Hulk

and dwelling on the fact that one never knew when one’s time would suddenly be up . . .
. . . not realizing that her own time had nearly come up far sooner than she knew.
As the night shadows stretched their fingers across the length and breadth of Bruce’s private office, he put down the book that bore strings of results and DNA recombinants that he was certain held the key to wherever they were going wrong. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Fatigue was beginning to play upon his mind, and he was starting to think that even if the answer to his frustrations was directly in front of him, he still likely would be too blind to see it.
He let his mind wander, which he was normally loathe to do. In this case, though, it wasn’t as if he was using the damned thing for anything especially important. He thought about Betty, about her going out with Talbot, and he found it . . .
Annoying. Yes, that was it. He turned the emotion around, upside down and sideways, studying it from every conceivable angle, and yes, by God, it was annoyance.
Betty would probably have been ecstatic.
But thoughts of Betty in the present drew him, moth to flame, to thoughts of Betty in the past. In spite of himself, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the photo of them that the camera on the automatic timer had clicked, back in the cabin.
He stared at the photo, his mind flying back to that ill-advised weekend. They had rushed things, that was all. Tried to push a relationship through when it wasn’t quite ready.
And when would it have been ready? When would you have been ready?
The thoughts moved unwanted across his mind. Unwanted because there was nothing that could be done about it, in retrospect. Unwanted because he couldn’t help but think he could have done more about it at the time. There was no point in second-guessing his actions or feelings on the matter. They were what they were.
Still, her words came back to him. You’re breaking my heart. The phrasing bothered him. It seemed to him she was making him out to be some sort of . . . of monster.
He stared long and hard at the photo, the image of two people caught forever on the cusp of a relationship that should have gone in a different direction, but hadn’t.
No. No, he wasn’t a monster. But maybe, he thought ruefully, he was an idiot.
Bruce put down the photo, picked up his bag, and left his office. He walked into the main hallway. It was deserted, a few lights on, some evening light drifting in. The soles of his shoes squeaked on the newly cleaned floor. He almost slipped at one point, but righted himself at the last moment.
Then he heard a whimper from around a corner. Puzzled, Bruce walked toward the sound and heard more whimpering. He turned the corner. A small, mangy poodle sat in the middle of the hallway, alone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something quite that pathetic-looking.
Bruce walked toward the creature slowly, hand out. “Hey there,” he said softly, encouragingly, “who are you?” He glanced around, trying to see if there was an owner anywhere nearby. No one came to his attention.
The dog, meantime, continued to stare up at him, its tail was wagging, although Bruce was having trouble remembering whether that meant a dog was friendly or tense. He’d read articles that went both ways. Its tongue was hanging out, its eyes bright.
He reached toward the poodle to pet it. Suddenly, it bared its teeth, growling and snapping. The teeth were rotting in the creature’s head, and Bruce jumped back, yanking his hand away before it wound up snagged in that deteriorating jaw.
“Okay, okay!” he said, backing away. Once more he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever might own this miniature hound of the Baskervilles, but still no one was showing up to claim the thing. He continued to back away, returning his gaze to the animal, concerned that it was going to follow him, maybe try to take a piece out of his leg. But the dog just stood there, growling at him warningly, and Bruce couldn’t help but feel that he’d just had a very close call.
He emerged from the building. The sky was cloudless, the full moon hanging there like a great unblinking eye. He wondered if perhaps that didn’t explain it; there was a werepoodle wandering the premises. It certainly made as much sense as anything else. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that perhaps there was some sort of pack of wild dogs wandering the area. It had to be a pack, didn’t it? That was how they always traveled.
Quickly Bruce made his way over to the bike rack, keeping a watchful eye on the shadows of the buildings surrounding him. Despite the light from the moon, the darkness seemed to distend all around . . . and for no reason that he could really fathom, or at least for no reason that he wanted to, that distending brought with it associations that chilled him. He pushed them away from him as he saw a burly security guard entering the building. Between the presence of the guard and the proximity of his bicycle, now only a few feet away, he felt a swell of relief.
“Hey,” he called, “there’s a poodle in there . . .” and immediately realized exactly how asinine that sounded.
Obviously it wasn’t lost on the guard, who gave him a look that seemed to say, God save me from these oddball scientists. As if addressing a child, or a moron, or a moron child, the guard replied, “A poodle. Sure. Yeah, we’ll look into it.”
Feeling like an utter moron—not an easy feat for someone with an IQ of 187—Bruce Krenzler climbed aboard his bike