All Bite
I'll never forget the twisted grin on that dog—on that monster—as it chased me with its hungry fangs bared. The grin on that dog was like the wicked smile of a psychotic clown, and I never shook the feeling that it was laughing at me, mocking me.
Run, rabbit! You'd better run! I practically heard it say. I took its advice to heart and ran as fast as my legs could take me and hopefully farther than I feared my heart would allow. I felt it banging in my chest, ready to jump out at any second. My years of not running since high school were catching up to me, but to slow down now wouldn't give me the chance to take up running as a hobby again.
Run! Run faster, rabbit! Because I'm gonna catch you!
I felt more like a gazelle, however, zigzagging back and forth to avoid a lion. I ducked in between houses, leapt over cars, and threw down garbage bins, lawn chairs, garden statues, anything that I crossed paths with. I lied to myself, told myself that it was working, that help was on its way or that escape was just around the corner. It always was in the movies, right? My deus ex machina would show up at any minute and save the day. Except it never did. I was on my own.
I hadn't planned on being in this neighborhood tonight. I was home watching t.v. when my friend Mark called and asked me to help him haul a television stand he had gotten from a yard sale. By the time I got there and we had the stand in its new home, the sun had set. The stand was huge, heavier than it looked, so we were tired. We enjoyed the cool summer night breeze blowing on our faces as we each downed a cold soda on his front patio. Mark left the light off, because he didn't want it luring any moths that would flutter around his head. We made small talk about the recent events in our lives, since we hadn't seen each other in a while, when an innocent-looking dog walked up to Mark.
“Hey there, little guy,” he said, and held out his hand for the dog to sniff.
The dog wasn't shy by any means. It didn't tuck its tail or fold its ears back. It walked up to Mark's hand, tail wagging and ears perked. It reminded me of a puppy. I didn't recognize the species, and neither did Mark. It was about the size of a three-month-old German Shepherd, but it looked like a dog with no fewer than three breeds in its genes, none of which I could have begun to guess. It was cute, but it didn't have that puppy cuteness that a three-month-old German Shepherd has. It had the cuteness of a fully grown Pomeranian, which is how I guessed it as being an adult.
“That's it. Come oaaaaaaAAAAHH!” Mark's sentenced turned into an ear-splitting scream as the dog cleaved his hand in a single bite. It happened so fast that any attempts of recreating the scene in my head fail to this day. The dog's mouth was small, yet it took Mark's hand off in a single bite, like it had the jaws of a wolf.
“Oh shit!” I sprang up from my seat—a luxury that Mark wasn't permitted. The dog pounced and tore his head off with a single bite. His body went ragged and tipped over the chair, bring it with. His falling body should have slammed on the ground in less than a second, but time moved slower for me in that instance. I didn't see Mark's body land on the ground, because my legs picked themselves up and carried my body away from the site and away from that thing.
Nobody seemed to think anything of Mark's last scream before he died. I saw no blue and red flashing lights, I didn't hear anybody asking if everything was all right, and I didn't hear a similar terrified scream as an arbitrary passerby out for a midnight scroll happened to notice his body laying by his front door. Mark once told me that there was once a argument that broke out in a large group of people late at night. They were loud, threatening each other, he told me, but the cops were never called, lucky for them. Unlucky for me.
Whenever I dared to look over my shoulder, It was never farther away. Sometimes, I swore, it was gaining ground. Every corner I turned, It pivoted expertly. Every lawn item I threw down, it ran around. Every obstacle I set up, it laughed off.
“Somebody! Somebody please help me!” I begged to the neighborhood. “If you have a gun, shoot this dog!”
From the house windows, I was sure that irritated residents woken by my screaming watched as a madman ran from an eleven pound dog. “Goddamn pansy,” I'm sure many of them said. “Start screaming for help when a real dog hunts your sorry ass down.”
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If a real dog were chasing me, I wouldn't have been running the way I did. In fact, I would have paid good money to have had a real dog chasing me. Hell, I would have paid good money to have a rabies-infected pit bull on my ass. Of course, the world being fucked up as it is, a real dog wasn't good enough to stick on me. It had to be a monster with the skin of a dog, and a harmless-looking one, nonetheless.
As I ran past a house, I recognized the tipped-over garbage bin sitting in the middle of the street beneath a lamppost. After that, I recognized the blue sedan sitting in the driveway of the house sitting catty-corner of the bin.
Where are they? I asked myself. Where are the people with the guns to ask this madman why he's playing tag around the neighborhood with lil' Killer?
Where's your help now, rabbit? Don't you know that the cavalry ain't coming?
Somehow through the excessive panting of me and the dog and the stomping of my footsteps and the clacking of its nails, I heard the creak of a storm door open followed by the hiss of the closer as the door slammed shut.
