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Night Beasts
Night Beasts
Night Beasts
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Night Beasts

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A chilling tale of horror.
It was an experiment in genetic warfare.
A body was found torn apart in a deserted motel.
Every day the eggs are hatching.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherTed Stetson
Release dateJan 14, 2011
ISBN9781452483009
Night Beasts
Author

Ted Stetson

Ted Stetson is a member of SFWA. He was born in Brooklyn and raised on Long Island and went to Seton Hall and Hofstra. He graduated from the University of St. Thomas, Houston, Texas. He was awarded First Place by the Florida Literary Arts Council and First Place in the Lucy B. McIntire contest of the Poetry Society of Georgia. His short fiction has appeared in Twisted Tongue, MysteryAuthors.com, Future Orbits, State Street Review, and the anthologies; One Evening a Year, Mota: Truth, Ruins Extraterrestrial Terra, Ruins Terra and Barren Worlds. His books include: Night Beasts, The Computer Song Book.

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    Night Beasts - Ted Stetson

    Prologue

    Finally. Finally, it was going to be free. It didn't understand that in abstract terms. It sensed survival. It just knew by instinct. Man, who had tortured its ancestors and mutated them into a nightmare their own forefathers wouldn't know, had made a serious mistake. An astronaut sent to investigate the satellite had emitted a small charge of static electricity that had short circuited the satellite's failsafe mode and war mode and put the satellite in doomsday mode.

    They tried to override, but they couldn't. Even so, they thought they were safe, but it sensed by instinct what man with all his instruments and engineering didn't know. Yes. It had a secret. A secret it was going to share with its tormentor. A secret its tormentor wasn't going to want to learn. Or feel.

    Even now, the satellite with a billion eggs in suspended animation was corkscrewing down to earth dropping canisters like some mechanical chimera hen and soon it would be free. Free to do what it wanted to do. What it had to do.

    Soon. Very, very soon.

    *****

    Chapter 1 - Never Say Never

    State Trooper Rodman Stanley stood on a bridge over I-5 the hair on the back of his neck tingling. Under the silvery moonlight, the highway was a dark river flowing into the distance with, on either side of it, the northern California hills rolling into meadows and fields and forests. Nearby were the Trinity National Forest, the Shasta National Forest, and the Redwood National Park, and just down the pike San Francisco usually tourists jammed the roads, but the dark river was empty in both directions as far as the eye could see. Even the state road was empty. Unusually empty.

    It should be filled with tourists, Rod mused. Must be the spring doldrums.

    Or it could be a wreck on the Interstate. He didn't really care. He was glad the highway was empty. He'd thought being a policeman would be something important, but the job turned out to be little more than being an officious busybody, like a hall monitor in school. And it was boring. Giving speeding tickets to some idiot going twenty miles over the speed limit. Hell, let the idiot speed and kill themselves or build cars that won't go more than five miles per hour over the speed limit. Save a damn lot of paperwork. When he wasn't listening to a speeder's bullshit, he was filling out forms. No one had ever told him there'd be so much paperwork, enough paperwork to bury your dreams.

    He'd been a good student in high school when his father left his mom. Then he had to work after school to earn enough money to make ends meet. He lost his track scholarship and had to work in college. When he flunked out, the state police was the best offer. Still, three failed romances had left him a little bitter. The first one, Denise Fox left because he wasn't making enough money. How can I live like this? You expect me to live on what a cop makes? Cathy Silverman had split because, I need more space. Sally Kelly had said, You're too good a cop. You live with it. You bring it home with you. I don't want that. If you'd stop being a cop, I'd marry you in a second.

    At times he wanted to quit, wanted to get a regular job, but whenever he felt like that the jobs weren't there or those that were paid so bad, it wasn't worth it. Sure, I'll quit and be a night watchman and hell, we can live on half my pay. Oh, you think if I quit I'd be hired as company vice president or maybe a junior executive and not a grunt in plant security? Yeah, maybe I can go back to college, but what do we do for money in the meantime?

    Hell, mon, Sullivan had said. You're not bitter. You're just horny.

    Yeah, I'd like to quit, Rod thought many times. And hop on a motorcycle -- the fact that he didn't own a motorcycle never entered his thoughts -- and drive straight up to Alaska. Maybe all the way to Barrow where the mosquitoes are as big as blue jays.

