I Should Have Gotten a Doberman

This story was co-written by mblank.  Anything brilliant about it is do to her input, and any failing it has can be attributed to moi.  Want to add your own two cents to the piece?  It needs a better title.  Suggestions?



Word Count 2768



        Joe leaned back in his kitchen chair, full bellied and contented after his evening meal.  His Labrador, Bear, stared at him with her giant brown eyes, wagging her tail.  “Of course there’s something for you, girl,” Joe said, tossing her the last scrap of beef from his plate.  She wolfed it down and Joe laughed, rubbing her head with his hands.

         A noise broke through his basement door, and he started.  “What the fuck was that?” he said to Bear.  To Joe, it sounded like a rather ordinary cough, a man’s cough.  Nothing that would ordinarily concern him, but it came from his basement.  And no one should be in his basement.

         Bear nuzzled his hands again.  She didn’t hear it.  Joe remained absolutely still, ignoring Bear’s pleas for attention.  He heard nothing more, and his heart rate slowly returned to normal.  Deciding it was nothing, he patted his dog and sat down to read the paper.

         He was engrossed in another article about an unfounded terrorist threat when he heard a crash from downstairs.  A sound as though someone bumped his bicycle in the dark and knocked it down.  His eyes shot to Bear, who had rolled over, her ears perked up.  Goddamn it.  She heard it, too.  They both listened intently.

         There was nothing more at first.  Then, after some time, there came the creak of a man stepping on the lowest of Joe’s basement steps.  A large man.  The stairs creaked again, and again.  Joe’s heart leapt into his throat.  Someone’s climbing the steps!

         Joe’s adrenaline pumped and his mind grasped for a plan.  The gun’s downstairs, he might have the gun.  Bear started to whine, and Joe went cold.  She never did that.

         The footsteps continued up the stairs, coming ever closer.  Joe called for Bear and bolted out of his house.  Stopping at the edge of the lawn, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-11.

         A police car pulled up only moments later.  A tough looking cop strode out of the car, his mouth in a line and his uniform crisp.  He approached Joe.  “What seems to be the problem?”

         Joe explained what happened, trying hard to keep his voice even.  Officer Zincio radioed the station and told them what happened in cop-speak.  Then he told Joe to stay on the lawn and entered the house, gun drawn.

         Joe’s heart raced while the officer was gone.  Whoever was in his basement sounded huge.  He cursed himself for keeping his gun down there.

         Officer Zincio returned from his search unharmed, almost smirking.  “There was nobody in there.  Nothing upset.  Not even your bicycle.”

         Joe detected the sneer in the man’s placid expression, and bristled.  “Maybe whoever it was left out the back door.”  Officer Zincio said nothing, and Joe flushed a bit under his gaze.  “What do I do now?”

         “Your house is secured.  You can go back in.  Remember, prevention is your best defense.  Make sure you always keep your doors and windows locked, and keep all access points secure.”  He spoke slowly and regarded Joe with an air of amusement.  “Especially the basement windows.  I noticed they didn’t have locks.”

         “They’re too small for even a child to get through.  And they’re rusted shut.”

         Officer Zincio got in his squad car, and drove off into the night.  Joe went back inside with Bear and locked his doors.  He couldn’t shake his unease, or his irritation at the officer’s flippant attitude.  To subdue both, he performed his own thorough search of the premises.  He also found nothing.  Joe went to bed.

         The next morning, Joe stood in the sunlight flooding through his kitchen window.  He was up to his elbows in dish soap and feeling much better about the previous night.  Convinced he’d been overreacting, he babbled to Bear about her positive attributes and assured her she was a good girl.

         When she failed to rub against his legs at the praise, Joe turned to see what was wrong.  Bear stood stiff, her attention focused on the basement door.  She whined.

         Joe’s tone changed.  “Quiet girl.”  He tilted his head and listened.  Nothing.  His heart slowed again.  “What are you trying to do to me?” he asked Bear, scratching beneath her floppy ears. 

         And then he heard it, the creak of the steps. 

         “Holy fucking shit,” he whispered, his mouth drying.  He forced some bass into his voice.  “Who’s down there?” he shouted.  The sound of climbing continued.  Joe and Bear ran from the house.  He stood in a neighbor’s yard, taking a vantage point to watch both of his doors, and called 9-11.



         Officer Zincio came out of Joe’s front door.  He shook his head as he spoke to Joe, more disgusted than amused this time.

         “I’m telling you, someone was in my basement.”  Joe flushed at his wheedling tone.

         The policeman left.  Joe dragged his reluctant dog into the house, despite her whining protests.  He shook his head.  “I can’t believe I named you Bear.  I should have gotten a Doberman.”

         Joe searched his house from the top down.  He hesitated at the basement door, then forced himself to go down.  He found nothing.  His eyes carefully surveyed the mess, but it was in the same order he left it.