I immediately sought the source of the sound, not thinking about the coincidental timing, and found the source several houses from where I was. Though the figure was a blur from this distance, I identified it as an elderly man in a light purple bathrobe. He shouted at me, “What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you know what time it is?!” He tapped his wrist, but I couldn't tell if he was wearing a watch or not.
“Do you have a gun?” I shouted to him.
“What?! A gun?! You crazy bastard, you afraid of an ankle bitter that much?” he asked mockingly.
If he had known what I was running from—if anyone had known what I was running from—he would have been afraid, too. But how do you convince someone that you're being chased by a monster from hell? Without letting the monster take a bite out of anyone? It makes me wonder if the dog was clever upstairs or just on a date with Lady Luck.
“Do you have a gun or not?!” I spat impatiently.
I heard him mumble something as he crossed his arms, but he otherwise stood there and watched me and the dog. I sprinted towards him, using this chance to enter his house and find refuge, and better yet a gun.
As I drew closer, he shook his head and stood in front of his door with his arms and legs spread out. “Oh, no! You're not getting in here!”
I reached my hands for the door, but he, despite looking frail, pushed me away with ease.
“Try that again and see what happens!”
I looked to my left, saw the dog approaching, and fled the man's property. For whatever reason, I thought the dog would ignore him and continue after me.
“So, you're the big bad—” I heard him start saying. I turned my head to find it running towards him. “—dog he's running fr—what t—” He screamed as if a hot knife had been plunged through his heart.
Unable to stomach the sight, I turned my head before I could see it happen. I had already seen what it did to some kid's bat, another kid's toy truck, and somebody's basketball. I didn't want to see what it could do to a man's flesh. It was bad enough that I heard every sound of it. The sound of its teeth sinking into and effortlessly tearing away the old man's flesh and the agonized screams in response from the old man. And just as his gargled screams had begun, they ended, as if somebody pushed pause on his voice.
I didn't look back. I didn't want to. Whatever I saw would undoubtedly make encore appearances in my dreams. I took advantage of the opportunity, as cruel as that sounds, and slipped in between two houses and across several pitch-black backyards. I hoped I could somehow lose it; I felt I might. I only needed to to clear the gap between two houses that I was heading for, then I might have a chance of losing it.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that I had lost it. Relief washed over me. That is until I saw the glow of two orbs floating across the field at an alarming speed.
“Shit!” I cried out. I felt like crying then, but they'd only blur my vision, which would lead to my demise.
Thought you could lose me, rabbit?
Before that moment, I never thought much of God. He never did much for me in my everyday life, I thought. I guess now He stuck this monster on me, but for what? Not praying to Him every night? Not believing hard enough? For using a condom every time I had sex? This might be the Devil's work, but God was acting as His usual self.
Regardless of that, I prayed to some force, any force, a higher power of sheer random chance: A gun. I just need a gun. A can of aerosol and a lighter. Something, anything! I'd settle for a bolt of lightning to strike that monster down, even if only by chance. A miracle, anything, is all I need!
I stepped onto the sidewalk of the next street and tore down it, leaping over the edges of the inclines for the driveways. Of course, once the soundtrack of clacking nails begun behind me, they played on repeat and never faltered. A single bad trip was all either of us needed.
I heard the creak of someone opening a storm door, which lifted my heart. I searched for and found them when they yelled, “Hey, you son of a bitch, you'd better shut your mouth before I rip your lips off! The whole damn neighborhood can hear you, you know!”
A genius idea bloomed in my head. I pivoted my feet in the direction of the man's house and yelled, “Please, sir! Let me in! I need your help!”
“Like hell I'll help you! You come near me and I'll pump lead into your ass!” While a round man, possibly from too much alcohol and sitting, and tough-looking, too, he was all bark. He slammed his doors shut and locked them, too. If he didn't lock them, he probably grabbed a shotgun and hoped I'd force my way in.
Damn! Should have known that wouldn't work. Then I remembered something and changed my direction so that I'd slip between the houses and across the backyards I just crossed.
Don't think running circles will save you, rabbit!
If the plan I had cooked up worked, running circles would have saved my life.
I stepped into the edge of the light from a streetlight and emerged on the previous street. I made a beeline towards the old man's house—or what was his house—and knocked over another garbage bin for good measure.
I guess an old rabbit can't learn new tricks, huh?
No, but this rabbit has a hell of a surprise for you.
The closer I came to the old man's house, the fouler the air stunk. I covered my nose with my shirt, drew in a fresh breath, and held it as I passed over the leftovers of the dog's snack.
