Don't You Love Your Dog(Randal Martin) Don't You Love Your Dog



January 16, 2016


There is an Asian man standing in the snow outside my peephole.
I am hiding this type-written testimony in a plastic sandwich container in the bottom of my empty water softener basin; the same water softener basin that I hid inside while the Tenders cleared the house. The population's computer hard drives were wiped clean by an electromagnetic pulse 3 days ago; eliminating my original journal along with my physical contact with the rest of the world. The Tenders took Abby away; they found her under the stairs when the Spiders scanned the basement. They took her away and boarded up the main level of the house. It's too late for escape now. The news-feed is gone. We have gone Radio Beijing.

Trapped in my basement, watching ground-level through my four-inch dryer vent hole, I saw Albert, kitty-corner from my house, chopped to pizza toppings by one of those mechanical Dog-Bastards as he was laying his guns
down on the driveway. Guns are no longer a threat at this point. The Dogs were originally programmed by ArcSat to collect the guns. It's only a formality now.

The Dogs want to collect us. The only thing louder than the szeet-szeet-szeet noise coming from that Dog-Bastard's metal appendages as it tore Albert up was the sound of the neighbor kids screaming as they were carried by the Tenders and tossed into the back of the gore-stained mail truck. So much for the neighborhood watch.

After the outbreak of the Sceptre-A virus, the population was encouraged to get the vaccine. Most people, yours truly included, got the flu shot after the initial outbreak. Holdouts who refused the vaccination were hunted down and processed by the Tenders.

I feel ants crawling in my blood. I feel the veins sliding around in my face and inside my skull. I can see spider-mites under my eyelids. My body
has become a hive.


January 17, 2016

I woke up to see that Albert's house had been cleared by the Tenders. The ground level windows and doors were boarded up and marked with a red painted “K”. Sometimes I hear the szeet-clomp szeet-clomp march of the
mechanized Dogs; sometimes I hear conversations in Asian; sometimes I hear screams. The basement is an icebox though I remain warm. It must be a side effect of the vaccination. The water pipes are frozen, ready to burst from the ice. The electricity is off. I am almost out of canned food and bottled water.

My blood feels like grape jelly, moving like a tide. Pulsing. Submitting.


January 18, 2016

Three survivors on snowmobiles are attempting to open the fire hydrant across the street. One man is wrenching on the spigot while his companions keep watch, snowmobiles idling. I hear rapid szee-szip-szee-szip-szee-szip sounds coming from the right, out of my vision. The men keeping watch scream “Spiders!” armed with chunks of rebar. Entering the frame from the right are several mechanized insects, dog-sized daddy-long-legs with blue homing lights. The Spiders tippy-toe within four car lengths of the men; the Spiders halt, their eyes switching to red. The men rally to their idling snowmobiles.

The piercing sszzzzzeeee erupting from the spiders shears the icicles from my roof. Two of the men make it to their snowmobiles as the Spiders spring from the slushy pavement. The third man takes a swing with his rebar at the nearest bounding Spider and is swiftly overtaken by two of the insects at his waist. The first Spider charges and contorts the man into a kneeling position; the second Spider approaches with an extended leg tipped with an injection device. It drives the device into each of the man's legs. He becomes frozen into a kneeling position while his torso, remaining mobile, thrashes around in a semicircle, like a mad aerobic exercise; white eyes bulging like ping-pong balls. His gagging squeezes out of his throat with a strangled croak.

With their companion still thrashing in place, the two remaining men on snowmobiles accelerate out of view with several Spiders leaping in pursuit, their surgical red eyes focusing on the snowmobiles.

It's dark. I cannot see the man pinned in the snow, but his agonized croaking is making my blood pop like seltzer bubbles.

Headlights from an approaching truck reveal the writhing man back into
my frame. I can see the front end of the mail truck, headlights illuminating the area. Two dark shapes in body armor approach the man, laughing and speaking to each other in Asian. They place an egg shaped beacon on the ground at the man's knees. It blankets the man in a red aura, making him appear like a twisting demon. The men return to the mail truck and exit stage left.

I am almost out of water. I may only be able to type my journal during the daylight. I am running out of matches and battery life. Typing is very difficult now, my hands are beginning to feel like they belong to someone else.

submit.

Szeet-Clomp-Szeet-Clomp I hear approaching from stage left. A Dog-Bastard with two Spiders come into view behind the man, still twisting like an
insane living statue. This Dog-Bastard is the size of a small cow with it's skin and muscles removed. A metallic machine with rubber tendons. It stops behind the man and extends a long tubular siphon. It drives the siphon into the man's back as he lets out his only volcanic scream. The Dog and Spiders exit stage right, the red light still illuminating the grisly scene, leaving the man quiet.

I felt something scurry across my skull, it's using my scalp as a bedsheet. I know it is; I know it.


January 19. Submit

I drank the last of my water. I was going to scoop snow from outside the dryer vent hole with a measuring cup duct-taped to a broom handle but decided against it. Any movement outside the house may alert the motion
detecting drones hovering above the town. I am going to break apart the frozen water pipes in the basement to extract water from them. submit.


submituary 2016, 20

I cut my hand on a piece of sharp copper breaking apart the water pipes. The blood wasn't like grape jelly, but there is a pale greenish pus oozing out with the blood. There are flakes in the pus. I was able to get enough water for the day, though I am now out of food.


January 2SUBMIT1, 2016

If I can reach my cup into the snow outside, I may get enough to drink today. My blood is talking to me; it's telling me to be strong. I will be safe if I go outside to the red beacon in the street. I can climb out the second-story window and jump into the snow. submit.


January 22, 2016

There is an Asian man standing outside my peep hole. My blood is asking, don't you love your dog? I am very quiet.


January Su, BMIT

I submit this testimony to the(don't you love your dog) generations years from now, in this little sandwich container. I hope that somebody ((don't you love your Dog-Bastard??)) will find this and know what happened to(submit) me in my basement the winter of

((SUBMIT!!))

(dont you love my Dog)

2016 and the freedom that we gave away.

((I know you love my Dog))
I am going to the red glow. I am climbing out the window. I am falling into

(submit)

the snow.

I love my new dog.

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