    He stared at the ribbon of highway rolling into the distance away from him like all his dreams of success and fortune and . . .

    Five-A-Eight, said Dispatcher Susan Sparks.

    Jesus, Rod grumbled. Her voice had startled him.

    Rendezvous Motel . . . See manager . . .a disturbance.

    Rod turned to his patrol car and caught a glimpse of himself in the back window. Five ten. One ninety. Light brown hair. Moustache. Once cute, now tired and going soft fast. He picked up the mike. Five-A-Eight, over.

    Rod, the Chief wants you to keep him informed if you see anything unusual.

    See what? There's nothing to see.

    Roger, Suze. He grinned. She'd be pissed he called her Suze over the radio. After work, she'd chew him out.

    He climbed in his car knowing it was some husband caught his wife with another man. Or some wife found her husband with another woman. It was always the same. He wished they'd close down motels like the Rendezvous. It was always the same old crap.

    Officer Bob Sullivan in a patrol car miles away, said, Don't let the Night Beasts get you, and laughed.

    That's cute Sully, he said. Real cute.

    The world had learned about the beasts a few months ago when the seal at a top-secret laboratory broke. They were created as a military weapon. Code named: Night Beast. Their hideous picture appeared on the cover of several monthly news magazines. Everyone was repulsed by the pictures. The closest the scientists could come to describing genetic culture EAP1809.49 in layman's terms was a cross between a vampire bat, a leech and a worm. A reporter gave it the name: NIGHT BEAST.

    EAP1809.49 were dark brown beasts the size of a hand that resembled miniature bats. Some authorities said they heralded a new non-nuclear age of weaponry. In time of war, a hundred thousand egg canisters could be dropped behind enemy lines where they would attack only man. Their nasty bite wouldn't kill, but they could carry several toxins, which would infect their victims. Many renowned scientists testified that their life span was only a week long, they could never reproduce and they could never grow any bigger.

    Subsequent news reports established the Russians and Chinese had their own versions and Cuba and Libya were trying to get the terrible biological weapon. A public outcry arose for all governments to destroy their stockpiles and a treaty was rammed through the United Nations. A committee of renowned scientists had made certain that no more stockpiles of similar weapons were left. Even so, it was rumored a few billion eggs, the size of large jellybeans, were frozen in high earth orbit.

    Weeks of scares and crude practical jokes (so-called news reports) had many governments sitting on pins and needles. Last week was the first week Night Beasts had not been in the news. It was an uneasy respite at first as the press turned back to baseball and movie stars and Wall Street and the economy and another crazy war in the Middle East. Toward the end of the week, the world breathed a sigh of relief that Jay Leno summed up in Friday evening's monologue, Thank God that's over with.

    As the Crown Vic flew northward, Rod began thinking this is my last night shift, it's Friday the thirteenth and the number of my car is 58 and 5 plus 8 is 13. I better slow down. Stop being stupid. Superstition was something you just scared kids with and religions used to get followers. Besides, Monday I'll be back on the day shift. Yet, his foot eased off the gas and the speedometer went below 70 mph.

    Soon he was pulling into the Rendezvous, a small one-story motel on the side of the highway. Small cheap rooms and a parking lot not well lit.

    As he drove up the curving drive, his heart pounding from the rush police officers get, he had a strong instinct to keep on driving. To step on the gas and haul ass out of there. He told himself it was just the hours and the job catching up to him . . .

    Even he was surprised by the condition of the Rendezvous. The black asphalt parking lot looked like there had been a riot. Luggage and clothes, and smashed lamps and broken chairs, were scattered everywhere. And there was not an outside light on.

    Five-A-Eight? Suze asked.

    I just arrived.

    A gruff male voice spoke, the boss Captain Green, See anything unusual?

    Hell, the world looks unusual tonight, this looks like shit.

    Looks like there's been a riot.

    Keep me posted.

    Roger.

    Rod swerved around some suitcases and drove past two cars that had had an accident. He could smell gas from a ruptured gas tank. He was relieved the call was probably about the accident.

    As he drove toward the office, he noted several doors were open. A large window was smashed and a broken chair lying on the ground. Broken glass scattered over the asphalt, sparkling diamonds in his headlights.

