The Flies of a Summer

By Harold Anderson

For Whom the Bell Tolls for Central America: The Flies of a Summer is the story of several young Americans living in Central America during the war-torn years of the Cold War. Scott Perez is a college graduate working on boats in Panama when he gets a career opportunity from an enigmatic old man claiming to be a general from the Cuban Revolution. While traveling throughout Central America, doing research for the old man, he learns he has been a courier for a vast Communist network and the old man is indeed Camilo Cienfuegos, the Cuban General presumed to have died in a plane crash in the sixties.

Bill Walters is an army engineer stationed in Panama who dreams of a career in the Foreign Service. While doing several humanitarian missions for the embassy, there is a massacre in one of the villages in which he worked. Bill discovers the Guatemalan military committed the crime but in the interests of democracy, he is asked by the ambassador to cover it up. The two men are drawn to Guatemala where they struggle to walk a fine line between the warring ideologies of communism and democracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514405833

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Copyright © 2015 by Harold Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/10/2015

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Pirate Encounter

Chapter 2 - Southern Command

Chapter 3 - Night Trip

Chapter 4 - Hotel Theft

Chapter 5 - Earthquake

Chapter 6 - Graciela

Chapter 7 - Panzos

Chapter 8 - The Leopard Of Ixcan

Chapter 9 - Boaz

Chapter 10 - Roberto

Chapter 11 - Juan’s Omen

Chapter 12 - Laura’s Visit

Chapter 13 - Court-martial

Chapter 14 - Murder

Chapter 15 - Caribbean Diving

Chapter 16 - Massacre

Chapter 17 - Carmen and Cecilia

Chapter 18 - School of the Americas

Chapter 19 - Return to Panzos

Chapter 20 - Embassy Acts

Chapter 21 - Attack on Coban

Chapter 22 - Graciela Escapes

Chapter 23 - Coup D’Etat

Chapter 24 - Farewells

Thanks to Mina Anderson, Karen Anderson, Jim Bloom, Will Davis, Johnny Grymes, Tom Hickey, Anita Hunt, Margie Lynch, Randolph Minor, Allison Plute, William Pruellage, Quentin Reynolds, William Wallis, Darren Wilson and the rest of my friends who pledged money on Kickstarter to make sure this book happened.

Also special thanks to Camilla Fellas who did the artwork and editor extraordinaire, Annie Thacker.

By this unprincipled facility of changing the state as often, and as much, and in as many ways, as there are floating fancies or fashions, the whole chain and continuity of the commonwealth would be broken. No one generation could link with the other. Men would become little better than the flies of a summer.

Edmund Burke

1790

From then on, El Mozote has become sacred ground. When years later we had to pass by there with a guerilla column, something very strange happened to us that I have not told. It was pitch black, and upon arriving to where the village had been, thousands of fireflies lit up at the same time. But thousands and thousands, the whole mountain was illuminated. And then, as if by some mysterious order, they all went out at the same time. And then they lit again with that ghastly light. And then they went out. I swear to you that I had never seen anything like it in my life. And I believe that nobody who was with our column that night will be able to forget the call of the fireflies.

Anonymous

For my mom and dad

Prologue

When you think of the Cold War in Central America, what do you remember? What immediately comes to mind? Is it a Marine in uniform sitting at a wooden desk, speaking into a microphone? Is it a firing squad taking aim at a kneeling peasant? Guerillas trekking through a sweaty jungle? All these things hit the mark but I’m here to tell you that it’s much more. These images that flash across our mind are mere generalizations of the conflict, allegorical symbols that the powers that be have fed you, tokens they have given you to hold onto, to conjure up when the subject comes up at a dinner party or a phone interview.

But I’m here to tell you that it’s much more.

I know this because I witnessed the beginning. I saw who started it all from the strange technologies and the shadow governments to the assassins who never appear in any social studies textbook. I saw it all.

To understand everything, you have to start at the beginning when the Cold War began, post-world war two, three famous leaders arguing whether Poland should be capitalist or communist. For thirty years the powers that be, the corporations and think tanks who whispered in the ears of these famous leaders held themselves at bay. As Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt and all of their successors built up their missile stockpiles, these shadow governments built up their greed. Answering to no one but these men in power they longed to be world leaders but they held these desires in check, in silent fealty to these great men.

