They were just getting warmed up.
Next they were paired in two-dog attack formations. One dog would aim for the thighs and stop the target; the other would kill it. The dogs were assigned roles in accordance with their personalities. The old man assessed their characters and paired them in shifting teams. A and B. C and D. E and F. C and B. A and F. The dogs were trained in the more sophisticated technique of firearm recovery as well, both singly and in pairs. The old man taught them to recognize the scent of gunpowder. He trained each dog to lunge first at a target’s wrists, as in a standard disarmament, and then, when the gun fell to the ground, to pick it up and carry it straight back to its master in its mouth.
Instinctively, the dogs tended to progress in a straight line toward their targets, or by the shortest possible route. This was an unimpeachable method, at least as far as orthodox attacks were concerned. Hardly a man alive would have the presence of mind to shoot a mid-sized dog barreling straight at him at forty miles an hour—to calmly raise his gun, train his sights on the animal… forget it. And yet sometimes the old man forced them to go against this instinct. At a sign from him, the dogs abandoned their straight lines, progressed instead in a series of Zs. They would bound off to one side, then dash at an angle, then dart sideways again, all the while moving in on the target. This unorthodox attack made it reasonably likely that they would survive even in the face of an enemy armed with a machine gun trying to spray them with bullets.
And all this effort aimed at taking out a single target—a single person, the prey—was only basic training. It was just an energetic warm-up.
Half an hour into training, the old man had the dogs put their training to use.
This was the real stuff.
Ten dogs were assigned a four-story building, one of the many in this deserted Dead Town, and the command was given. Take it. The dogs scattered in all directions, rehearsed the motions of herding people into the building, cornering them. The dogs scaled the stairs, sprang through doors and windows, in and out, all the while barking. They moved in a sort of formation, in collaboration, like three sheepdogs guiding a herd of several dozen sheep. They acquired the ability to “cleanse” a building within a set time frame.
They practiced jumping. The old man had them wait at attention along one of the roads that crisscrossed the Dead Town. A car came driving along, and they jumped on top, jumped over. Or they ran around it. They forced the driver to slow down, jumped onto the hood. This, ultimately, was their goal. To block the windshield, obscure the driver’s view, make the driver lose control.
To cause havoc in urban environments.
To do battle in the cities.
Here in the Dead Town, they were learning. Little by little.
The old man handled the dogs so masterfully it seemed, looking on, as though he were not merely training the dogs, but honing their intellect. Little by little. Gradually each dog came to understand its particular specialty. If a ladder stood leaning against a wall, the dogs darted up it. They also learned to climb trees. They would wait in the foliage, keeping still, biding their time, until their prey came along, until a person walked directly underneath, and then they would pounce, they would attack.
This morning, they were learning to carry burning branches, torches. For seven days now they had been engaged in this task. Learning to be arsonists.
The dogs learned “subversive activities.”
All at once, the twenty-some-odd dogs froze. They turned and faced the same direction, growling. In warning. An intruder had appeared on the field. The old man commanded them, with a single clipped word, stop. Don’t attack. A few of the dogs kept growling, so the old man called them by name.
“Asha, down! Ptashko, down! Ponka, down!”
Each dog obeyed instantly as its name was called.
“Aldebaran!”
One last dog, scolded, fell silent.
Now all the dogs were crouching on the ground, staring at the intruder, at the girl who had put on her coat and come outside. She stood seven or eight meters away from the old man.
“What, are those fucking dog names? Call ’em Pooch or something,” she spat.
In Japanese.
Easy, stay there, the man ordered the dogs in Russian.
They understood.
What the fuck are you doing? I came to watch you, asshole. Playing around with your dogs. Don’t fucking stop, she said in Japanese.
Well, well, this is a surprise, the old man said, walking over. What is it, little girl? Are you interested in my dogs?
Don’t fucking come near me, gramps, said the girl.
If you like dogs, the old man continued, maybe later I’ll show you the doghouse.
It’s fucking winter out, you senile dick.
There are puppies.
I fucking told you not to come near me. Don’t fuck with me.
But the girl made no move to leave. The old man was right in front of her now, standing still, ready to talk. To have a conversation, in Japanese and Russian, that would communicate nothing. The girl glared up at the old man. The difference between their heights was about the size of an adult dog, foot to shoulder.
You’re quite an interesting little girl, the old man said.
Yeah, fuck you too. You’re probably calling me a brat in Russian, I know. Whatever, senile old dick, the girl replied. Someday I’m gonna fucking kill you.
The old man grinned. Smiled. For real.
“Huh?” the old man exclaimed suddenly. He wasn’t talking to the girl. He had looked away, sensing something. His face was turned up now, he was gazing up into the air, just as the girl was gazing up at him. The four-story building. The deserted building where the ten dogs had been training, learning to herd, to corner. A silhouette on the roof. A dog in outline.
The dog stepped quietly, calmly to the edge.
He was gazing down, it seemed, at the old man and the girl.
Slightly larger than the other dogs, he lacked their youthfulness. That much was clear even at a distance. But he had something else in its place. Authority, a commanding presence. That, too, was clear even at this distance. “Belka,” the old man said.
The dog didn’t respond.
He’s old, really old, the old man told the girl. Same as me. But he’s not deaf.
Once again, the old man called to the dog, somewhat louder. “Belka, why don’t you bark?”
This time the dog replied. Uuoof. Just once, quietly. To the old man and the girl.
By then the girl was looking up at the roof too. All of a sudden, she was pissed. She felt as if the old man had ordered the fucking dog to bark at her, and it had. She was furious.
“Hey, gramps,” she said, ignoring the dog. The old man sensed the forcefulness of her tone. He turned to face her. She looked him straight in the eye and continued, “I fucking hate you more than anything. Fucking Roosky. Drop dead.”
Drop dead, she said. In Japanese. Shi-ne.
The old man paused, as if he were reflecting on what she had said. And then he repeated the sounds of the Japanese word she had spoken.
“SHE-neh.”
“Senile dick. Don’t fucking converse with me.”
1957
Dogs, dogs, where are you now?
Mainland USA, 1957. Fate unites two lineages. On the one hand, the purebred Sumer; on the other, the mongrel Ice. Both were bitches, each having borne more than one litter.
Sumer was gorgeous. Her skull and muzzle were of equal length, et cetera, et cetera—she was the perfect embodiment of the purebred German shepherd standard. She hadn’t lost her looks, even now that she was getting old. There she was, in a cage, in a kennel, in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.