The Last Dog on Earth Page 16

  Logan sneered. “I can talk to you however I want,” he said.

  “No, you cannot! I am an adult! You are a child!”

  “So what?” Logan said. He laughed grimly. “What's the difference? Every adult I've ever met is just as lame and stupid and selfish as every kid I've ever met. The adults are just allowed to get away with it.” He bent down and scooped Jack into his arms. “You know what? Fine. If you want to sit around here, I'll take her to a hospital myself.”

  Westerly's heart pounded. He couldn't just let Logan and Jack wander back out onto the highway. And even now, a part of him— a dark, hidden, secret part—found itself wondering what Harold would do if Westerly appeared at the university with this dog … the dog that could possibly provide the key to stopping this epidemic. Would Harold welcome Westerly back with open arms? Or would he just grab the dog and shut the door in Westerly's face and take all the credit for himself ?

  But then, these questions might be meaningless. It might already be too late.

  “You should know something, Logan,” he said. “Taking Jack to the CDC might not even do any good at this point. Your dog may very well be the last healthy dog in Oregon.”

  Logan's face twisted in disgust. “So what? What about the people, Dad? Fifty-six people are already dead from this thing. Maybe more.” He raised his eyebrows. “You do read the papers, don't you?”

  “I …” Westerly swallowed. He hadn't even thought about the people. The rage faded, leaving only a cold void in its place. What's happening to me? Logan was right: Westerly was as selfish as a child. He sickened himself.

  But Logan didn't have to know about that. Logan didn't have to know about any of Westerly's feelings. Those belonged to him alone. He stood up. “All right. I'll call the university and let them know we're coming.”

  Logan didn't move. His face was unreadable. “You mean it?”

  Westerly nodded. “Yes. I mean it. I want you to get checked out. And we'll see what we can do with your dog.”

  “You won't take me back to jail?”

  “Jail?” Westerly stared at him in surprise. “No. Why?”

  “It seems like the kind of thing you would do,” Logan said.

  Westerly blinked. For some reason, that one remark hurt more than anything Logan had done or said since Westerly had found him.

  “To be honest, jail never once crossed my mind, Logan,” he replied. “So you can put the dog back down. I'll be ready in just a minute.”

  Notice posted throughout the states

  of Oregon and Washington

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Logan's father was truly amazing. He hadn't said one word since they'd left his house. Not even a peep. In two hours.

  Logan knew that he was a so-called nonverbal type himself, but this … this was bizarre. Dad was aware that Logan was his son, wasn't he? He did know that Logan had lived a life for the past seven years, didn't he? A very interesting life, if Logan said so himself—full of groundbreaking inventions and lame Summer Kickoff Barbecues and harrowing escapes from jail and boot camp.

  But Dad apparently had no interest in hearing about it. Or in talking about his own life, for that matter.

  They were already chugging over the Willamette River into the heart of Portland. The skyscrapers loomed ahead of them, framed against the blue sky as if on a giant postcard. For about the millionth time, Logan glanced over his shoulder at Jack, just to make sure she was still breathing. Yes … her chest was rising and falling. So she was alive. She lay there on the backseat, swaddled in a blanket like a newborn. Her eyes were closed.

  Logan faced front again. He didn't mind being on the bridge so much because at least he couldn't see any houses. They'd driven past way too many houses on the way to Portland, houses of every kind: old, new, big, small, rich, poor … but they all had one thing in common. None of them had dogs in their yards. Not one.

  On a sunny summer day like today, dogs should be outside. It wasn't right. Logan felt sick whenever they passed a BEWARE OF DOG sign. What dog? he wanted to ask. There were no dogs.

  There were a lot of army trucks, though. And a lot of black ambulances. Which just made Logan feel even sicker. For all he knew, Jack might very well be the last dog alive. If she even survived the rest of the journey …

  “So, Dad,” he said finally. He couldn't stand the silence for another second. He practically had to shout to make himself heard over the rattle of Dad's junk-heap car. “You built that house yourself, huh?”

