TANYA ROSS - THE RESCUE

Tanya Ross is a former middle and high school teacher who now writes fiction novels for Young Adults.  Her Sci-Fi novel, Rising Up, is currently available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble. She is working on the second book in the series, Ramping Up.  Her short story, ”The Rescue” won first place in her city’s annual short story competition.  Ross resides in San Diego, County, California. You can follow her on Instagram: tjross_author  

​The Rescue
​

​            It was getting late. My sitter—also the housekeeper—left at her regular time, before I’d seen the sun melt over the top of the mountains. Dark now for hours, the stars burn through the blackness, scattering their pinpricks of incandescence throughout the inky sky. But still I won’t leave the window.
Night after night, I watch until John (I can’t bring myself to call him “Dad”) drives his car up the driveway, turns off its uneven engine, and enters through the back door.
I never know exactly what kind of mood he will be in when he arrives. Sometimes I can tell by the way he walks:  a shuffling gait—exhaustion; or other times, when it was past the usual arrival time, a squished tiptoeing that ghosts into the hallway, when he was worried he’d wake me. The entrance I always fear most is the sodden drop of heavy feet occasionally meeting the walls in places along the passageway.  It is then I cower, for John isn’t himself those nights.
Tonight is one of those occasions.  I run to the living room and cower behind a chunky recliner, tucking my awkward form out of sight.                                                                                                                  
 “Ben! ...Ben!  Ben, I’m home!” John’s voice bellows in the silence. 
            I sit perfectly still.  Now was not the time to even breathe. 
           “Ben!” 
            I hear him knock something over.  A clang, and then an echo of metal rolls along the floor.
             “Shit!”  Silence. “Damn it, you come out now.  I’m not…playing games!”
              My leg involuntarily twitches. I fight the urge to change position, but I don’t want any shift to give myself away.  If he finds me, he’d blame me for something – toys scattered around, food gone missing, or some mess I made. I think about my day, searching my brain for anything I’d done for which he could blame me. I can’t remember anything I might have done that afternoon to make him mad.  But he’d beaten me too many times for no simple reason, so I am taking no chances.  I wasn’t coming out.
            “Aww, hell. Who…cares…where you…are.” He slurs his words, sounding like some alien language.
            My ears tune in to every rustle and bump. He stumbles his way across the room in the other direction, and then there is silence.
             The clock on the paneled wall makes loud ticks, which John has struggled, without success, to fix. He has cursed it. But for me, it serves to mark time.  After waiting during a period of clicks, I peek around the side of the chair to see what John is doing to make so little fuss.  Was it just a fake out? Was he just waiting for me to let down my guard before jumping out at me? He’d done that before, scaring me into peeing, which he then ranted and raved about.
            But what I see is John laid out on his back with one arm flung out into space, and the other flat across his belly. His eyes are shut.
             I’m not taking any chances, though.  I hold my space, watching and waiting. 
             A sudden snore ripples through the room. Asleep!  I relax, knowing from past nights he is dead to the world.  I stand up and stretch, releasing the cramp in my right hip. Ah…better!
            Now I am free to roam our house without fear.  I love the darkness for discovering forbidden mysteries.  Or I can just crash in bed for the night…  I decide the latter sounded best. It is later than usual, and I am exhausted. 
            I dream of my mommy...
 Her arms are around me, and her familiar warmth envelops my whole being.  She sings to me, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” She looks into my face, and her eyes twinkle, and then she laughs. 
             The dream morphs…
            Cookies! She gives me one after another. “I love these,” I tell her with my smile, and I know she understands. 
            Pop! I sit up.  The sound has shattered my dream.   What was that? 
            I listen, worried about a stranger breaking in. Or, did John wake?  But there is only quiet. 
     I resettle myself, pulling a flannel blanket around me for extra security and warmth.  There is no heat in the house tonight. 
             I sigh. My dream had been lovely. Not all dreams were.  Dreaming of my mommy, Jenny, is my favorite. 
Everyone celebrated when John and Jenny adopted me. I was only a baby. But growing up I had only felt a part of the household when Jenny was home.  She was the one who wanted the adoption. 
            She took me to a special school, made sure I had plenty of playmates, and always bought me toys. She cooked my food from scratch. She said nutrition was very important, but there were always cookies.  And even though I didn’t like being dressed up, Jenny bought me all kinds of jackets, hats, and shoes. Unlike John, she made sure I wanted for nothing. 
            The day John broke down in tears, I knew it was bad.  Then, she left on a rolling bed.  I never saw her again.  I asked myself if I was to blame. Was I too much trouble? Is that why she left?  Or, did she tire of John?
            Within two days, someone I’d never seen took away all her clothes and knick-knacks in an enormous truck.  There was nothing left of my Jenny at all.  After a time, even the smell of her perfume no longer lingered in the house.
             I close my eyes, not in sleep, but in sadness. I drift off…
