Terminus Island

By Stefanie Jones

Andy and Wren Alexander were police officers who enjoyed a life and partnership on every level. Happily married and planning their escape from law enforcement, Andy is suddenly killed in an ambush on the job as Wren watches. Left alone with their four Standard Poodles, Wren struggles to cope.

 

Finn, the stoic, elder dog at six years old; a K9 officer who is trying desperately to understand life with three new puppies while watching over his human as she suffers through grief. Lilah, the fierce leader, quick to react, loyal and faithful. Freyja, the large goofy follower and Fern, the sweet, affectionate dog who binds them all together. As the puppies turn one year old, a new, deadly challenge presents itself: Super-C. The pack must now navigate violence and chaos as the extinction-level virus begins to ravage the world. A deadly combination of COVID-19, the flu and RSV, the virus does not discriminate. With only ten percent of humanity immune, bodies pile up, quarantines are put into place and Wren and her dogs must make their way to safety:

 

TERMINUS ISLAND

 

The island lies alone in the Atlantic, far off the coast of Maine. A quiet, self-sustaining island built with Andy's hands, completely off-grid. It's where the couple had prepared to retreat from their law enforcement careers with the dogs. The only problem: Wren swore she would never return to the island where every inch reminded her of Andy. Wren had never properly grieved her husband's loss. Instead, she bottled the pain and stuffed it inside in order to move on with life. Now, forced to return to protect her family, Wren must learn to heal and let go of the pain. Just as the pack settles in and starts carving out a life, the violence, greed and devastation from the mainland arrives on the shore of their sanctuary. Just when all seems lost, a tiny spark of hope is born.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Finn & Friends Publications
• Release date: Mar 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201654344

Stefanie Jones

Stefanie Jones was born and raised in Maine, where she now lives with her four Standard Poodles and husband, Andrew. Stefanie is a graduate of Lawrence High School in Fairfield Maine and received her Bachelor degree in Psychology from the University of Maine at Farmington. Stefanie spent most of her professional career working as a child protection worker and supervisor before transitioning into law enforcement. These days, she enjoys spending life with her dogs hiking, camping, paddle boarding, sea kayaking and looks forward to writing many more books.

Book preview

The Dogs

The old world was hurried and obsessed. The only things that seemed to matter were making money and acquiring power. Maybe that was all that ever mattered in the history of people. It’s no wonder we were wiped from the Earth. Those were Wren Alexander’s thoughts as she strolled across the wild strawberry field, basket in hand and summer sun soaking her light skin. The ocean waves crashed on the rocky island shore as her dogs yapped from behind her.

It had been another peaceful day of foraging and fishing and would be another long evening of canning her bounty. She could imagine nothing else she wanted to do more at this moment. Wren stopped, took a deep breath of fresh Maine air and sat down against a fallen pine tree.

Her first year on the island had been long, and she and her companions had suffered plenty. They had been through so much together. Wren wished her dogs hadn’t endured the pain, loss, and heartbreak, but she couldn’t erase the past. Her own grief still lived inside her, like a butterfly in a jar; beautiful memories threatening to suffocate her.

Wren reminded herself that yes, there had been hardships, but they had also persevered together. Now, all she wanted was peace. Isolated in this distant place, surely the battles for what remained on shore would bypass them.

Finn, the oldest of her dogs, sat next to Wren, who was staring out at the ocean from their slightly elevated perch. She stroked his head, feeling his soft, silver, Standard Poodles curls slide through her fingers. A striking, ombre-gray poodle, Finn had been her constant, steady, and stoic companion for eight years.

Before the world crashed, Finn went to work with her every day, the only law enforcement K-9 poodle in the United States. He was an original, to be sure. Not only was he extremely intelligent, but he was Wren’s fierce defender. On many occasions, his bite helped with captures that led to painful visits to the ER for bad guys, Finn’s favorite words. Wren adored Finn, her constantly, underestimated poodle.

She had been reminded in this instant of the circumstances that brought Finn to her. In her job as a police officer, Wren had been promoted to K9 handler and was actively seeking the right dog to join her. She had traveled to New York to preview a few potential K9s. She had become the dog expert for the Department, having attended numerous trainings and seminars. Wren had visited other Departments and chatted with their K9 handlers and supervisors. This gave her a sneak peek into what was working and what wasn’t in order to carve out a successful program for her department. She was authorized to purchase a dog when an appropriate specimen was located.

