Ray Hansel was alive.
He staggered down Main to where his patrol car was parked. The streets were silent now, deathly silent. There were bodies strewn about, the carcasses of dogs. Blood and entrails everywhere, a reeking fly-specked stew in the streets and spread over the walks. He was dazed and hurting and half out of his mind. As he walked- staggered, really-the sinking sun still hot on his neck, he tried to put it all together and make sense of something that was utterly senseless. He remembered the insane woman coming in, making for Bob Moreland’s office, how they overpowered her. Moreland said it was his wife and then, and then…
And then you heard the screaming, he reminded himself. The awful torturous screaming and you rushed downstairs right behind Moreland and every other cop that was up there. Remember? Remember how it looked? Men, women, children, and…dogs. Dozens and dozens of people and twice that many dogs.
He seized up right there on the walk, a dead man at his feet, sprawled over the concrete. He had died in battle with a Doberman. The Doberman’s jaws were locked on his throat, the knife in his hand still buried in the animal’s guts. They were both tangled in the dog’s viscera; it was knotted over them in fleshy ropes. Mangled and gutted, a surreal sculpture of human and canine locked in a fearsome and appalling death. Like two wax figures that had melted into one another. They both looked like they’d been dipped in red ink.
Choking on his own bile, Hansel moved past them, past the carnage spread everywhere.
All that blood, all those mutilated bodies.
He wanted to vomit, but there was absolutely nothing left in his stomach. His uniform was in rags. He was cut and bitten and scratched and generally banged-up. There was blood all over him, human blood and dog blood mixed in with his own.
He saw his patrol car and shuffled his way over, only stopping when he was a few feet away.
He looked around, his eyes glazed and his face scratched to the bone.
Are they all dead? Is the entire town dead now?
Logic told him it could not be, yet he’d never felt so terribly alone and terrible vulnerable. He wondered vaguely where his partner was. Where the hell was Paul Mackabee? Dead? Was he dead, too?
Standing there, he was wondering why the dogs had attacked.
Because at first, when they’d first flooded into the police station with that mob of wild-eyed people, they had attacked together, dogs and people. In unison. All shrieking and howling and foaming at the mouth. It had been a slaughter, an absolute slaughter. The cops overwhelmed and buried alive beneath people and dogs.
Those weren’t people, Ray, he told himself. You saw them…many of them were naked like animals, painted up like jungle savages, their hair wild and matted, their faces set, eyes shining with a moist blackness, just staring and staring. There was nothing human about that mob. Savages. Just savages out to rend and kill, bite and slash.
Same as the dogs that ran at their sides.
Yes, that’s how it had been. He remembered pulling his gun as Moreland and the others in front of him had gone down under claws and teeth and fingers and paws. He kept shooting until he’d emptied the clip. He’d brained two women with the butt of his pistol and then ran back upstairs, the pack howling at his heels. He’d been bitten and scratched and nearly taken down by a pair of bird dogs, but he’d escaped.
Barely.
What he remembered most, what he would always see, was not just the blood and bodies, the dogs and crazies dismembering people and biting into throats and tearing open bellies, not just that or the violent, repellent stink or the mist of red that settled over the squad room…no, what he would always remember was that people, human beings, had been running on all fours with the dogs, biting like them, tearing like them, bringing down their prey in packs just like them. And the scariest part was that he honestly couldn’t tell after a few moments which were the dogs and which were the people.
He saw only slaughtering, muscled, slashing red forms.
Dear God, dear God.
Hansel climbed into the cruiser and got on the emergency channel. He didn’t bother with call numbers or police codes. He simply said, “This…this is Trooper Hansel! Do you hear me? Trooper fucking Hansel! I’m in Greenlawn! I need back-up, I need troops! We’ve got bodies everywhere, civil unrest…move it, move it, move it!”
There was nothing but static for a moment or two, then: “Greenlawn! Come in, Greenlawn!”
Hansel brought the mic to his mouth, his hand shaking violently. “This is Greenlawn…do you hear me? This is Greenlawn!”
More static. Then a voice: “How’s the hunting over there?”
The mic fell from Hansel’ fingers.
They’ve all gone fucking mad. God help us, but they’ve all gone mad…
Then he did something that he had not done for six years since his wife passed: he pressed his hands to his face and he sobbed. He could not stop sobbing, his entire body trembling, the tears rolling hot down his cheeks. It all ran through his head, all the awfulness that he’d seen this day culminating with the slaughter at the police station. It all came pouring out of him and he could not stop, could not do anything but shake and sob until there was nothing left.
He was only alive because he’d gotten upstairs, gotten into a closet and stayed there. That’s when the dogs must have turned on the people or vise versa. He remembered them scratching at the door, the dogs and the people, and then the screaming and shouting and growling and snapping. They had hunted side by side until there was no more game, then they’d hunted each another.
They turned on one another.
The fighting and savagery had gone on for some time and then things had grown quiet incrementally. When he finally dared go down there-about fifteen minutes ago-there had been nothing but death. The squad room was a carpet of bodies, human and dog, and parts thereof, a red sea of filth. There were dozens of corpses locked in death throes with the dogs, dog teeth in human throats and human teeth in dog throats. He had not paused to examine any of it. He made his way outside and threw up on the steps of the police station.
And now here he was, crying like a baby.
Well, this wouldn’t do, this wouldn’t do at all.
He had to get a grip, he had to get a set on him and start acting like a cop. Goddamn Greenlawn was a fucking warzone and somebody had to start setting things right and that somebody just happened to be Ray goddamn Hansel. Just because you got kicked in the nuts didn’t mean you had to fold up and have a good cry, squat to piss the rest of your life.
No, sir, that wouldn’t do at all.
Some kind of ugly door had been thrown open on this world, all the dark and crawly things creeping out and having themselves a real old fashioned slash-and-burn hoo-ha, and it was going to take some serious ass-kicking professionals to slam that door shut.
Hansel knew that he had to get ready.
But…shit…it was spreading everywhere. He couldn’t fight alone, it just wasn’t possible. What in the hell could this possibly be about?
He started up the car and pulled away down Main, taking the first corner he saw and making for the south side. He’d grab the county road outside town and make for the highway, find people, normal people, start marshalling the fucking troops like Patton hitting the Rhine with the Third Army. Kick ass and take names, holy Jesus K. Christ.
As he drove down Providence Street, one of the main thoroughfares that ran from one end of town to the other, he saw wrecked cars, bodies in the streets, burned houses and abandoned city vehicles. He even saw a firetruck, doors hanging open, hoses unrolled and attached to a nearby fire hydrant, but not a soul around to work them.
This will be the biggest, ugliest clusterfuck this world has ever seen. Years from now, they’ll still be trying to figure this out.
If there’s anybody left to do the figuring, that is.
If the madness isn’t permanent.
If I live to see it.
If this whole goddamn country isn’t a slaughterhouse by then.