Oh God, I thought as my hand flew up to my mouth to hold in my dinner. My sweat-drenched hand grabbed the storm door handle, flung it open, and I leapt inside and slammed the door. I locked it for whatever useless reason, then slammed the front door shut. I locked that one, too, doorknob, deadbolt, and chain, and darted into the kitchen. I turned on the light and went straight to the drawers, frantically opening them as I searched for matches or a lighter, or maybe even a pistol.
I hope to God that he's a smoker or enjoys barbequing, because I could really use that miracle right about now, I thought as I pushed aside the junk in the second drawer I opened. I tugged at a third drawer, only to find it wouldn't open because it was one of those fake drawers, the kind installed only to fool you whenever you go looking for something. Like some matches or a lighter.
“I don't have time for these damn things!”
I heard a terrible screeching sound, like metal being twisted.
You can run, but you can't hide, rabbit!
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I started grabbing handfuls of whatever the old man had stuffed into his drawers and threw the contents on the floor. My eyes darted back and forth between the tossed objects, but I always ground my teeth after finding nothing I could use. If I knew how to MacGyver stuff, I probably could have fashioned together what I needed using some electrical wiring, two sticks, and a used tissue. But with the stress I was under, I couldn't tell if some matches and an aerosol can were enough. The constant gnawing at the front door didn't help my stress levels much.
No matter where you hide, I'll dig you out of your rabbit hole!
In the old man's head, his items were organized, but I didn't see the correlation between duct tape and pizza menus. When I found birthday candles, my heart fluttered. Yes! In here! I tossed the number-shaped candles to the floor and pushed everything else to the sides. But for whatever reason, a lighter wasn't grouped with the candles.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?!” I shouted and yanked the drawer out. It crashed onto the floor, spilling all of its contents across the tiles. I searched the drawer beneath the sink next, thinking that I'd find exactly what I needed where most people stash their soap and sponges. Needless to say, I found soap and sponges.
I might have gone so mad to the point of crackling because shouting or cursing wasn't cutting it anymore. The only thing that saved me, I think, was the very danger my life was in.
“Goddammit!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, and slammed one of the drawers shut. I heard a cracking sound, which I mistook for the dog's knocking, but then I realized it was the wood of the drawer.
Again, if my life wasn't at stake, I might have thought, Oh, how I'd love to crack that dog's skull the same way. Instead, I thought, Lighter! A lighter! I need a fucking lighter! like a broken record. I ripped open the cabinets beneath the sink and found, to my relief, an endless supply of cleaning liquids, including some aerosol cans. I grabbed one and then searched the drawers along the island that divided the kitchen in two. One drawer I pulled open had barbeque supplies: spatulas, tongs, lighter fluid, but no lighter. Another drawer I pulled at was fake. The third drawer I opened contained towels and oven mitts.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” I slammed this drawer harder than the previous one. It smashed into the back of its slot, making a loud cracking noise, and slid halfway out.
Shortly after that crashing sound, there was another at the front door, like someone had busted through it with a battering ram.
Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, rabbit.
Waves of heat and sweat washed over my forehead, and my throat dried up. I tried to moisten it with what little saliva was left in my mouth, but my throat felt like it swelled up from a cold. In my panicked state, I started knocking over the items on the island: ingredients, a stack of newspapers, candles.
“Come on, come on. There's got to be something here. Anything!” I said with a choked voice, which cracked.
The dog took another bite out of the door, and I knew the next bite would be after me. I opened the backdoor, ripped open and fled out the screen door. As the door hissed shut, I heard the clacking of claws on kitchen tiles.
Miss me, rabbit? Cause I missed you.
I didn't look back at it, but I guessed—or somehow knew—that drool dribbled from its jaws as it grinned at me. I had no intention of checking to prove my suspicion, so I kept running, bolting past a grill sitting on the edge of the stone patio. Despite the only light shining on it being the dying light from the kitchen, I saw the silhouette of a familiar shape. I dug my feet into the ground to come to a sudden stop and pivoted my body 180 degrees. My eyes locked onto the cylindrical tube jutting from the wooden platform connected to the left side of the grill. The faint stream of light cast on it told me that it was exactly what I had been after.
Dumb bastard hiding this fucking thing from me, I thought as my hand swatted down at the grill lighter and my fingers wrapped around the barrel.
The dog leapt at the screen, jaws spread wide, about to tear the screen open with a single chomp.
I reversed my direction again, not seeing what the dog did to the screen, and fiddled with the lighter until I could feel its trigger beneath my index finger. With the edge of the light from the kitchen behind me, I had to slither my thumb around the top of the lighter to find the safety switch. I felt its slight protrusion against my sweaty thumb, but when I pushed it with my thumb, it didn't budge. I tried it again, but it still didn't move, and a third attempt brought pain to my thumb.