  Dad nodded.

  “How long did it take?” Logan asked.

  “It's not really done,” Dad said. “It's sort of a work in progress. I had help with the heavy stuff. Construction workers did most of the actual building. I just designed it.”

  “Wow,” Logan said. He didn't say it because he was impressed with his father's ingenuity or do-it-yourself gumption. He said it because his father had actually formed real sentences. Several in a row. Incredible.

  “So why did you do it?” Logan asked.

  Dad's forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean? Why did I build the house?”

  “No. Why did you run out on us?”

  The question just sort of popped out of Logan's mouth. He hadn't meant to bring up the past. But part of his brain must have figured there was no point in waiting around any longer to ask the question he'd wanted to ask for seven years. After all, they might not have this chance to speak to each other alone again.

  “I didn't run out on you,” Dad said. “Your mother threw me out.”

  “That's not the way I heard it,” Logan said.

  Dad cast a quick sidelong glance at him. “How did you hear it?” he asked.

  “Actually, I didn't hear anything. I remember that after you got fired from Portland University, you just sat around and did nothing. Mostly, you talked about how mad you were at the guy who fired you. Mom ended up having to pick up your slack. She got fed up. She gave you a choice: Either you go out and get a job, or you go wallow in your own misery somewhere else.”

  Much to Logan's surprise, Dad nodded. “That's exactly right,” he said.

  Logan frowned. “It is?”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “Your mother threw me out.”

  Logan glared at him.

  “What?” Dad said.

  “Nothing,” Logan muttered. He faced forward again.

  “You're angry, Logan. Tell me why.”

  Logan turned to him. “You don't get it. Mom didn't want you to leave. She wanted you to shape up.”

  “She wanted me to shape up, eh?” Dad asked. He smiled.

  “What's so funny?”

  “Nothing,” Dad said. He shrugged as he turned off at the first bridge exit. “Let me ask you something, Logan. Why did your mother send you to boot camp?”

  “Because I blew up a microwave oven in a deli,” he said.

  Dad laughed. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You think that's funny?”

  “No, you just took me by surprise, that's all,” Dad said. “Why did you do it?”

  “I don't know,” Logan mumbled. “A dog was attacking Jack.”

  Dad didn't say anything for a moment. “I guess you don't want to talk about it.”

  “Not really.” Logan chewed his lip and shifted in his seat. He felt antsy and agitated all of a sudden, as if he'd just chugged a massive cup of coffee. “But you know, it's not what it sounds like,” he added. “I mean, I felt bad and all. I would have done something to help make up for it. Robert was just looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”

  “Oh,” Dad said.

  “What do you mean, âoh'?” Logan snapped.

  Dad shrugged again. “Nothing. It's just … I believe you. My situation was very similar. Your mother was just looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”

  “No, she wasn't,” Logan said.

  “How do you know?” Dad asked.

  “Because I know Mom. All she wants is for people to do what they're supposed to
and for everything to be smooth and organized and …” Logan hesitated for a second, searching for the right word.

  “Stable?” Dad suggested.

  Logan nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Stable.”

  “Right,” Dad said. “That's why she was such a great librarian. She made sure everything was smooth and organized for people who wanted to find books.” He glanced at Logan again. “You know, that's how we met. At the Portland University science library. She helped me find a book on Spanish influenza—”

  “I know, Dad.” Logan groaned.

  Dad sighed. “What I was saying is, your mother wants more than anything for things to be stable,” he said. “With a capital S. That's why she married Robert.”

  “You know him?” Logan asked, surprised.

  Dad laughed. “Sure. He sold your mother and me our first two cars—didn't you know that? Back then he was at a Toyota dealership, though.”

  “Whoa.” Logan pursed his lips, processing this.

  “Anyway, you don't need to know him very well to see he's a stable sort of guy. He works hard to keep everything always the same, all the time. The problem is, life isn't stable. But you already know that, Logan. Much better than Robert does, I'd bet.”

