BLUE DOGS
BLUE DOGS
by Kurt Newton
The sky was the color of dirty sheets. The air carried the bite of cold metal. The abandoned industrial complex was as advertised: overgrown and isolated. The perfect hideout.
Perfect, except for the fact that Petrov had a bullet lodged in his shoulder, and Zeddy was in the passenger seat of the Mercedes, dead, having taken two to the chest.
Dammit, Zeddy! thought Petrov. Why did you have to go running your mouth?
Petrov pulled into one of the crumbling warehouse buildings and killed the engine. There was graffiti on the walls, beer cans and old mattresses on the floor. A teen hangout no doubt when the weather was less harsh. But it was January in Dzershinsk. Only an idiot would think of partying it up out here this time of year.
Petrov addressed his partner in crime. “Well, my friend, you screwed us good this time.” He removed Zeddy’s coat and exited the car.
In truth, his now ex-boss, Mogilevich, was the least of Petrov’s worries. Or even blood loss, at this point. It was the cold. It was single digits outside, and would be below zero once night fell.
Petrov went to work on building a fire. Busted pallets, moldy furniture—anything combustible. He bundled up as best he could. The warehouse acted as a shield against the wind. The occasional swirl between buildings produced an icy kiss but, for the most part, the heat stayed put.
Petrov sat on one of the dirty mattresses, Zeddy’s coat draped over his head and shoulders like a shroud. The fur-lined leather cupped the heat close to his body. His shoulder throbbed, so he pulled a flask from his coat pocket and downed the last of the whiskey. The crackle of the fire provided a soothing backdrop. At last, he felt his body relax. His eyes slipped shut.
There came the jangle of a dog collar.
Petrov’s eyes shot open. He pulled a Glock out of his belt and aimed it in the direction of the sound. The intruder froze. What Petrov saw in the waning light was surreal.
A blue dog.
The dog looked like an average stray. Seventy pounds, maybe, thick coat. Only blue. Blue like the neon blue of fancy lip gloss. Blue like cheap spray-on hair dye. Probably got into something it shouldn’t have, thought Petrov. Who knows what kind of chemicals were left behind when the factory closed.
The dog stared at him. It didn’t appear threatened at all, nor was it adopting an aggressive posture.
“Looks like we are at an impasse, my friend,” said Petrov. He lowered the gun. “I have no food,” he said. “But if I did, I would share it with you.”
The dog continued to stare. Unblinking. Its eyes like phosphorescent marbles.
“Why don’t you come here where it is warm. Come. Sit.” Petrov patted the mattress.
The dog moved toward him. As it neared the fire, its blue coat glowed, as if the heat or the intensity of the light triggered some kind of reaction. By the time the dog came to within a few feet, the blue light had engulfed Petrov and it was the last thing he remembered…
…before waking up hours later, shivering. It was night and a light snow was falling. The fire he’d build had died down. There was a pile of wood in reserve. When he reached to put a few new pieces on the dying embers, he was surprised his shoulder no longer hurt.
He pressed on the wound, anticipating a sharp sliver of pain. Nothing. He lifted his lapel and peered in. All he saw was a slight bluish glow where the bullet hole had been.
“What?” said Petrov. He knew he must be dreaming or, at the very least, delirious with fever. He felt his forehead and his hand came away slick with sweat.
The fire rekindled and illuminated the surrounding warehouse. Out on the floor, Petrov spotted the same dog as before, and two more just like it, just inside the circle of light. Blue. As blue as glacial ice. Again, they simply stared at him.
“You’ve got to be joking me,” he muttered. One he could take. But three?
Just in case the dream was real, he glanced toward the Mercedes. He could probably get inside before the dogs were on him.
He pulled the Glock again and waved it at them. “Go on! Get out of here!” he shouted. His voice echoed in the empty warehouse. But the dogs refused to move. He fired a shot toward the ceiling. The dogs barely flinched. In fact, they took a unified step closer.
Petrov broke for the car then. He was inside, door shut, in a matter of seconds.
Without the fire and Zeddy’s overcoat, the cold bit into him. It was like sitting in a steel coffin.
He watched the dogs walk up to the fire. They sniffed around the mattress. Then they circled the Mercedes, the glow of their blue coats filling the car with an ethereal light.
Zeddy was sitting upright, frost crystallized on his skin. Petrov heard a subtle crack, like ice in a tumbler of whiskey. He turned toward Zeddy and Zeddy turned toward him, the blue of his skin glowing like the water in a nuclear reactor. “What’s shaking?” he said. A smile cracked his frozen, blood-stained lips. He tipped his chin upward and howled.
Petrov scrambled out of the car and landed on all fours. He tried to pull the Glock from his belt but his fingers were suddenly not working. A cramp, it seemed, had curled his hand into a claw. He gasped for air as the cramps spread throughout his body.
For a dream, this is pretty damn real… and painful, he thought.
He rolled over onto his side and the cold of the concrete burrowed into his skin. The dogs surrounded him. They didn’t attack. They gathered close, filling the night with their incandescense.
Petrov felt the power of their energies overtake him like a sudden cocaine buzz, only this was more like a freight train. Every inch of his skin, every hair, every nerve ending was alive and vibrating. He was on all fours again, the cold a distant memory. He felt the world rushing past as he hurtled headlong through a dark tunnel and came out the other side into a moonlit night bathed in blue.
+++
A few days later, two of Mogilevich’s men, drove through the whistling, windswept monstrosity of the abandoned industrial complex. The snow had covered all signs that Petrov and Zeddy were ever there.
On the way out, the driver had to slam on his brakes as a pack of wild dogs ran across the road. There were five in all. All of them blue.
Fiction © Copyright Kurt Newton
Base Image by xarkamx from Pixabay
Kurt Newton’s short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies over the years, including The Dark, Vastarien Vol. 4, Issue 1, Nightscript: Volume 6, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. His collection, The Music of Murder, was recently published by Unnerving Books.
