Page 22 of Rabid

From her pocket, she pulled a handful of dog food, letting the mother lick her palm clean in a matter of seconds. “Thirsty?” she asked gently, unscrewing her water bottle and filling its cap. The dog lapped it up gratefully, and Joan refilled it twice more before the animal finally seemed content. “Can I look at your babies?” she asked in a soft murmur.

The dog continued licking at the cap. Joan stepped closer to the bush, parting a few low-hanging branches. She saw them. Four squirming, black-coated puppies, nestled into a small hollow. Max sniffed at the air, his stub tail giving a friendly wiggle. He’d always loved other dogs, thanks to thedog park trips Joan had managed, even if they were rare these days. But Max had learned to socialize young, and he stayed back, letting the mother feel safe.

The puppies looked like perfect little replicas of their mama, with shiny black fur and small, soft bodies, though one had a white spot on its hind leg and backside, a sweet mark of distinction. Joan wondered how the mother had kept them alive, how she’d stayed so gentle and trusting after a life with Jeb. There was something almost heroic about her resilience.

Reaching into her pocket, Joan emptied the rest of the dog food onto the ground. Max didn’t protest. He understood that the other dog needed it more than he did.

Joan poured more water for the mother, watching her drink it down with desperate gratitude. The poor dog’s sides heaved, her ribs sharp and visible beneath her dark coat, and her swollen teats sagged with milk. Joan estimated the puppies were about three weeks old.

She rubbed the dog’s head. Somehow, Joan would find a way to save this mother and her pups. The dog had fought too hard. She could do the same.

It suddenly occurred to Joan; Carrie had to be the reason this mama escaped. Carrie’s kindness was instinctual and somehow survived despite the abuse. She’d often told Joan about the wildlife shetried to help. Joan’s sadness almost took over again, so she pushed it back with rage.

“If I can, I will come back for you, girl,” Joan whispered, her voice barely steady as she poured one last capful of water for the dog. The mother drank eagerly, her tail giving a hopeful wag. Joan lingered, rubbing her hand along the dog’s head one more time, as though making a silent promise.

With a final look, she turned to go, leading Max away from the small family. The mother dog followed them for about twenty feet, torn, before turning back to where her puppies waited, releasing a small whine that hung in the air like an unspoken plea.

It took more than thirty grueling minutes to circle around and approach Jeb’s property from the main road. By the time she arrived, her legs felt as if they might give out beneath her, but Max leaned in as they walked, his warm weight holding her upright. Without him, she wasn’t sure she’d still be on her feet.

She glanced ahead. The fire pit was nearly burned out. This would be the real test.

The barn.

The structure stood ahead of her, newer than the other buildings. Yet, despite the newer construction, the double barn doors looked battered and worn, the wood splintered and hanging loosely from its hinges. The doors radiated neglect, and a sense of foreboding filled Joan. Shesteeled herself, moving forward. She gave the right-side door a careful push. It creaked loudly, an agonizing sound that made her freeze, her heart pounding.

A chorus of barks erupted from within, loud and frantic, filling the air with wild, fevered energy. Max bristled beside her, his lips pulling back in a low growl.

“No,” she whispered, bending down to look him in the eyes. “If you can’t be quiet, I’ll leave you out here.” Her voice was firm, and Max went silent, his gaze steady, as though understanding the gravity of the moment.

No dogs came rushing to investigate, and that only confirmed her suspicions. They were caged, or worse, chained up and unable to move. She took a deep breath, and slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

Chapter Eighteen

Puppy Dog Tails

The barn had to be at least eight hundred square feet, with no windows or even a back door that she could see. Rows of wire cages lined the far wall, stacked two high, the metal bars rusted and bent. Joan stepped forward, forcing herself to ignore the sharp, sickening stench of urine, feces, and the unmistakable tang of decay similar to what she’s smelled inside the home. Bile rose in her throat.

On the wall to her right, ten empty cages sat on a wood frame. They had to be for the dogs Jeb left at her place. The real horror was straight ahead. Her flashlight trembled slightly as she shined it from one cage to another, her horror growing witheach glance. The dogs on the lower row stood in three to four inches of filth, a sludge-like, greenish, oily mess. It coated their paws and fur. There was no bedding, nothing soft to shield them from the cold floor. These poor animals were left in tiny prisons, existing only to suffer.

She moved the light across their bodies, revealing emaciated frames and jutting ribs. Many had open sores, raw and festering, with patches of fur missing, their exposed skin cracked and irritated. Some eyes were swollen shut from infection, milky with pus. This was where spirits came to die, she thought, looking into their dull, vacant eyes. They growled, some snapped at the air, and others howled.

In one cage, a female dog lay nursing a small litter of pups, her body curled protectively around them. At the beam of Joan’s flashlight, she bared her teeth, too tired to even growl. Joan understood. Even in a place like this, the mother was willing to fight for what little she had.

Then her flashlight fell on something worse: a dog, shriveled and dried almost beyond recognition. The small, lifeless form was curled in the corner of its cage, fur matted against shrunken skin. It had been there for weeks, maybe months, rotting in the same filth that surrounded the others. Joan realized the smell of death lingered beneath the other odors.

She drew in a shaky breath, feeling her hearttwist painfully in her chest. She pulled the light away, too sickened to see more.

The heat in the barn was stifling, even with the night outside at a much lower temperature. There was no ventilation, just a thick, stagnant warmth that made breathing feel like swallowing sludge. As she walked toward a rusted metal bucket in the corner, a rat scurried out, leaping past her flashlight beam. She jolted back, stumbling as her heart pounded against her ribs.

Turning back toward the rows of cages, her vision blurred with angry tears. There was nothing she could do right now to help them. It gnawed at her, leaving her feeling raw and hollow. She clenched her fists, knowing these animals deserved better.

Joan had to escape the barn. The scale of suffering was like a weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating her. She forced herself to take a deep breath, bracing against the nausea stirred by the putrid air. She made one last sweep of the flashlight over the barn’s interior. As she moved the light, something unusual caught her eye, stopping her in her tracks.

She stepped closer, squinting, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Several stovetops, microwave ovens, and hot plates were crowded onto a counter at the far end of the barn, each one plugged into a tangled mess of cords snaking toward a power strip. Her eyes traced the thick,worn cord running from the strip to a grimy generator in the corner. Her fingers shook as the beam of her flashlight revealed glass bottles, plastic containers, and rows of flasks and tubes crammed along the counter, covering every inch of the stained, cluttered surface.

An old bookcase leaned against the wall beside the counter, lined with cans of acetone, paint thinner, and other substances with faded labels she didn’t immediately recognize. Her gaze lingered on one small bottle labeled “red phosphorus,” and beside it, a cardboard box stuffed with bubble packets of small, red pills. She moved the flashlight over the rest of the shelf, seeing more chemicals—Drano, bleach, and a large bucket scrawled with the words “anhydrous ammonia” in black marker.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. She was standing in a meth lab. The dogs were being raised here, breathing in the poisonous fumes, enduring it as part of their horrid lives. She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to bolt. Every instinct screamed that she and Max needed to get out of there before they inhaled any more of the toxic air.

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