They did this until the communist conflict reappeared on the shores of Central America, infecting the tiny countries of Guatemala, Nicaragua and El Salvador. Then they decided to come out. They decided to test their theories on a part of the world they figured no one would care about, a tiny isthmus in between two massive continents.

So when did this Cold War actually begin for these countries. Some say hundreds of years earlier, when the Spaniards arrived, when the Europeans tried to instill their culture on the other, similar to our own Trail of Tears. There are many flashpoints you can point to. Each Latin American country claims their own. Cuba and Nicaragua were the only countries to actually succumb to the red menace. One could say Cuba’s flashpoint was Castro’s imprisonment in the Moncada Barracks. Nicaragua’s could be the assassination of the rebel Sandino. El Salvador’s was the assassination of the Archbishop Romero. Guatemala’s was the coup of Arbenz led by United Fruit and the CIA.

But that’s all for the textbooks. Who really knows how and when these things start? Such things are academic and trivial. What is truly important about all revolutions, something I take solace in, is that once they are started, they have a way of spinning out of control. Perpetrators and victims alike have no say in the direction. The life of a revolution is filled with uncontrollable events and the revolutions in Central America were no exception. Failed coups and assassinations, backroom deals and political betrayals, battles and massacres were all part of each Central American country’s Cold War. But so were other things not witnessed by the outside world. I’m here to report on these other things.

You laugh here. Flying saucers and the league of shadows are fiction, you say as you clutch your high school anthropology textbook. But who’s to say the communist conflict, the entire Cold War even, wasn’t just some grand experiment started by people with grand intentions and the means to do them. This theory is just as nebulous as the five widely-accepted versions I gave you in the previous paragraph. And what if a handful of these people had their own little power grab in Central America, just the right-sized theater for these shadow governments to try out their little theories and wargames? The countries were obscure enough, sums of money petty enough, for these global think tanks, these wealthy families. What the hell, if they failed they always had us to believe the wars happened just the way they went down in that James Woods movie. Here. Buy this volume 73 social studies textbook. It comes with a free pair of blinders. But I know better. I was there. May you wear your chains lightly.

Chapter 1

PIRATE ENCOUNTER

May 1980

Venezuela

Scott Perez parked his eight-foot motorboat fifty yards from shore and swam the rest of the way. He stopped halfway to hover above one of the deep blue channels separating the islands. All was quiet except for the hoarse breathing sounds from the antique snorkel in his mouth. It was just before sunset. Sunrays sparkled and shimmered far below the surface.

Scott loved scaring himself in those bare moments, when he felt like a speck in the world. All kinds of images of sea monsters lurking below, swimming in the dark depths, filled his mind. He knew the channels between islands on this part of the Venezuelan coast to be several hundred feet deep. According to some of the sailors he worked with, great whites prowled these waters. But in the three years he’d graduated from college, working as a hand in the Central American yacht circuit, all he’d seen was a bull shark and a bunch of dolphins.

Scott paused just before turning to swim the rest of the way to the tiny island. In the distance, he saw a shadow. The form started out as just a dot, just slightly darker than the vast firmament beyond his sight. But as the form moved closer, the edges got bigger. This was no tiny, surface-dwelling flyfish. He looked to his left, to the brightness and safety of the reef twenty yards away. He could make it there with a few quick strokes. If it was a lone shark, he’d have no problem. It was the accompanying pack of white or black-tips below that would get him.

Scott waited, his heart pounding. The form moved in slowly. In his field of vision it got bigger and bigger until the rhythmic movement of its angelic wings came into full focus. The devil ray was enormous, eight-feet across. Scott watched in awe and slight trepidation as the monstrous ray came into view, floated past him, then disappeared again into the vast blueness. Once it was gone, Scott swam the rest of the way onto the island where Yulani waited for him.

Later that night, he lay awake, unable to sleep. The sounds of the breakers in the distance and Yulani snoozing peacefully in his arms were no solace or comfort. The world was slipping through his fingers. His friends from college had marriages and promotions happening thousands of miles away and he had none of it. One of his friends from UCLA had just gotten to be a Managing Director of an M&A firm, making almost a hundred thousand dollars a year. He owned a place outside of San Francisco and just bought a place in Reno. Scott hadn’t been back to the states in years, though, and this tour on the Lopez’s yacht wouldn’t end for another six months. Caracas was the biggest city he’d seen since he’d moved down to Panama.

