Live, the girl said.
Number 47, standing right next to her, replied with a silent yelp.
And the girl returned him to the cage.
His six siblings obediently welcomed him back. Though they did sniff him.
That morning, number 47 ate the same dog food he always had. And the girl ate the breakfast the old lady prepared. Number 47 devoured the “Russian dog food” that WO and WT left in the cage, while the girl had rye bread and some sort of sour drink. Already the new routine had begun. The girl struck a dauntless figure at the breakfast table. No more watching for her, no more being watched. If you want to try, go the fuck ahead. Her attitude made it clear she wouldn’t take questions from anyone at the table.
Number 47 frolicked all morning with his siblings in the large cage. Playing at fighting, at attacking. Running around. Rolling on the ground.
The girl stood before the cage as usual, observing them.
Everything was okay. She could feel it.
Lunchtime.
The afternoon. The girl joined in the training. She made it clear she was participating. This, above all, was the core of her new routine. The test period had essentially ended now, and the puppies were being given the early training appropriate for dogs in their first four months. They did their best to learn the basics. The girl was right there on the grounds with the old man and Opera. She didn’t interfere. She did, however, help number 47 learn his lessons. She made sure he didn’t slack off, came up with little tricks to keep him from losing interest, taught him commands: Good, no, roll left, roll right.
The commands were in Russian.
The girl was now making a conscious effort to learn the Russian words.
The puppies’ training didn’t last very long.
After an hour or two, they were put back in their cage.
I guess the Old Fuck doesn’t want to wear them out, the girl thought.
“Are you tired?” the girl asked number 47.
The dog looked fine. But she let him rest. Him and the other puppies, his siblings.
That was the right thing to do. She could feel it.
That night, she took number 47 out of the cage again. To have him sleep with her in her room. One person and one dog, bonding, enveloped in each other’s warmth. “Tired?” she asked him again. I’M BEAT, the dog said—not in words, of course, but with his body—and buried himself in the folds of her flesh, the odd fatness that was hers and no one else’s.
At night, the dog was not a dog.
At night, the girl was no longer just a human girl.
The dog and the girl became, here in the Dead Town, a third being.
And stayed that way until morning.
Morning came. Once again, the girl repeated the new routine. Making adjustments as she went along. Essentially, though, the content stayed the same. The essential elements remained unchanged. The girl had planned her schedule well. On the first day, the first morning, she had set it all out in her mind. Now she just had to push ahead, uncompromising, and make it happen. Night fell. Morning came. Night fell. Morning came. Days passed, some number of days passed, untallied. The girl, X years old, never counted them.
During the day, number 47 recognized the girl as his master. He obeyed her commands unfailingly. The girl could now control his moods, stirring him to excitement or bringing him to his senses. She had the words to do that. She had mastered the Russian she needed to issue her commands. Though she had made no particular effort to encourage number 47’s six siblings to respond to her orders on the grounds, they did. The puppies were now large enough to be considered adolescent and were on their way to becoming young dogs. One day, the old man stood and watched the girl for some time. He tracked her movements as she skillfully handled the dogs, number 47 and his six siblings. It was clear: she was their master.
What are you looking at? the girl asked.
You’re doing great, the old man said.
Don’t you dare take number 47 from me, the girl said.
Some little girl you are, the old man said. You’re a trainer already.
Just you try and take him, the girl said. I’ll fucking kill you.
Or maybe you’re a dog? Is that it? the old man asked.
“Anyway, you Old Fuck, it’s you’re fault—you and the Old Bag. Fucking shooting at me and shit. With a fucking pistol… scared the shit out of me. So this is fucking self-defense. You hear me, asshole? I’m gonna train number 47 to be my guard. Just you try and fuck with me again, see what happens. I’ll fucking sic him on you.”
Is that it? Are you a dog too? the old man asked again in Russian. He cocked his head. Are you, is it possible… her?
Self-defense. The girl’s own dog, dedicated to her protection. Hovering nearby, ready to be of assistance. Night fell. Morning came. Night fell. Morning came. The young number 47 acquired a new technique—to attack a person in silence. Without barking, darting out from behind a building, for instance, in a flash—the power to kill in a second, noiselessly. Still he had learned only the very basics. He had to be faster, had to use all five senses for the purpose for which they were meant. To attack. All the while, he watched the other dogs putting their knowledge to use. He was there on the grounds, a young dog, looking on as the adults practiced what they had learned. Subversive activities. He was there, observing. Always. Night fell. Morning came. Slight adjustments were made in the routine. One day, one afternoon after the young dogs had finished their training, number 47’s siblings were taken back to their cage but number 47 was not. A person and a dog, “off duty,” as it were. It was like an outgrowth of the night. The girl took number 47 with her as she traipsed through the Dead Town, now a stage for simulated bouts of street fighting. They ran together through a white, four-story building. Climbed the stairs. Ran back down. Up. Down. They climbed to the top of a tall observation tower. A person and a dog, looking down over the Dead Town. Hey, number 47, the girl said, as she gazed out over the landscape. Sometime… someday, we’re going to kill the world. Number 47 stood perfectly still, listening to the girl’s voice. To her muttering in Japanese. These words weren’t Russian, they weren’t commands. A person and a dog went back down. On the paved road, number 47 scrambled up alone onto the roof of a burnt-out car. He hadn’t yet learned to jump a moving car. To spring toward it as it approached, to leap over it, spring onto the hood—it was too early for that. But he could imitate the others. He knew to watch the adult dogs, engaged in their subversive activities, and he could grasp the essence of what they were doing, instantly. He could copy them.
Eventually, a young dog grows up.
Eventually, number 47 would mature.
One day, while they were off duty, the girl found herself in a room. A room in one of the other buildings, not the one that served as their base, where she had her bedroom and where the kitchen and the dining room were—a different building. She had known about this place, she knew the old man and Opera were always going in and out of it. But it didn’t interest her. She assumed it was just a place for storing the paraphernalia they used to train the dogs. And in fact it was. But that wasn’t all it was. There was more than one room in there. More than one kind of room.
Number 47 was the first to become curious. He had caught some sort of scent, and it had led him to the door. The sound of singing came from inside. As the voice echoed off the concrete walls, it acquired a sort of vibrato. Opera. The melody was catchy. The girl, however, found it as eerie as ever. Loouu, loooouuuuoo! Looooouuuuuuoo! Number 47 ignored the singing. He kept sniffing the ground, the lingering traces of whatever it had been. “I thought they just kept their shit in here. Is there something else?” the girl asked. “Hey, Forty-seven, have other dogs come by here? Is that it?”