Lost Dog

The world had gone horribly wrong. Stars were spinning and the ground was flying past the walls the wrong way. Everything he felt, burned his eyes. Everything he saw screamed in his ears. Everything he heard cut his body into little pieces. He thought that this must be like being dead... except he could not recall being alive. He thought he was going to vomit again; but he wasn't sure how he was going to do that.

And suddenly it came back to him, his very center squeezing, constricting, forcing his insides out as he fell to the ground. Time was moving again and he weakly pulled himself up on his hands and knees, as the vomit exploded from him. All he wanted to do now was avoid drowning in his on barf.

He could see others vomiting about him. He couldn't place them. He could see this wasn't the bank; but he wasn't sure what that meant to him. He could see some dollars in a pile and he thought it should be bigger. But then his body heaved so hard, he expelled everything but his stomach itself. And still the squeezing painfully until the world spun again and he fell into its spinning maw, grateful to be allowed to pass out.

Harold Romano came to on his stomach and it took a moment to focus.

He knew he was in danger, but he couldn't remember from what. But he seemed awfully glad to look down his muzzle and see... his muzzle. No dark dungeon.

No... he wasn't worried about that. It took a moment to think... his head was a little cloudy. He'd been drugged. Helpless. Anything could have happened. He moved his hand to his line of site. It was the same furry hand he'd always had. Cleanest it ever was, perhaps, but it was his hand all the same.

Then he recalled the bank robbery and those four young children so hideously transformed. From mammals to reptiles, instantly. Their biology and heritages snatched from them without warning. The four fake guards that swapped their species out... the most amazingly invasive form of identity theft that he could think of.

The dog sat up and found himself in a nice room. It was a little girl's room. Not so very pink, but bright and full of cartoon quadrupeds prancing around the room. Horses. But idealized, a young girl who hasn't gone riding yet. Little girls, once they started riding, studied conformation of their mounts. Cartoon horses and ponies lost their appeal. He couldn't make out the species of the room's owner or why he was here from these meager clues. It was a child of no one he knew, he felt certain.

The sun was setting... or maybe rising. He had no idea how long he was out.

He was naked. The taste of vomit was gone from his mouth. Someone had very carefully... and intimately... cleaned him up.

He pulled the pastel coverlet over his crouch.

The telephone next to the little girl's bed started to ring, almost making him flinch. For a moment, he hesitated answering the phone because it wasn't his house. The thought made him feel even more ridiculous...

It was a cordless phone that did not match the décor. It was not in a charging base. It was obviously left there for him.

"Hello?" He listened carefully, understanding that everything he heard, not just every word spoken, could be a very important clue.

"Mr. Romano," the voice said. Cultured, not mocking, but obviously the voice of the large monster that had commanded the Repts that had held everyone hostage to witness the terrible act of transformation. "You'll find your clothes and wallet downstairs, folded on top of the dryer. Mrs. Wilder will be out of the house for a few more hours... her daughter we'll be experiencing the 'protocols' for the very first time at the hospital. It's very tragic, and very demeaning... but it's something my people have to deal with all the time. Anyway, you have time, but please do not keep Zhu-Zhu waiting. I'm sure she's very worried about you."

Harold had no idea what this creature was talking about. He'd half expected threats. He didn't know what to say. He listened to elevator music in the background of the phone call.

After a moment or two, the voice continued. "We know all about you, Mr. Romano. We researched everyone at the bank, you see. You're a good man and we have no interest whatsoever of depriving the world of yet another good man. In time, we would like to offer you something, with no strings attached. But not today. Today we ask that you deliver a message... the man your friends in blue shot today was not a bad man. The men, actually, they shot were not bad men, but the man the cops murdered in some sort of reflex action was a guard like you... in fact, if we'd done this the day before or the day after, it might well have been you killed."

"Who's dead?" His fur was standing on end. A small frightened pup in the back of his head, waited for the voice to say that he was. The day seemed surreal enough.

"One of the guards. His name was Lavene and he used to be a Bulldog. We are sorry to say we changed him so that he could experience what it was like to be a Rept in this society. Your police shot him dead. And sadly, that is, too, part of the experience of being a Reptile. Police shooting unarmed Reptiles every day and no one doing anything about it."

"This is your fault," Harold said simply without guilt or anger. He couldn't picture Lavene. Not that it mattered now. If the voice was to be believed, Lavene didn't look like Lavene when he'd been shot.

There was a sigh at the other end. "Yes," the voice admitted after a moment. "And that is why you were not returned changed. The world needs all the good men it can get."

The phone disconnected.