    An irate husband must have thrown a chair through the window, he mused.

    He was looking out his open window for someone looking for him, when out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something fly in front of his car. His head whipped around, but there was nothing. Only the dark night. He looked this way and that. Nothing.

    In the middle of the shabby lawn was a badly lit pink neon sign:

    REND US MOTEL

    Suddenly his headlights lit up a man being eaten by a man sized Night Beast. Rod's heart was in his throat. Then he realized it was a billboard advertising a new horror movie. CURSE OF THE NIGHT BEASTS.

    He breathed. His heart thumping in his chest. Jesus.

    He stopped the patrol car by the office, grabbed his flashlight, and got out. Broken bits of glass crunched under his shoes. He stood next to the car and surveyed the cheap motel. The rooms appeared empty and deserted. It was so empty it was eerie. It was like a motel in a graveyard. Goosebumps crawled up his arms.

    In the distance, a TV blared. It was from one of the open rooms. The theme from The Twilight Zone. It was so quiet the music seemed to echo toward him.

    Your mind does play tricks, he said, his voice sounding strange.

    He shined the beam of his twenty-five led flashlight up and down the row of rooms. He noticed his hand trembled slightly. His flash crossed a red high heel shoe lying on the ground, abandoned as if someone had been in a rush. And not far from it, a small red rhinestone purse glittered in the beam.

    Husband caught with hooker, he muttered.

    He kept expecting someone to walk out of a room and wave, Over here. He kept expecting to see someone or hear someone call. No one did. Even with the TV sound loud, the motel was strangely quiet. Oddly still.

    Where is everyone?

    He had an impulse to call in and ask for backup, but that was dumb. He was a cop not a boy scout. He was paid to handle situations like this. Besides, he would look like a rookie.

    But the Chief said to keep him posted.

    He sat back on the edge of his car seat, suddenly feeling so exhausted, and picked up the mike.

    Five-A-Eight. Rod swallowed, his throat very dry.

    Go ahead Five-A-Eight. Suze sounded strange.

    Why does she sound worried?

    I don't see anyone. Rod noticed a child's doll lying on the asphalt. Doors are open and the parking lot is littered with clothes as if . . . as if everyone was in a rush to leave. He gazed down the row of rooms. The place looks deserted.

    He said the last trying to convey the odd abandoned sensation he felt, but on hearing it he thought it sounded dumb. On listening to his own voice, he realized some wife had shot her husband, and everyone hightailed it before they were caught in a police investigation and their private night wasn't so secret anymore.

    Going to investigate.

    Keep us posted, Suze said.

    Is she worried or scared? Roger.

    He stood up and surveyed the deserted parking lot. The open abandoned rooms. He wanted to report the whole damn motel because it looked weird, but that sounded stupid. He knew it was only his imagination and that it was really not as bad as it appeared. It never was.

    Rod stepped away from the car, glass ground underfoot. His heart beat quick and hard. Sweat ran down under his arms. He took a deep breath. It didn't help.

    During the three preceding weeks, police departments had been getting so many prank calls it had made them all jumpy. Across the country, similar announcements were read at the start of each shift:

    No police officer ever answered a real

    Night Beast crisis and no one ever will.

    Such a contingency is positively impossible.

    There will never be a damn

    Night Beast or Night Beast crisis.

    Never. Never. Never.

    The statement quieted most fears even though a few seasoned cops became uneasy when it was officially stated there would NEVER be a real Night Beast emergency. They knew better than to say NEVER. That was almost daring God to make it happen.

    Rod carefully approached the motel office. He guessed some crazy might be holding people at gunpoint or maybe it was a prank about Night Beasts. Or, he half expected, at any moment some guy would appear with a dumb smile on his face saying, It was all a mistake, officer. There was no use trying to guess how bad or stupid it was. Even he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it definitely had nothing to do with real Night Beasts.

    Still he was not going to take chances. Cops who forgot the rules and took stupid chances were six feet under or on permanent disability. He shined his flash around and unbuttoned the clip that held his gun in his holster.

    The glass door to the office was closed. It had automatically closed. The tomato red neon sign above the door said: VACANCY. A plastic sign on the door said: OPEN. Inside, the lights were on. A TV was on. In the back corner was a large red Coca--Cola machine, the large sign glaring: THIS IS IT.