On this trip, Wren met with and reviewed initial testing and training reports on six, four-month-old puppies. Five of the six pups were Belgian Malinois, the typical, go-to dog for law enforcement. The last dog, was surprisingly a Standard Poodle. He was labeled as a silver in color, but he looked like a black dog with a light gray face. The training facility coordinator told her that silver poodles slowly transition or clear over their first two years of life to a silver coat. Wren found that interesting but was curious if a poodle could be a K-9.

The coordinator explained to Wren that the poodle was a very intriguing breed.

Though most people associate poodles with France, they actually originated in Germany in the 1500s as water-bird dogs. The French were drawn to the breed and gave them worldwide attention with silly haircuts. Poodles were used in WWII as perimeter security and excelled in their job. They are currently used by search and rescue teams and as service animals for people with disabilities. And did you know a man by the name of John Suter actually completed the Alaska Iditarod sled dog race with a team of Standard Poodles in the 1990s? The race is a thousand miles of some of the harshest trails in the world. The poodles finished when so many other northern breed teams did not. Naturally, the Iditarod quickly changed the rules to disallow anything other than northern breed dogs to participate. Can’t have prim and proper poodles kicking the ass of huskies and malamutes. He raised his eyebrow high and smiled.

The truth is Standard Poodles are the smartest dog breed on the planet. They are highly motivated to please and are loyal to the core. Plus, they don’t shed. But with all that being said, there is not one Standard Poodle K-9 officer in the United States.

Wren found herself listening intently to the man speak about his true appreciation for the breed. She was intrigued with the information and asked the obvious question, Why?

The man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Because police departments are run by Type-A personality men who don’t want to run around with a cute, fluffy poodle. It’s really that simple. This guy here, Finn, has excelled in all the testing, far exceeding his Belgian buddies in the other kennels. His bite force is actually higher than the Malinois. He’s smarter, faster, and calmer. Belgians are high energy and high maintenance. He shook his head again in disbelief.

Wren looked at Finn and then back to the man. That’s insane. What are you planning to do with him if not law enforcement?

I will sell him to a service dog agency. He will be gone in the next day or two and be a wonderful companion for someone who needs him.

No, Wren blurted out. I want him. She looked solidly into the coordinator’s eyes, certain. I want to review all his testing, but if it is what you say it is, I want him.

The coordinator looked at the thin, beautiful woman standing before him. She had more balls than most men he encountered. You got it, but just know, you will never hear the end of it with your male coworkers, supervisors, and K-9 trainers.

Wren rolled her eyes and gave him a knowing smile that came from years of being underestimated. I can handle that.

The coordinator grinned and slapped her on the back. I am sure you can.

His predictions were completely accurate. Wren was welcomed back from her trip with jeers and jokes from nearly all her co-workers. Finns’ top-notch testing results and impeccable breed data did not stop their taunting. Everyone questioned her choice and actually considered forcing her to return the puppy. Her sergeant laughed hysterically and jokingly shoved Wren’s shoulder, This is what happens when we send a woman to do a man’s job.

Finn, at sixteen weeks old, noticed the shove and lunged at the sergeant, biting his pant leg and refusing to release. Clearly taken aback by the aggressive response, the man shook his leg causing Finn to sink his sharp, puppy teeth deeper, catching skin.

The sergeant in obvious discomfort, but not wanting to scream out, sat in the chair next to Wren and held his hands up.

Release, Finn, release. Wren gave the command and watched as Finn immediately let go, returning to her side.

Holy shit, Alexander, the sergeant muttered and walked off.

Word spread like wildfire, and Wren did not hear any more mentions of returning the cute, fluffy poodle.

Finn watched and listened to the churning of the open Atlantic Ocean and to all the sea-going activity that had become his new normal. He tracked the gulls, soaring and diving in the picturesque bright-blue sky as Wren readjusted her position against the tree. Sensing her discomfort, he briefly turned to check on his human. Satisfied she was okay, he returned to birdwatching.

