STG - The Dog Sequence - C. A. Winter

(STG) The Dog Sequence

Written by C. A. Winter

    He snatched the keys from the ignition and dumped them in his jacket. His hair itched from the balaclava. In the rear view, the bay was motionless and dark. A lamppost at the end of the street stood orange and alone against a moonless night. Alan shuffled around in his backpack for something. He already had his mask over his face.

“Do we need to run through it again?” Robbie asked, peering over. 

“I think we’re good.”

“Back door, right?”

“Yeah. You care if I just,” Alan jabbed his finger up and pressed a button. The cab light shone for a second, and he reached into his bag. He turned it off as quickly as it flashed. 

“Dude.” Robbie whispered.

“Sorry.”

He watched the bay from the mirror. It was a nice neighbourhood with nice homes filled with nice people. The kind of people that don’t expect this kind of thing. A click, pop, and clap brought him back to the car. 

“Check this shit out.” 

“What the hell man, you don’t need that.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no one home.”

“You never know.”

“We do know, we checked.”

“Yeah, but what if?”

He checked his watch. They were running late. “Fine, whatever. Don’t kill anybody.”

They hopped onto the driveway and left their doors open to avoid noise. Alan ran along the other side of the building with his gun pressed against his leg. That worried Robbie. 

He crouched along the other end towards the back porch. A garden hose hidden under overgrown grass tripped him, and he slammed against shake siding and skinned his knee on a brickwork garden wall. His jeans ripped. He cursed but kept moving. 

At the back end of the house, he hopped onto the porch and unfurled his backpack to find his shoe covers. Booties, an overly interested clerk told him, are essential to keeping the home free of footsteps. He shuffled them over his boots and pulled them tight. Alan hadn’t made it to the back yet. He chirped the radio. “You there, over.”

“Hang on, over.”

Alan was pissing somewhere in the treeline. He gets a quivery bladder when it comes time to go. Something about adrenaline and vasoconstriction. Weak nerves. He heard thumping over grass and squinted. Alan was crouched like a cat but moving like a wet dog. He hopped onto the porch. Mud came with.

“Booties.” 

Alan scraped his shoes off on the porch’s edge and held his hand out for the covers. 

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They stood on either side of the screen door ready to go inside. Robbie’s fingers trembled as he pulled at the latch. It ached open, moaning without lubrication. Alan held it open for them while Robbie patted his jacket for his lockpicks. They were in his backpack somewhere out of immediate reach. He jiggled the doorknob and was surprised when it turned with him. They looked at each other wide eyed. Robbie furled his balaclava over his face and put a finger over his lips. Their protocol is to act as though someone is home, even if they’re not. That way if someone is, they’re less likely to know. 

Alan held the doors while they sprung shut and left the screen door propped open. Robbie went in first with his flashlight off. The place smelled like cat food, and there wasn’t much to see in the dark. Rickety linoleum, lots of grit underneath his plastic feet, tight corridors leading to tight off-rooms and ensuites. The house wasn’t nice but what they’d been promised was; a portable safe with a small collection of valuable inheritance jewellery. No code needed, just get it out. Alan tapped Robbie on the back with his pistol and pointed to a bowl of slop dog food next to the laundry machine. It was wet but almost entirely smears; high oil content or recently eaten. He motioned over to a beaten pad with stained lining next to the dryer. No dog in the bed. They shrugged and kept moving inwards. 

“Where is it again?” Alan whispered.

“Upstairs bedroom, in the closet. I’ll meet you up there.”

“Roger that.”

Alan whispered up to the second storey while Robbie cleared the kitchen. He took a peek in the fridge. Pale light bounced around the house. Inside the fridge didn’t look different than his own; old leftovers, last week’s milk, a pinch of carrot strings and onion skins. Condiments added a rainbow of color to the white walls. The fridge was the cleanest room in the house. He spotted a gold watch in the fruit bowl next to the microwave. It clunked in his pocket on top of his keys. 

The downstairs bathroom had a few bottles of anxiety pills and a man’s beard trimmer. The kind with three buzzing circles on it. He snatched the pill bottles and wiped short black hairs off of the white twist tops. According to the bottle, Janet L. Stevenson was supposed to take one of these per day as needed. They tasted metallic and felt chalky, so he swished a shot of blue mouthwash around while he took a piss in the sink. A flushing toilet would surely freak Alan out. Robbie was dehydrated. 

He wiped his hands on his jacket and moved upstairs. Each step sounded like a maraca. Alan didn’t have his flashlight on, wherever he was. Pssst. Robbie waited at the top of the steps but there wasn’t a response. Maybe the bathroom. He swished across dark green carpet towards the master bedroom. His footing wasn’t sturdy with the plastic so he dragged his feet. Psst. 

