Rolf’s ears pricked, and he sniffed the air. “They’re coming,” he growled.

Outside, rain threatened. When it arrived, so would they.

Through the broken window, moonlight streamed in, creating a potpourri of faint beams on the scratched factory floor. Glimmers reflected oil stains on the surface, adding an otherworldly element to the mundane sight. A sound made Rolf turn, and he watched as Lily approached.

“Okay, boy? I know. Sensors are active. Transducers have this group at an appropriate distance.” Lily’s voice was controlled as she bent to rub the dog, her left arm hanging limply by her side.

In answer, he padded to the door and waited.

Lily unbolted the door and cautioned, “Don’t go far, boy. Remember, Rolf, no threshold crossing.”

He barked.

“Okay, okay, stop giving out. Just be careful. I know you know what to do.”

Rolf disappeared into the familiar gloom, the frequency absorber and disperser around his neck, ready for activation.

* * *

Humans should have heeded the warnings. It’s not as if they were unfamiliar with every apocalyptic-type scenario imaginable from their reliance on the internet. All the signs were there — the howls when they watched DVDs where dogs died and the resonating snarls, growing fang-filled grimaces, and cold shoulders when documentaries depicted dogs as food and sport.

The crunch came when fiction writers lost all credible sense of thought and went gung-ho in demanding old-timey paper for their mindless doodling. At what expense? The canines, of course. Pulp was at an all-time low. Scandinavian wood sources, so plentiful in the past, fizzled out. Soon, resources were but a sketchy memory.

Some bright spark, I’ll rephrase that. Some not-so-bright spark decided a return to the good old parchment days for that added layer of authenticity was imperative to keep authors worldwide happy. Governments agreed that supplies of lamb and kids (rebel against your first thought, I refer to young goats) were precarious. Therefore, culling an abundant species on the planet would be best.

Big mistake! Epic!

Cue the CSPP (Canine Skin Procurement Protocol) of 2134. Within months of implementation and dwindling numbers, the remaining dogs revolted, and so began the canine purge of Earth.

Celebrities were the first to feel the brunt of the reaction to this pioneering initiative. Handbag pooches were too close to the jugular for comfort. Beverly Hills was soon awash with blood-spattered TikTok influencers staggering around wide-eyed, clutching mangled necks.

Discarded Gucci bags sans dogs littered sun-bleached pavements. One labradoodle went bananas and went on a celebrity cat-killing spree. The surviving cats went underground in self-preservation mode, creating labyrinthine streets and alleys.

Rogue packs hunted. Stealth dogs patrolled nightly, their hulking silhouettes terrorising the bewildered and unprepared humans.

Dog bowls, mats, squeaky chew toys, and savaged Garfield backpacks filled the streets. One mural of a Parisienne lamppost was bleached beyond recognition from repeated urination. Yet, all of that was nothing compared to the slaughter that followed.

Soon, only a few human outposts remained. Man’s best friend became his worst enemy. But throughout it all, Lily and Rolf remained side by side, surviving.

* * *

Rolf watched as they drew near — a bigger pack than last time. There were a few pups in the mix — more collateral damage. It was always tough when the young were involved. They knew no better; they were only trying to stay alive. The casualties of this war were mounting up, and Lily and he had racked up their fair share.

Rolf knew that they would perish once Lily fired up the waveform weapon.

They’d picked up his scent, and Rolf’s eyes strayed to the leader — a feeling of dread shot through his core at the sight of his mirror image, Gunther. He’d known deep down that his older brother still lived, even after the licking he’d taken.

* * *

“Gunther, Rolf, here, boys!” Lily’s younger voice trilled as Rolf, the runt of the litter, yawned sleepily in the barn.

He stretched and loped out into the morning sunshine. The day smelt different. Where was Gunther? A biscuity scent diverted his attention. He’d worry about the day later. For now, he was interested in whatever Lily had behind her back, and his tail went ballistic as he bounded towards her.

Giggling, Lily knelt. “Good boy.”

Rolf squirmed and sniffed her hand, barking at the hidden crunchy goodness.

“Alright, alright, here you go. More for you since Gunther’s a no-show.” Lily watched him chomp them down, then headed to the house, Rolf in tow.

Shots rang out, followed by screams and howls as they reached the porch.

“Dad,” Lily screamed, running into the house.

Her father lay dying on the kitchen floor, blood spurting from a neck wound. Gunther lay on his side, unmoving.

Rolf gave a warning growl when Gunther got to his feet, teeth bared, eyes on Lily.

Brother faced brother.

Gunther snarled and sprang at Lily, aiming for her neck. She lifted her arm to protect herself, and his teeth clamped down, ripping and tearing.

Piercing screams sliced the air.

Rolf landed on his brother’s back and bit his neck. Gunther Gunther spasmed, then released, and Lily fell back, clutching her mangled limb.

Gunther tried to shake Rolf off, but it was no use. Rolf mauled and clawed until his brother sagged and fell, exhausted and bleeding, onto the tiled floor.

Outside, more howls. Rolf turned his eyes to Lily. She staggered to her feet, and they ran.

* * *

Again, brother faced brother. Sheets of rain fell but were not enough to obscure the pack.

Gunther’s growl was low and guttural as he paced along the perimeter. The others waited, eyes focused on their leader.

Rolf felt the slight buzz at his collar. His shield activated.

Eyes trained on Gunther, he stood his ground. This time, his brother would not survive.

Rolf knew the sound pressure level was increasing. Not wishing to see the familiar destruction it would herald, he gave a solitary howl in final farewell and turned towards the sanctuary and a waiting Lily.