Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,85
takes it delicately and, like a gentleman, kisses her hand. Atlanta notices his own hand is trembling.
Atlanta says, “I met Shane a few months ago—“
But then Shane interrupts, and blurts out in one rapid-fire question, “Hey-do-you-ever-watch-that-show-Sherlock-it’s-on-PBS-but-it-comes-from-the-Beeb-uh-the-BBC-and-it’s-pretty-awesome-so?”
And there pops the balloon. Except it’s not even a dramatic pop—more like the knot comes undone and the balloon flutters and flubbers around the room, gassy hiss as the air leaves and the balloon dies.
Damita says, “I freakin’ love that show! Moriarty is nuts.”
Which is not what Atlanta expects to hear. Suddenly the balloon is buoyant and bobbing once more.
“Well, okay, then,” Atlanta says, offering a smile that’s both amused and bemused. She hops up, pats the chair. “Damita, you can take my seat.” The girl sits. And suddenly Damita and Shane are talking about Sherlock Holmes and Atlanta just forced herself out of the convo.
People are weird, she thinks. Everybody’s someone different than you suspect. You think you have them figured out but then they do something or like a thing and it throws you from the horse you thought you were riding. Guy likes country décor. Damita likes Sherlock Holmes. Chris liked comic books (though now he doesn’t like much of anything, does he).
Chris.
Chris.
He should be here.
I miss you.
The gravity of sadness pulls at her insides. Deep breath. For a moment all the voices of everyone around her fall to background noise—a bubbling murmur, a hiss of static on a broken radio, and all she really hears is the snap-crackle-pop of the logs on the fire and then next thing she knows she’s standing next to Guy.
“Gimme something from inside that baggy,” she says.
“Yo. You sure? You got a big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
He hesitates. “Atlanta, maybe it’s not such a good idea—“
“I said gimme something. Something to keep me going. I don’t want to sleep tonight. Got any Adderall?”
“Nah, but the Ritalin will do you right.”
She holds out her hand. He fishes out a classic capsule—tan on one half, white on the other—and gives it to her. Into the mouth and then she rescues the vodka from Chomp-Chomp’s feet and—
Down the hatch. She feels it crawl down her esophagus, sliding on the breathy vodka burn.
“I’m gonna go inside, get some chips,” she says. The dog starts to get up and she says, “You sleep. Big day tomorrow, Whitey.”
Whitey’s cement block head thumps against the earth and he commences snoozing.
* * *
The kitchen is dark. She doesn’t bother turning on the light. She doesn’t even try to find a bag of chips. Instead Atlanta just plants her hands on the counter and stares at the window which is a square of darkness brighter than all the darkness around her. Speckled stars sit in the sky above. The Cat Lady’s house is a distant square with pinpricks of golden light—it’s midnight and the old woman is awake. She’s always awake, that one.
Atlanta drums her fingers on the counter. The “Vitamin R” hasn’t taken hold yet. She wants it to because she’s tired, and tired means sleep and sleep means erasing eight hours from her life—and when tomorrow comes…
Well.
Tomorrow’s going to be a bad day. No way to change that. The fights are horrible. Sometimes just before she falls asleep she hears the cries of those dogs in pain or sees their blood splashing on the ground, pouring from a chewed-up half-crushed muzzle. It’s a bad place full of bad people. She’ll be wading into murky waters thick with moccasins and copperheads, all hungry for a taste.
Still. If everything goes to plan—and the plan is so simple it’s fool-proof—then the bad day will at least end on a good note. It won’t fix everything. But it’ll go a long way toward doing what needs doing.
She’s lost in the thought of it when she hears the scuff of a shoe behind her.
Atlanta doesn’t move fast enough.
She turns—
A shadow standing there. Reaching for her.
She starts to cry out—
A mouth finds hers. Lips. Teeth against her teeth. Schnapps breath.
Her skin crawls. Her brain screams. She shoves the person back hard. Cries out. Kicks. Connects with his gut.
Chomp-Chomp oofs and doubles over.
She sees it’s him, she cries out in frustration and rage and shoves him again.
“Ow,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Shit!” she says, breathless. Skin still feeling like every inch is swarming with ticks. “You stupid asshole.”
“I swear I’m sorry.”
She rubs her face. “The hell were you thinking? Don’t you know who I am? You think cornering me in a dark