The Last Dog on Earth Page 9

  “Don't worry about Jack, Logan,” Robert interrupted. “Worry about yourself. We'll see you in four weeks.” He got into the car.

  Logan threw his arms around Jack's neck and squeezed her until she let out a grunt. “Be good,” he whispered in her ear. “I'll come home as soon as I can.”

  Robert turned the key in the ignition. Jack whimpered softly. The painful lump came back into Logan's throat as he watched the car speed back down the dirt road, vanishing in a plume of dust. Once again, the air was still and silent.

  He was alone.

  A strange thought occurred to him. Blue Mountain Camp for Boys wasn't all that far from Newburg. Probably about forty miles. He'd been surprised at how close it was, in fact. He'd thought it would be deep in the mountains, out near where his dad lived. But it was right on the western edge of the Cascade Range. Walking, Logan would probably need about twenty hours to get back home. Maybe longer, since he'd be carrying his duffel bag and stopping to rest and stuff.

  It was eleven in the morning now, so he probably wouldn't get back until dawn the next day. It would be hard, lonely, grueling— and a big pain. And maybe that was the whole point.

  “Bring your hiking boots,” Robert had told him. “I understand they do a lot of hiking at that place.”

  Logan scratched his chin. Robert was a weird guy. (To say the least.) And Logan couldn't really see him taking care of Jack for the next four weeks. Or going out to buy his own whole milk. The truth was, in a strange way, Robert needed Logan. So maybe he just wanted to scare Logan a little bit. Robert knew Logan liked hiking. So maybe he wanted to make Logan hike so far that he ended up hating it. Maybe Robert figured that a forty-mile march would be enough to convince Logan that blowing up a microwave was never, ever okay….

  “Moore?”

  Somebody was storming down the path. A very short man burst through the underbrush, swatting stray branches out of his way with a stick. He was even shorter than Logan. He couldn't have been more than five and a half feet tall, but he probably weighed close to two hundred pounds—and it was all muscle. He didn't seem to have a neck. His bald head looked as if it had been stuck right on top of his body, like one of those action figures with detachable limbs. He was wearing a tight camouflage T-shirt and baggy fatigues.

  “Moore?” he grunted. “Logan Moore?”

  Logan nodded. The man had black, beady eyes, like Thor's eyes.

  “You're late,” the man said irritably. “I told your foster dad to drop you off at nine.”

  “My foster dad?”

  The man's face soured. “Your guardian. Whatever he is.”

  Logan was puzzled. “You mean my stepfather?”

  “Whatever,” the man muttered. “We get a lot of fosters here.” He tossed the stick aside, then beckoned Logan to follow him.

  Logan picked up his duffel bag and hurried after him.

  “I don't give an owl's hoot about your home life, either,” the man added as he strode along a dirt path toward one of the cinder block buildings. “That's got nothing to do with me. When you're here, you're mine. You obey my commands. As of now, the world outside this fence no longer exists. Do I make myself clear?”

  Logan just stared at him. An owl's hoot?

  “Do I make myself clear?” the man barked.

  Logan nodded, swallowing. “Yes,” he said. “Uh, yes, sir,” he added. He figured he'd better play it safe. This man definitely seemed like the kind of guy who would insist on being called sir. Especially after the “obey my commands” line.

  “I am Sergeant Bell,” the man said. “That's B-e-l-l. As in Liberty Bell. As in the sweet ring of freedom and brotherly love. From now on, you will be known as Private Moore. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Bell,” Logan said.

  “Yes, Sergeant Bell, sir!” Sergeant Bell snapped.

  “Yes, Sergeant Bell, sir,” Logan said.

  Sergeant Bell smiled. “Private Moore, do you know why you're a private?” he asked.

  “No. No, Sergeant Bell, sir.”

  “I'll tell you,” Sergeant Bell said. “Because privates are the lowliest form of maggot on the planet. There are officers, and there are maggots. I am an officer. You are a maggot. Do you understand now, Private Moore?”

  Logan blinked.

  “Do you understand now, Private Moore?” Sergeant Bell bellowed.

  “Yes, Sergeant Bell, sir,” Logan said. “I'm a maggot. Sir.”