“Goddamn, you've got to be kidding me.” I wrapped my thumb up in my shirt, fearful that because it was also drenched in sweat it wouldn't work any better. I felt the switch move, and I muttered, “I swear, if you're out of fuel after this...” I turned around and held the aerosol can above where I could see the tip of the lighter because of the dim gleam from the streetlights. I saw two orbs bouncing towards me, maybe twelve feet away.
I've got you now, rabbit! Time's up!
I squeezed the lighter's trigger, producing a tiny orange flame. Just as it flickered into existence, I released whatever liquid the aerosol can contained. It escaped with a hiss, greeted the flame, and erupted into a stream of fire that illuminated the grass the same green shade that the sun's rays do. I only saw the outline of the dog before my makeshift flamethrower consumed it. Its panting turned to a whimper and a whine as the fire ate at its skin and fur. The fire's snack time was brief, for a dark shape darted from the flames and shot off into the darkness, small flames still licking at its fur.
Goddamn you, you dirty rabbit!
Had the dog not escaped from the flames, I would have kept my fingers on the triggers until either the lighter or the aerosol can dried up. After the dog dashed away, I let up on my attack, and the air instantly cooled, save for the patches of dried grass that had caught fire. The summer air, as hot and humid as it had been, felt refreshing for the first time in my life, but I couldn't admire it, however, as I watched the dog dash across the street and into the next set of backyards. A few flames still flickered on the dog, and it was the first time in my life that I could say that someone—or something, rather—was running like its ass was on fire. I couldn't savor the joke, either, for I gave chase after the dog, aerosol can and lighter still clenched tightly in my hands.
I saw it follow the bend in the backyards, the last flame notifying me of its host's location. But the flame either went out or the dog ran behind a house, for I lost sight of it. Despite running as fast as I could—maybe not as fast as I previously had been running, since my life wasn't in danger anymore—once I got to the bend, I lost sight of the dog. I followed the path of the backyards, my tools ready to fire, back around to the main street that cut through the neighborhood, but I found no trace of the dog. However, I searched through the entire neighborhood for as long as I could. When I saw red and blue flashing lights, I concealed myself in the darkness of the backyards and snuck my way out of the neighborhood. I doubted that the cops were there to congratulate me on a job well done and then take me to the mayor, who would give me the key to the city. I slipped out of the neighborhood and continued my pursuit of the dog, knowing that it was still alive.
That was a pursuit I started over two years ago. How I haven't caught it yet, I'll never know. Every time I think I've got it by the collar, it slips out and bolts away. And then I continue to give chase. I'm no longer the rabbit to the dog, but I'm still a rabbit, nonetheless. The last I read from the paper, there was a bounty on my head for over $10,000 for anyone who can provide any information leading to my capture. I've read newspaper headlines describing a madman disturbing a neighborhood in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. Later articles suspect me for murdering my own friend. The man they're looking for may be me, but the sketch they're using barely resembles me. It's laughable, and growing facial hair has undoubtedly helped me avoid capture so far. It's become something of a game, I think: see who can capture whom first. I've made sure that the police are chasing a ghost, but I feel like I'm chasing Jack the Ripper as he murders prostitutes in the streets of London. The bodies are always found in the most horrific of conditions, with gaping holes torn into doors and walls nearby, but the killer's comparable to a ghost. I've tried time and time again to use the locations of the bodies as breadcrumbs for the trail the dog's using, but its movements are erratic. Even an educated guess gives me a success rate of about 10%. The rest of the time, the dog's a no-show or decides he's dining on another street.
Every body I lay eyes on reminds me of Mark; of how he stuck out his hand to greet the dog; and how the dog made a snack out of him. And that's all we are to it. If it were subsiding on us, it'd chew us up and leave only our bare bones for the vultures to pick at. This thing takes arms and legs, sometimes punches a hole or three in a person's torso. And then it wastes whatever is left after the screaming stops. It's sickening. It's like it's a guest at a dinner party and it's sampling us. That thought, every time I have it, keeps me up whenever I try to sleep. That's something I haven't had in a while, now that I think about it: a good night's sleep.
Sometimes as I lay in bed, I wonder if the dog's also after me, seeking revenge for that night, starving to grab me by the leg and drag my flailing body into an open flame. Sometimes, I doubt that, because it's an animal. But I always remember that it's not an animal that I'm dealing with. Of course it remembers. How could it not? It probably dreams that that day will come. If that thing sleeps, that is. I wish I didn't have to, because I might stand a better chance at finding it and putting it down. But I swear either way that one of these days, I'll catch that godforsaken rabbit.
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