Max
Christopher Parra

     The beam of Alex’s phone light cut through the dark like a trembling finger, tracing walls lined with pipes and dust. Every sound echoed too long—the scuff of his sneakers, the creak of unseen doors. “Max!” he shouted, his voice bouncing off the concrete. “MAX! WHERE ARE YOU?”

     Silence. Then, faintly, a bark answered from somewhere ahead—sharp, distant, alive.

     Alex’s chest unclenched. “Hang on, buddy,” he muttered, breaking into a run. His light shook over closed doors and wire-fenced storage cages filled with dusty bags of pet food. The hallway seemed endless, looping like a dream until it hit a dead end. Another bark—closer this time.

     One of the storage cages stood ajar, its gate half-open like a waiting mouth.

     Alex stepped inside. The scent of dry kibble filled the air. His light found Max crouched over a torn-open bag, tail wagging, muzzle deep in the food. The pitbull’s head snapped up, eyes wide and gleaming in the pale light, crumbs clinging to his snout.

     “Max,” Alex breathed, half a laugh, half a sob.

     He crouched beside him. Max wagged harder, chewing a final mouthful. His black fur shimmered faintly in the phone light—short, sleek, and dusted with powdered food. Alex scratched behind his ear.

     “Guess you found dinner, huh?” he said softly. His stomach twisted at the smell, at the thought of food—any food. He sighed. “Too bad this place doesn’t have anything for humans.

     ”Max only whined, licking his hand.

     Alex sat down beside the pile, legs heavy, his body still catching up from panic. The floor was cold against his jeans. He opened his backpack and found nothing but empty wrappers and crumpled paper. The sandwich he’d packed for the park was long gone. He stared into the bag’s hollow dark, a mirror of the basements.

     They were supposed to be outside right now—sun, grass, his mom laughing at how Max always chased pigeons.

     His throat tightened.

     He could still see the pet store aisles in his mind—the bright lights, the smell of rubber toys, the way everything shattered into chaos when the screaming started. He remembered his mother’s hand grabbing his arm. The look on her face.

     That same fear, he realized now, was the one she wore when his father came home drunk.

     “Alex!” she’d shouted in the store.

     Even in memory, her voice cracked through him like lightning.

     She’d pushed him and Max through a door, a storage stairwell, light spilling down the steps. She’d tried to follow, but someone—something—grabbed her. He remembered the way her eyes widened, her voice strangled as she screamed, “Shut the door!”

    He had seen the bite before he slammed it shut.

    Now, in the basement’s stale air, the memory burned behind his eyes. Max pressed close, whimpering, his body warm against Alex’s trembling hands. The dog had done this before—every night his father’s rage filled the house, every time his mother cried behind closed doors. Max had always found him, curled beside him, a wall of fur against the noise.

    The lights in the store had gone out that day. The world above them had gone dark. And now, once again, Alex was back in the dark—with Max.

    He turned on his phone light again and stared at the staircase leading deeper down. Black steps, swallowed in shadow. His reflection shivered in the cracked screen.

    “Stay close to me, okay, Max?”

    The dog’s ears twitched. He stood beside him, tail low but steady.

    Alex swallowed. “Good boy.”

    Together, they started down the stairs, the light trembling in his hand, the world above them fading into a hum of chaos and something worse—something that sounded almost human.

    The air thickened as Alex and Max descended. Each step groaned beneath their feet. The hum from above became a muted roar—the sound of chaos sealed behind concrete and distance.

    At the bottom, the corridor stretched ahead, narrow and uneven. Shelves of pet supplies and cages framed the walls like rows of silent witnesses. Alex’s light flickered across labels—grain-free chicken mix, organic treats—and over stains too dark to name.

    He gripped his phone tighter. “We’ll just wait here a while,” he whispered, unsure if he was lying to himself.

    Something clattered deeper in the hallway. Metal against cement.

    Max froze, muscles tightening under his fur. His ears pricked toward the sound.

    Alex lifted the phone light and aimed it ahead. The beam landed on a shape—someone slumped against the far wall. A man.

    “Hey!” Alex called. His voice came out too high, too hopeful. “Are you okay?”

    The figure shifted, slowly lifting his head. His eyes caught the light—red, glassy, rimmed with broken veins. Blood streaked down his chin, soaking into his shirt.

    Alex took a hesitant step forward. “Sir? Do you need help?”

    The man’s lips moved, but only a wet gurgle came out. His fingers scraped the floor, leaving smears behind.

    Max growled low in his throat, a warning rumble that made the air vibrate.

    The smell hit them next—iron and rot, sharp enough to sting Alex’s nose. He crouched instinctively, the light trembling. “It’s okay,” he said, voice cracking. “We’ll find someone. Just—just stay still.”

    The man’s chest hitched once, then stopped. He went still.
    Alex knelt beside him, pressing a hand to the man’s shoulder, then snatched it back—the skin was cold, tacky. Max whined beside him, sniffing at the blood pooling on the floor.

    “Come on,” Alex whispered, standing. His heart hammered against his ribs. “We need to—”

    The sound came like tearing fabric.

    A wet gasp broke the silence. Alex turned just in time to see the man’s chest rise again, unnaturally sharp, like something inside him had kicked. The man’s eyes snapped open—blood-red and empty—and he screamed.

    It wasn’t a human scream.

   Alex stumbled backward. Max lunged forward, barking so loud the sound bounced off the concrete walls.

    “Run!” Alex shouted. He grabbed Max’s leash and sprinted, light bouncing wildly. Behind them, footsteps pounded the floor—fast, heavy, wrong.

    They tore down the hall, turning corners blindly. Doors slammed under his hands, locked. His shoulder hit one hard enough to sting. The noise behind them grew louder—a broken, animal rhythm.

