James Rollins
The Pit
The large dog hung from the bottom of the tire swing by his teeth. His back paws swung three feet off the ground. Overhead, the sun remained a red blister in an achingly blue sky. After so long, the muscles of the dog’s jaw had cramped to a tight knot. His tongue had turned to a salt-dried piece of leather, lolling out one side. Still, at the back of his throat, he tasted black oil and blood.
But he did not let go.
He knew better.
Two voices spoke behind him. The dog recognized the gravel of the yard trainer. But the second was someone new, squeaky and prone to sniffing between every other word.
“How long he be hangin’ there?” the stranger asked.
“Forty-two minutes.”
“No shit! That’s one badass motherfucker. But he’s not pure pit, is he?”
“Pit and boxer.”
“True nuff? You know, I got a Staffordshire bitch be ready for him next month. And let me tell you, she puts the mean back in bitch. Cut you in on the pups.”
“Stud fee’s a thousand.”
“Dollars? You cracked or what?”
“Fuck you. Last show, he brought down twelve motherfuckin’ Gs.”
“Twelve? You’re shittin’ me. For a dogfight?”
The trainer snorted. “And that’s after paying the house. He beat that champion out of Central. Should seen that Crip monster. All muscle and scars. Had twenty-two pounds on Brutus here. Pit ref almost shut down the fight at the weigh-in. Called my dog ring bait! But the bastard showed ‘em. And those odds paid off like a crazy motherfucker.”
Laughter. Raw. No warmth behind it.
The dog watched out of the corner of his eye. The trainer stood to the left, dressed in baggy jeans and a white T-shirt, showing arms decorated with ink, his head shaved to the scalp. The newcomer wore leather and carried a helmet under one arm. His eyes darted around.
“Let’s get out of the goddamn sun,” the stranger finally said. “Talk numbers. I got a kilo coming in at the end of the week.”
As they stepped away, something struck the dog’s flank. Hard. But he still didn’t let go. Not yet.
“Release!”
With the command, the dog finally undamped his jaws and dropped to the practice yard. His hind legs were numb, heavy with blood. But he turned to face the two men. Shoulders up, he squinted against the sun. The yard trainer stood with his wooden bat. The newcomer had his fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket and took a step back. The dog smelled the stranger’s fear, a bitter dampness, like weeds soaked in old urine.
The trainer showed no such fear. He held his bat with one hand and scowled his dissatisfaction. He reached down and unhooked the plate of iron that hung from the dog collar. The plate dropped to the hard-packed dirt.
“Twenty-pound weight,” the trainer told the stranger. “I’ll get him up to
“Any thicker, and he won’t be able to turn his head.”
“Don’t want him to
The dog curled a lip, but he swung away, thirsty and exhausted. The fenced runs lined the rear of the yard. The floors were unwashed cement. From the neighboring cages, heads lifted toward him as he approached, then lowered sullenly. At the entrance, he lifted his leg and marked his spot. He fought not to tremble on his numb back leg. He couldn’t show weakness.
He’d learned that on the first day.
“Git in there already!”
He was booted from behind as he entered the cage. The only shade came from a scrap of tin nailed over the back half of the run. The fence door clanged shut behind him.
He lumbered across the filthy space to his water dish, lowered his head, and drank.
Voices drifted away as the two headed toward the house. One question hung in the air. “How’d that monster get the name Brutus?”
The dog ignored them. That memory was a shard of yellowed bone buried deep. Over the past two winters, he’d tried to grind it away. But it had remained lodged, a truth that couldn’t be forgotten.
He hadn’t always been named Brutus.
“C’mere, Benny! That’s a good boy!”
It was one of those days that flowed like warm milk, so sweet, so comforting, filling every hollow place with joy. The black pup bounded across the green and endless lawn. Even from across the yard, he smelled the piece of hot dog in the hand hidden behind the skinny boy’s back. Behind him, a brick house climbed above a porch encased in vines and purple flowers. Bees buzzed, and frogs croaked a chorus with the approach of twilight.
“Sit! Benny, sit!”
The pup slid to a stop on the dewy grass and dropped to his haunches. He quivered all over. He wanted the hot dog. He wanted to lick the salt off those fingers. He wanted a scratch behind the ear. He wanted this day to never end.
“There’s a good boy.”
The hand came around, and fingers opened. The pup stuffed his cold nose into the palm, snapped up the piece of meat, then shoved closer. He waggled his whole hindquarters and wormed tighter to the boy.
Limbs tangled, and they both fell to the grass.
Laughter rang out like sunshine.
“Watch out! Here comes Junebug!” the boy’s mother called from the porch. She rocked in a swing as she watched the boy and pup wrestle. Her voice was kind, her touch soft, her manner calm.
Much like the pup’s own mother.
Benny remembered how his mother used to groom his forehead, nuzzle his ear, how she kept them all safe, all ten of them, tangled in a pile of paws, tails, and mewling complaints. Though even that memory was fading. He could hardly picture her face any longer, only the warmth of her brown eyes as she’d gazed down at them as they fed, fighting for a teat. And he’d had to fight, being the smallest of his brothers and sisters. But he’d never had to fight alone.
“Juneeeee!” the boy squealed.
A new weight leaped into the fray on the lawn. It was Benny’s sister, Junebug. She yipped and barked and tugged on anything loose: shirtsleeve, pant leg, wagging tail. The last was her specialty. She’d pulled many of her fellow brothers and sisters off a teat by their tails, so Benny could have his turn.
Now those same sharp teeth clamped onto the tip of Benny’s tail and tugged hard. He squealed and leaped straight up — not so much in pain, but in good-hearted play. The three of them rolled and rolled across the yard, until the boy collapsed on his back in surrender, leaving the brother and sister free to lick his face from either side.
“That’s enough, Jason!” their new mother called from the porch.
“Oh, Mom…” The boy pushed up on one elbow, flanked by the two pups.
The pair stared across the boy’s chest, tails wagging, tongues hanging, panting. His sister’s eyes shone at him in that frozen moment of time, full of laughter, mischief, and delight. It was like looking at himself.
It was why they’d been picked together.
“Two peas in a pod, those two,” the old man had said as he knelt over the litter and lifted brother and sister toward the visitors. “Boy’s right ear is a blaze of white. Girl’s left ear is the same. Mirror images. Make quite a pair,
