Zombie the Wonder Dog

Interruption

The matches roll around within the little box, held in my trembling hands. There aren’t many left. Three matches.

Enough to start a fire.

I look down at the tank of gasoline at my feet. It should make the whole process go faster. It’s gonna be painful, I know that. But the burns all over my body remind me of how much it hurts.

The irony of it all never fails to amuse me. I only became a firefighter to get closer to one of the few things I loved growing up. Big mistake, as it turned one of my only comforts into a nightmare.

Is this normal? Is feeling pure fear and comfort at the same time from the same thing a natural response?

This might help me find out.

The nightmares I have replay the events that led up to my disfigurement. The flames devour everything in my sleep. The house laid low. The people incinerated. The very foundations are turned to ash. My face and arms a mass of shining skin.

Might as well finish the job.

I’ve checked before this hour. No civilians are nearby. No unnecessary casualties. I might be crazy, but I’m not a sociopath. At least this crazy woman has common sense.

I take a deep breath. I tell myself, This is it. I pick up the tank of gasoline and start walking to the front door.

Count your assets, Chris. Do a final check.

Three matches left in the box.

Two scratches on the front door.

A tank of-

What?

The scratches on the front door catch me off guard. That’s not part of my plan. As soon as I think that, I hear two more scratches, and then, a whimper.

I put down the tank and put the match box in my jacket pocket. I guess that the plan will have to wait.

The front door swings open from the early winter winds. The cold stings my face so badly that tears stream down my face. At first, I can’t see what was scratching my door.

Then, I hear a thump, and I look down.

The most pitiful creature I’ve ever seen has collapsed in my doorway. Its long, bowed legs have buckled beneath it. Something I think must be a tail has been shredded of all fur from the middle down. I can’t tell what color its fur is supposed to be. Dirt, drainage, and what I pray isn’t blood mats its scraggly coat. The left ear sticks straight up, while something has bitten the right ear in half. The left eye is vivid blue, and the right eye is dark brown. Another animal’s tooth sticks out just above the right eye.

The poor creature looks up at me and whines. My own self hate melts away like snow, replaced with pity.

“Hey there, buddy,” I say as I lean down to it. I hold out a curled fist for it to sniff. It lifts its miserable head, sniffs my hand, and licks it with a scabbed tongue.

“There we go,” I say. I cautiously reach out and scratch an area of scruff coated with dirt.

Flump. Flump. Flump.

The creature - I think it’s a dog - wags its tail against the ground. It wearily staggers to its paws. I notice its cracked, overgrown nails, some of which bleed nastily.

Normally, I don’t let stray animals in my house, but something about this one pulls at my heart. It’s a pitiful creature, just like me.

“You cold there, buddy?” I ask. The dog wags its tail even more and shivers violently.