Conflicted Home (The Survivalist Book 9) A American (fun to read .TXT) 📖

One of the men with a thick shock of red hair and beard to match asked, “Them your dogs?” He spoke with a thick drawl that reminded me of Appalachia. I’d walked around in front of them, keeping their fire between us.

“Yes, they are.”

“Shit,” he muttered and shook his head.

“It’s just a dog,” his partner practically spat.

“No, it’s not. It’s my dog. And my little girl is going to be very sad you fuckers killed her.”

“We gotta eat too. You shouldn’t let your dogs run around like that. You’re lucky we didn’t kill the other ones.”

“Lucky? I’m lucky you didn’t kill my other dogs?” I asked.

He shrugged and spat into the fire. “It ain’t a crime to kill a dog.” His red-headed partner glanced up at him, but didn’t say anything and turned his gaze back to the fire.

“I guess that depends on who you ask. Didn’t see the collar on the dogs?”

The man shrugged. “That don’t mean shit.”

I wasn’t sure what to do. Yes, they killed my dog. But they were obviously starving as well. Would it be right to kill a man that simply needed to eat? These thoughts were roiling in my head when the man reached out to what I now knew was a hind quarter from my dog roasting over the fire. He ripped a piece from it and stuck it in his mouth, then looked up, glaring at me as he chewed.

It wasn’t a conscious decision to pull the trigger, and I jumped when the Springfield barked fire. He fell backwards, landing on the ground with his mouth open and his tongue pushing the half-chewed meat around. The bullet hit him high in his chest, nearly dead center. From the sound of it, the round hit his trachea. He was gurgling and clutching his neck.

His partner rolled to the side, curling into a ball on the ground. I looked down at the pistol in my hand, then back at the stricken man. He was still struggling as blood pooled in his mouth and he coughed it out onto his chin. It mixed with the chewed meat, making for a disturbing scene. Then he looked at me and reached a hand out towards me.

I shook my head and said, “You shouldn’t have killed my dog. And you damn sure shouldn’t have started eating her in front of me.” I raised the Springfield, the front sight between his wide, wild eyes; and this time, I consciously pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck him in the corner of his left eye. His head fell back and blood bubbled in his mouth with his final exhale. The red head, hearing the release of his friend’s final breath rolled over and looked at him, then at me.

“Look, I’m really sorry. We were hungry. I didn’t want to kill your dog. I really didn’t. But what else were we supposed to do?” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “An, and you’re the Sheriff! You can’t just kill me!”

I looked down at the star pinned to my chest. I plucked it off and stuck it in my pocket. “Right now, I’m not the Sheriff. To you, it’s just a dog. But she was more than that to my family and you took her from us.”

“But, it’s just a fucking dog!”

“Not to me,” I replied as I raised the pistol and fired two quick rounds into his head.

I sat down on the log beside the dead men. The leg was still roasting over the fire and I kicked it off. Holstering the pistol, I looked around. Drake and Meat Head were gone. They never did like gunfire. I imagined they were probably already back at the house. Standing up, I walked over to examine Little Sister’s hanging carcass. I shook my head and looked down at the .22. I snatched it up and gripped the barrel like a bat and smashed the rifle against the tree. The stock splintered into pieces. I looked at the barrel and action and swung it two more times until the barrel was bent nearly ninety degrees before throwing it to the ground.

Going back to the two men, I found a grubby backpack and dumped it out onto the ground. An old blanket was in the pile of filthy clothes and other crap. I took the blanket over to where the dog hung and laid it out on the ground. I piled her entrails, hide and head into the blanket. It was then I saw she’d been shot between the eyes at what was obviously point-blank range. I could see the powder burn in her fur.

The scene was clear. The dogs, being friendly, probably came up to these guys. When they saw the rifle, I imagined Drake and Meat Head ran. But Little Sister was always more tolerant of guns and wouldn’t have been scared. And the bastard pointed it at her head and shot her. I looked back at the two dead men and suddenly didn’t feel as conflicted as I had. I cut down the rest of her carcass, dropping it onto the blanket. Then I picked up the quarter the bastards were cooking and placed it into the blanket before folding the corners up.

I picked her up and slung her over my shoulder and started back towards the road, pausing to kick the fire out. It was a long walk home with the weight of the dog over my shoulder. The longer I walked, the worse I felt about it. Sure, I always said the dogs were lazy and useless, but they were part of my family. A part I would now have to tell the rest of my family was gone. This hurt more than anything.

Little Bit and the kids often played with the dogs. On really hot days, the dogs would go to Danny’s and get into the pond to cool off. The kids would often be there with them