  “Exactly.” Sergeant Bell stopped smiling. He pointed down the dirt road toward the gate. “Did you see a sign when you drove in here, Private Moore?” he asked.

  Logan nodded. “Yes, Sergeant Bell, sir,” he said. “Notice anything funny about it?”

  “Uh …” Logan licked his lips. He had a feeling the question was a trick. Sergeant Bell was like the stereotype of the mean drill sergeant from every army movie ever made. Mean drill sergeants always asked trick questions.

  “Answer my question, Private Moore!”

  “Uh … yes. Yes, Sergeant Bell, sir,” Logan answered. It was best just to fall for the trick and get it over with. “The sign was missing a few letters. Sir.”

  “Very good, Private Moore,” Sergeant Bell said. He smiled again, pretending to be impressed. “Do you happen to recall which ones?”

  Logan tried to picture the sign in his mind. LUE MOUNT IN MP FOR OYS. “It's missing b, a, and c, Sergeant Bell, sir,” he said.

  “That's right, Private Moore. It's missing the ABCs. Why do you think that is?”

  “Because it's an old sign, sir?” Logan guessed.

  “Because you already know your ABCs!” Sergeant Bell barked. “You weren't sent here because you're stupid, Private Moore. You were sent here because you're rotten. You were sent here to learn how to take orders. To follow rules. Do I make myself clear, Private Moore?”

  Logan nodded. “Yes, Sergeant Bell, sir,” he said.

  “Good,” Sergeant Bell said. “Then you and I should get along just fine.”

  Logan was in cabin three, along with three other maggots.

  Twenty-eight kids were attending the July session at the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys, and their ages ranged from eleven to fifteen. Many of them had been in trouble with the law. A few had spent time in juvenile correctional facilities, or kiddie prison, as Sergeant Bell called it. A couple of them were even considered dangerous. On the other hand, a lot of them were just spastic— kids whose parents couldn't handle their wild behavior.

  All of them were maggots.

  “You got some time to kill until the maggots and the other officers get back from the orientation hike, Private Moore,” Sergeant Bell said. He opened the door to cabin three, then stood aside to let Logan go in. “Your new home. Get settled. I'll inspect your quarters later.”

  With that, he closed the wooden door, shutting Logan into the dimness.

  Logan sniffed. Oddly, the air in here smelled of cigarette smoke. It must be some weird trick of the wind—no way would Sergeant Bell permit one of his maggots to smoke.

  His duffel bag lay on the floor beside him. He could feel that annoying lump in his throat again, though he tried to ignore it. He tried to ignore the numb, queasy emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He tried to ignore the annoying voice in the back of his head that kept whispering, What are you doing here? You don't belong here. This is a mistake. A really bad mistake—like when an innocent guy gets picked out of a lineup for some crime he didn't commit and winds up in the electric chair. Logan tried to ignore it all because if he paid attention to it … well, actually, there was no point in saying if again. If would get him nowhere. He was stuck. This was real. So he wasn't going to drive himself crazy.

  Right. No craziness. No if.

  There were four bunk beds inside. All of them were neatly made, with yellow pillows and yellow sheets turned down over scratchy-looking gray blankets—except for the bottom bed of the bunk farthest from the steps. That hadn't been made yet. The folded sheets and blankets lay in a p
ile in the middle of a grimy mattress.

  Logan figured the unmade bed was his. He shuffled toward it— then jumped as a light flared from the top bunk against the opposite wall.

  He wasn't alone. A kid lay on the top bunk. As Logan stared, the kid lit a cigarette and blew a white plume of smoke at the ceiling. Then he turned his head toward Logan.

  “Watcha looking at?” he said.

  Logan shrugged.

  The kid's face was the color of chalk, except for dark circles under his eyes. He was very, very skinny, with blue eyes and spiky black hair.

  “Aren't you supposed to be on the orientation hike?” the kid demanded.

  “I was late,” Logan said.

  The kid took another drag off the cigarette. He had a tattoo on his right forearm: the word tomb etched in scary, old-fashioned Gothic lettering.

  “What's your name?” the kid asked.

