Bulldog

 The first sign was the silence. For seven years, Gus had been a symphony of snores, farts, and the wet, percussive thumping of his tail against the furniture. He was an English Bulldog, a forty-pound loaf of wrinkles and slobber, and Arthur loved him more than he’d ever loved a person.

But on that Tuesday, as the sky outside bruised a sickly purple, Gus was quiet. He sat in the center of the worn Persian rug, staring at the wall. Not just looking, but staring, as if he could see something writhing beneath the floral pattern. His jowls, usually slack and dripping, were pulled tight.

“Hey, boy,” Arthur said, kneeling. “You okay? Something in your belly?”

He reached out to scratch Gus behind the ears, his knuckles brushing the familiar, velvety skin. Gus didn’t lean into it. Instead, a low, guttural rumble vibrated from his chest. It wasn’t a growl of warning. It was a growl of pure, unadulterated malice. Arthur snatched his hand back as if burned.

The change was there, in the dog’s eyes. The warm, goofy, chocolate-brown irises were now flat, black discs, reflecting the room’s light like chips of obsidian.

A storm broke with a violence that rattled the windowpanes. The lights flickered, then died, plunging the old house into a world of shadows and the drumming deluge outside. Arthur fumbled for his phone, but the battery was dead. He was alone, in the dark, with his dog.

A click-clack sound. Gus’s claws on the hardwood. He was moving, not with his usual waddling gait, but with a liquid, predatory grace. His bulk seemed to have compressed, the fat under his skin now visibly a writhing carpet of muscle. He stalked around the coffee table, his head low, the black eyes fixed on Arthur.

“Gus. Sit. Go to your bed,” Arthur commanded, his voice a thin reed. The sound of his own fear was a sudden, sharp thing in the room.

The bulldog’s lip curled back, revealing teeth that were too long, too yellow. A string of thick, viscous drool, darker than it should have been, stretched from his jaw and plopped onto the floor. The smell hit Arthur then, not the usual “Frito-foot” scent, but something sweet and rotten, like meat left in the sun.

Panic seized him. Arthur backed away, his hands up. “It’s me, boy. It’s Arthur.”

The name meant nothing. Gus exploded from his crouch. There was no clumsy waddle, only a compact missile of fury. Arthur threw an arm up to shield his face and the dog’s jaws clamped down on his forearm.

The sound wasn't a simple bite. It was a thick, wet CRUNCH. Bone splintered with the noise of a dry twig snapping. Arthur screamed, a raw, visceral thing torn from his throat. The teeth, blunt as they should have been, tore through his skin and muscle like piranha fangs, ripping and grinding. He could feel the individual points scraping against the broken fragments of his ulna.

He flailed, punching Gus’s bristly head with his free hand, but it was like hitting a cinder block. The dog only shook its head, a sickening, sawing motion that widened the wound. Blood, hot and slick, poured down his arm, pooling on the floor. The coppery scent mingled with the dog’s foul breath.

With a final, Herculean heave, Arthur managed to throw the dog off. Gus skidded across the hardwood, landing with a thud, but was instantly up, a low growl rumbling in his chest, a smear of Arthur’s blood on his white chest fur.

Adrenaline surged through Arthur, a frantic, chemical fire. He scrambled for the kitchen, his ruined arm screaming in protest. He slammed the swinging door shut and fumbled with the latch, his good hand slick with his own blood. He heard the heavy body hit the door with a thunderous WHUMP. The wood groaned. The latch hinges bent.

He needed a weapon. Knife block. He grabbed the biggest one, a butcher’s cleaver, and turned to face the door just as it splintered inward.

Gus came through the opening like a small, furious beast from myth. His face was no longer that of a slobbering companion. The wrinkles were stretched taut over a demonic skull, his eyes pits of hellish hunger. He was enjoying this. A low, happy pant escaped him, a sound Arthur had heard a thousand times after a good game of fetch, now twisted into the most terrifying noise he had ever known.

The bulldog charged. Arthur swung the cleaver wildly. The heavy blade connected with the dog’s shoulder, sinking deep into flesh and muscle.

There was no yelp of pain. No cry of shock.

There was only a snarl of enraged fury. Gus twisted his body, his powerful jaws snapping, and he bit into the blade itself, the screech of metal on teeth grating and awful. He shook his head, ripping the cleaver from Arthur’s grasp. It clattered to the floor.

Now Arthur was defenseless. He tripped backward, over the edge of the rug, falling hard. Gus was on him in an instant. This time, there was no defensive arm to offer. The jaws went for his throat.

The pain was blinding, a white-hot universe of agony. He felt his larynx collapse, his esophagus tear. He couldn't scream anymore, only make a wet, gurgling sound as his own blood filled his airway. Through a rapidly graying tunnel of vision, he saw the bulldog’s face above his. He saw the black, soulless eyes, and for a fleeting, insane second, he thought he saw a flicker of the old Gus. A flicker of recognition, of apology.

It was just a trick of the dying light.

The final bite was not to kill, but to feed. Gus braced his paws on Arthur's chest and tore.

The storm raged all night. By morning, the sun streamed through the grime-coated window, illuminating the carnage. The house was a butcher’s shop.

In the center of the room, amidst the gore, sat Gus. He was meticulously cleaning a long, white object between his paws. It was Arthur’s femur, gnawed clean of flesh. His chest and jowls were matted with dried blood, but his eyes were clear and placid.

He gnawed on the end of the bone, the sound a contented, rhythmic crunching. His stub of a tail gave a slow, steady thump… thump… thump… against the blood-soaked floorboards. He had never been happier.