Scott sat up. He felt the soft darkness sucking him in. The waves on the breakers rolled with a soft roar in the distance. He grabbed his deck of cards and walked out onto the beach. There was a full moon. The shoreline and the white, plastic deck chair stood out in the sand. He switched on the battery powered light hanging below the palm tree to deal a hand of solitaire.

There was no way out of the predicament. He’d taken the deckhand job to pay off student debt. He’d heard how yachts wanted young crewmembers and paid top dollar. He had the knowledge and experience, helping on his dad’s sailboat every summer. Now it was three years later and he was nowhere close to paying off his debt. Even worse, the high-paying, deckhand gigs were drying up. Most of them now consisted of helping families commute back and forth along the Caribbean.

Watch the reef! We’re coming up on it. See it there?

Scott reached up and turned off the light. Sound traveled far across the water but the voices seemed close. Then he saw them, in a paddleboat, about three hundred yards to his left, just off the point of the tiny island. He walked along the shoreline as they paddled the canoe. There were three of them.

Which one are we gonna hit? Scott heard one of the voices. It was a girl.

I’m not sure. Let’s get close and see if that one on the end is occupied.

The canoe passed the island point and continued on into the cluster of yachts in the distance. They were pirates, young and disorganized, but definitely pirates. Scott ran to the side of the island where his boat was parked and jumped into the lagoon. On the way out to the boat, he wondered what he’d do once he got to the pirates. They definitely would have guns and they were three to his one. This time he had no thought of imaginary sharks.

When he got to his boat anchored off the opposite reef, he jumped in. His piece wasn’t wet but he had only loaded three shots. And they’d been in the chamber for two weeks. The gun was a gift from his grandfather and was just as temperamental. It would have to do. Scott cranked up the motor and sped off.

By the time he rounded the island, he saw the group of lights in the distance. It had been almost a half hour. The pirates were probably in the yacht already.

Caribbean pirates were ruthless. They killed and raped for no reason. Two years ago there was an incident in Venezuela where pirates boarded a vessel just off the shore of Caracas, within shouting distance. The British couple that owned the boat surrendered immediately. The pirates held both the husband and wife down, guns pointed at their heads, then went about looting. One of the pirates inadvertently let out the couple’s retriever. The dog attacked and bit one of the pirates. It fought bravely until the pirates opened fire, shooting and stabbing it and the owners sixteen times.

Scott shut off the motor. He slowed down and coasted into his yacht. The deck was quiet. No one was on board.

Hello, he whispered into the microphone. I need to report an incident of piracy. This is Scott Perez calling from the Dominican Pearl. There are three of them and I think they are in one of the boats next to me. My coordinates are ten point eight nine nine two by sixty-six point five. Over.

The radio crackled.

Is anyone there? Over.

Screams came from one of the yachts on the edge of the cluster. It sounded like a girl’s voice. Scott got back into his canoe and paddled slowly towards the edge of the group of boats. From the last one, a cabin light illuminated a group of people on deck. Scott saw an old man at the bow with a harpoon. Huddled ten feet in front of him were two boys. One had a knife. They crouched over a girl, squirming on the deck. She gripped a small pistol in her right hand. A harpoon arrow stuck out of her side.

Is everyone okay? Scott shouted from the water. He couldn’t think of anything better to say.

Who the hell are you? the old man shouted. Are you with these punks?

No sir, Scott replied, inching aboard.

The old man had a gash across his arm. Blood dripped over the harpoon onto the deck of the boat. He held the harpoon gun firmly at the pirates. The girl had stopped screaming and was crawling along the deck, reaching for the gunwale. They were at a stalemate.

I called the police. They are on their way, Scott said pointing his pistol at the pirates.

Who sent you? the old man asked the older boy. Tell me before I put another one in your girlfriend.

The boy shrugged.

I’m not afraid of your little nine millimeter. What were you after?

The girl reached the gunwale and pulled herself up onto her feet. When she reached her feet, she turned to faced Scott and the old man.

They wanted your cash, Scott replied.