  Logan opened his mouth to answer, or protest, or argue, or—or something. But then he closed it. Incredibly enough, Dad was right.

  Which meant there really wasn't much point in continuing the conversation. He certainly didn't want to hear any more dumb stories about how Mom used to find Dad books. Besides, the silence wasn't really so bad.

  Something was very, very wrong in Portland.

  Logan wasn't sure what, exactly (or maybe he just didn't want to think too hard about it), but the prickling anxiety he'd felt since they'd gotten off the bridge was slowly turning to fear. There was hardly any traffic. Most of the streets were blocked off with police barricades. His father had pretty much been driving in circles for the past twenty minutes. The university was less than half a mile from the river, but they couldn't seem to get within four blocks of it. And they kept passing the same groups of people in those billowy safe suits, huddled on street corners or in doorways … or at least, Logan assumed they were the same groups of people. It was impossible to tell.

  He glanced back at Jack. Her breathing was more strained. Her throat kept making a weird rattling noise. Logan's jaw tightened. Now he was having a hard time breathing. The hospital was close. He could see the north tower.

  Okay, worst-case scenario: He would grab Jack and jump out of the car and hurdle the barricades, and, yes, maybe the guys in the safe suits would try to stop him … but he would simply barrel right past them and straight into the emergency room because their plastic was so slick that they wouldn't be able to get a grip on him, anyway—

  The car jerked to a stop.

  “Uh-oh,” Dad muttered.

  Logan faced forward again. “What?”

  But his father didn't have time to answer. The car was surrounded by a furious, screaming, red-faced mob. Instinctively, Logan slammed his fist down on the lock and backed so far away from the door that he practically crawled into his father's lap. The people seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a swarm of bees. Their voices buzzed; their enraged faces pressed against the windows. And all their anger seemed to be directed at Logan and his father. The weirdest thing about it was that Logan felt mildly guilty. In spite of his terror, he felt as if he were a famous criminal who was being escorted to a courthouse and forced to confront his victims. And he shouldn't have. He was just trying to get his dog fixed. He didn't understand what was going on. Were all these people sick? Were things really that bad?

  “Wh-what's going on?” he stammered.

  “This must be the only the way to the hospital,” Dad mumbled. Before Logan could ask another question, his father grabbed the gearshift and gunned the engine. The next thing Logan knew, his body was slammed back against the door. The car swerved around a corner. The hospital swam into view. Logan winced as he stared out the window. People were diving out of the way of the car. Dad didn't slow down. He didn't try to hit anyone, but he wasn't exactly avoiding anyone, either. Logan stopped breathing. His limbs froze. This is crazy. This can't be happening. This can't be …

  The car screeched to a halt again, and Logan's face nearly slammed against the dashboard.

  “Stop right there!” somebody barked.

  Logan looked up. A pale, beefy security guard in a blue uniform was blocking their path, clutching a rifle. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. He leaned forward and glared angrily through the windshield.

  All at once, his brow furrowed. His face softened a bit.

  “Dr. Westerly?” he called. “Is that you?”

  Dad nodded. He rolled down his window. “How are you, Phil?” he asked.

  “Well, not great, as you can see,” the guard said. He hurried around to the driver's side. “We've been waiting for you. Sorry about this mess.”

  “How long has the situation been like this?” Dad asked.

  The guard shook his head. “A few days now.”

  Logan glanced from Dad to the guard. For some reason, they seemed to be taking their time to get reacquainted, which seemed to Logan a very dumb idea. From his perspective, it would be a good idea to roll the window back up. Soon. Immediately.

  “What's going on?” somebody in the mob screamed.

  “Back off !” the guard shouted, waving his gun at them.

  Dad's fingers danced on the steering wheel. “Quite a scene out here,” he said.

  “You could say that.” The guard bent back down by the window. “It's getting harder and harder to handle—” He broke off suddenly.

