My family has a motto. It has been part of our heritage since my mother’s Italian grandparents immigrated to the United States and my great-grandma embroidered it onto a piece of white linen. Fede e Speranza per il Futuro. It means Faith and Hope for the Future.
My heart starts to flutter with hope. And faith. For my future. I glance up at my brother again and his eyes meet mine. He nods, the slightest bob of his head.
I squeeze my knife hilt and grit my teeth. As if they can sense my resolve, three dogs come tearing out of the open doors—the German shepherd that tried to eat Kevin yesterday, a Doberman, and a husky. I am ready for them. Ready to fight. And then Jonah steps in front of me, blocking my view. Something flashes in his hand, metal and glass catching sunlight—and I expect to see a knife.
Jonah doesn’t wait for the dogs. He digs his feet into the ground and runs. He’s inhumanly fast, running at the Doberman. He leaps the last few feet and rams the needle into the animal’s sleek black neck, wrapping his other arm around its head. They hit the ground and skid on the dead grass.
A massive weight slams into me and I face-plant into the dirt that was dug up by dog claws the day before. I roll over and swing my knife at a pair of forelegs. The knife hits, but the German shepard is oblivious to it. It jumps onto me, knocking me flat on my back. My head snaps against the ground and pain blurs my vision. I blink and my sight clears just in time to see the German shepherd’s dilated pupils and sharp teeth as it lunges for my neck. I scream and throw my right arm in front of my face, and the animal’s mouth closes over it.
“Imporre!” I shriek. Lie down! The dog growls. “Goccia!” Drop! The dog doesn’t respond.
My arm feels strange—like I have an itch deep inside that I can’t reach. I look at it and want to faint when I see the animal’s teeth sunk deep into my flesh and my blood mixing with foamy drool. My hand goes numb, and the knife slips to the ground as I wait for the creature to snap my bone and swallow my wrist and hand whole.
But then something happens. The German shepherd’s nostrils flare. It eases its teeth out of my skin and sniffs me. The animal’s pupils shrink. Trembling, I pick up my knife from the ground with my left hand and stand, ready for the next attack. The shepherd crouches and then lunges toward me. I lash out with my knife, and air and dirt whip against my skin. But the dog doesn’t touch me again. It soars over me. I turn and watch it sprint toward Jonah.
On the other side of the tree, Jonah is pinned to his back, struggling against the husky and Doberman. Two empty syringes gleam on the dead grass beside him.
My gaze moves beyond Jonah to the open door the dogs came through. I could run. I could leave. I could live. Relief spills through me like a waterfall. I take a step toward that door, and then force myself to stop. A sob rips at my throat. Freedom is so close that what I am about to do physically hurts. Turning back to Jonah, I clench my teeth, tighten my hand around the knife hilt, and run to his side.
He’s barely visible beneath the pile of dogs. I stand a foot away from him, staring, not knowing what to do. He swings his forearm into the Doberman’s face, and the animal yelps and falls to its side, dazed.
“Jack! The German shepherd,” Jonah gasps. He thrusts his blood-covered hand out of the mass of snarling dogs. He is clutching a full syringe. I take it from him. The glass is slippery with blood—his and mine. I ram the needle into the shepherd’s thigh and depress the syringe, injecting clear liquid into the animal. The dog doesn’t notice. I drop the empty syringe to the ground with the others.
“Is it done?” Jonah asks. He’s got his hands wrapped around the snout of the husky, keeping the animal’s teeth from his face. The Doberman, still dazed, stands beside Jonah, shaking its head. The German shepherd’s teeth are clamped around Jonah’s forearm, and I’m terrified it will chew his arm off—until I remember he’s wearing the electromagnetic cuff. The dog’s teeth don’t sink in.
“Yes! It’s done!” I say, wondering why he even cares when he’s being thrashed by massive, viscious dogs. Jonah knees the German shepherd in the side, throws the husky off him, and lays his head down on the brittle grass. Peace softens his scratched face, and I realize he’s resigned himself to the fact that he is going to die today.
“Jonah! Get up! Fight!” I yell. His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head a tiny bit, as if it’s all he can muster. And then all three dogs lunge at him.
I stand and hold up my knife. “Come and get me!” I scream. “Venire! Get me!” The dogs don’t even flick their ears in my direction. Jonah’s eyes are closed. I step into the brawl and start kicking and slashing at the dogs. I might as well not exist—the dogs are so intent on Jonah.
“Why won’t the dogs attack him?” It is Flint’s voice, carrying over the noisy raiders. “I thought you said these dogs attack everyone but . . .”
Except for the sound of the dogs, the courtyard goes dead silent, and all eyes focus on me.
“The dogs attack anyone but a woman,” Soneschen states.
“But the dog attacked him at first,” says Flint, studying me.
“Until it got a good smell of her.” Soneschen rubs his chin, and a slow smile spreads over his face.
My hands slowly fall to my sides, and I hold my breath while my eyes sweep over the men standing on the roof. I never thought this morning could get worse. I was wrong. The raiders are staring at me like … well, like I’m a woman. The only woman alive on the face of the earth.
Flint laughs and rubs his hands together. “I think we’ve had the wool pulled over our eyes, boys!” He turns to my brother. “Call off your dogs and get them out of here. We’ve got ourselves a female in our midst.”
“Vieni!” Dean yells. It means come. The dogs pause and look toward the voice. Slowly, muscles bunched beneath their fur, they back away from Jonah. With their lips peeled back from their bloodstained teeth, they trot toward the building Dean is standing on. Dean’s eyes meet mine. He knew all along—Dean knew they wouldn’t attack me.
I crouch beside Jonah. His clothes are damp with blood and shredded in places. I press my hand against his cheek, and he groans and rolls onto his side.
“Gentlemen,” Dean calls. I shade my eyes and squint up at him. “Take a good, close look at these dogs. They are made to tear men to pieces. They listen to no one but me. They are an unstoppable weapon—it takes a bullet straight to the heart to slow them down, and more than one bullet to kill them.” He smiles—a real, true smile. “I have made them for a very special purpose.” Soneschen and Flint both step up to the edge of the building and peer down at the dogs. Dean looks at the two men and his smile grows wider, making his eyes mere slits. And then he puts a hand on each of their backs. And shoves.