only basic training. It was just an energetic warm-up.
Half an hour into training, the old man had the dogs put their training to use.
This was the real stuff.
Ten dogs were assigned a four-story building, one of the many in this deserted Dead
Town, and the command was given. Take it. The dogs scattered in all directions, rehearsed the motions of herding people into
the building, cornering them. The dogs scaled the stairs, sprang through doors and
windows, in and out, all the while barking. They moved in a sort of formation, in
collaboration, like three sheepdogs guiding a herd of several dozen sheep. They acquired
the ability to “cleanse” a building within a set time frame.
They practiced jumping. The old man had them wait at attention along one of the roads
that crisscrossed the Dead Town. A car came driving along, and they jumped on top,
jumped over. Or they ran around it. They forced the driver to slow down, jumped onto
the hood. This, ultimately, was their goal. To block the windshield, obscure the driver’s
view, make the driver lose control.
To cause havoc in urban environments.
To do battle in the cities.
Here in the Dead Town, they were learning. Little by little.
The old man handled the dogs so masterfully it seemed, looking on, as though he were
not merely training the dogs, but honing their intellect. Little by little. Gradually
each dog came to understand its particular specialty. If a ladder stood leaning against
a wall, the dogs darted up it. They also learned to climb trees. They would wait in
the foliage, keeping still, biding their time, until their prey came along, until
a person walked directly underneath, and then they would pounce, they would attack.
This morning, they were learning to carry burning branches, torches. For seven days
now they had been engaged in this task. Learning to be arsonists.
The dogs learned “subversive activities.”
All at once, the twenty-some-odd dogs froze. They turned and faced the same direction,
growling. In warning. An intruder had appeared on the field. The old man commanded
them, with a single clipped word, stop. Don’t attack. A few of the dogs kept growling,
so the old man called them by name.
“Asha, down! Ptashko, down! Ponka, down!”
Each dog obeyed instantly as its name was called.
“Aldebaran!”
One last dog, scolded, fell silent.
Now all the dogs were crouching on the ground, staring at the intruder, at the girl
who had put on her coat and come outside. She stood seven or eight meters away from
the old man.
“What, are those fucking dog names? Call ’em Pooch or something,” she spat.
In Japanese.
Easy, stay there, the man ordered the dogs in Russian.
They understood.
What the fuck are you doing? I came to watch you, asshole. Playing around with your
dogs. Don’t fucking stop, she said in Japanese.
Well, well, this is a surprise, the old man said, walking over. What is it, little
girl? Are you interested in my dogs?
Don’t fucking come near me, gramps, said the girl.
If you like dogs, the old man continued, maybe later I’ll show you the doghouse.
It’s fucking winter out, you senile dick.
There are puppies.
I fucking told you not to come near me. Don’t fuck with me.
But the girl made no move to leave. The old man was right in front of her now, standing
still, ready to talk. To have a conversation, in Japanese and Russian, that would
communicate nothing. The girl glared up at the old man. The difference between their
heights was about the size of an adult dog, foot to shoulder.
You’re quite an interesting little girl, the old man said.
Yeah, fuck you too. You’re probably calling me a brat in Russian, I know. Whatever,
senile old dick, the girl replied. Someday I’m gonna fucking kill you.
The old man grinned. Smiled. For real.
“Huh?” the old man exclaimed suddenly. He wasn’t talking to the girl. He had looked
away, sensing something. His face was
Half an hour into training, the old man had the dogs put their training to use.
This was the real stuff.
Ten dogs were assigned a four-story building, one of the many in this deserted Dead
Town, and the command was given. Take it. The dogs scattered in all directions, rehearsed the motions of herding people into
the building, cornering them. The dogs scaled the stairs, sprang through doors and
windows, in and out, all the while barking. They moved in a sort of formation, in
collaboration, like three sheepdogs guiding a herd of several dozen sheep. They acquired
the ability to “cleanse” a building within a set time frame.
They practiced jumping. The old man had them wait at attention along one of the roads
that crisscrossed the Dead Town. A car came driving along, and they jumped on top,
jumped over. Or they ran around it. They forced the driver to slow down, jumped onto
the hood. This, ultimately, was their goal. To block the windshield, obscure the driver’s
view, make the driver lose control.
To cause havoc in urban environments.
To do battle in the cities.
Here in the Dead Town, they were learning. Little by little.
The old man handled the dogs so masterfully it seemed, looking on, as though he were
not merely training the dogs, but honing their intellect. Little by little. Gradually
each dog came to understand its particular specialty. If a ladder stood leaning against
a wall, the dogs darted up it. They also learned to climb trees. They would wait in
the foliage, keeping still, biding their time, until their prey came along, until
a person walked directly underneath, and then they would pounce, they would attack.
This morning, they were learning to carry burning branches, torches. For seven days
now they had been engaged in this task. Learning to be arsonists.
The dogs learned “subversive activities.”
All at once, the twenty-some-odd dogs froze. They turned and faced the same direction,
growling. In warning. An intruder had appeared on the field. The old man commanded
them, with a single clipped word, stop. Don’t attack. A few of the dogs kept growling,
so the old man called them by name.
“Asha, down! Ptashko, down! Ponka, down!”
Each dog obeyed instantly as its name was called.
“Aldebaran!”
One last dog, scolded, fell silent.
Now all the dogs were crouching on the ground, staring at the intruder, at the girl
who had put on her coat and come outside. She stood seven or eight meters away from
the old man.
“What, are those fucking dog names? Call ’em Pooch or something,” she spat.
In Japanese.
Easy, stay there, the man ordered the dogs in Russian.
They understood.
What the fuck are you doing? I came to watch you, asshole. Playing around with your
dogs. Don’t fucking stop, she said in Japanese.
Well, well, this is a surprise, the old man said, walking over. What is it, little
girl? Are you interested in my dogs?
Don’t fucking come near me, gramps, said the girl.
If you like dogs, the old man continued, maybe later I’ll show you the doghouse.
It’s fucking winter out, you senile dick.
There are puppies.
I fucking told you not to come near me. Don’t fuck with me.
But the girl made no move to leave. The old man was right in front of her now, standing
still, ready to talk. To have a conversation, in Japanese and Russian, that would
communicate nothing. The girl glared up at the old man. The difference between their
heights was about the size of an adult dog, foot to shoulder.
You’re quite an interesting little girl, the old man said.
Yeah, fuck you too. You’re probably calling me a brat in Russian, I know. Whatever,
senile old dick, the girl replied. Someday I’m gonna fucking kill you.
The old man grinned. Smiled. For real.
“Huh?” the old man exclaimed suddenly. He wasn’t talking to the girl. He had looked
away, sensing something. His face was
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