Body Surfing

ones on the lower level. There were footprints on the countertop, many of them bloody, and runnels of broken glass testified to the dog’s carnage of the upper shelves.
    “What the fuck?” Had the dog gone crazy? Gotten rabies? He’d never seen anything like this in his life. This was Cujo stuff. Cujo on steroids.
    He went back into the hall, turned the light on in the living room. The room was in similar shape to the kitchen: sofa and chairs shredded, television and lamps overturned, the curtains ripped from their rods. Dog prints were everywhere. This wasn’t dog-on-a-bender destruction, or even dog-hunting-for-something destruction. This looked personal , as if the Van Arsdales’ dog had set out to willfully destroy everything that belonged to his master.
    Q. glanced up the stairs. There were at least a dozen sets of tracks going up and down the steps. By this point, Q. figured the chances that Jasper’s dad and his girlfriend were up there were pretty slim.
    “Hunter? Hitler? You up there?”
    Silence greeted him. He looked for a light switch to illuminate the stairs, but didn’t see one. He took a step up, peered into the shadows of the landing.
    “Hunter? Here, dog. Here, boy.”
    Still nothing. Q. took another step. He could see the first few inches of the landing, but after that all was dark. Another step.
    “Hunter?”
    Quiet. Too quiet. What did that mean? Q. wondered. Too quiet? Silence was silence. Then he realized he was holding his breath, and let it out with a nervous laugh.
    There was a single short scraping noise, and then two pinpricks of light appeared in the shadows. Q. barely had time to realize they were the dog’s eyes before 120 pounds of rottweiler crashed into him. The boy went flying backward, slammed on his back on the floor. Momentum saved him: his legs went flying over his head and threwthe dog off him. The rottweiler’s jaws, which had been aiming for his throat, snapped a half inch away from his face as the animal rolled haunches-over-head across the front hallway.
    Gunther, he remembered. The stupid dog’s name was Gunther.
    The dog’s nails clicked and slipped on the wooden floors, which gave Q. just enough time to roll onto his stomach. He didn’t have time to think, let alone grab anything. He just punched. His right fist connected with the side of Gunther’s head. His paws slipped on the wet floor and he went sliding into the kitchen.
    Q. got to his feet slowly. Gunther did the same. The dog eyed the intruder warily, teeth peeled back, a snarl razoring out of his throat.
    Q. looked around for a weapon, saw a butcher knife on the floor almost immediately, but it was on the other side of the dog. He tried to gauge the distance to the door behind him without turning his head, knew he’d never make it.
    Gunther squinted as if he understood. Even as Q. was wondering if the dog could understand him—wondered if the animal facing him was not simply a dog—it charged. Q. swung, but Gunther was expecting it. He ducked, and Q.’s fist glanced off the animal’s meaty shoulders. Jaws closed around Q.’s ankle, and he was yanked to the floor.
    Gunther jumped on Q.’s stomach and went for his throat with single-minded determination. Q. put the only thing he had between his neck and the gaping mouth closing in on it: his wrist. The toothy vise closed over it and he screamed in pain. But at the same time he felt a dozen different glands activate in his body, a flood of chemicals rush to heal the wound. He suddenly remembered, this was Leo’s legacy. This was his only weapon. His ability to heal.
    “Choke on it, fucker!” Q. grunted. He managed to twist his arm enough to get his fist in Gunther’s mouth. Q. could feel tooth against bone, could hear the sound of flesh being pulped. But he could also hear the animal sputter as it fought for breath.
    With a start, Gunther seemed to realize what was happening and tried to back away. He loosened his jaws, but before he could move Q. shoved his fist into the dog’s throat as hard and deep as he could.His fingers closed around something. The dog’s tongue. He grabbed it and held on tight.
    Blood sprayed from Gunther’s mouth as he attempted to shake Q. off. Q. was knocked to the ground, but he refused to let go. The pain in his arm was like nothing he’d ever known. He felt as if he were being flayed alive, as if acid were being poured into the wounds. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He didn’t know who was going to