“Yo.” Alan chirped behind him.

“Ready?”

“Dude there’s a fucking dog here.”

“Where?”

“In the kid’s room on the bed.”

“What kind?”

“Big fucker. Big and black.”

“Shit.” He turned his flashlight off and dropped it into his jacket on top of the keys and pills and watch. 

“What’s that?”

“Pills and a watch.”

“Bathroom?”

“Kitchen. What’s the plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like what do we do?”

“With the dog?”

“I guess let’s just try to be quiet- close the doors, try not to wake it.”

“There’s no people?”

“No, none downstairs.”

“Weird.”

He tilted his head and they went into the bedroom. Alan locked the door behind them and put his backpack on the bed. 

“I’ll get it set up, you go find it.”

“Lights?”

“Draw the blinds, then sure. Whatever.”

Robbie crept across the room to the window. The blinds had a twist and pull mechanism to shut them. It sounded like tinfoil clanging against wood but he couldn’t get it to work. 

“Just leave it. We’ve got these anyways.”

He stepped over to the closet and pushed dozens of dresses and button downs out of the way. It smelled like people and dryer sheets. He arms weaved through towards the back wall, feeling for something other than fabric and wood. Something colder. Alan tested the saw; it was loud. He grazed an outline of a button with braille on it. A few inches higher, he tried to wedge his grip to pull it out but it was fastened to a cubby hole. 

“We gotta clear this stuff out.”

“Stuck?”

“Inset, of course.”

They traded Alan’s backpack for stacks of women’s clothes and said prayers under their breaths. Robbie shone his light inside for Alan to start cutting. As Alan stuck the sawblade into the gap, Robbie noticed a yellow corner peeking out of the wall. It had a piece of tape on the bottom. 

“Hang on,” He reached over Alan’s hunched back and ripped the paper from between the shelf and the wall. They looked at it, and he punched the code onto the number pad. It opened with a beep and the jewels glowed against black velvet lining. 

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“Holy shit, look at this one.” Robbie beamed his light through a tennis bracelet. The room was a disco.

“How much are these worth?”

“Lots, fucking lots. This’ll be crazy.”

“Give this one to Mandy- she’d dig this one.”

“Too gaudy for her, plus I got her one already.”

“Really?”

“Well, kinda. I’m looking at them. You know how it is.” Robbie shuddered. “Let’s pack up. Help me put this shit on the rack.”

“You do it, I gotta pack the bag up.”

“Can I toss these in there? I sound like a rattlesnake.”

“Alright.”

Robbie placed the clothes back on the rack like he was at a department store. Some shoulders slipped from the edge and fell to the ground. Leave no trace. Metal hooks jangled on the plastic bar. He was too shaky and too excited. 

“What’re we doing after this?” Alan zipped his bag up. 

“Home, then I’m going to bed.”

“We should celebrate.”

“I’m going home.” He shut the closet. They high-fived each other and opened the door to the upstairs hallway. A pair of black eyes glowed against the shadow of the house. Robbie’s face was numb and his hand wettened. The dog snarled at them. He imagined it had slobber hanging from its teeth and bloodshot eyes.

“Hey boy.” Alan approached. It was wet and angry. Robbie clung to the wall and wiped sweat onto his pants. The dog didn’t let up on the growls. 

“Alan.” He choked. “What now.”

“It’s just a dog; it won’t hurt us. Isn’t that right boy?” 

Robbie inched towards the stairs, holding his body as far from the animal as he could. His legs were wobbly and he needed to get out of there. The dog barked. Alan untucked his gun from his belt. As Robbie hurried to the steps, he lost his footing on the carpet and fell forwards onto the railing. Alan gasped, the dog howled. He thumped down the stairs loudly and the dog lunged after him. Teeth bared, eyes wide. Robbie’s head crashed against linoleum. A loud thud. Paws scrambled near him. He screamed, Alan jangled down the steps with his gun in hand. Robbie cursed and swung around to get the dog unlatched from his forearm. Immense pain radiated through his left side and he wept. 

“Hold still!” Alan yelled. He stood over the commotion; gun pointed at the dog.

“Don’t shoot!”

“Hold still I said!”

Robbie held his eyes shut and tried to keep the dog from biting his face. A shot rang out, then another, and the dog fell to the floor. He whimpered while Alan picked the carcass off of him. They sped off into the night but the neighbors were all awake. Robbie reeked of blood. 

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