The lantern flame flickered wildly as an artillery blast rattled the timber ceiling of Dugout Seven. A shower of fine gray ash rained down onto the oilcloth floor, but Arthur Vance’s hands didn’t waver by a fraction of a tiny fraction of an inch.
On the zinc running slab lay Bruno, the sixty-two-pound sentry mastiff.
The dog was no longer wheezing. His massive chest had ceased its wild, heaving excursions, collapsing into a flat, motionless stiffness. His tongue, swollen to twice its normal thickness, hung limp from the corner of his black-flecked lips, dyed the terrifying, rainbow-bright indigo of end-post hypoxia.
“Heart rate forty-two and dropping,” Arthur stated with total, rhythmic calm. His fingertips remained pressed against the animal’s main thigh blood vessel. He felt the pulse fade into a weak, fluttering thread. “Breathing arrest. Tracheal lumen is fully occluded by crystal-clear precipitate.”
“Arthur, he’s dying!” the young handler cried, his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the zinc slab. “His eyes... His pupils are blown!”
“Step back from the table, Private,” Arthur said. His voice dropped into the icy, command register of a running room director. “Grimm, flank brace. Pip, heat ready.”
Grimm took his position at the foot of the table. His heavy black chest pressed firmly against the edge of the zinc slab, dampening every tiny tremor from the distant artillery bombardment. The hound’s amber eyes were focused on Arthur’s hands, perfectly still, streaming a rock-steady, grounding calm.
