Cadaver Dog by Doug Goodman Read Free Book Online Page A

zombie.
    “Quiet, Murder.” Angie leaned back against a gray boulder. Murder restrained himself to low growls. His hair stood on end.
    A giant six-legged monster uncurled its segmented body from what remained of the body and dragged itself away, twitching and curling and uncurling with half its abdomen blown to bits. Angie had never been so close to a living wasp that wasn’t attached to a damned thing’s head. Her heart pumped like engine pistons when the foot is jammed on the accelerator. The crimson wasp scowled viciously at her from its compound eyes as it fell behind some rocks and curled up and died.
    The monster gone, Murder circled Angie, his tail waving low. He did not like her down on the ground. As far as Murder was concerned, humans were two-legged creatures and should be upright, not down low with him.
    Like all trackers, the first thing Angie thought of was not her health (or lack thereof) but rather collecting the new scent item. She ripped off a spruce branch and used it to lift the dead wasp out from behind the rocks. She cringed as she held it out as far away as possible. Even though common sense told her the wasp was dead, her imagination told her otherwise. Any shift in the wasp’s position made Angie gasp.
    A few minutes later, she had gingerly walked back to the creek. Her butt hurt from falling, her arms were sore from unloading the Magnum, and her shoulder felt like it had been kissed by a steamroller. Suddenly Murder caught wind of something and ran across the creek barking happily.
    “Murder, get back here!” She would have to work on his recall.
    Murder came back a minute later, this time with her father. The beam of his flashlight danced in the woods.
    “I heard the shots and came as fast as I could. What happened? Are you alright?” he asked, staring at the dead wasp suspended between spruce branches.
    “I’m fine, I guess. Murder went and found the wrong wasp, but we got a new one.”
    “That’s wonderful, Angie. Did you reward him?”
    “I was busy trying to save my life.”
    Her father put his arm around her. “You could at least reward him for finding me.”
    In fact, Murder was running circles around them both and barking piteously. Her father took the branches from Angie so that she could reward Murder with his chicken. Angie reached to her back pocket, though, and found it was empty.
    “Shit. We have to go back, Dad. I’ve lost his toy.”
    “It’s alright. He will learn to make due.”
    “But it’s his chicken. You don’t understand. He’s OCD about the thing.”
    “Then we will find it in the morning or get him a new one. Right now you need some rest.”

Chapter Three
    Two ibuprofens and a pack of ice later, and Angie was back in her bed. Her father kenneled Murder, who whined and hollered like a mother with a lost puppy. Even from the house, Angie could hear Murder’s wails. It was a piteous thing to listen to.
    The next morning Angie’s arm was swollen and stiff, like a solid piece of steel. She took some more pills and wished the medical geniuses of the world could build a better ibuprofen. She went to the barn and turned on her radio while she fed the dogs. It was an old transistor radio, a kind that was rarely seen anymore. Instead of electronic buttons, there was a big, fat silver knob for changing the dial and a punch button for switching between AM and FM frequencies. It was an ugly shade of beige. A thick antenna rod that reminded her too much of the creatures she hunted extended from the radio. Angie found a talk radio station and started filling bowls with her one good arm while she listened to the discussion.
    “Welcome back to Around the World . I’m Charles Blight. Today we are talking about the origins of the crimson wasp. We just heard a new report from Dr. Ahuja Chatterjee about evidence that the crimson wasp originated in Thailand as an offshoot of the emerald wasp. I have two other guests with me to discuss two very different origins.