            Again, I wake.  A noise of a unique sort. A quiet roar, like a furnace running, is coming from the other room, where John slept.  But this sound is not our furnace.  That I know.  And a smell, a little like when John is cooking, wafts my way. I spring out of bed.
            When I reach the end of the hallway to the source, I freeze. My hair stands on end.  My heart races.  I step back and cry. I behold John still asleep on the couch. A yellow heat crawls up the curtains. As I watch, the brightness tears across the room, eating an electrical cord alive.  I have never witnessed such a beast, but I know instinctively the monster can take my life. John’s too.
            Get away!  Run!  Find a way out.
            What about John? I don’t like him, but could I leave him? This demon will discover him—and eat him.
             What can I do?  I’m small. I’m nervous. John even called me “useless.”
I feel my eyes grow big. A bright snake, curved and winding across the floor, blocks my path to the only close exit, the front door.  It writhes and hisses, spilling heat. I back up, but it doesn’t matter. The serpent only approaches faster. A dusty fog swirls and expands around me, and a heavy, acrid stench turns my stomach. Is it steel wool in my throat?   I choke, trying to cough it out.  And my eyes!  They burn like nothing I’ve ever felt. Worse, my vision is murky.  I struggle to see.  Am I going blind? Why can’t I see?
            I shake my head, but my eyesight won’t clear.  I pace and whine in frustration, but my sudden handicaps are making me weaker every moment I delay. I’m afraid of John, but more terrified by what’s happening. There’s no choice.  I must find him in the haze. Get him up. 
            I think of Jenny and recall how she praised my sense of direction.  I have to trust it.
            I remember the route to the couch, jaggedly dodging obstacles that loom up.  My blindness lifts at the sight of flickering objects. A sparkling, dancing orange phantasm reclines in John’s favorite chair. As I watch, the specter’s arms reach out thinly over the sides of the chair, as if to gather it completely to itself.  I skirt it, only to brush too closely by what looks to be a person with a brilliant aureole. Has the invader already consumed John?  Am I too late?  No…merely a floor lamp. But the blackened pole leaves a sting across my back.
             At last I am there.  The couch. And John is still sleeping.
            I throw all my weight against him and howl, “Get up!  We’re gonna die!” He shifts slightly.  I dance away a few feet and then take a running jump, landing on top of him, this time with as much force as I have.
            He moans and opens his eyes.  “Ben! Stop—!”  I fall back, panic-stricken. He sits up. “Oh shit, oh SHIIIIT!” 
            John leaps up from the sofa and grabs me tightly around the middle, crunching my ribs, and lifts me up.  It hurts, but I don’t even whimper.  He wraps a blanket from the couch around the two of us.  I’m already uncomfortably hot, but I don’t resist. We run in befuddled zigzags for the door across the field of vipers; their tongues singe us. John cries out, his words hanging like the sludge in the air.  He coughs and splutters. He pulls the blanket down over his face as if he can’t bear to look ahead.
            A series of last leaps, and we’re there. I’m breathing hard. John jerks the door towards us, the heat behind us thrusting us out. We dash to the front yard, making our way to the furthest corner of the grass. Fresh air.  Escape from the beast. We are safe.
            Sirens from up the street shred the silence. Piercing noise always unnerves me, but this time I remain quiet, more worried about how I can’t stop trembling.
            John releases me, and I tumble away, my heart still beating out of my chest. Drool drips from my mouth.  I shake it off, ashamed. 
            A truck drives up, screaming and honking, a red monster hell-bent on a mission. The shrieking hurts my ears. It halts, and a group of men, all in hats, rush to our house, two of them weighed down. They carry what I’ve seen John use outside for watering, but these are bigger and spray forceful blasts of water. A few fellows wear masks and sprint directly to the house.  I watch, wide-eyed, as two guys run full tilt toward the heat and destruction. They’re shouting, but they don’t appear to be a threat to either of us. 
            From the front patio a nervous man paces back and forth yelling at the top of his lungs to John. “Anyone in there?”    
          “No. No—just us!”
            The person shouts back. “Thank God!”
            The roof in front of him crumbles and drops.  He falls back, calls something out to his friends, and then sprints our way. When he runs over, I’m excited. I want to talk to him—to show my appreciation for what they’re doing.  But I know the stranger is there to speak to John.  I hang back.
            “You’re one lucky man, Mr.—?”
            “Dreyfuss.  John Dreyfuss.”  John holds out his hand, and the kindly man grabs it. 
            “You just got out in time. Smoke alarm?” The hero looks at John quizzically.
            “Nope…no.  I got him to thank.” John’s hand waves in my direction.
            The visitor claps John’s shoulder. He hurries away, shouts already on his lips.
            “Ben.”
            My eyes go to John, and I wince, sure he’ll blame me for the demon in the house.
            John kneels down to my level, grabs my face and looks into my eyes. His own are full of tears. “Ben…without you, I’d have died in that fire.  You’re a good boy, Ben. The best dog anyone could ever want. I’m so sorry…”  He grabs my collar, smashes his face into my fur, hugging me, my steel ID tags jingling.
            I bow my head knowing that Jenny would be proud.  But, more than that, John and I will go forward, this time together.  To love and be loved.  That is why I exist.
                                                                     The End