Bomber smelled blood, lots of it. He didn’t realize he could track. He was in Kings Row, knowing that was a rough section of town. Someone was always bleeding here.
He followed the scent around a corner to a warehouse, where there were a series of dumpsters. The scent overpowered the trash in the dumpster. He flipped open a lid, and saw, splayed out on the top of the heap of trash, a rust-colored dog with its stomach slashed open.
It was still alive, focusing his fading eyes on Bomber.
“Jesus Christ,” Bomber hissed, and did the first thing that came to his mind – he gouged a wound in his own wrist and held the blood to the dog’s mouth, rubbing it on its tongue. “C’mon, boy, c’mon…”
The dog licked it, and then found some strength and continued to lick at his wrist. Bomber watched as the wound began to heal, and studied the poor dog – it looked like a terrier/boxer mix, a rust-colored back and white chest and paws. He had a powerful chest and small ears, a larger body than a terrier. It wasn’t lean like a pit bull.
Bomber took his wrist away, and the dog snapped at him as he did. “Hey!” Bomber snarled, and the dog looked up at him. His ears went down, penitent. Bomber closed his wound and picked up the dog, placing him gently on the ground.
The dog looked up at him, almost adoringly. Bomber scratched the dog’s head. He couldn’t leave him here. Then he wondered if he had Embraced this dog, and now he was undead. I’m a sire? To a dog?
Bomber kept scratching his head, even while he smelled more blood suddenly, then it was cut off. The dog smelled it too, and turned in the same direction. The dog trotted around the warehouse to the side entrance.
Bomber opened the door and was assaulted by the smell of blood, musky bodies, and cigarette and cigar smoke. He walked in, the dog at his heels, and he closed the door.
People were cheering – there was obviously a fight. Bomber wove his way through the crowd. The blood was nearly overpowering, and he turned to his left, to see what the source of the cheering was.
The cheering died down and people in front of him sat down. His eye was caught by a cage, in which was a pit. It was too small for a human.
A dead pit bull lay in the middle of the pit, another black dog circling it, protecting his kill. Someone went in, wearing a large amount of padding, and muzzled the black dog, dragging it out. Then someone picked up the dead dog, and another person raked sand over the blood.
Bomber realized for a second that his fangs had dropped. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his own fury or the smell of blood, or both. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and he wasn’t breathing.
Someone came up to him. “How much you wanna bet on the next one?” He grinned at him, his teeth covered in gold.
“I’m just watching,” Bomber managed to say, hardly opening his mouth, hoping the fangs wouldn’t show.
“Gotta pay to watch, dawg,” the guy said, and waved a hand. Two huge goons seemed to step through the crowd, heading his way. “You got five seconds to place a bet or these guys’ll throw you out.”
“Here’s my bet – ” and Bomber swung at those golden teeth, not holding back. He saw a couple fly out of the man’s mouth.
The goons headed his way, and Bomber had no where to go. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, the rust-colored dog he had saved leapt onto the chest of one of the goons. The man wasn’t knocked over, but he had the breath knocked out of him.
Bomber tossed the gold-toothed man aside and waded toward the goons. People tried to get out of their way as Bomber met one and punched him solidly in the gut. If Bomber hadn’t augmented his strength, he knew he would have slammed his hand into a near-brick wall. The man doubled over, and Bomber followed up with an obvious hit to the jaw, knocking him sideways. Bomber threw the man into the seats to his left, ignoring the people who were standing there watching the fight.
The dog, meanwhile, had grabbed a hold of the other man’s arm and dug teeth in. His powerful jaws held on even as the man tried to shake him off. Bomber stepped in and punched the man also in the jaw, hard enough so that he could even see it dislocate. Again, he tossed him aside, the dog letting go at the last moment.
More people were coming, this time with guns. Bomber knew he couldn’t handle them all without totally breaking the Masquerade, so he headed for the door, which wasn’t very far. He whistled for the dog.
The dog stood fast at first, growling and ready to take on all comers, and then whirled around at his whistle. He ran after Bomber, almost teleporting to his side, as Bomber threw the door open and dove out of it.
Bomber didn’t know how fast the dog could run, so he picked up the dog and utilized his blood, running at top speed among the shadows, only stopping 300 yards away. It was there that he put the dog down, unflipped his phone, and reported the dog fighting pit.
After being a good citizen, he squatted down to the dog, who looked at him with his tongue lolling out and whip-like tail wagging, his eyes bright and shining. He didn’t look like a walking dead dog to him. He walked a short way to one of the small pools of water, and pointed at it.
The dog looked at him, at the water, and then him again. He sniffed the water, and then started drinking some of it. Bomber waited to see if he would throw it up immediately.
When the dog didn’t, Bomber tilted his head curiously. “Well, if you’re not Embraced, what did I do to you?” He patted the dog’s head. Then it came to him: Can I Blood Bond animals? Is that what I did to you?
“You’re coming home with me. I don’t know how I’ll get you there, though.” Bomber stood up. “Well, follow me.” He broke out into a lope, and the dog followed easily. He increased speed, and the dog was able to keep up with him.
He went to his bike, that he had parked behind an all-night diner. He had gone about half a mile away for hunting so that he wouldn’t draw attention to that area. He climbed on the bike. He had seen other riders ride with a dog in front of them. He didn’t know if he could do that.
Bomber patted the bike’s seat, leaning back to give him room. The dog stared at him, not comprehending. Bomber frowned, picked up the dog and climbed back onto the bike, setting the dog in front of him.
The dog scrambled, but Bomber forced his butt down onto the seat. Bomber couldn’t see the dials on the bike, but that didn’t matter. He raised himself above the kick-start and kicked it down.
The roar startled the dog and he jumped down in a panic. Bomber looked down at the dog, who was shaking in fear. That wasn’t going to work. Bomber moved the bike to the end of the driveway. The dog remained behind.
Bomber whistled, and the dog again ran to him. Bomber pulled out onto the street, which was pretty empty, glancing behind him. The dog waited. Bomber whistled again. The dog followed.
They played this game for a little while. Bomber ended up riding on the sidewalk because the dog would run in the middle of the street. Bomber couldn’t go any faster than 25, as he wanted to make sure the dog would follow.
They made it to Talos before Bomber looked back to see the poor dog had collapsed. He rode back, and the dog raised his head, looking sad. Now Bomber picked him up again, placing him back on the bike. The dog whined in protest but didn’t scramble off. Using his legs to keep the prone dog centered, he rode the west of the way to Founder’s.
As his mind tried to figure out the things he’d need for a dog, he said to the dog, “I hope you like the name Rusty.”
Words: 1450
Inspiration: In a podcast, “Michael Vick killed dogs…he should have been executed…” Rusty is my old dog’s name (a boxer, saved from the jaws of death 8 years ago, RIP). This dog is a boxer – Amstaff mix.
Music: Just As You Imagined – NIN