The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(3)

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t turning away from the challenge. He was just planning how to succeed.

The familiar taste filled his mouth, a coppery flavor, like blood. He felt the adrenaline lift and carry him forward. It was similar to the static, rising. The body’s preparation for fight or flight. It was useful.

He peered under the porch, and the static rose higher still. The static didn’t care about the snarling dog. It cared about the enclosure. It jangled his nerves, raced his heart, tightened his chest, and generally clamored for his attention. It wanted him to stay outside in the open air, in the daylight.

Breathing deeply, Peter took the piece of oak and banged it on the wood frame of the porch. It rang like a primitive musical instrument.

Despite everything, he was smiling.

“Hey, dog,” he called into the darkness. “Watch your ass, I’m coming in!”

And in he went, headfirst on his elbows and knees, the stick in one hand and the trouble light in the other.

What, you want to live forever?

—

It was dark and musty under the porch, the smell of weeds and forgotten things, with an animal stink on top. Not a dog smell, but something wilder. Something feral. The smell of the monsters in the oldest of fairy tales, the ones where the monsters sometimes won.

Narrow bars of late-autumn sunshine slanted through the gaps and made it hard to read the space. The dim yellow pool cast by his trouble light wasn’t much help. The debris pile in the back corner looked more substantial from this vantage point. There was all kinds of crap in there. Carpet scraps, boxes, old lumber. The splintered bones of missing mailmen.

The growl might have come from anywhere. It seemed to vibrate up through the soil. Peter’s little piece of handrail and a few thin ropes didn’t seem like much. It would be smart to beat a tactical retreat, get the hell out of there, and return with a shotgun. Or a grenade launcher.

But he didn’t.

He kept moving forward on his elbows and knees, white sparks flaring high. Stick in one hand, light in the other. Alive, alive. I am alive.

“Here, doggy. Who’s a good doggy?”

—

The animal waited until Peter was most of the way inside.

Then it came out of hiding in a snarling hurry, teeth flashing white in the darkness. It was big.

Fuck, it was huge and fast and coming right for Peter’s head.

When those big jaws opened to tear his face off, Peter reached forward at speed and got that piece of hard oak jammed in there tight, ropes trailing. Now the jaws couldn’t snap shut, and couldn’t open farther.

The dog, confused, reversed course and tried to spit out the stick. It would use its paws in a moment. Peter went sideways quick and crablike, releasing the stick with one hand long enough to get his arm wrapped around the dog’s heavy neck. Caught up the other end of the stick again and trapped it hard in the dog’s jaw. Then with the stick as a lever and his arm as the fulcrum, he threw the dog onto its side and laid his weight on its chest, holding the animal to the ground.

Big dang dog is right, Charlie.

Hundred and forty, hundred and fifty pounds. At least.

The dog went silent. Conserving its energy to escape, to get rid of this weight, white eyes rolled back, thrashing and fighting with all of its considerable muscle and will.

But Peter weighed almost two hundred pounds himself, and he was smarter than the dog. He hoped.

His initial plan, if you want to call it that, had been to tie the ropes around the dog’s neck to keep the stick in place while holding the dog down with his body.

Not much of a plan, he had to admit now. The dog didn’t seem to care much for it, either, still throwing around its big bullet-shaped head, lips curled in a silent snarl, spit flying everywhere.

And it stank like holy hell. Like fear and rage and shit and death, all wrapped up into one horrible reek that made Peter’s eyes water and his sinuses clear.

The stink wouldn’t eat his face the way this dog wanted to.

What Peter needed was a third hand.

But Charlie was just twelve. And he was wearing his school clothes. And he was Jimmy’s oldest boy. That family had enough damage done.

So Peter was on his own under that porch.

He moved his leg up slowly, carefully, until his knee was on the dog’s shoulder, then its neck. He bore down. He didn’t want to hurt the animal, but he sure as hell didn’t want those bone-cracking teeth to get free, either. The dog’s back legs scrabbled in the dirt, trying to get itself out of the situation, but Peter was too heavy.

“Hey, dog,” said Peter in a calm voice. “What’s your name?”

The dog scrabbled with its long nails, but its big bullet-shaped head was caught now between the pressure of the stick and the weight of the man’s knee.

“Somebody probably called you Fang or Spike or something, didn’t they?” asked Peter gently, remembering how his father had talked to the horses. A nice calm, conversational tone. The way Jimmy had talked to any in-country local who didn’t speak English. “But you’re not a mean dog, are you? No, you’re a nice puppy. A good puppy. Your name should be Daisy. Or Cupcake.”

The dog’s eyes showed white in the semidark of the crawl space, and it was panting hard, its great chest heaving. Its legs slowed their scrabbling in the dirt as the man’s deep voice worked its way through the fury and panic. Finally it stopped struggling, and the long tongue lolled out between the murderous teeth. Man and beast lay in the dirt together and caught their breath.