    One handle turned. The door swung open.

    Alex shoved Max through, but before he could follow, a hand clamped around his shoulder—cold, hard, claws digging into his skin. He screamed, twisting. Max snapped, a blur of teeth and fury, biting down on the man’s leg.

    The creature shrieked and fell, dragging Alex with it. Pain tore across his shoulder as he hit the floor. Max’s growls filled the hall—a sound Alex had never heard from him before.

    When he looked up, Max had the man on the ground, his muzzle red, his eyes wild. The man flailed weakly, still reaching, still snarling, but Max didn’t stop.

     “Max! Come on!” Alex shouted. He scrambled to his feet, pulled open the door, and dragged Max inside. The dog hesitated for a moment, chest heaving, before backing through.

     Alex slammed the door and turned the lock.

     Silence. Just breathing—their breathing.

     He looked at his shoulder. Four bloody scratches. Shallow but burning. His pulse thudded in his ears.

     Outside, the man’s body shifted again, scraping against the floor. Then—something worse. A muffled, wet sound, like someone crawling through mud.

     Alex pressed his back against the door, staring at the trembling light in his hand.

     “What’s happening?” he whispered. “What the hell is happening?”

     Max pressed close to his leg, trembling but alert, his dark eyes watching the door.

     They sat like that in the flickering light, surrounded by cages of forgotten food and the sound of breathing that wasn’t entirely theirs.

     Hours bled into each other, the basement a maze of shadows and echoes.
Alex and Max wandered through its narrow hallways, guided only by the phone’s weak light and the sound of their own exhaustion. Every corner looked the same: fenced storage rooms stacked with pet food, torn cardboard, the lingering smell of metal and blood.

     Alex’s shoulder ached. When he lifted the light to look, the scratches were already scabbing over—too fast. He frowned, pressing a fingertip to one of them. No pain. Just heat.

     “Guess I got lucky, huh?” he muttered.

     Max only tilted his head, panting softly.

     They found another open cage and went inside. It was lined with dog beds, most of them still clean. Alex sank down onto one and let Max curl up beside him. The air was heavy but still. For a few moments, it almost felt safe.

     Above them, the world was still screaming—the same dull chaos he remembered from before. The same chaos he grew up hearing through the thin walls of his childhood bedroom. Yelling. Breaking. Silence.

     He closed his eyes.

     He saw his mother again—the way she’d looked back at him before she was pulled away, her eyes pleading, her voice sharp with love and fear. Shut the door, Alex.

     He’d done it then. He’d done it again here.

     The tears came quietly this time.

     Max stirred, pressing his nose into Alex’s palm. His fur was warm, his breathing steady. It grounded him. “You’re a good boy,” Alex whispered. “Always have been.”

     He pulled the last of his packed lunch from his bag—half a sandwich crushed under the weight of everything else—and shared it.  “They always told me not to give you human food,” he said, trying to smile. “But I think we’ll make an exception.”

     They ate together in silence. The sound of chewing, the rhythm of breathing, the pulse of life in a place built for the dead.

     Eventually, sleep found them.

     When Alex woke, the world felt wrong.

     No noise from above. No rumbling. No screaming. Only stillness.
He turned on his phone. 6:03 AM.

     The scratches on his arm had faded completely. Not healed—gone.

     A chill ran through him. His stomach twisted with hunger, but when he reached for the dog food, the smell made him gag.

     Max was eating again, happily tearing into another bag of kibble. Alex smiled weakly, though his chest hurt when he looked at him. “How lucky can one dog be?” he murmured.

     He touched his neck. His pulse was too fast. His skin was too hot. He remembered the man’s eyes, the sound he’d made before coming back.

     And suddenly, he understood.

     He laughed once—short, broken—and then the sound turned into a sob. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

     Max stopped eating and padded toward him, ears low, sensing what Alex already knew.

      “I’m sorry, Max.”

      He led his dog gently into one of the fenced storage rooms—the one with the least damage, where the floor was clean and the bags of food piled high. Max hesitated, tail wagging uncertainly.

      “It’s okay, boy,” Alex said, forcing calm into his voice. “You’ll be safe here.”

      Max licked his hand. He whimpered when Alex shut the gate. The sound broke something in him.“I just wish things were better,” Alex said, voice trembling. “You were always there for me, Max. Every time I was scared. Every time they screamed. Every time I cried.” He pressed his forehead against the cold wire. “You were the only one who ever stayed.”

      Max pressed his nose to the fence, whining softly. His eyes—the same eyes that had seen him through every nightmare—watched Alex until the light dimmed again.

      When the rescue team arrived days later, the pet store was a graveyard of silence.

      Sergeant Hector Velázquez moved through the aisles with his squad, flashlight sweeping over toppled shelves and dried blood. The air was still thick with rot. They found the staircase and descended, weapons drawn.

      “Clear left,” one of the soldiers called.

      The beams of their flashlights caught on a cage near the far wall.

       Inside, a dog sat beside the remains of a boy—motionless, small, curled in a posture of sleep.

      The dog didn’t move when they approached. His tail wagged once, faintly, as if out of habit.

      Velázquez lowered his weapon. “Jesus…” he whispered.

      Max stared at the light but didn’t growl. Didn’t bark. He only looked toward the boy, then back at them, eyes calm, as if guarding him even now.

      Velázquez swallowed hard and turned to his team. “Get the dog out first,” he said quietly.

      As they lifted the gate, Max didn’t resist. He walked beside them, limping slightly, muzzle grey with dust. When they reached the stairs, he stopped once, looking back toward the basement one last time.

     Then he followed the light.

The End