Chapter Eight
Ben stepped out onto his porch into another fine, warm morning, but for a change there were low clouds in the sky that hinted
at changing weather. The world had gone dark just over a week ago, which meant no weather predictions. September was prime
hurricane month, though, so who knew what was brewing in the tropics. At any rate, rain would be welcome, because so far they’d
been hot and dry for too long.
After his unplanned meeting with Sela he’d kept to the mountain, and stayed busy by chopping wood, doing some hunting and
fishing so he wouldn’t have to dip into his canned or dried food supplies before winter set in. His solar panels provided
what light he needed at night, conserving his lamp oil and candles. The atmosphere had settled down some and he’d gotten the
ham radio up and going again, but so far transmissions were spotty and limited in range. Maybe in another week he’d be able
to get some worthwhile information over the airwaves.
He had his breakfast with him, some fish he’d cooked the night before, and settled down in a chair with that and his coffee
to kick back to enjoy the bright morning and the simple food. The cup was almost empty and he had one strip of fish left,
when in his peripheral vision he spotted movement off to the right about forty yards away, on the left side of the driveway.
He turned his head a fraction of an inch, focusing on the movement. Could be deer, bear, turkey—any kind of wildlife. Turkey
would be nice; he could smoke some, dry some for jerky.
But it was a dog that emerged from the underbrush and stood watching him warily. Ben held himself motionless, waiting to see
what it did. It was a black and white mountain cur, a leggy youngster, maybe six or seven months old from the looks of it.
It edged farther out of the brush, twisting its body, tail hesitantly wagging.
It was thin, its ribs showing. Mountain curs were great hunting dogs; Ben figured when the CME hit some shortsighted asshole
had figured he wouldn’t be able to feed the dog and simply abandoned it, not realizing what a great asset the dog could be
once it was trained.
From its body language, the dog was friendly but unsure, wanted to approach but was afraid to. Likely it smelled the fish
and hunger had compelled it to show itself.
“Hey,” Ben said softly. Its ears perked up at his voice. He didn’t want a dog or any other attachment, but his tours of duty
had given him a deep appreciation for the war dogs, and he would never let one suffer if he could help it. The dog needed
food, and he had food in his hand. If he stood and walked toward the dog, though, it would likely run.
He eased to his feet and walked slowly to the steps. Without looking directly at the dog, he broke off a piece of fish and
laid it on the top step. Another piece of fish was placed halfway between there and the front door. He gradually opened the
door, moved inside, and put another piece of fish on the threshold. He placed the last piece of fish three feet inside. Then
he retreated all the way to the kitchen and sat down where he could see the dog, watching it through the open door.
The dog could see him, too, so he sat relaxed and motionless. He had no idea if the animal had ever been inside a house; if
it hadn’t, it might not venture as far as the threshold, much less enter for the last piece of fish. Still, hunger was a powerful
motivator, and the young dog wouldn’t be as cautious as an older one.
It crossed the yard toward him, still body-twisting and tail-wagging, its gaze darting back and forth between him and the
food on the top step. It stopped a couple of times and backed up, sat down, got up again and ventured closer. When Ben didn’t
move and nothing bad happened, the pup reached the steps and with one fast, courageous bound went to the top where it wolfed
down the fish in one swallow.
It immediately pounced on the second piece of fish, then the third piece lying on the threshold.
The pup’s tail was wagging faster now, and the bright gaze fixed on Ben didn’t seem nearly as wary. “Hey,” he said again,
keeping his tone soft and crooning the way the war dog handlers had spoken to their canine charges. “Come on in, buddy. There’s
plenty of food and water, and a rug to bed down on, if you need a break.”
The dog eyed the last piece of fish, dashed forward to get it, then stood as if uncertain what to do next. But that tail was
still wagging, even if the wagger didn’t feel ready to come within Ben’s reach just yet. It was wearing a bedraggled red collar,
but no tag on the collar. If there had been one, it had been torn loose during the dog’s journey of survival—or the former
owner had removed the identifying tag. Either way, the collar was proof that the dog was accustomed to humans, and so far
its behavior didn’t indicate it expected mistreatment. It was just unsure of itself and the situation.
