From a Buick 8(96)

I got that far, then took a good look at him and dropped the bowl on the floor, splashing my ankles. He was shivering all over ? not like he was cold but like someone was passing an electric current through him. And foam was dripping out from both sides of his muzzle.

He's rabid, I thought. Whatever that thing had, it's turned D rabid.

He didn't look rabid, though, only confused and in misery. His eyes seemed to be asking me to fix whatever was wrong. I was the human, I was in charge, I should be able to fix it.

'D?' I said. I dropped down on one knee and held my hand out to him. I know that sounds stupid ? dangerous ? but at the time it seemed like the right thing. 'D, what is it? What's wrong? Poor old thing, what's wrong?'

He came to me, but very slowly, whining and shivering with every step. When he got close I saw a terrible thing: little tendrils of smoke were coming from the birdshot-spatter of holes on his muzzle. More was coming from the burned patches on his fur, and from the corners of his eyes, as well. I could see his eyes starting to lighten, as if a mist was covering them from the inside.

I reached out and touched the top of his head. When I felt how hot it was, I gave a little yell and yanked my hand back, the way you do when you touch a stove burner you thought was off but isn't. Mister D made as if to snap at me, but I don't think he meant anything by it; he just couldn't think what else to do. Then he turned and blundered his way out of the kitchen.

I got up, and for a moment the whole world swam in front of my eyes. If I hadn't grabbed the counter, I think I would have fallen. Then I went after him (staggering a little myself) and saying, 'D? Come back, honeybunch.'

He was halfway across the duty room. He turned once to look back at me ? toward the sound of my voice ? and I saw . . . oh, I saw smoke coming out of his mouth and nose, out of his ears, too. The sides of his mouth drew back and for a second it seemed like he was trying to grin at me, the way dogs will do when they're happy. Then he vomited. Most of what came out wasn't food but his own insides. And they were smoking.

That was when I screamed. 'Help! Please! Help me! Please, please help me!'

Mister D turned away as if all that screaming was hurting his poor hot ears, and went on staggering across the floor. He must have seen the hole in the screen, he must have had enough eyesight left for that, because he set sail for it and slipped out through it.

I went after him, still screaming.

THEN:

Eddie

'What's wrong with him, George?' I shouted. Mister Dillon had managed to get on his feet again. He was turning slowly around, the smoke rising from his fur and coming out of his mouth in gray billows. 'What's happening to him?'

Shirley came out, her cheeks wet with tears. 'Help him!' she shouted. 'He's burning up!'

Huddie joined us then, panting as if he'd run a race. 'What the hell is it?'

Then he saw. Mister Dillon had collapsed again. We walked cautiously toward him from one side. From the other, Shirley came down the steps from the stoop. She was closer and reached him first.

'Don't touch him!' George said.

Shirley ignored him and put a hand on D's neck, but she couldn't hold it there. She looked at us, her eyes swimming with tears. 'He's on fire inside,' she said.

Whining, Mister Dillon tried to get on his feet again. He made it halfway, the front half, and began to move slowly toward the far side of the parking lot, where Curt's Bel Aire was parked next to Dicky-Duck Eliot's Toyota. By then he had to have been blind; his eyes were nothing but boiling jelly in their sockets. He kind of paddled along, pulling himself with his front paws, dragging his rump.

'Christ,' Huddie said. 'Look at that.'

'Help him!' Shirley cried. By then the tears were pouring down her face and her voice was so choked it was hard to make out what she was saying. 'Please, for the love of God, can't one of you help him?'

I had an image then, very bright and clear. I saw myself getting the hose, which Arky always kept coiled under the faucet-bib on the side of the building. I saw myself turning on the spigot, then running to Mister D and slamming the cold brass nozzle of the hose into his mouth, feeding water down the chimney that was his throat. I saw myself putting him out.

But George was already walking to him, toward the dying ruin that had been our barracks dog, taking his gun out of his holster as he went. D, meanwhile, was still paddling mindlessly along toward a spot of nothing much between Curt's Bel Aire and Dicky-Duck's Toyota, moving in a cloud of thickening smoke. How long, I wondered, before the fire inside broke through and he went up in flames like one of those suicidal Buddhist monks you used to see on television during the Vietnam war?

George stopped and held his gun up so Shirley could see it. 'It's the only thing, darlin. Don't you think?'

'Yes, hurry,' she said, speaking very rapidly.

NOW:

Shirley

For me, it was the worst part ? hearing Eddie tell how I agreed with George that only a bullet would serve. I turned to Ned, who was sitting there with his head down and his hair hanging on his brow. I put my hand on his chin and tilted it up so he'd have to look at me. 'There was nothing else we could do,' I said. 'You see that, don't you?'

For a moment he said nothing and I was afraid. Then he nodded.

I looked at Sandy Dearborn, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Curtis's boy, and I've rarely seen him with such a troubled expression.