I don’t have any cash, the old man snarled.

Or jewels, or electronics, or drugs. Whatever they could get their hands on.

Bullshit. They were after something else. What was it?

The three pirates didn’t say a word. The two boys looked down, out at the ocean, never at the old man. The girl, however, never took her eyes off them. She held the gun at her side.

They’re with the CIA or the DEA or one of those agencies. Who are you with? the old man asked, raising his weapon at the girl. You’re with the CIA right? You’re with the company. Just say the word and I’ll make it quick.

Scott looked at the old man. He was sweating all over and fuming with rage. The old man really thought the pirates were after him.

They weren’t after you, man. They wanted cash, or electronics, or jewelry, or drugs. Calm down. I called the police. They’ll be here in no time and will take care of these punks.

No police, the old man replied. I want to settle this right now, just us.

The old man looked at the group of kids, ragged and dirty. In the ensuing silence, one of the pirates made a dash. The oldest-looking kid bolted across the deck. The remaining two pirates stood stone-still as their friend tripped on a cleat halfway across the deck. His body tumbled to the ground as he grabbed his toe in agony. With painful slowness, the hobbled pirate rolled the rest of the way across the deck. He hit the water overboard with thunk. The incident seemed to soften the old man.

Remember my face because I will remember yours, he said. Next time I’ll be more ready for you. Now go on. Get out of here. Go help your friend.

The kids looked at each other for a brief second then hurried to their canoe. Without a sound, the youngest pirate descended the ladder first and steadied the canoe. The girl limped into the boat with the help of her boyfriend, only wincing slightly as she sat.

Why did you let them go? Scott asked. I told you I called the police.

No police, the old man said. Panting, he finally lowered the harpoon, his sinewy arms relaxing. He walked into the cabin.

Why? What are we going to tell them? They’re on their way. I can see them now.

Scott followed him into the cabin where he pulled out a bottle of rum, a 17 year-old Havana Especial. The man took a long pull of the liquor then handed it to Scott. Scott took a sip.

Raul Gorriaran, the old man offered.

Scott Perez. Nice to meet you.

Scott recognized the old deckhand from earlier that afternoon. The guy must have been seventy but was fit and lean. He had a long beard which was tied up with several rubber bands. He wore a rag over his head and torn jeans. The old timer could easily have been a pirate himself by the way he scowled at everyone.

The two men sat out on the bow of the boat and waited for the coast guard to show. Scott took the hammock facing south. In the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Caracas. The hour was just after midnight but the discos and tiki bars would just be getting started. The nightlife in Caracas was where Scott did his best networking, at the tiki bars along the Venezuelan coast. That was where he’d found this job tending a rich family’s yacht, where he’d gotten a lead for an interview with a law firm next week, where he’d met Jennifer, the bartender at Luna.

If Yulani knew about her, she didn’t ask. She was happy for the time being. Scott had been visiting her on the little island for the past six months. Her family were Kunas, Kuna Yala Indians that had migrated from Panama to Venezuela. Her family had committed some horrible transgression back home. They were nomads, Caribbean gypsies that moved from island to island, archipelago to archipelago, living off of fish and rice, working in the coastal markets.

The coast guard ship arrived in a hurry then slowed to a crawl when it reached the bow. One of the crew held an semi-automatic. He nodded seriously at Scott and the old man, assessing the situation as the vessel circled round the yacht. When the boat reached the bow again, he finally spoke.

You guys call in for help?

Yes but it was a false alarm.

Really? So what is that blood doing on the deck?

We never called you for help, you stinking fascist, the old man muttered under his breath.

What did you say, Raul?

He said nothing. We’re fine. He called you after I tripped and cut myself on his harpoon. That’s where the blood came from.

Is that what happened? the coast guard asked.

The old man shrugged.

Okay. Be careful around here. We’ve gotten several reports of pirates in the area.

We’ll be careful. Thank you, Scott said.

And don’t believe anything he tells you about his time in the Cuban Army, the soldier said as the boat powered up.

Go hump some dolphins, the old man called out.

So why did you not want to turn them in? Scott asked after the vessel motored away.

Raul lifted his arm, wincing as some of the rum spilled over the side. He was still shirtless. Scott got the impression that Raul hadn’t worn one in a long time.

