The Last Dog on Earth Read online

  Logan glanced in either direction. The air was heavy and silent. The sun was still in front of him, so he figured the road ran north and south. Unfortunately, there were no signs, no houses, nothing—just the same old forest on either side.

  A motor hummed in the distance.

  Was it coming his way? Logan wondered. Could he risk trying to hitch a ride?

  If the people in the car looked sketchy, if they were carrying rifles or wearing hunting gear or anything like that, he and Jack could just head back into the woods.

  The motor grew louder. The quiet, steady roar echoed off the mountains. It was coming from the north, at the bottom of the hill, heading up toward the south … heading in Logan's direction.

  As it approached, he began to worry that even letting anyone see him—let alone trying to hitch a ride—was risky. Way too risky.

  He was a fugitive. So was Jack. Crazy mountain men were on a mission to kill Jack. If they saw her, they wouldn't just let her disappear. They'd track her. Besides, for all Logan knew, Sergeant Bell or Mom or Robert had called the FBI and America's Most Wanted and a fuzzy Xerox of Logan's face was posted in every city from Portland to Miami. Wanted Dead or Alive! Logan Moore. Age: 14. Crimes: Skipping School, Blowing Up a Microwave, Stealing Spaghetti, Running Away from Boot Camp …

  The sound of the motor was close now. Any second, the vehicle would come whipping around the bend. Judging from the volume, Logan figured there was probably more than one.

  Yup, definitely more than one. It sounded like trucks.

  Heart pounding, Logan scooped Jack into his arms and bolted back into the woods. Branches smacked his nose. He tripped on a root and went tumbling face first into the dirt. Luckily his face was one of the numbest parts of his body, so it didn't hurt that much. Jack whimpered a little as she hit the ground. But she didn't seem all that hurt, either—at least, no worse than before.

  Logan twisted around and peered through the branches, still clutching her leash.

  An ambulance roared past their hiding place: Vroooom.

  It was black. Weird. Logan had never seen a black ambulance before. It was followed by another, then another. Vrooom … Vrooom … Those were followed by a huge tractor-trailer.

  Oh God. Logan's heart squeezed.

  That truck … it was like a scene from a nightmare, a vision of something crazy and sickening. The trailer part was one of those open pens used for transporting farm animals. It was sort of like a miniature prison yard on wheels. Only, it wasn't full of cows or sheep. It was packed—no, stuffed— with dogs. They were piled on top of one another like gum balls in a gum ball machine. And they all looked dead.

  A truck full of dead dogs.

  Suddenly, the fact that Jack had been attacked by her exact double didn't seem so weird or scary anymore.

  Logan glanced down at Jack. She was facing away from the road, toward the woods. She hadn't seen it. He couldn't help feeling relieved. She'd been through enough. More than enough. Too much. There was even a word for it—when so many bad things happen to you that your head starts getting messed up … traumatized. Yeah. That was it. Jack had been traumatized plenty already. She didn't need to see that truck.

  Logan leaned over and petted the scruff of her neck. She licked his hand. Her tongue was very dry.

  “You're thirsty, huh, girl?” he whispered.

  She whimpered.

  “I know. I know.” Logan chewed his lip. He was thirsty, too. And hungry. And confused and mad and spooked and hurting and fed up with this—

  He turned back toward the road. Once again, he found himself faced with the exact same question he'd been faced with about a million times in the past week, ever since he'd run away from the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys.

  What now?

  The answer was still the same. He needed to help Jack. That was the most important thing. She couldn't walk. Her leg had practically been chewed off. Even if she didn't have POS, the wound was probably infected by now. And both of them needed food. And water.

  One thing he knew now: He'd been right to stay hidden. Obviously, he couldn't risk letting anybody see her. Otherwise, she might end up on one of those trucks.

  No. He shook his head, refusing to let himself even think about that.

  I'll leave her here, he decided at last. She'll be safe in the woods.