    Rod drew his gun and pushed the door open. A bell above the door rang and he nearly jumped. His heart thumped hard. He swallowed and took a breath.

    Hello, Rod called. Anyone home?

    No one answered. He stepped inside. No signs of violence. No signs of people. Nothing. It was quiet. Too quiet. Creep bumps rose on the back of his neck.

    On the TV a comedian said, Have you seen my mother--in--law. That's where the Night Beast gene came from. Laughter poured from the TV.

    He quickly scanned the room. A small counter with a cash register -- drawer closed. A registration book and small Zenith color TV. Cheap orange vinyl padded chairs. A lamp on a small wooden end table. On the coffee table some old magazines: Newsweek, People, U.S. News. On the top was a Time magazine with a blown up picture of a Night Beast on the cover and above it in large blood-red letters:

    NIGHT BEASTS

    NEW AGE OF WEAPONRY

    On the TV the comedian continued, I once had a blind date with a girl that looked like a Night Beast. He paused. Only a Night Beast would have looked better. The Tonight Show TV audience started cheering and applauding.

    Why is it they changed the name to Night Beasts? Why didn’t anyone tell me? What am I, chopped liver?

    The audience laughed and applauded.

    I'll tell ya, the comedian said. I don’t get no respect.

    The comic on TV adjusted his tie. In the quiet that blew through his mind Rod could hear Sullivan saying, You're knocking them dead, funny man.

    Hello, Rod called as he entered the room. The glass door started to close, but he held it open with his elbow. He didn't know why, but he didn't want the door closed behind him.

    Anyone home? Rod asked, but no one answered.

    He sniffed the air. There was no mistaking the smell of gunpowder. He almost sighed in relief.

    Just as he stepped forward and his elbow let the door start to swing shut there was a blood-curdling scream.

    He whirled about and rushed outside. It came from the end. He ran toward the last room in the row. Pieces of glass crunched under his shoes like the teeth from mythical monsters.

    He was almost to the door when the woman screamed again. It was from a TV. A television in room 12.

    He stopped outside the open door and glared at the TV. His heart beat hard and fast. He panted. Sweat glistened on his face. He swallowed. Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't taste so good the second time around.

    He glanced at the shabby room. It was deserted. A suitcase lay open by the door as if it had been dropped when someone ran to their car and they were in too big a rush to go back and pick it up. A man's white boxer underwear, blue socks, and light blue shirts were scattered on the asphalt.

    The beam of his flash illuminated something white. He froze. Suddenly the world was very still.

    It was a human skull.

    He walked over and gazed down at the skull-- plaster white on the black asphalt. Under torn green pajamas was a human skeleton.

    Rod didn't move. Didn't breathe. He looked around. The motel was quiet and the night was still. All of a sudden, he understood what had happened. Some kids had gotten the skeleton and played a stupid practical joke. A Night Beast prank. Scared half the guests out of their minds, and they ran like hell. Too many horror movies. Let's see how many people we can scare to death. Real cute.

    His mouth twisted in anger. He wondered if anyone got hurt for real. That's why the motel is deserted. Someone got seriously hurt.

    Suddenly something bumped inside the motel room. He turned toward the door to room 13. It was only a few feet away. He gazed back at his patrol car. It was 12 rooms away.

    He knew he should call in. Knew beyond any doubt, but he was so close to room 13. He didn't want to go back to his car, call in, and sound stupid when he was asked what he had discovered. And now that he thought about it, it sounded stupid to call in that someone had played a practical joke and that some old man had probably died of a heart attack. What old man? Captain Green would bark. He might as well investigate. That's what I'm being paid for.

    It flashed through his mind that this wasn't a practical joke. The world was just a little too quiet. There's not even any traffic on the highway. Jesus Christ, what do you think this is? A Stephen King novel?

    He wondered if the damn teenagers who pulled the practical joke were in the bushes somewhere watching. They might be and they'd be eating it up. That made him angry.

    He set his jaw and faced the door to room 13. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. Calm down. It's just another prank. It's never as bad as it seems.

    In the back of his mind, a voice said, it was never that bad until now.