I don’t like pirates but I dislike police even more. How old are you, Escott? the old man asked.

I’m twenty seven.

So you know little of fascism and the police-states of occupied Germany. They are a necessary evil for governments but you can’t give them too much power.

Did you fight in the big war? Scott asked.

He decided to have a little fun with the old man before returning to Yulani. The old man intrigued him. He fought like a pickpocket but talked like one of his Penn State teachers. Plus he was wide awake. If all of his friends were enjoying themselves in the Caracan beach scene he’d have his own fun.

No.

The way you handled that harpoon gun, I thought you were some kind of assassin.

Assassin, huh? Yeah. That’s me.

Have you ever shot anyone before?

Raul smiled.

I was aiming at the older kid but the girl jumped in the way. That’s how I knew she was his girlfriend. She couldn’t see him hurt. Do you have a girlfriend, Escott?

No. Not really.

Well let me tell you. Love is the thing. Love can make you do some crazy things. Look at me. Do I look like a general? An ex-commander of my own army? No. But I used to be. I used to command hundreds of men. I ran my own country, up until I gave it all away for the love of a woman.

You commanded hundreds of men? Where?

Cuba.

You fought in Cuba? Were you in the Bay of Pigs?

I was on the other side, my friend.

Scott looked at the old man in disbelief. Raul smiled. He looked to be the right age.

You fought under Castro? Did you know Che Guevara?

I knew them. Hell, I was a better shot than Fidel but he never would admit it. Che was a great leader.

But wasn’t Che a drug addict? I heard that he did drugs.

Who taught you that? Let me guess, your high school history teacher?

I can’t remember.

Che wouldn’t even touch alcohol. He tried it once when we were training in Mexico, before we went to Cuba but hated it.

Scott laughed. He was having fun now. He really had the old man going. He had stumbled upon a gold mine. The old man really believed he was a Cuban revolutionary.

So why did you leave? You guys won. You won the war. Why aren’t you over there right now, smoking cigars and drinking rum with Fidel?

I told you. I fell in love.

So you’re saying this broad made you give up everything?

Watch your mouth when you’re talking about my Rosa, Raul said.

He rose from his hammock. Raul walked over to the cabin to grab the bottle of rum. As young as he looked from his waist up, Scott could see in his legs Raul’s age. He walked slow and deliberately with just a little limp. There was a slight labored pain in his gait.

Another glass? he asked Scott.

No more for me. I need to get back.

Raul poured another shot into his Scott’s glass.

Twenty years ago I made a promise to her never to return to Cuba. For twenty years I haven’t told anyone about that promise. I broke it today. The least you can do is share with me a drink of rum.

Okay, Scott said. I guess I’ll have another.

So tell me about yourself, young man. What is your story?

I work on the boat right next to yours, the Dominican Pearl. I’ve been working boats for the past three years, ever since I graduated from college.

But you didn’t go to school for that.

No. I didn’t. I got my degree in History and Spanish but that doesn’t really lead to anything in the real world.

No but it leads to a well-rounded person. I could use someone like you at my store in Cariaco.

Scott downed the last bit of rum. He rose from his seat and stretched. Working in Cariaco was the last thing he needed to do to get his life back on track. He needed to work somewhere in Caracas or even Panama City, where he could network with international cosmopolitan-types. But even if he wanted to, there was no way the old deckhand with the vivid imagination could count, much less own a store.

You own a store, aye? Scott said. What kind of store is it?

It’s a small café but I’m thinking of expanding and could use some help. I’ve got the money but I need someone to do some market research. I need to know the best place to open another branch but I don’t have the time.

Yeah. I’ll be sailing to Maracaibo next week. Maybe I’ll stop by on the way and check out your store. What’s it called?

Café Santa Clara. It’s right off the main street. You’ll find it. Come by next week and we’ll talk. Thanks again for the help, amigo.

Have a good night.

Scott climbed down the ladder to his motorboat. As he sped off he turned around to wave. On the back of the boat, painted in dark blue letters were the words ‘Rosa.’

Later that week, Scott sailed into the Gulf of Cariaco. The actual body of water was thirty-five miles long and resembled more of a lake than a gulf. The entrance to the gulf was maybe a mile wide. He’d heard the spot was a terrific anchorage, one of the most scenic in the Caribbean.