  He'd have to move her a little farther away from the road, of course. He could tie her to a tree and let her sleep while he followed the road to the closest town. He'd sneak into a store and shoplift what they needed: food, water, first-aid stuff. He'd never stolen anything before, but on the other hand, he already was a fugitive.

  Besides, he had no choice. Neither did Jack.

  Logan picked her up again and fought his way back into the forest—maybe fifty feet or so. He stopped at a nice big pine tree with a sturdy trunk. Perfect. Even if it happened to rain (not that he planned on being gone that long), the branches would provide some shelter. He laid Jack down in the dirt and wrapped the rope around the trunk several times, finishing it off with a tight double knot.

  “Okay, girl,” he whispered. He bent beside her and stroked her rumpled fur. “I'm going to go find us some food and stuff. All right? You just sleep. I'll be back soon.”

  She blinked at him. Her eyes were clouded.

  Logan stood. For some reason, he was having a hard time catching his breath. His chest felt tight. His eyes stung a little. He wiped his nose with his palm, very hard, then turned and marched back toward the highway.

  Jack barked.

  “Shhh!” Logan hissed over his shoulder. He kept moving, slapping branches out of his way as he went.

  Jack barked again. She wouldn't stop. By the time he reached the road, she was howling.

  Shut up, Jack! Logan yelled silently.

  He hesitated. A person would be able to hear Jack from the road. He could. But she couldn't howl forever. Besides, nobody walked here; they only drove. They wouldn't be able to hear her from inside their cars. Right?

  There was no point in even worrying about it. He had to get moving. It was late in the afternoon.

  He grabbed the end of his shirt and tore a piece off it. He tied the torn piece around a tree trunk to mark the spot where he'd left Jack. The truck and ambulances were heading south, so—

  “Ahh-ooo!”

  Logan started walking north. Jack howled and howled. Logan's eyes stung worse than ever. They stung so badly that they started watering. He wiped them with his dirty hands. He didn't get it. Maybe he had allergies.

  Yeah. Probably.

  After walking for half an hour or so, Logan came across two signs on the side of the road. One said ROUTE 61. The other said DAYVILLE,1 MILE.

  He stared at the words. Dayville. Why did that sound familiar?

  And then he remembered. He almost laughed.

  His father lived in Dayville. Or he had a post office box there, anyway. Logan knew because his mother had had to send the jerk stuff in the mail at various times over the past seven years.

  Wow. Logan really had gotten lost. Dayville was a good two hours from Newburg, at least. What a weird coincidence. Maybe Logan could drop by and say hi. Wouldn't it be hilarious if he showed up at his father's door, looking and smelling the way he did?

  “Hey, Dad, how's it going? Yeah, I'm peachy. Look, Dad, I know I haven't seen you since I was seven years old, but could you give me a toothbrush and a pizza and, like, a thousand bucks—and a bunch of medicine and bandages? Thanks a lot, Dad. Love ya. Don't be a stranger.”

  Actually, come to think of it, that might not be such a bad idea. Ripping off his father would be better than robbing a store, at least.

  Of course, Logan had no idea where in Dayville his father lived. For all he knew, the jerk had moved somewhere else by now. Hey, for all he knew, the jerk was dead.

  Nah, not dead. Logan would have heard about that.

  But the jerk might as well be dead. And judging from the way he'd kept in touch with Logan over th
e years—meaning not at all— Logan figured chances were good that his father would be extremely unthrilled if Logan happened to pop by for a surprise visit.

  Oh, well. Maybe Logan would just get lucky and run into him. Then Logan could tell him what a jerk he was.

  He started walking again. In spite of the blisters on his feet (and everything else), he picked up his pace. Ten minutes later he spotted a house a little way up the road. Finally.

  As Logan drew closer, he saw that it wasn't a house at all. It was even better. It was exactly what he needed. It looked like a house, but the words GENERAL STORE were painted above the door.