    In his head, Rod shouted, SHUT UP, and stepped toward the door to room 13.

    His breath was short and rapid. He trembled. Just a little keyed up. He knew he should call in, just to take the time to calm himself down, but he couldn't. He wanted to, but he just couldn't. He had to do it and do it now. He was too scared. If he waited he wouldn’t be able to do it. He nodded his head.

    He extended his hand toward the doorknob to room 13 and noticed his fingers trembling. DON'T! His mind shouted. DON'T!!!

    Rod shook his head—I must be getting soft—and grabbed the doorknob.

    *****

    Chapter 2 - The Lull

    The screen door slowly opened. The hinge squealed and the spring squeaked.

    Cindy stopped talking and turned to look. There was no one standing there. The kitchen door was open on the dark night. Mrs. Martha Howell put her finger to her lips and Cindy nodded her head.

    Jeez, all I want is to tell her and split. Now what?

    Did someone come in? Mr. Martin Howell asked from his La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room.

    Shush, Mrs. Howell said.

    Stop shushing me, Mr. Howell complained.

    The kitchen was quiet with the smells of the pot roast dinner and baked apple pie dessert; two-thirds of it was cooling on the white tile counter.

    A small brown-haired boy, dressed in camouflage pants and t-shirt, belly crawled into the kitchen. On the back of his shirt was printed: RAMBO. Following the young boy was a white and tan bulldog. The squat dog walked alongside the boy, her toenails tapping on the linoleum floor, watching him closely.

    From the living room TV Jay Leno said, That's great.

    The gruff-voiced funny man said, I tell ya. I don't get no respect.

    The TV audience applauded loudly.

    And now a word from our sponsor, Jay Leno said.

    Someone else who don't respect me, the comedian quipped.

    Jay Leno laughed and the TV screen changed to a picture of an icy blue bottle of mouthwash and Mr. Howell pressed the mute, button on his remote. No sound. Suddenly the TV screen changed to a live picture, from the shoulders up, of a pretty American female with a red banner with blue letters across the bottom of the picture: NEWS BULLETIN.

    Mr. Howell pressed the mute, button again and news music blared across the living room.

    Hello, this is Diane Sawyer, the newswoman said. We interrupt your scheduled programming to bring you the following late breaking news story. NASA has just confirmed that a large Russian satellite has broken up and is in the process of falling to the earth. Pieces of the satellite may have already crashed. The Russian Government denies that it is their satellite. Asked whether it was a Night Beast satellite a spokesman at the Russian embassy in Washington stated, The Soviet government has no Night Beast satellite. It's now morning in Moscow. Several high-ranking government officials have disappeared. We have been unable to verify where they are. The Russian army, the entire Russian army, has been put on emergency standby alert. An official spokesman said it is a normal training maneuver. However, the American embassy has no record of any scheduled training. When we find out more details, we will report them. Stay tuned for updates on this fast breaking story. This is Diane Sawyer in New York.

    Mr. Howell called, from the living room, Did you hear that?

    It was so loud, the neighbors heard, Mrs. Howell said. Aunt Martha had gray in her short auburn hair. Plain clean face. Small nose and ears. Small mouth with hardly any lipstick. She turned back to Cindy. Yes. What is it, dear?

    Cindy took a breath and quickly said, So, you see, I won't be able to baby-sit Saturday.

    Timmy looked up from the floor. That meant her dumb boyfriend wouldn't be messing with his toys. He almost cheered, but he caught himself.

    Cindy looked everywhere, but not at Mrs. Howell afraid if she looked in her eyes she'd be able to tell she was laying. Jeez, what a pain. I could get one of my girlfriends to sit, but I'd never get it back. And the money is too easy to giveaway.

    That's okay, dear, Mrs. Howell said and smiled at how their old dog loved the boy. That's what she needs. A playmate. Sadness twisted her lips and she forced herself to smile.

    Brownie sat down- the folds of skin on her face gave her an intelligent expression- and scratched behind her ear with her rear paw. Every time her paw touched her chain collar her nametag jingled.

    Little Timmy slowly crawled across the white linoleum floor. Suddenly his belt buckle made a scraping sound on the floor. Scccrraaap! He froze and pulled his shirt out over his buckle.

    Sorry, Timmy Hollyoaks whispered.

