Chapter Five: My Furry Ass Gets Saved

Gravity Dog hates zombies almost as much as he loves steak. Why can't the United State of America ever get invaded by New York strip sirloins? The answer is not in Chapter Five!

It’s hard for me to admit, but Jonny Cosmic was pretty good in the dark. He wasn’t even wearing his night vision goggles. Of course, I was leading the way and it was difficult to watch him, but I have my ways of checking out the new guys. For example, he was quiet. As quiet as—and I mean it as a compliment in this context—a cat. Another important point: no matter how many times a tree branch whipped his face, or a root stubbed his boot, he didn’t hiss “Shit!” like all my other partners. Some humans are just born to be targets. I’m dedicated and committed, make no mistake, but if I could write a letter I would ask my Commanding Officer to please, just give me a dog partner. Someone more like me.

We were getting close to the enemy base, which was concealed in the wooded foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Although it was a fact that Super-Mart’s army of re-animated zombie mercenaries could not be distracted by the powerful attraction of Missouri barbecue, our Intelligence had reported that the ranking officers were susceptible to those savory, smoky charms. Let them gorge on brisket and pulled pork, and I would serve the rich dessert of their demise.

I’m not a barbarian. Think of me as a technician who writes the code of war and uploads the program. An artisan who carefully weaves the cloth of destruction, and embroiders it with beautiful gold threads of death. I am a craftsman of ruin, a student of mayhem. I get delicious treats when I return from a successful mission. Being a killing machine has its advantages.

Jonny Cosmic quietly read off coordinates from the display on my titanium-kevlar backpack. We were very, very close to our target—a cinder-block barbecue joint full of enemy officers. I can't read very well, but I recognized the letters "BBQ" emblazoned in flickering neon on the side of the building. Cosmic started to bury the shaped charges—mines—that would cover our exit from the scene. I dogfully resisted the urge to help him dig: my job was to get a proper lock on our assigned target. Using my nose to complement the state-of-the-art electronic gear on my back, I ran my equipment through all the standard routines. Nothing—but then suddenly, something amazing. Hypnotic. Not far from where Cosmic and I stood, an irresistible force beckoned. It called to me with a scent that subverted reason, rendered all logic void, and overrode common sense. The siren call of cat poop.

I trotted away from my target acquisition zone to find the object of my insatiable passion. The pull was too strong, like the way that the gravity thing pulls at the planet things. And there it was: close to the location of my intended assassination victim stood a cluster of young trees, and somewhere within that cluster of trees lay heaven. I crept closer, crawling on my belly like a reptile. The smell—oh! the smell was so sweet. Like mother’s milk and puppy breath. I wanted to roll in it, to carry the scent back to my pack. I wanted to feast.

That’s when shrill alarms pierced the quiet of the encampment. At the exact same moment, several things happened. The first: something large rushed up from behind me and knocked me down. It was my partner. I couldn’t breathe for a couple of minutes. Second: an amazing sizzling sound came from the tree grouping I was about to walk into, as a Tactical Anti-Dog Fusion Mine discharged itself with the fury of ten suns, in an area not much larger than a typical human sofa. The third and most important thing: Jonny Cosmic hit the manual override button on my target acquisition system, and launched my full payload at our target. As the BBQ building, the Super-Mart field commander, his associates, and some flavorful condiments were vaporized by my SKANK-79 missiles, the force of detonation pushed me backwards into Cosmic’s arms. It was time to get out of there. All hell was breaking loose, and the zombies were mobilized—I can’t recall with perfect certainty whether or not I licked Jonny’s face. I think I’ll just deny it.