Task Force by Brian Falkner Page B

there’s still time for you,” the Tsar said. “There’s still hope.”
    “Not with you there’s not,” Barnard said.
    “We’ve got a tail,” Wilton said as they emerged from the park back onto pavement.
    Chisnall looked around to see a dog running along behind them in the middle of the roadway.
    “Well,
it’s
got a tail,” Wilton said. He slowed and extended a hand back to it. “Nice, doggie.”
    The dog growled, a deep, feral sound.
    “Or not,” Wilton said, increasing his speed.
    The dog could have been a Labrador but had longish fur. Maybe a mixed breed, Chisnall thought. It had gentle eyes, completely at odds with the harsh growl it had given Wilton. It ran beside them, tongue hanging out of its mouth as they rolled along the roadway, but disappeared as they veered onto a bike path that followed the riverbank.
    Chisnall stared down at the river. The task force was a dark mass, shrouded by the man-made mist, which persisted, despite the indecisive breeze tearing short-lived holes in it. Only the turrets of the vehicles protruded out of the water, black against the black of the river, and with its blanket of mist, the fleet was very difficult to detect unless you knew it was there.
    “See how clean the streets are?” Price said.
    Chisnall hadn’t noticed until Price pointed it out. “No litter,” he said.
    “No chewing gum,” Price said.
    “Yeah, and I bet they always signal their turns and washtheir hands after they sneeze,” the Tsar said. “They’d be real nice folk if they hadn’t started a war.”
    “Did they?” Barnard asked.
    “Did they what?” the Tsar asked.
    “Start the war,” Barnard said.
    “What do you mean?” Wilton asked. “Everybody knows what happened in 2020.”
    “Don’t believe everything you read in books,” Barnard said.
    “Dog’s back,” Wilton said.
    This time it was in front of them, having taken some secret shortcut that maybe only dogs knew. It sat in the middle of the bike path and didn’t move as they approached.
    They slowed.
    The dog growled, that same low vicious sound from the back of its throat.
    “Everybody hold up,” Chisnall said. There was little choice. The dog stood, blocking the path, its ears back, its teeth bared.
    Wilton hopped off his T-board and advanced slowly toward the animal. “Good boy,” he said in English. “Good boy.”
    “Don’t use English,” Chisnall said.
    The dog let him get within about five feet before lunging forward, snarling, only backing off as Wilton’s coil-gun swung over his shoulder into his hands.
    Chisnall found his own weapon in his hands. He hadn’t realized he had hit the release. The action had become instinctive.
    Wilton backed away. “I don’t think it likes me,” he said.
    Strings of drool hung from the dog’s jowls as it bared its teeth even more, refusing to give ground.
    “I don’t think it likes any of us,” the Tsar said.
    “It’s probably never smelled a human before,” Barnard said.
    “Shoot it,” Price said.
    “With a puffer?” Wilton asked.
    “Is just a dog,” Monster said. “Leave him alone.”
    “It’s not a him,” Barnard said. “It’s a girl.”
    “Gotta do something,” Chisnall said. “It’s going to draw attention to us.”
    He glanced up at the apartment windows that overlooked the path.
    “Is just being dog,” Monster said. He walked past Wilton, unhooking his coil-gun as he went. He held the gun out with both hands, barrel first.
    The dog snarled and barked as he approached.
    “I got a couple of vehicles on the scope, coming this way,” the Tsar said. “Could be a security patrol.”
    “Shut the bloody thing up,” Price said. “Or I’ll do it.” She drew her knife.
    “Don’t touch the dog,” Monster said. “Is beautiful animal.”
    “And it’s in our way,” Price said.
    “Don’t touch the dog!” Monster raised his voice.
    It was the first time Chisnall had ever seen him angry. Price hesitated but sheathed her knife. “Then hurry