Minutes to Burn Read Free

Medal of Honor served as a coaster for a half-drunk cup of coffee on the kitchen counter.
    The bulldog’s barks continued, adding to the pounding in Savage’s head.
    “Shut the fuck up!” he yelled, his voice still glazed with sleep.
    A truck rumbled by down on the street. The dog let loose with a fresh flurry of barks. With a grunt, Savage swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The room swam around him, but he fought it back into focus. It felt as though the bulldog were inside his head, each bark echo-ing against the walls of his skull.
    Savage rose and stumbled to the window. He tried to slide it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Outside, the wind sucked at the pane. The street and buildings were drab gray, as if bled dry. To the sides of the road rose drifts of snow sheathed in ice, spotted with mud and brown splashes of road water. The joys of Billings, Montana, in the winter.
    Standing guard on a porch three houses up the block, the bulldog stared at Savage, tongue lolling. Savage eyed the dog angrily. “That’s right. Just shut up. Lemme go back to sleep.”
    The dog bolted forward, straining against its metal chain and howling.
    “Goddamnit!” Savage yelled. He banged the sash, but that only caused the dog to bark even louder. “YOU GET THAT DOG TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
    A beefy man strode through the front door of the house, stopping just behind the frenzied bulldog. “What’s your problem, pal?”
    Savage yanked the window, but it slid up only a few inches. He leaned over so he could shout through the small gap. “That fuckin’ dog has woken me up every morning this week! You’d better—” He threw his weight against the window, but it refused to budge any further.
    The beefy man threw his arms up in the air. “It’s eleven-thirty!” he shouted.
    Savage leaned over and dug through the pile of clothes beside his bed until he unearthed his alarm clock. It read 11:17 A.M. He threw the clock against the wall and returned to the window. The dog was practically bouncing up and down at the guy’s feet.
    “I don’t give a shit what time it is!” Savage yelled. “Get your dog a muzzle or I’ll shoot the thing!”
    The beefy man held out his arm and slowly extended his middle fin-ger, then turned and headed back inside his house. Angrily, Savage returned to bed, pulling the pillow back over his head. A wave of nausea swept his stomach, and he realized he desperately had to piss. The bull-dog’s barks were even louder now that the window was edged open. They penetrated the pillow, his head. He tried pressing his hands over his ears, tried humming loudly, tried tying an old sweatshirt around his head.
    Finally, he snapped upright again, hurling the pillow at the wall. He crossed the room quickly, throwing open the doors of his gun cabinet and removing an air rifle. The ammo drawers were stuffed with different rounds. He started digging. A bunch of .22s clattered to the floor like brass rainfall. Buried beneath a stack of Sig Sauer cartridges was a box of tranquilizer darts, left over from an elaborate prank he had pulled during downtime on a tour of duty.
    He slid a dart in the chamber, stormed to the window, and smashed the left lower pane with the end of the air rifle. He took careful aim. The bulldog snarled and growled, bounced and barked. Savage sank the dart into its neck and waited. The bulldog swayed on its feet, then collapsed flat on its stomach, the bloom of the dart waggling in the breeze.
    A moment later, the beefy guy came out to investigate. He crouched, leaning over the fallen dog. Savage couldn’t resist a smirk.
    When the guy rose to his feet, his eyes were lit with rage. “You moth-erfucker!” he screamed. “I’ll rip your fuckin’ eyes out, you stupid—”
    With a grimace, Savage slid a second dart into the chamber. He snapped the rifle up against his shoulder, eyed the sites, and fired. Beefy guy looked down at the dart in his thigh with shock. He stepped forward