Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,77

fridge that she finds the note.

It’s in her mother’s handwriting and it’s held fast to the fridge by a Dunkin Donuts magnet. The note reads:

Atlanta

Gone for few days. Cousin Harley is down in Richmond and hes a lawyer now so I’m visit with him to help with forclosure prob.

Love

Mama

Atlanta plucks the message. Reads it a few more times just to make sure she gets it.

She should be happy about this. House to herself, for one thing. But more importantly, if the shit goes down here and the Mountain Man comes looking for his dog or the Nazi shit-birds come home to roost, Mama won’t be standing underneath the sky when it comes falling down.

But that’s not how Atlanta really feels. What she feels is anger at her mother running away. And sadness over being alone. And above all else, fear. She’s scared. Scared of what’s coming, scared of having to face it all by herself. Once in a while she’d just like to be a little girl again, crawling up into her mother’s lap and watching television and eating M&Ms and popcorn of out of one big bowl. That can’t happen. Not now. Maybe never again. It’s a hard realization figuring out your parent is just another crazy screwed-up human being.

Just like everyone else ever.

* * *

Three days come and three days go and nobody comes for her or the dog. Nor does Mama come home. She calls on the morning after Atlanta finds the note, and Atlanta thinks to yell at her mother, to open up with not one barrel but two, but somehow she just doesn’t have it in her. Day after the mess at the Farm and Atlanta’s feeling sore all over. Groggy, too. Like she was a little bit drunk. Or maybe like she was chained up to a metal pole and hit in the back with a canine tranquilizer.

Instead she just tells her mother everything’s fine, it’s quiet, no problem.

It’s not fine. Atlanta’s twitchy, now. A shoot-out will do that to you. She keeps thinking she sees movement by the windows—just a shape, just a blur—but nobody’s ever there. Sometimes when the house is quiet she suddenly hears breaking glass or the bang of a gun but it’s all in her head. Shakes her up just the same.

Two days later and Mama’s still not home. Called again on the evening of the third day just to say that Harley’s got a job he’s doing but when he’s done he’ll sit down and go over the house situation. In the meantime she’s “hanging out” there.

Atlanta sits on the screened-in porch. The first fireflies of the night flicker to life. Cicadas complain in a curtain of sound. The dog rests his head on her lap and makes a low satisfied whine in the back of his throat.

She says that out loud: “The dog.”

Last few days she’s been feeding him whatever she could find around the house. Out-of-date Ritz crackers. Generic brand Cheerios (“Ring-yos”). Ramen noodles. Microwave pizza. He ate it all. No complaints. Of course, that means she’s damn near out of food. Atlanta makes a mental note that tomorrow will be a food shopping trip. Last year they were able to get food stamps but they changed the rules and now if you’re under 60 and you have too many assets—like, say, a falling-down old farmhouse—then no food stamps or assistance for you.

But she’ll be okay. She’s still got some of Jenny’s money left—though the rest sure would be nice. She thinks that tomorrow could be a kick-ass shopping trip. Won’t have to go to the Amish store for off-brand or expired food. She can hit the Giant instead, pick up some fancy cheese and lunchmeat, some soft white bread. She’ll still have enough for a month or two of the mortgage, help stave off the foreclosure a little while longer.

“I guess I ought to buy you some proper dog food,” she tells the dog.

The dog looks up at her from his resting place on her lap. His eyes move, but not his head. His jowls are pooled underneath him like bedsheets.

“Don’t get excited. You’re still not my dog.”

The dog closes his eyes.

“Though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to name you. Just so I’m not running around saying, ‘Hey, dog, come here,’ or, ‘Hey, dog, quit lookin’ at me like that.’” She ruminates on it. “I could just call you Asshole or Shithead. Because you’re kinda both, you ask me.” One eye opens and the dog