         He retrieved his metal lock-box from a high shelf and opened it.  His thirty eight lay undisturbed.  He pulled it from its box and loaded it, muttering, “I’ll be damned if I’m calling the cops again.  If only there was some way I could get a look at, whoever the fuck it is…”  Joe’s voice trailed off as his thoughts took over.  There was a way.  An obvious way.

         Joe went to the hardware store.



         Later that evening, Joe stood fairly pleased with his work.  A cable ran from his computer to a mini-camera in the basement.  It was positioned to view the landing by the basement door.

         He’d installed three heavy duty deadbolts on the door as well, but didn’t feel the reassurance he’d hoped.  He couldn’t help but think, I really should get a Doberman, too.



         After a fitful night of sleep, Joe sat quietly in his kitchen chair.  His gun lay on the table.  Bear lay on the floor.  His hands shook as he drew his coffee to his mouth.  Nothing was happening.

         The tension in his mind reached a fevered pitch, and Joe wondered again if he might actually be crazy.  Maybe that asshole cop is right.  He stretched, about ready to give up the wait, when he heard it again.  The large man on the steps.  Climbing.

         Joe grabbed his gun and pointed it at his basement door, unable to steady it.  “Who’s there?”  No response came, and he tried to keep his voice strong.  “What do you want?”

         The footsteps drew closer, the stairs groaning ever louder.  Jesus, he must be massive.  Joe resettled his grip on his piece.  He heard the final creak, onto the landing behind the basement door.

         Joe’s mouth grew dry as the knob swiveled a half turn.  The door pressed against its deadbolts, the wood splintering a bit.  Then there was silence.  Joe and Bear stared at the door, waiting.

         They jumped when something smashed against the door, making it buckle toward them.  “Holy fucking shit,” Joe said.  His nerves failed him, and he ran from the thing, Bear on his heels.  He raced upstairs to the computer room, and flicked on the monitor, needing to know what it could be.

         His mind could barely make sense of the image on the screen.  The flesh on his balls crawled as he stood frozen, gazing at it.  “Oh my fucking God.”

         Seconds later, the basement door erupted in a splintering crash.  The thing wasn’t on his computer screen any longer.  He couldn’t move.

         The creaking sounded again, this time on the stairs to the second floor of his home.  Joe cursed his tactical error.  He was trapped.

         Thinking quickly, he locked the door, steeled himself, and pointed his gun, ready for the beast to break through.

         The footsteps came closer, as it creaked down the hardwood floor of the hallway.  Stopping outside of his door.  He could hear its wet breath.

         “What are you waiting for?” he whispered, gun cocked and ready.

         The door burst inward, and Joe fired off all six shots, screaming.  He soiled himself as the creature still came for him, and scrambled for the window.  Pain like he’d never felt flashed through his body, and then there was nothing.



         Officer Zincio pulled up in front of the house for the third time that week.  He was getting tired of the man’s nonsense, and if it had been Joe himself that had called, he wouldn’t have bothered showing up.  But it was a neighbor this time. 

         She’d reported shots fired.

         Zincio shook his head.  He should have paid closer attention to the wack-job.  Hopefully the man didn’t hurt anyone.

         He pulled his gun before he swept the first floor.  Feeling grim at the extent of the property damage, he checked the basement.  Almost surprised to find it empty, he headed to the second floor of the house.  His gorge rose when he found what was left of Joe’s body.

         After regaining himself, he called the mess into the station.  Then he remembered the dog.  Bear cowered in the bedroom, distraught but unharmed.  He knelt by the dog, kneading its flesh while he waited for back up to arrive.



         Three hours later, police chief Edward White pulled up to Joe’s house, irritated by the swarm of television vans and reporters setting up shop.  He strode through the crowd, muttering they’d have their statement shortly, biting back a comment about parasites.  He went inside, and hurried up the stairs.

         Bill Dawson, the county coroner, stooped over piles of goo on the floor, framed by blood spattered walls.

         “What the holy hell happened here?”

         Dawson looked up, his eyes hollow.  “Evening, chief.  Better put your shoe covers on.”  White complied, unable to keep his eyes from the gory mess.  “And watch your step, too.  It’s more slippery than snot in here.”

         The chief stepped into the room, surveying the scene in stunned silence.  The door had burst inward, and barely hung by a hinge.  There was no corpse, just scattered pieces of a human body, ultra-real Halloween props that reeked of death, and already, decay.  For a moment, his stomach churned like a rookie’s, and he feared he might be sick.  But the moment passed.  He turned his attention to the coroner.

         “What happened here, Bill?  Some kind of Manson type thing?”

         Bill stammered, his composure having fled.  “I’m not sure.”

         Edward’s brow creased.  He’d never heard such trepidation from the man.  “You’ve got to have some idea.  The vultures are gathered outside already.  I need to know something, so I know what not to say.”

         “It’s all very perplexing.  I really can’t say--”

         “Come on, Bill.  How long have we known each other?”