Ben looked around the kitchen. He had a lot of food, but nothing specifically for dogs. He did have jerky, though, and the
pup needed some protein. He yawned and looked away—a trainer he’d deployed with had told him that a yawn told a dog there
was nothing to be alarmed about—and went to the cabinet to open a pack of jerky. The pup backed up a couple of steps at his
movement, but didn’t bolt. When he opened the pack, the smell of the jerky riveted the animal’s attention.
Ben went back to his chair, sat down, and took a piece of jerky from the pack, placed it on the floor at his feet.
The dog whined, and eased forward. Ben didn’t move. It grabbed the jerky, gobbled it down, then looked expectantly at the
open pack. When Ben still didn’t move it looked at him, then back at the pack.
Huh. This was a smart little shit, but mountain curs were usually very intelligent dogs.
The dog butted his hand, and looked at the pack. Give me some more food, human.
“Pushy, aren’t you?” Ben murmured, but got another stick of jerky and held it out, ready to jerk his hand back if the pup
went for it too aggressively. Instead it tilted its head and gently lipped the jerky from his fingers, though all signs of
gentleness vanished once the treat was in its mouth.
Ben held out the back of his hand, and the pup sniffed it, then gave him a lick.
Still moving slowly, he got up and poured some water in a bowl, set it on the floor. The pup came over without hesitation
and drank thirstily, almost emptying the bowl. Then it looked back at the jerky, but Ben thought he should wait a while to
see if what he’d already given the animal stayed down or would end up ralphed on his floor. He took the chance and gave the
dog’s shoulder a pat, and it crowded against his leg in delight.
“Okay,” he told the animal. “I’ll help out, you can bunk down here for a while. But fair warning: I’m not looking for company.
Got it?”
Whether or not the dog got it, it knew a good thing when it saw it. Over the next several days, Ben had a constant companion.
He discovered that, hunting dog or not, the pup was house-trained and at ease inside. It didn’t try to get on the bed with
him but did sleep on the rug beside the bed. Maybe its former owner hadn’t dumped it, maybe it had wandered away and gotten
lost. Ben didn’t normally think the best of people—experience was a hard teacher—but for certain the dog hadn’t been mistreated.
It was too trusting and comfortable with him for it to have been abused.
He didn’t name it, he just called it “dog” or “buddy.” Naming it would imply a permanency he wasn’t prepared to accept, though
maybe the pup’s companionship wasn’t as onerous as he’d expected. Sometimes, though, even that was too much, and he’d leave
the dog in the house while he took a long, solitary hike through the woods. He’d hunt, or he’d just walk, get in some PT by
sprinting up the steep mountainside, leaping deadfalls, dodging boulders and trees. He had some free weights in the house
but he much preferred moving, and in all his years of training he hadn’t found anything that compared to mountain running.
Two weeks after the CME, he finally made some distant contact on the ham radio. The dog sat beside him, head cocked as if
trying to figure out where that other voice was coming from when it couldn’t smell another human anywhere nearby. The radio
operator he reached was outside Memphis, about four hundred miles away.
“The city’s trashed, looted clean and a lot of it burned,” the disembodied voice said. “A lot of people were killed. There
are some pockets where it’s too dangerous to go, but for the most part a lot of people have moved on because there’s nothing
else here to loot. The national guard is beginning to secure some areas, but there’s not much food to be had. From what I’ve
heard, it’s the same in Little Rock.”
“Same for Knoxville and Nashville. How far out can you reach?”
“You’re the limit, so far, but it’s getting better every day. What’s your power source?”
“I have solar.” He had a lot more, but Ben didn’t intend to let the world know the extent of his resources. That would be
inviting trouble, in the form of looters who would take anything they could. “Be safe.” He signed off, then tried to raise
his buddy Cory Howler, without success. Cory would have taken his radio equipment with him when he bugged out, but there were
some hefty mountains between them and the atmosphere wasn’t letting transmissions overcome that yet . . . either that, or
Cory wasn’t capable of responding. Ben had seen too many of his buddies die to reject that possibility. Cory could be dead,
badly injured, or his radio equipment stolen or destroyed. Anything could have happened. Eventually he would find out; he’d
either make contact, or he wouldn’t.
Restlessly he got to his feet and walked outside, the dog at his heels. A light rain had fallen that morning but now the sun
was breaking through. So far there hadn’t been a drastic change in the weather, though the September heat had broken and the
nights were getting cooler. He looked out at the valley. Since the first night of the aurora, he hadn’t been back down. He