  “Logan. Logan Moore.”

  “I'm Perry,” the kid said. He exhaled. “Just Perry.”

  Logan attempted a smile. “Hey.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” Logan said. “How about you?”

  “Thirteen,” Perry said.

  “Really?” Logan said, surprised. “You look older.”

  Perry's eyes darkened. “When I lie, you'll know it,” he said. He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and sat up straight. Then he stuck his cigarette in his mouth and tapped his tattoo. “See this?”

  Logan nodded.

  “T-o-m-b. Know what that stands for?”

  Logan shook his head. He was pretty much fed up with tricks involving letters of the alphabet. He decided not to mention that to Perry, though.

  “It stands for âtake out my brothers.” Cuz that's what I'll do if I have to. You could be my brother. You could be my best friend. But if I'm in a jam, I'm going to bury you in my place. I'm going to take you out.” Perry puffed out another big, white cloud. “Get it now?”

  “Yeah.” Logan began to feel queasy again. But that might have been the cigarette smoke. “So how come you aren't on the orientation hike?” he asked.

  Perry shrugged. “I wasn't allowed. I got in trouble.”

  “Wow,” Logan said. “Already? It's only the first day.”

  “Bell busted me for smoking,” Perry said.

  Logan's eyes narrowed.

  “What's Bell going to do if he busts me again?” Perry asked. He sucked hard on the cigarette. “Send me to the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys?”

  Logan cracked a smile. That was the smartest thing he'd heard anybody say in a long time.

  Perry didn't smile back.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  The most remarkable thing about the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys was that the daily schedule turned out to be exactly the same as the Things I Hate list in Logan's head. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Somebody should have called Ripley's Believe It or Not! or maybe The National Enquirer because it truly was an unprecedented and historic development, and everything would have been different forever—not just for Logan, but for all people and society at large.

  Or not.

  Still, Logan was pretty amazed. Life was so much simpler now. There was less to keep track of. The list always read as follows, even on weekends, because there were no weekends at the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys:

  THINGS I HATE/A DAY AT CAMP

  The work crew with Perry definitely won first prize for the most hate-worthy part of the day. Perry would just sit in the kitchen and smoke while Logan feverishly slaved to prepare dinner for all twenty-eight maggots—as well as Sergeant Bell, his lieutenants, and the rest of the staff: a bunch of faceless “officers” who didn't really seem to serve any purpose other than storming around the camp and shouting at the kids.

  Perry never lifted a finger. He said that he had no good reason to help. Personally, dinner didn't matter to him. He was fine with skipping it every night.

  “It's no sweat if I don't eat,” he told Logan. “I can go for days without food.”

  Logan didn't doubt it. Perry was all skin and bones.

  During the work crew, Perry was usually joined by two other smokers: Freeze and Wack Man. Freeze was a chubby black kid with short dreadlocks who swore that he'd killed his principal by impaling him on a water spigot and that he would be happy to impale Logan on any one of the hooks, knives, and other sharp objects in the Alpha Base kitchen. Wack Man was like a shorter version of Perry, only without the tattoo. He had the most demonic-looking green eyes Logan had ever seen on a kid. Logan wondered if Wack Man wore those special colored contact lenses, but he didn't ask. Wack Man also had a nose ring—a slim silver hoop that he would take from his pocket and wear in his left nostril whenever none of the camp staff were around. He told Logan that he liked to store other people's boogers in it.

  Freeze and Wack Man were on the “camp maintenance” work crew. While Perry and Logan were supposed to be preparing dinner, Freeze and Wack Man were supposed to be pulling down the vines on the cabins and clearing the dense undergrowth that choked the grounds. They never lifted a finger, either, though. They didn't really have to. Sergeant Bell and the staff always disappeared during the work crew hours. They claimed that they were patrolling the area for diseased wild dogs. According to them, the strange dog disease was spreading fast.

  Logan had no idea if this was true. Nobody did. And nobody was interested in asking, since it meant that the campers had the place to themselves and they didn't have to do their assigned work.

  It was no wonder the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys looked the way it did.