         Bill exhaled, his posture relaxing a bit.  “Since Caesar.”  He shot haunted eyes to Edward.  “Can we talk off the record?  I need to do a thorough table exam to be sure, but I have some thoughts.”

         “Let’s hear them.”

         “Looks like this old boy got killed by being ripped apart.”

         Edward rolled his eyes, sure the doctor was yanking his chain.  “Get serious, Bill.”

         Bill gestured at the bloody walls.  “See all this blood, here?  See how they look like spatters and not smears?”  Edward cocked an eyebrow, waiting for more.  “Nobody wiped the blood, it got flung.  And the pieces of flesh.”  He pointed to hunks of grey dried onto the wall.  “And his limbs look as though they’ve been thrown.  An explosion wouldn’t have done this.  It looks like he was torn to shreds.”

         Edward took it all in, keeping his gaze on his friend’s face.  The man looked rattled, that much was sure.  “What else do you have?”

         Bill spoke more evenly, handing him a set of latex gloves.  “Put these on and check out the gun.  Be gentle, don’t mar any prints now.

         The chief opened the cartridge.  “Looks like the gun was emptied.  You find any bullets?”

         “Just one,” the doctor said, leading the doctor to the doorway.  “It was lodged halfway into doorjamb.  Take a good look at it and tell me what you see.”

         Edward pulled out his reading glasses and examined the bullet, still lodged in the wall.  “The old peepers aren’t what they used to be, but it looks like there might be some green paint on this bullet.”

         Bill nodded, his movement growing slightly erratic.

         “Now look at the floor over here.  What do you see?”

         “Edward frowned.  “Looks like more green paint.  But what does it mean?”

         “Why do you think it’s paint?”

         “It looks like it’s already starting to dry.”

         “Take another look,” the coroner said.

         Edward squinted, sure he must be seeing things.  “It looks like it’s coagulating.”

         “Yes.”  A look like relief flashed on Bill’s face.

         “Are you telling me this is blood?”  Edward tried to wrap his mind around the idea.

         “No, that’s what you’re telling me.”  Bill’s features were stiff.  “Isn’t that interesting?”

         “You’re a corker, Bill.  Come on, what has green blood for God’s sake?”

         “I’m a scientist, Ed.  I know a trick question when I hear one.  We both know nothing has green blood.”

         Edward’s mouth formed a line and his temper rose.  “Okay, Bill.  Enough of the Socratic method, here.  Tell me what you think happened.”

         “That ain’t my job, chief.  I don’t do investigations, just report the facts.”

         “Damn it, Bill, you’re the smartest person I know.  A man was killed here.  I need to know what you think happened.”

         “All right.”  Bill sighed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.  “Joe knows there’s an intruder in his house.  He locks himself in this room with his firearm.  The intruder breaks through the door, and Joe fires all of his bullets into the intruder.  Except for that bullet in the door trim, that one went all the way through the attacker. The bullets are still in whatever the hell is was that killed Joe.  They were in it when it tore Joe limb from limb.”  The man’s voice shook when he finished his speech.

         “Whatever killed him?”  Edward tried to keep his tone sarcastic despite the chills that iced his nerves.  “You mean whoever killed him.”

         “I mean whatever killed him,” Bill said.  “Whatever it was, it wasn’t a man.”



         Joe’s case was never solved.  The family was informed, and a funeral held, though the casket displayed stood empty.  Zincio, Dawson and White all went to pay their awed respects, to make up for the guilt of not catching his killer, and the relief they felt that they never got close.

         Officer Zincio often thought about the day he found Joe’s body.  He petted Bear, wondering if the dog still thought about the attack that took her previous owner.  She’d been good company for him since the incident, and he hoped he’d been the same for her.  She had nowhere else to go after Joe’s death, the man had no family.

         Again and again, Zincio looked Bear in her big, chocolate brown eyes, and said, “What happened to Joe Dolesky?  Huh, girl?  What did you see that day?  Who could have done that?”  She nuzzled his leg, and he rubbed her head with both hands.  “If only you could talk.”



         Zincio sat at his kitchen table, eating a lonely breakfast.  Bear watched him, and he smiled at her hopeful eyes.  She knew she’d be getting the scraps.

         He hadn’t had the nightmares the night before, the visions of Joe’s remains.  He’d slept through the whole night, and felt pretty good.  Maybe it’s over.  Maybe I can finally forget.  The scene flashed behind his eyes for years, haunted his dreams almost every night since that day.  But the good nights were more frequent, now, and Zincio started to hope he’d be okay.

         “Come here, Bear,” he said, when he’d finished his breakfast, ready to give her half a sausage and a bit of his egg.  He looked to her when she didn’t respond.  She sat with her ears perked, staring at the basement door.  She whined.  She never did that.  “What’s wrong, girl?”

         After a moment, he heard the sound.  Nothing too strange, something like a cough.  A man’s cough.  But no one should be in his basement.  A moment later, his basement steps creaked as though strained by the weight of something large, climbing toward the door.