Free Philippine Speculative Fiction by Andrew Drilon Page B

part, John let only his head peek out of the
multi-cab’s flat bed.
    Occasionally, John would turn to look at his friend.
    “Don’t worry, bay, we’ll just look,” the guy said.
    Along the highway near the turn to Canday-ong, John Joe quickly ducked when he saw the City Pound rounding up a bunch of howling dogs.
    Soon enough they reached the alleyway. They parked at the lot in front of a liquor store, between the watering hole Firehouse and the Acuña veterinary clinic—they alighted, scanned
the surroundings for any passerby, hauled John Joe out of the vehicle, and then snuck into the dimly lit alleyway: the ground was dry and dusty, the houses were old and (almost) decrepit, the
motorcycles in one repair shop were rusted and scratched. The rocky road forked into multiple directions. Finally they got to the gate of Lia’s apartment—wallowing in disrepair
itself—and rang the doorbell. John Joe hid behind his friends, who had lined up as though they were in a firing squad.
    No one answered—they rang again: once more silence met them.
    And so they rang again—and then called her out as well. In the distance they heard loud howling and yelping and barking noises: John Joe quivered in his feet when he saw the familiar red
truck of the City Pound collect the mangy dogs scattering along the street—he started whining and tried to bury himself in the ground when he thought some guy from the Pound saw him, and he
continued to whine even when the Pound worker turned away. The barkada looked at one another and eventually decided that no one’s going to harm John Joe, especially when he still looked like
a person.
    They were about to buzz Lia again, when she opened the creaky gate and then asked them what they wanted—she glared at one of the members: I told you I’ll see John again when
he’s okay, she declared, I’m going back to sleep now, so do you mind? The barkada stood their ground and told her what their friend had seen after he had brought her home that
Wednesday—they put her on the spot: who was that guy, Lia? In turn, the girl bit her lip and denied everything, saying that the guy was her cousin.
    “You were kissing him right here,” the witness pressed on.
    Fidgeting there, she said: “We’re very close.”
    The canine noises from the street returned with full force.
    “On the lips? Really?”
    “
Bale pud uy
—you’re such a square!”
    Here the sounds grew louder, as though seeking out other sounds.
    “Just because John Joe became like that, you—”
    Lia crossed her arms and retorted: “
Ay, ambot uy
.”
    “Tell the truth, already, Lia, so there’s no problem,
ataya
.”
    “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
    “Don’t be a bitch.”
    “
Hoy
—bay, fuck you.”
    Now, the sounds dissipated and then replaced by human noises.
    John Joe cowered, stepped back—Lia glimpsed the tips of his heels.
    “
Ay
!” she screamed: shocked, John Joe was forced to show himself to her, and they were frozen there, confusion and surprise strangling them both. The friends were nailed to
the spot, too: they saw the City Pound—in their red jumpsuits, armed with air guns and nets—dashing toward them, with a well-built man leading the charge. John Joe—now thoroughly
horrified—let loose a deep and pained howl, and then sprinted away from the threat.
    Everyone was struck dumb when one of the City Pound workers raised his air gun, aimed it at the receding doglike figure, and fired: the pop of the gun was suddenly replaced by a sharp
whine—and then died.

Jenny Ortuoste
     
Last Race
     
    Jenny Ortuoste writes opinion and horseracing columns for
Manila Standard-Today
and opinion and lifestyle for
GMA News Online
. Her
fiction and essays have appeared in
Philippines Graphic, Likhaan, Esquire Philippines,
and elsewhere. Her novel
Fire and Ice
was published in 1993. In 2011, she was a Fellow at
the 50th University of the Philippines National Writers’ Workshop. She also has radio and