  Logan ducked into a patch of trees right next to the store's little driveway. Okay. He needed a plan. He'd been lucky so far. Nobody had seen him. Two or three cars had passed him on the way, but he'd just jumped into the woods as soon as he'd heard them coming. Somebody was definitely going to see him now, though. They'd see him the second he set foot inside that door. So he would have to act quickly and quietly—but not rush. He'd have to stuff whatever he could into his pockets and under his dirty, ripped shirt … but at the same time not act too nervous or hurried. He had to be calm. As if he were just browsing but, in the end, not buying anything. Which was perfectly natural. Right?

  How many people go to a general store in the middle of nowhere and just browse? a mocking little voice asked.

  He shook his head. Can't think that way. Be positive.

  I can do this, Logan said to himself. This is nothing. I invented a master remote control. Compared to that, this is a piece of cake.

  He took a deep breath, then strolled across the driveway.

  A little bell jangled as he opened the door. His stomach rumbled. It smelled incredible inside the store, like fresh bread. He tried not to drool. His eyes scanned the aisles: the cans and bottles and other junk. There seemed to be a lot of fishing bait.

  An old guy in a flannel shirt was standing behind the counter at the back, talking on the phone. Logan looked at him. Their eyes met for a moment.

  Logan stepped behind one of the shelves. His heart bounced in his chest. Calm down. Remember: Jack is waiting. His fingers fumbled for a bottle of spring water. Without thinking, he unscrewed the cap and started guzzling. He couldn't help himself. Besides, what did it matter? He was stealing it, so he might as well enjoy it. The water was like a magic healing potion, spreading cool relief through his body. He actually shivered, it was so good.

  “… yeah, they've pretty much taken care of all the dogs,” the guy on the phone was saying. “Yup. All gone. Except for you-know-who, up the road. Don't know what he's done with his dog. Hey, did I tell you what happened the other day? He came in here, looking for Sam.”

  Logan finished the water in a quiet frenzy of massive gulps, then placed the empty bottle back on the shelf. He tiptoed toward the rows of single-serving canned meals. SpaghettiOs. Ravioli. Vegetable stew. Chicken soup. He couldn't make up his mind. They all looked so good. He was seriously tempted to just open up one of them and scarf it down right there….

  “… if you're in the neighborhood, you might want to stop by,” the guy said.

  Logan's ears pricked up.

  “Oh, no reason. You'll see when you get here.” There was a pause. “Yeah. You could say that. Bye.” The guy hung up the phone.

  Uh-oh. It didn't take a lot of brains to figure out what that little scrap of conversation meant. The only new thing to see in the store was Logan. Not good.

  Logan grabbed as many cans as he could carry, then bolted for the exit, cradling them in his arms.

  “Can I help you?” the guy called.

  Logan kicked open the door. He'd just have to get the bandages and other stuff somewhere else.

  “Hey!” the guy shouted. “Come back here! You can't—”

  The door swung shut. Logan sprinted across the driveway. The cans jiggled in his arms. A couple of them fell, bouncing on the pavement. Logan hesitated. He fumbled with the rest of them and ended up dropping them, too. They started rolling all over the place. Frantic, Logan scrambled to pick them up. He could hear a car coming.

  One of the cans had cracked open, leaking chicken soup. When he tried to grab it, his hands got all covered with soup slime. Now he couldn't pick anything up. The car was getting closer. Either he had to leave the cans here, or he had to pick them up. He beat his soupy hands against his thighs in an agony of uncertainty. Run! Get the cans! Decide, decide, decide!

  Tires screeched in front of him.

  Logan glanced up. It was a police car.

  He turned back to the store.

  The guy from the store was storming across the driveway, pointing his finger at Logan. “There he is!” he yelled. “Arrest him!”

  One of the car doors slammed. Logan turned around again.

  A pudgy, middle-aged trooper had climbed out and was standing there. He didn't look angry or anything. In fact, he looked sort of amused.

  “Well, well, well,” the trooper said. “Where do you think you're going?”

  Logan didn't answer. He couldn't speak.

  The trooper glanced at the spilled cans. “Looks like quite a little feast you got there,” he said.

