He didn’t understand. How could he? When I brought him to where the shelter had been, he dashed excitedly into the crater, smelling the bloodstained rocks, whining and scratching at the rubble.
He couldn’t fathom how Ben’s scent could be so strong, so fresh, and yet there was no Ben. Puzzled, he sat for a long time, facing down the lane, staring into the distance.
I had kept Ben’s dog safe, chained up at my house, but after the explosion, I brought him with me to the site. I shouldn’t have come back, though; I shouldn’t have brought the dog.
This story in a continuation of my 100 words from last week, entitled
The Colour Lime
which ended with the hunted Ben loading himself with grenades and
taking aim with his rifle for when the Hunters came to get him.
I just imagined that he would be named Ben and he would have a dog who looked like this.