Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,74

in after him—which causes Shane to scream like a Tasered girl scout. She slides in through the passenger side door just as the tires bite into limestone scree and spin stones.

The car jolts forward.

* * *

Shane’s screams last for about thirty seconds. Then they wind down like a child’s toy with dying batteries—he slumps against the seat, the tranq taking hold. The dog sits next to him, panting, oblivious. Occasionally rebalancing his big white body as Guy takes the turns and skids across gravel toward the exit.

Ahead is the gate. Closed.

Winky in the John Deere hat is already up, barking into a walkie-talkie. He flings down the radio and goes dipping a hand into a rusted red toolbox under his metal folding chair.

Next thing they know, he’s standing straight again.

This time, with a pistol pointed at them.

This one doesn’t look like a pellet gun. Or a tranquilizer gun. It’s the real deal.

Guy doesn’t say anything—he just makes a sound that’s halfway between a scream of anger and a yelp of fear, then he steps on the accelerator. Winky doesn’t have time do anything but jump out of the way as the car crashes into the gate, flinging it open.

The Scion’s tires skate across gravel, the ass-end of the car going left while the rest of the vehicle tries to go straight. They fishtail, ending up perpendicular to the road. Leaving Atlanta facing the ruined gate.

Winky’s back on his feet. Gun up and out.

Guy hits the pedal—tires spin uselessly on stone.

Atlanta ducks, fumbles for the shotgun in the backseat.

Hands on cold metal.

Brings the gun up.

Realizes the window isn’t down.

Winky fixes that. One shot through the glass—passes through, hits the driver side window, breaking both. Glass everywhere. Guy screams. The dog howls. Atlanta uses the butt of the squirrel gun to punch out the rest of the passenger side window then leans out. Thumb pulling back the hammer on the single-barrel .410.

The pistol’s up again and about to fire. But Winky’s either smart, a coward, or both—because he throws his body into the ditch next to the gravel drive. Atlanta doesn’t even have to pull the trigger. She just keeps the barrel aimed out the window, staring down the sight.

Guy reverses the Scion—

Again the tires spin. But this time, they catch. The car whips backward into a laser-fast k-turn.

Two minutes later, they hit the road. Literally—the Scion slams up onto the asphalt with a bang and a rattle.

* * *

For the first five minutes of the drive, nobody says anything. All the hear is the car’s engine, the wheels on the road, and the dog’s breathy panting. Occasionally Atlanta shakes herself loose from the mire of her own shock and glances into the backseat to make sure the dog hasn’t chosen Shane as a meal.

Shane lays slumped. Flycatcher mouth lolling. The dog sits, staring ahead. When Atlanta grabs her own seat to turn around and see, the beast takes his dry-blood muzzle and licks her hand.

She turns back around.

Eventually, Guy speaks.

When he does, it’s under his breath. “Shit.” Then louder. “Shit.” And finally: “Shit!”

He bashes the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

“Yeah,” Atlanta says, because she’s not sure what else to say.

“Yeah? Yeah doesn’t cover it. So I’m sitting here thinking, right? I’m thinking, that’s a dog back there. From a dog fight. Except, that ain’t no normal dog. That’s no pit bull. That’s a rare breed. You know that?”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda? It’s an Argentine Mastiff. A Dogo Argentino.” On these last two words he throws a little spicy accent powder, rolling that ‘r’ like a ball bearing rolling across a snare drum. He says it again: “Dogo. Argentino.”

“Sure. Okay. So what?”

“I heard something there today. I was sellin’ some vikes to some hillbilly cracker with a bum leg and you know what he said? He said that someone had bought and was training just such a dog. You know who that someone is? Do you?”

“No. No! I don’t—“

But she realizes it seconds before he says it.

…they went and are staying with their uncle or something up on his farm in Little Ash…

…This here is my farm, so I’m glad you found our humble operation…

…Just trying to train this dumb piece of shit dog of our uncle’s to take the fuckin’ bait…

“It’s Ellis Wayman’s dog,” he says. He says it again: “Ellis Fucking Wayman.”

“Oh, that’s not good.” Panic claws its way through her.

He hits the steering wheel again.

“Pull over,” she says. “Hurry.”

Guy steps on the brakes. Shane’s drug-slumbering form slumps forward, his