    It's alright, she said. Still, she couldn't help looking at the floor, checking the mark, as he crawled away from it.

    Timmy continued crawling toward the Frigidaire. It was slow arduous work crawling into the enemy's kitchen to get supplies. Boy won't they be surprised in the morning. Probably blame the cook for stealing.

    Martin Howell came to the door, his heavy footsteps making the floor creak. Did you hear that? he asked, then he spotted Timmy. Mrs. Howell smiled—isn't he a nice boy and look how Brownie loves him—her eyes almost filled with warm tears.

    Martin observed the way Lady Brownshire Rebel Rouser, his bulldog, stayed close to the boy. A week ago, I couldn't stop her from pestering me to take her for a walk. Now she doesn't know I exist. And doesn't care, either.

    Mr. Howell was fifty and soft. Round face. Short brown hair. Five eight, fifty pounds overweight. Wore glasses to read or watch TV. Brown frames. Light blue shirt open at the collar, the tie stuffed in his gray suit pocket, grey pants.

    Cindy wanted to call this a picture of boredom or what she wouldn't be doing when she got older. When she got older, life wouldn't be so dull. She would be doing things. Going places. Not sitting home turning into pudding.

    What's the matter, dear? Mrs. Howell asked.

    Cindy glanced at her, thinking she might mean Mr. Howell. Was she talking to her?

    I just want to get my life going. Cindy paused she couldn't say she didn't want to end up like them. That'd be mean and they might not have her back to baby-sit again. I want to do something important. Go places.

    Believe me, Mr. Howell, butted in, like he always did. There isn’t any place like home.

    Cindy wanted to say, Sure. That's easy for you to say. Try going home to my house. If my folks ain't arguing it's because they're drunk or sleeping.

    You will go places and do things, Mrs. Howell said.

    Cindy smiled. Sometimes she got the feeling that Mrs. Howell wasn't so stodgy, that behind her blue-rimmed glasses was actually a real person.

    And make a name for myself. Be someone. And then have a few little Timmy's. Cindy smiled down at Timmy. Only my kids will be smart, not rug rats.

    Mrs. Howell sighed. She wished she had a Timmy for her own. Let all the Cindy's of the world have a dozen kids each. Just give me one Timmy, Lord. One Timmy is all I ask. Now is that too much? Not for the first time she pushed away the thought of her little sister and her husband dying so she'd inherit Timmy. Someday you will, dear.

    Well, I'd better get going, Cindy said, nervous that Mr. Howell would see through her. Her I can handle, but him I don't trust. The way he looks at me over the top of his eyeglasses, like he knows my dirty thoughts.

    You be careful, dear, Mrs. Howell said. Why didn't Martin and I have kids when I was Cindy's age? What were we waiting for?

    I always am, Cindy said and started for the door.

    And have a good time.

    Cindy smiled at her from the kitchen doorway. How can you be careful and have a good time? She walked down the hall to the front door.

    Mr. Howell watched her walk. The way she was poured into her jeans. Who's she kidding? She thinks she's somebody. She's just Cindy Abbott hot to trot. He was about to say something when Mrs. Howell gave him a look- not in front of little ears.

    ***

    Timmy crawled to the refrigerator. Remaining low, so the enemy wouldn't look up from their card game in the dining room and see him. He opened the refrigerator door, put his hand in the fruit bin, and took out a green apple. Martha had stopped buying red apples when she heard the chemical they put on to make them stay red longer was poisonous. Timmy put the apple in his back pocket and closed the door.

    Now to get away before the cook comes back. He could hear them at the dining room table- a field kitchen in the middle of some foreign jungle- laughing over their cards and dirty jokes.

    He started to turn around and crawl away.

    Maybe Brownie would like a snack too, Mrs. Howell said. The bulldog gave her a questioning look when her name was mentioned, turning her head slightly to the side as if she was trying to understand. Aw, I can play can't I? Can't I?

    Timmy scanned the row of cabinets.

    Next to the refrigerator, Mrs. Howell suggested.

    Timmy carefully opened the cabinet. He was fearful the door would squeak and the cook would hear. Inside was a large bag of Purina Dog Chow and a heavy glass bowl- Brownie has to eat out of a glass bowl like people. She won't eat out of a plastic bowl anymore.- and a red box of Gaines meat flavored Milkbone dog biscuits. He took out a large red biscuit and put it in his shirt pocket.