  “He stole them!” the guy from the store yelled. He stooped and started picking up the cans, muttering to himself. Logan couldn't understand what he was saying. Not that it particularly mattered.

  “Is that true?” the cop asked Logan.

  Logan shrugged. He felt as if somebody had just punched him in the stomach.

  “Okay, then,” the cop said. He opened one of the car doors. “Come with me, son. We'll get this all straightened out at the station, all right?”

  For a second, Logan thought about what might happen if he said, No, that's not all right. It was a stupid thing to think about, though. He got into the car.

  The cop slammed the door behind him.

  Logan wondered if Jack was still howling. He tried not to think about that, either.

  E-mails sent from Dr. Harold Marks to

  Dr. Craig Westerly the afternoon of July 27

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: July 27

  Subject: we need your help

  Westerly:

  you aren't answering your phone. where are you? please come to the university. the situation is deteriorating. most of the staff members are frightened. a few have panicked and quit. as i said before, i am ready to give you your old job back, effective immediately.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: July 27

  Subject: we need your help i know you're online because your phone is busy. answer me, westerly. i'm giving you a second chance. you can help us. you can help yourself and your dog. time is running out. i've talked to research facilities as far away as san diego, and they're all experiencing the same thing we are. the situation is critical.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Jasmine's injection was all prepared. Westerly had loaded the syringe with the necessary combination of drugs two days ago, the same afternoon he'd dug the hole next to their favorite evergreen tree. Everything was ready. A little pinprick and it would be all over, quickly and painlessly. Jasmine wouldn't even notice it. She was asleep. She would just keep sleeping, sinking deeper and deeper into a dreamless slumber from which she would never wake. Her suffering would come to an end.

  The needle was sitting on his desk. Right next to the computer. Waiting.

  Westerly knew it had to be done. He'd known it for a long time. Yet he had put it off until this moment.

  She wasn't a laboratory rat. She wasn't a prisoner. She wasn't the subject of a failed experiment. She was Jasmine.

  It has to be done.

  Westerly had thought he'd lost all hope a while ago, but it turned out that hope was harder to lose than he'd imagined. It kept popping up here and there, just when he was sure it was gone forever. Maybe th
e CDC would find an immune dog. Maybe Harold would e-mail him when he had something worthwhile to share, other than his own desperation. Maybe some other scientists somewhere else in the world were already synthesizing a cure. Maybe, maybe, maybe … a whole sea of maybes.

  But the sea had finally dried up. There were no maybes anymore. There was only certain knowledge: Jasmine was unconscious. In a matter of days, or perhaps hours, she would wake up in a violent rage. She would be unable to control herself. And then she would die.

  “I'm doing this for you,” Westerly whispered to her. “I'm sorry.”

  He reached for the syringe.

  It didn't take long to fill up the hole and finish packing the dirt. Westerly barely even broke a sweat.

  The afternoon air was cool. He looked up at the tree and saw that the tip was just beginning to turn that brief, dazzling shade of purple. Jasmine would have appreciated it.

  Westerly gave the small brown mound one last pat with his shovel, then propped the shovel against the tree. For several moments, he debated whether to search for a stone to mark the spot. But in the end, he decided there was no need. The tree—a huge, vibrant, magnificent living thing—was marker enough.

  Afternoon melted into night. Westerly hardly noticed the change. He sat on the back porch, the way he always did. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when he heard a truck in his driveway. The stars were out, so it must have been a while. The evergreen tree was a dark skeleton.

  Doors slammed.

  Westerly watched, feeling nothing, as four men in safe suits walked around the side of the house.

  “Dr. Westerly?” one of them called.

  “You can go home,” he said.

  They paused in the yard. The porch lights glinted off their black faceplates.

  “Excuse me?” another asked.

  “You can go home,” Westerly said. He stood and leaned over the porch railing. “My dog is dead and buried. I haven't been infected. So there's no reason for you to be here.”

  “We're not here for the dog,” the first one said.

  Westerly stared down at them. “Oh?”

  “No, sir. We're here for you. We're from the university. Dr. Marks sent us.”