“What is it?” she asked.
“First of all,” he began, “I should point out that this is not in jest.”
“Go on.”
“I saw a human.”
Wawa lifted her hands from the keyboard and swiveled her chair to face him. She wrinkled her nose and tried to think of what to say.
“I would not play games with this,” Archer said. “Certainly not at this hour.”
“Where did you see the human?”
“Bonaparte and I were on our way to the supply depot near the creek. The pig pulled over to urinate about a quarter of a mile north of the quarry. There was a man standing nearby.”
“You’re sure it was a man?”
“It could have been a woman,” he said. “It was the tail that gave it away.”
“The tail?”
“He was disguised as one of my kind. A raccoon. But the tail didn’t wave right. He wore a mask that he pulled over his face when he realized that I could see him. Then he ran away.”
“Bonaparte saw nothing, I suppose,” she said, “or else he’d be in here with you.”
“The pig can’t see at night like I can, Luff-tenant,” Archer said. “But he can smell just like I can.”
“Did you both smell a human?”
“No, we smelled raccoon,” he said. “But it wasn’t right. It was … fake.”
“Fake?”
“Dead, to be more precise. I could tell it was taken from a corpse. I’m good at smelling dead things.”
Wawa genuinely felt for Archer. He knew that he had no evidence, but they were investigating EMSAH, so even the unlikely sighting of a human had to be noted. Still, Bonaparte had refused to take part in this, and was probably snoring away as they spoke. She imagined the debate they must have had over whether to approach her about it. Wawa’s job often required her to be tougher than she really was. This time, she decided to be gentle.
“Corporal,” she said, “there are a lot of people moving in and out of this sector. They’re scared. Some of them are traumatized. Is it possible that it was a local who was trying to see what you were up to, and then got spooked and ran off? We are a little intimidating, and our presence has probably alarmed some people.”
“I trust my eyes, Luff-tenant.”
It was implausible that humans were willing to take such a risk when they could spread the infection from a safer distance. They had done it before. Archer, Bonaparte, and all the rest were probably exhausted, nothing more. After training for months to be the best soldiers in the world, they had been given the thankless task of running this sector, and it was probably getting to them.
“Archer, your report is noted. I’ll include it in my daily for the colonel. And we’ll send a team to investigate the area near the depot. Is there anything else?”
Archer hesitated. “Luff-tenant,” he said, “if something is going on in this sector that could endanger the Red Sphinx, you would tell us, right?”
“I fail to see the point of your question.”
“I mean, if there is to be a quarantine, we would have the opportunity to get out. You would not keep us here simply because you were ordered to.”
This raccoon was speaking out of turn, something she suspected would never happen with Culdesac. It was because of that damned Mort(e), the one with the special privileges straight from the Colony, slugging the colonel in front of everyone. Archer was aware that Mort(e) had been Culdesac’s chosen one, while Wawa was merely the latest replacement as the unit’s executive officer. Mort(e)’s first replacement, a cat named Biko, got himself killed within two months. The next one lasted longer, but caught EMSAH in the field. Culdesac had the grim task of putting him down and cremating the body. Both Number Ones felt obligated to mimic Mort(e)’s cowboy style of leadership, and luckily got only themselves killed rather than others. Wawa ran things differently, and this back talk was almost certainly a direct consequence of that decision.
She leaned in closer to Archer, who instinctively located the exit in case he had to make a quick getaway. “Corporal,” Wawa said, “we have sworn our lives to this cause, and we will follow orders. All of us.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It would be in your best interest if I did not hear about this again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She dismissed him and returned to her desk. It had been a rotten day, and she still would not be able to sleep. Twice now, she had been reminded of how she was stuck in this unending war with phantoms and rumors. She found herself once again thinking of Jenna, the person she used to be. She could not help it. It was more comforting than picturing the quarantine. At least Tracksuit’s basement was familiar.
The computer screen melted away, replaced with the white stucco wall.
WAWA WAS ASLEEP in her cage when the sound of the other dogs barking woke her up. Tracksuit stood in front of her gate, holding what appeared to be a squirming bundle of fur. It carried with it the scent of an intruder. Wawa backed away, unsure if this beast was somehow attacking her master. The others were going crazy. Tracksuit opened the cage, shoved the animal inside, and slammed the gate shut. The creature unfolded himself until his yellow eyes glared at Wawa in the low light of the cage. A muffled growl leaked from his mouth — this was definitely a dog, a mutt puppy. But there was something shiny attached to his snout, an alien prosthesis that prevented him from barking normally. Similar bindings were on the dog’s four paws. The dog tried to puff himself up in a vain attempt to claim his territory. Wawa was not afraid. She would defend the pack as Cyrus had done. She would bring this intruder’s carcass to him as an offering.
Wawa pounced on the dog with the voices of her brothers and sisters echoing around her. The dog tried to bat at her with his taped paws. She bit into him, feeling her teeth puncture the skin, feeling the animal’s pulse in her throat. The dog eventually surrendered. Wawa wrapped her jaws around his throbbing neck and throttled him until she felt the crunch of his vertebrae like a warm bag of broken glass. She dragged him to the front of the cage, where Tracksuit was waiting. Pleased, he opened the gate and removed the dog. The entire pack howled as one, but Wawa could still detect Cyrus’s voice among the others. She always could. She shouted to him, I am one of you.
The scene repeated itself many times. Some animal — usually a puppy, but sometimes a large cat — would be placed in her cage, and she would kill it with increasingly ruthless efficiency. Wawa did not understand where they were coming from, or how they were getting past Tracksuit’s defenses. But she could feel the pack willing her to fight for them. And when Tracksuit put her on a strict exercise regimen, marching her endlessly on a treadmill with heavy chains on her shoulders, Wawa felt her body getting stronger. She was becoming an extension of this pack.
Every two weeks or so, Tracksuit let Cyrus out of his cage for another fight. Hours later, he would return, occasionally with a scratch, reeking with the blood, fur, and saliva of the rival he had vanquished. She would join the others in praising him.
One day, Wawa heard the tense voices of Tracksuit and his friend. They entered the room, Tracksuit carrying Cyrus’s hind legs, his friend carrying the front. Cyrus was barely conscious. His spine bent toward the floor with the weight of his stomach. His tail was shredded. One leg dangled as if the bones had been liquefied. His snout was a mask of dried blood. With a tenderness that Wawa had never seen before, the two men placed Cyrus in his cage and closed the gate.
The room where the pack slept was oppressively quiet for two days. Wawa occasionally whimpered, hoping that Cyrus would hear her. Sometimes he would move, and Wawa could feel everyone in the room tense up and try to listen, to see if Cyrus was attempting to speak to them. But the moment would pass. Upstairs, Tracksuit paced the floor, slamming things.