As he sailed through the straits, the view wasn’t quite what he expected. Huge red hills rose up from the shoreline. Chalky fractures in the red rock reached up towards the sky like powder-white veins. Above and below the enormous, crimson hills stretched endless blue. The view resembled something out of Africa than the Caribbean.

The town of Cariaco, however, was just like every other Caribbean coastal town. Sand streets ran in and out of the main drag, parallel to the beach. Along the coast, soft waves tumbled and dropped in the early morning hours. In between the docks, stray dogs and their young, ne’er-do-well companions patrolled the beach, searching for scraps. A few divers loitered at the end of several of the docks, waiting for the dive boats to pick them up.

Scott parked his boat several hundred feet offshore and took the dinghy in the rest of the way. He waved to a windsurfer on the way in. Some of the locals greeted him when he reached the shore.

Hey mon. Where you off to, such a rush? the islander asked. He had a nappy, lint-speckled afro and ashen arms from sleeping in the open air. A posse of mongrels barked and played in his wake.

Do you know where the Café Santa Clara is? Scott asked absently.

He walked down the shoreline, looking for the main road to town. He’d learned from his days in third world countries to always look like you knew where you were going even if you didn’t. He stopped to look up a tiny alley in between two shacks. Through the alley he could see a street on the other side.

Not dis way, mon. You kee-ahnt go dis way. Dat be the wash.

The breeze from the bay stopped abruptly. Scott felt the heat of the day settle over him. Across the alley, clothes hung on wires anchored from both shacks. A lady with a red bandana stepped into the walkway. She looked at the two in sweat-filled annoyance, a basket of wet garments on her hip.

Café Santa Clara, Scott said, more a statement than a question.

The lady shrugged.

Come with me, mon. I show you da way. My name Tarbaby.

Scott ignored the man.

Señor Gorriaran? I’m looking for his restaurant, the Café Santa Clara. Do you know where it is? he asked the lady.

It’s right this way, mon, Tarbaby said from up ahead.

Scott followed the boy and his pack of dogs. As they walked, Tarbaby talked to Scott and kicked at the dogs when they got too close. He interacted with them as if he were a reluctant companion, their alpha, a tolerant, benevolent leader.

You need anyting, you osk. You want weed, no problem. You want good restaurant, fine.

All I want is to find this place: Café Santa Clara.

Praise God.

Scott turned around to get his bearings. They’d walked about six blocks and had passed several cafes and a hotel. They looked like they were running out of town. Another detail Scott noticed was that the pack of mongrels following them had doubled in size. The harmless-looking mutts had been joined by several mean-looking Dobermans. One of them growled at Tarbaby when he kicked at it, the beginnings of a power struggle.

Right now I need to get to Café Santa Clara, Scott said.

Dat’s where we goin, Tarbaby spoke, blissfully unaware of the canine mutiny. I show you. It’s right up here, on the edge of town.

Tarbaby led Scott and the flea-ridden crew up a quiet, backstreet. All alone with his new, bigger posse, the dog that had been growling began to bark outright, daring Tarbaby to provoke it. Scott stayed clear of the circle of snarling dogs, getting smaller and smaller with each step. Tarbaby barked back which incited the pack even more.

I don’t think they like that, Scott said.

Oh, I’m just having fun with dem. Watch this.

The teenager stomped the ground in front of one of the smaller upstarts which caused the Doberman leader to bark wildly. This didn’t deter Tarbaby who shouted back. The volume and hostility in his shout would have been enough to drive away most dogs but they didn’t disperse. Not this pack. They countered with their own barks, even louder, filled with the gravest intentions.

Scott looked for a way out but they had tightened into a semi-circle around the two. Scott moved towards the alley but they blocked him off. The more they moved, the closer the wild dogs moved in, getting ever more confident.

When Scott felt one of them would dart in at any moment, a stray German Shepherd jumped in between them. Scott had seen bigger German Shepherds. This one was almost all black and gangly. Like all German Shepherds, it had an oversized snout which lent it a comical appearance. Despite its appearance the mutt drew respect from the rest of the strays. They immediately ceased their barking and snarled at the alpha, focusing on the Shepherd.

I think this is our cue to slip away? Scott said.

"What?!? Where