was spinning in circles. Mad as he'd ever known himself to be. He'd kill any human he saw this second—anyone. Went in and pulled the wrists and ankles into a severe hogtie, yanked the gag, pinching the throat in case he screamed.

'Where's the dog food in this hovel, you piece of scum shitass queer aw fuck—' He got a handful of shit and newspaper scrap and shoved it into the bound man's mouth.

'Newspaper! You son of a bitch, I want your skin, your slimy hide up on these fucking walls.'He had to force it down and concentrate now. Fifty-seven alive. Opening food. Not enough food. Water in dishes, trays, cups, anything that would hold liquid. Clusters of small wiggling things all over the floor, underfoot. Barking—some of them still afraid or too hurt or ill to eat. Some not able to drink water. All of the animals still alive were badly dehydrated.

He began looking for containers. More food that small puppies would find edible. He found a dead mother dog and starved litter. Wanted to go back and hurt the man but couldn't yet. Was afraid to. Not yet. He had to fight to remember to breathe. Chaingang Bunkowski—in over forty years—had never been so totally confused.

He could speak, function, deal with it. He went out to the Buick and got his duffel and returned. Sorting for things he could use. Fifty-seven alive. Nine near death. Syringe. Lethal injections—as humane as any way to put them to sleep, he hoped. Forty-six dogs? Forty-eight? He'd lost count. He let them try to eat and drink as best they could, did a bit of sorting, put a few of the weaker ones in the bathroom where the others wouldn't bother them. Walked around trying to decide what to do next. Ended up figuring out how he would handle the killing of the man. Decided to learn why he'd done this. Tried to find some clue to motivation before he interrogated him.

He put together a picture of a man named John Esteban. Bisexual. Had an odd assortment of muscle mags and porn. Body-builder crap. Kid vid. Freak stuff with animals. There were homemade videos, too, but he could not bring himself to view them.

The beast returned to the bound-and-gagged man and pulled him upright, carried him into the bedroom.

Went back and gathered boxes of dogs up and sorted them according to category—apparently able to recover, in urgent need of a vet, and seemingly frisky. The Buick stunk like an exploded outhouse when he'd finished packing them into the car.

'I'll just be a minute or two. We'll attend to you. Be good boys and girls,' he told them in a cracked voice, all the doors of the car wide open. He was oblivious to passersby. In fact, at that second he gave a shit for little or nothing. Mercifully, he saw no one in the street. He walked back inside.

He put the man on his stomach, tethered to the four corners of the bed with cords. Pulled the gag away for a moment with a hand which looked like a large human hand but which had the power of pliers or vise grips. Out of sight was a coiled length of wire and another object.

'Hello,' he said softly in his rumbling basso. 'I fed your dogs. I gave them some stuff out of the fridge. I couldn't find any scraps of newspaper to feed, them.'

'You listen to me, you—'

'Oh, my. Oh, my, Mr. Esteban. I don't suggest you speak again unless I ask you to do so,' Chaingang said in the quietest voice with which he was capable of speaking.

'Gravida—that's what I'm going to call you. Our pet name.' He cooed. 'Gravida, be a good girl and tell Daniel why you put all those dogs in the pen and gave them only pieces of paper to eat. Do that for me, Gravida, Why? Try to make me understand.'

'Fuck you, cocksu—'

'I see. All right, Gravida. Perhaps you're not in the mood for an intimate conversation at this time. You might prefer sex. Eh? Is that it? Would you like some physical intimacy?' He did something and the gag was reaffixed.

'I wish you'd speak with me first. I know you must have some reason for starving all those helpless little puppies but, frankly, I'm not feeling too well myself. I just want you to know, before we have a little sex together, how much I hate you. If I had more time—if I didn't have other pieces of monkey shit to deal with—I'd take you out and peel you, kill you inch by inch, keep you alive for days, but…'

Chaingang could hardly breathe. He had to get out of there. This was a luxury he could not afford.

'I see from your pictures and things you're into buttfucking, eh? So that's the way we'll go, Miss Gravida.' The man felt something large and hard inserted in his rectum. 'My goodness, we're large back there. You're a real donut, aren't you? Do you know what's inside you now?' The man on the bed squirmed and moaned.

'Obviously, you're really into it. Ready for your last orgasm? Good. I think you'll find this a genuinely moving experience.'

He forced another deep breath. Uncoiled the end of the wire out the door, pulled the thing as hard as he could and flattened against the outside wall as the concussive blast from the last grenade—the frag up John Esteban's butt-got his ass off for the last time.

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27

Trask finally kicked his cold, but his chronic stupidity-that he hadn't kicked. It was crazy, but he was still locked into this story that had cost him his gig at KCM, and that was continuing to threaten him with a jail cell.