    Brownie watched him closely; a string of drool began to fall from the corner of her thick lips.

    Maybe you should get two.

    Yes ma'am.

    Timmy took out another biscuit, put it in his pocket, and, buttoned the flap.

    Brownie started to whine hungrily. Her stubby tail wagged excitedly. Her brown eyes glanced at Mrs. Howell, whose expression said, you wait.

    Shssh, the little boy said and the dog quieted.

    Mr. Howell shook his head. Damn dog never listens to me . . . the boy just whispers shush and she quiets, doesn't that get you.

    Timmy closed the cabinet and crawled to the back door. Brownie stayed right behind him, drool stringing out of her mouth, watching him closely. They went out the back door and Timmy got to his feet and snuck across the back lawn to his secret fort.

    That boy, Mrs. Howell said, tears forming in her eyes. Why didn't we have children? Why on earth didn't we? And we should have adopted when it was too late. We should have. I don't care what Martin says, we should have. After Timmy leaves I'll talk to him again. It isn't too late. God, I hope it isn't.

    Brownie used to be my dog, Martin told her again trying not to sound as hurt as he felt. She used to be mine. I was her friend. Her lord and master. Now she doesn't even sleep by my side of the bed. Maybe Martha's right. Maybe we should adopt.

    It's just for another month. Until Sally and Bob come back from vacation.

    Brownie will miss him when he leaves.

    So will I. Mrs. Howell looked out the window. She could barely see Timmy sneak across the lawn to the little log cabin Martin had built in the back yard, but she could see Brownie's white and fawn coat. It was nice of you to build that cabin.

    Brownie always wanted a dog house.

    Mrs. Howell turned to her husband of thirty years. He tries to look tough behind his reading glasses. Who are you trying to kid, you old softy.

    The cabin was between thick thorn bushes in the back of the yard. It was made of log fence posts nailed together. It had a little door and window. And a log roof. From the front, it didn't look like a cabin. It appeared to be a section of fence.

    Mrs. Howell watched Brownie disappear into the black square hole that was the small cabin door. Then the door closed.

    I've never seen a boy so into playing soldier.

    It's just a stage he's going through.

    Such an independent boy.

    He's going to be a real soldier some day, Mr. Howell said. Just like your father. He walked to the back door and stared across the yard at the cabin. Your father would have liked him.

    Yes. He would have. Mrs. Howell smiled brushing a tear away from her eye. My father? I wonder if he was like that as a boy. Maybe he was. He could have been when he was young on the plains, on his father's farm.

    Cindy can't baby-sit again.

    Just as well. I don't trust her. Why don't we just skip our weekly dine-out while Timmy's here?

    Mrs. Howell had tried to take Timmy with them, but if the service wasn't fast and the food wasn't franks or burgers, Timmy was hard to manage.

    I wish I could sleep as soundly as he does, Mr. Howell remarked. Kid sleeps like the dead.

    Are all kids like that? Mrs. Howell went back to wiping off the counter around the sink.

    Mr. Howell watched her a moment. It's harder on her not having children. We should've adopted. Why didn't I listen to her? Say, how about we take a ride to the Carvel ice cream store.

    Now?

    Why not? Beasley's keeping it open late this summer.

    I guess we can. Should we take Timmy?

    No. Mr. Howell wanted to take Timmy. He liked to watch the boy eat ice cream. It was going to be hard enough missing Timmy without having every place reminding her of him. He won't want to come. He'd rather play commando.

    I'll ask him on the way out.

    Mr. Howell grunted and grabbed his red San Francisco Forty-Niners jacket from the hall stand. Mrs. Howell took a pink sweater.

    They went out the back door. Mr. Howell closed the glass door, but did not lock it. The screen door swung closed.

    Mrs. Howell called from the pavement. Timmy, would you like to get an ice cream?

    Timmy's young voice called from the little cabin. No, thank you, Aunt Martha.

    Mrs. Howell followed Mr. Howell to the gray Volvo sedan parked in the driveway in front of the garage. What was that on the TV?

    Something about a Russian satellite coming down.

    "You'd

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