  From what Logan could tell, the only camper who absolutely had to do his work was Private Moore. There was supposedly a real cook to help him—a guy named Mr. Frasier. He bought the food and decided what was on the menus. But if he ever did any cooking, Logan didn't know about it. And if Logan didn't make enough dinner in time, the entire camp would go hungry. Then they'd be mad. Then they'd take it out on Logan.

  “You better work harder, crap-for-brains,” Perry would say as he and Freeze and Wack Man puffed on their cigarettes.

  “I don't know what they taught you in dope school,” Freeze would add, “but any dope who works that slow is going to get his dopey butt whupped later on. You got mouths to feed.”

  “Tell us,” Wack Man would chime in. “Were you always such a crap-for-brains?”

  Logan usually found himself thinking about Jack when they yelled at him. She always knew the perfect way to deal with morons. With Robert, she would pee on his bathroom floor. With Devon Wallace, she would growl at his stupid purebred dog. And with these imbeciles … well, knowing Jack, she would probably eat their cigarettes and then maybe bite off their hands and gobble them up for a little snack—and afterward, while they writhed on the floor in agony, she would take a nice nap. And then Logan would finish making dinner and ignore their tortured screams because ignoring bad behavior was the best way to stop it.

  But he supposed he should look on the bright side. At least dinner wasn't complicated. There were only three meals. Beef stew one night, spaghetti and meatballs the next, and hot dogs and beans after that. Then the cycle would repeat. It was always the same and in the same order, day in, day out. To help pass the time, Logan also daydreamed about chopping Perry, Freeze, and Wack Man into tiny bits and adding them to the night's recipe. That way he'd have both more food and fewer mouths to feed. He could kill two birds with one stone. There might even be enough for Jack to eat the leftovers.

  “You know, that hamburger doesn't come from cows,” Perry said one afternoon. He blew smoke in Logan's direction. “It's dog meat.”

  Logan was busy rolling raw hamburger into balls for spaghetti. His hands were moist and gooey. Red juice dripped from his fingers.

  “Yo, dope, did you hear what Perry said?” Freeze asked.

  “Answer the man, crap-for-brains,” Wack Man commanded.

  Logan concentrated on the work in front of him. Freeze,
Perry, and Wack Man were sitting on a bench on the other side of the counter. All three were smoking. If Logan didn't pay any attention to them, after a while they usually went back to talking among themselves—mostly about how many people they had beaten up or ripped off or impaled. Besides, Logan was too busy to make small talk. He had a lot of cooking to do. He'd only made ten meatballs. Dinner started in an hour and fifteen minutes. He had at least another eight pounds of raw meat to go. He needed about sixtyfive balls in all. Then he had to fry them.

  “Yo!” Wack Man yelled. “Are you deaf ?”

  Logan slapped the meat together in his palms: thwack, thwack! Ball number eleven was done. It was a fine-looking ball, too, if he said so himself.

  “Logan's not deaf,” Perry said. “He's just dumb.”

  That cracked them up for a while. Then Perry went on: “Dog meat ain't so bad. Bell ate it in Iraq during the Gulf War, and he says we should, too. He says it'll toughen us up. A man ain't a man until he eats dog meat. Know what? For once, I think he's right.”

  “Me too,” Freeze said.

  “Me three,” Wack Man said.

  The three of them exchanged high fives.

  Logan tried to resist the urge to smile, but he couldn't.

  “What's so funny?” Freeze barked.

  “Nothing,” Logan said. He placed meatball number twelve on the counter next to the other meatballs, then glanced up at the bench. “Hey, can I ask you something? Did you guys all know each other before you got here? I mean, are you, like, old friends or something?”

  Nobody answered. Perry's eyes were slits. He took a drag off his cigarette. Freeze and Wack Man sneered at each other. The air filled with smoke.

  “That's a dumb thing to say,” Freeze muttered.

  “Whatever.” Logan grabbed another handful of hamburger.

  “I don't have any friends,” Perry spat. “I've taken them all out. Take out my brothers. Remember?”

  Logan shrugged.

  “Yo, Logan—look at me,” Perry said. “I told you that you would know when I was lying. Does it look like I'm lying right now?”