As she reclined against the large stump, Wren turned her head to see Lilah surveilling the property with her perfect posture, her head high and chest out. An inky-black poodle of the most prestigious quality, Lilah was not the largest poodle. That title went to Freyja. But, for being a mere fifty-five pounds, Lilah was fierce, lightning-fast, unyielding, and loyal to the core. Wren watched her prance across the field and was reminded of all the conformation and agility titles won by her Grand Champion lineage. Lilah would have certainly done the same given the chance. If Super-C had not wiped out the world.

Feeling watched and admired, Lilah picked her head up higher and sauntered over to her favorite human. She jumped with the grace of a gazelle over the fallen tree where Wren and Finn rested. Proud of her display, Lilah ran enthusiastically to the other end of the strawberry field, her beautiful, long, black ears flying and flopping through the tall grass.

Just as Wren had almost fallen asleep, she felt a familiar sensation on her cheek. Beautiful, sweet, and always affectionate Fern licked her face. Wren gave her precious, platinum friend a lazy smile and kissed her snout. I love you, baby.

Fern nuzzled her soft face into Wren’s neck and received scratches and pats. Finn yawned, in audible irritation, as he could never understand why the three girls required so much love and physical contact from the human. He nearly rolled his eyes as he turned to watch Freyja throw a stick up in the air and recover it. He plopped down on the ground, huffing as he went, until he was completely relaxed, his head resting on a mossy mound.

Fern felt the warm summer rays soaking into her light, silver poodle coat as she nuzzled her mom. She loved how Wren smelled and felt. Nothing made her happier. She was safe and content. Opening one eye as she tried to burrow deeper into Wren’s body, she caught sight of her big, goofy friend Freyja. Oh, how she loved to chase and play keep-away with the significantly larger dog. Freyja was a good buddy and she always let Fern win.

Maybe I’ll go play with Freyja, Fern thought just as Wren slid a hand under her ear and gently rubbed. Fern fell asleep almost instantly.

Freyja continued retrieving her small stick and flinging it back up in the air. She could entertain herself—and all those watching her—for hours with her antics. For an eighty-five-pound Standard Poodle, Freyja had a kind, gentle spirit. Her exceptionally shiny, midnight-black coat sparkled in the midsummer sun. Wren was always intrigued by Freyja, who was so calm and sweet. Despite being one of the largest poodles Wren had ever seen, Freyja seemed to be aware of her size and was always careful with her movements. She never jumped up or did anything to potentially cause injury with her hefty weight. Freyja simply knew to be careful with people and other animals smaller than her. Wren saw Freyja as an old soul with bright, all-knowing, brown eyes and a caring heart.

Freyja flung the driftwood stick into the air, pretending to be surprised as it dropped to the ground and pouncing like a puppy as she grasped it, once more, with her powerful jaws. She was happy to be in the field with the sweet smells of berries, the warm sun on her dark hair, and her friends all around. Freyja loved their life on the island and loved her family.

Just as Freyja was preparing to throw the stick in the air once more, branches just inside the tree line crackled loud enough for all the dogs to take notice. Freyja stood perfectly still watching and listening for movement. Finn took his position guarding Wren with Fern ducked slightly behind him. Lilah listened, momentarily detecting noises only keen dog ears could hear. She charged at the wood line with an unrivalled explosiveness, teeth flared with terrifying guttural growls and barks. She ran, full speed, directly at the noise, unafraid. Freyja was quickly on her heels. On her feet in seconds, Wren ran after her dogs reaching for her forty-caliber handgun at her waist.

Wren heard the ruckus in the woods, branches snapping and dogs yelping. In the briefest of moments, a hundred awful scenarios raced through her mind. Was it an infected person? Was it a large animal that she never knew was on the island? Was it someone trying to hurt them? Are my babies okay?

Just as Wren reached the tree line with Finn next to her, Lilah prance out, clearly thrilled with her achievement, rabbit in mouth, blood dripping from its broken neck. Freyja followed Lilah, hip-checked her as if to say, Nice job! and returned to her stick game.

Wren holstered her weapon, congratulated Lilah on the kill, and took a very deep breath of relief.

Lilah! You’re a crazy damn dog! Wren shook her head and tried to free the fear that had clustered in her brain.