  “What is it?” Dad asked.

  The guard shook his head, his eyes widening. “Is that a dog in the back of your car?”

  “Yes, it's my son's. I let Harold Marks know that I was coming with her—”

  “Dr. Marks didn't mention that part to me,” the guard interrupted. His voice trembled “Look, you'd better get going. There's National Guardsmen all over the place. They've been killing dogs.” He backed away from the car. “Straight through into the garage. Dr. Marks is waiting for you. He made sure your old space was waiting for you, too.”

  Dad laughed. “Isn't that nice,” he said. He didn't move, even though the mob was closing in again.

  Logan frowned at him. If he'd thought Robert should win first prize for Freak of the Year, Dad was Freak Champion of the World. He was in a completely different category. Ultrafreak. Megafreak. There wasn't even a word for it.

  “Uh, Dad?” Logan growled. “I hate to spoil your fun, but my dog might get shot if we stick around out here. So I think we should go.”

  “I guess you're right,” Dad said. But he didn't sound as though he meant it.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  The scene inside the hospital was even weirder than the scene on the streets. Normally, hospitals were quiet. Almost eerily quiet. Not this one. This hospital was a madhouse. Logan had never seen anything like it. He clutched Jack tightly in his arms as his father led him through a maze of brightly lit corridors—all of which were crawling with figures in safe suits, angry-looking doctors and nurses, and an occasional patient. None of them seemed to have any idea what to do with themselves except shout at each other … except, of course, when Logan walked past them. Then they all shut up and gaped at Jack.

  Logan's back was beginning to hurt from Jack's weight. Jack's breathing was getting worse. Every time Logan took another step, she made a strange gurgling noise—as if she were rinsing her mouth out with mouthwash. She kept coughing and panting. “It's going to be okay, girl,” Logan whispered to her.

  He hoped he was telling the truth.

  Dr. Marks's big, plush office was empty. It stayed empty.

  Logan didn't get it. Out on the street, the guard had said that Dr. Marks would be waiting for them. But ten minutes had already ticked by with agonizing slowness
, and Dr. Marks was still nowhere to be seen.

  Dad hadn't said a word. He'd just handed Logan a plastic cup of water for Jack, then sat down on the giant leather couch and stared at all the framed diplomas and awards on the wall. Occasionally, he sneered. Maybe he was having a conversation with himself in his head.

  Logan tried to get Jack to drink from the cup, but as it turned out, she wasn't thirsty. Or maybe she just was physically unable to drink. She lay sprawled on the floor, her breath rasping in her chest. And Logan couldn't do anything about it. He really wished he could find one of those National Guardsmen everybody kept talking about and maybe borrow a grenade or five and blow up a bathroom or something—because then the idiots might finally understand that some people actually wanted their dogs to survive.

  “So, Dad,” Logan said. “Where do you think this guy is?”

  “No doubt doing something very important,” Dad replied.

  Logan blinked. Well. There was another totally whacked-out answer. So much for the relatively normal conversation they'd had in the car. Logan decided he would just stop asking questions. He tossed the cup in the garbage, then sat beside Jack on the thick beige rug and stroked the back of her neck, teasing gently at her shredded and blood-caked fur. Every once in a while, she twitched. Her eyes were rheumy and gummed up.

  “Don't worry, girl,” he said. “We're going to get help soon.”

  “I hope that's true,” Dad said. “I really do.”

  The door opened. A man in a white lab coat stepped into the office. He quickly shut the door behind him and locked it. He was wearing neatly pressed suit pants and a tie. They swished in the way that only really expensive clothes do. His shirt had cuff links. His hair was slicked back with gel, like Mr. Wallace's hair. But what struck Logan most about him was how drawn and tired his face looked. The circles under his eyes were like bruises.

  “Craig,” he said. His tone was blank. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Logan stood up. He figured that was the polite thing to do. Not Dad. He kept sitting.

  “Hello, Harold,” Dad said.

  Neither of them said a word after that.