Wren paused for a moment, seeing the blood, while memories of the first time she shot someone came back, uninvited. She had only been a police officer for three years when she was dispatched to an argument between a father and son. Domestic disturbances were the worse, always unpredictable and dangerous. On this call, those assertions couldn’t have been truer.

When she arrived, the father explained how his seventeen-year-old son was mentally ill and not taking his medication. Before Wren could formulate a game plan with the dad, the son burst out of his bedroom with the father’s 9mm Glock and pointed directly at the dad. Wren drew her weapon, but she had no place to take cover. She informed dispatch and tried to talk the son down using every ounce of her de-escalation skills. Nothing worked.

There was a look in the boy’s eyes; it wasn’t hatred or murder so much as desperation. He looked like a caged animal trying to escape. Wren offered to go outside and talk with the young man, sit down just the two of them. The kid screamed, yelled, and said he couldn’t do this anymore. He said nothing ever changed. He pointed the gun frantically at his father and said, He thinks I’m being a little bitch because I have feelings. It’ll never change.

The father pleaded with his son and told him how much he loved him. That only made the son angrier.

You don’t give a shit about me. You never have. Don’t start now.

In the end, it was the father’s show of affection that sent the son over the edge. Wren watched as the son tightened his grip on the gun, took sharper aim, and positioned himself in a shooting stance, muttering, Goodbye, Dad.Wren squeezed the trigger, and the seventeen-year-old boy fell to the carpet, Dad screaming and yelling, What did you do? What did you do?

Dispatch, 114 calling. Shots fired. Send EMS. Juvenile gunshot victim.

You killed him, the father screamed as she assessed his injuries. He was going to kill you, Wren tried to explain as she tried to stop the bleeding waiting for help to arrive.

You should’ve let him! He’s dead! He’s dead! Why didn’t you just shoot him in the leg? The father was hysterical, watching his child die before him.

Wren focused on trying to stop the bleeding from the boy’s chest as she absorbed the father’s words. She understood why he questioned her kill shot versus trying to shoot the kid in the leg. This was common for people without police training to think. She knew that. She also knew her training mandated that if she fired her weapon, she was focused on stopping a lethal threat; she was using deadly force. In this instance, the teenager had, in fact, been a lethal threat. No place in her training allowed for her to try to hit a small leg bone or attempt to injure in this instance. If she had shot the boy in the leg or thigh, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t still pull the trigger and kill his father.

Back-up arrived with EMS, as Wren listened to the father scream, curse, and cry. A sergeant pulled her from the home and drove her to the station. She changed her clothes and sat down for the investigative interview required following all fatal shootings.

Wren had never killed anyone or anything until that moment. She knew the shooting was justified, but she could not erase the image from her brain. Her bullet had struck him directly in the heart just as her training had dictated. She had always been a great shot, but at that moment, she didn’t feel proud of that knowledge. She felt empty. When her husband, Andy, arrived to bring her home, she sat in the cruiser silently.

Nothing but time is going to make this feel any better, Andy told her as he drove, reaching over to place a hand on her leg.

You know you didn’t have any other option. I watched the body cam footage. He was going to kill his father. Wren knew her husband, a fellow police officer, was right.

I know, Wren stated as she shifted her position in the car. I don’t feel guilty about shooting him. I feel angry that he was placed in that situation. She looked out the window as her constantly evolving city passed by, Why wasn’t he in therapy? Why wasn’t he taking his meds? Why did the fucking dad have a loaded gun in the house with a mentally unstable kid? With a thud, she drove her elbow into the door of the cruiser, angry for the things she couldn’t change.

Andy just listened as she cursed and vented the obvious flaws of the mental health system. It failed this kid as it had failed so many before him.

Fuck! she yelled as she swung open the door and made her way to the house. Wren was angry for a long time. Andy was right. It took time and lots of counseling, but eventually the memory eased, and Wren fell back into a routine at work and home. She never forgot the first sight of blood as it soaked through the boy’s sweatshirt, marking the location of her bullet. She never forgot the feel of its stickiness on her gloves as she tried to save him.

Trying to ease the memory from her vision, she refocused on Lilah and her fresh kill.

We are eating rabbit tonight! Wren showered Lilah with scratches, head pats, and kisses. God, you scared me. She hugged her fearless girl, heart pounding. Fern snuggled herself under Wren’s arm, rubbing her fluffy, sliver head against her