05 Jul 911 Won’t Answer Any Calls Tonight
“911 Won't Answer Any Calls Tonight”
Written by Kyle Dover Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 5 minutes
“Is it true? Did every cop in the precinct call in sick tonight?” I asked my friend who lives across the street from the police station.
“Yeah, Wayne.” I heard him answer as I could also hear him racking his shotgun. “Can’t say I blame them, considering things lately. The mayor is scared and telling them to stand back and let the crowds do what they want. They’ve been getting ambushed and attacked on the job. If they do their job, the mayor threatened to have them fired or jailed. Now I see some angry folks spilling out of the bar and walking down the street like the town is their playground. Heads up, they’re headed towards your neighborhood. Be ready. Now I’ve got to go.”
I told my wife to get our two-year-old son and go to the interior of the house, away from any doors or windows. I turned off the lights and checked that everything was locked. Then I went to my safe, holstered a sidearm, and checked my shotgun. Dang. I should have gotten something better than my grandpa’s old hunting gun. A 12 gauge is effective but limited against an angry crowd.
I briefly considered packing up the family and leaving but that would be worse. Angry crowds blocked the highway and drivers were being assaulted in their vehicles. They were sitting ducks. If they defended themselves, the mayor would have them arrested. It was like this everywhere. There was nowhere to go and we were on our own.
I looked out the window and saw nothing but eerie fog and the blackened tree line on the edge of the property. We lived just outside of town where houses were spread out and we were off a dead-end road.
Only one way in or out.
Suddenly I heard the angry mob yelling from down the road. Standing guard at an open window, I raised my gun when I saw lots of motion by the tree line. I relaxed when I saw several coyotes yipping and running away from the mob. Then I heard growling and barking, followed by several terrified yipping and howling coyotes running and limping away in all directions. Then I looked up at the tree line and saw two massive eyes glowing back at me. It was something on four legs but was taller than any creature native to this area.
Baxter?
It had been a rough few months. I had only recently gone back to work after being laid off. We had struggled to get by, and on top of it, we had lost both our pets. The first was our cat that was killed by coyotes. Our dog Baxter took it really hard. He was an Ovcharka, a massive, fluffy Russian dog that looked more like a bear. He had always been tame and mild-mannered. He loved that cat more than anything, and when it died he became depressed. He just spent all his time on the back porch staring off into the woods. Then, one day last week, he saw a coyote running by the edge of the woods. He just stood up, walked after it into the tree line and never came back. There had been an issue with feral dogs around here. With the economic situation, lots of folks abandoned them off the highway near us. I figured he may have joined up with them.
Then there was work. A drunk, lazy co-worker named Bo had fallen off the wagon and started showing up drunk. He was always angry and rude, but now even more so. He’d snap at everyone and he reeked of the same cheap whiskey he always drank. Of course, it fell on me earlier today to have to go and fire him. He turned down every effort we’d made at offering him counseling and we had no choice. He threatened me and stormed out of the facility. Just one more thing to put on my list of worries right now.
I heard a commotion from the dead-end road leading up to our driveway and I ran up to the front of the house to look. There was an angry crowd holding bats and tire irons making their way up the drive. The punk at the front of them had a mask tied around his face and looked like a college kid living in his mom’s basement. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous though.
I cracked the window and loudly racked the shotgun. The punk’s eyes got big and the crowd turned and ran. Somehow, I still felt unsettled. This didn’t seem like the crowd my friend had described over the phone. These were the amateurs.
I heard a sound like something being slashed from the back of the house. I remembered I left the back window cracked open that I had been looking out of. Someone was cutting through the mesh. I shut and locked the front window and ran to the back.
I saw a massive hand wielding a kitchen knife cutting through the window mesh. I could smell cheap whiskey in the air. It was Bo.
Bo yelled. “This is the place, boys! The one I told you about at the bar. Wayne buys that pretty little wife of his lots of nice jewelry. I’ll bet there’s plenty of good stuff in here. When you find my old boss Wayne, he’s mine.”
There were lots of them. More than I could handle on my own.
I didn’t want to tip off anyone with a gunshot so I grabbed a kitchen knife and slashed Bo’s hand. He yelled and pulled away. Then I heard glass from the back door breaking as someone was forcing their way in from the back porch. I ran back there and raised my shotgun at the intruder. I couldn’t shoot because my wife and son were in the room behind him. He lifted up an empty beer bottle as a weapon. I charged at him and kicked him hard right in the gut. He flew out the door and flipped over the railing. I heard him screaming in pain when he hit the ground. I saw three more men outside as I lifted my shotgun.
From behind me, Bo’s massive forearm put me in a chokehold. He must have climbed through the window. I struggled to breathe as I kicked and elbowed him to no avail.
He let out a sickening laugh. “Who’s fired now, Wayne? Where is your little family at?”
When you’re in a situation like this, apparently all notions of civilized society are melted away and you find yourself a primitive rage. I pulled out my handgun and shot him in the foot. He screamed and I turned around and pistol-whipped him upside the head. I pointed my gun and fired as he stumbled outside and I missed. He and four other guys were out there.
I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Baxter!”
Bo and his cohorts looked at me with confusion until Baxter and four other dogs behind him came charging out of the forest. Baxter looked completely different from the dog I once knew. He still looked like a fearsome mix of canine and grizzly but now he was baring his teeth and growling with his mouth dripping coyote blood. He’d gone feral.
Bo and his buddies screamed as Baxter and his pack hit them like a wall. They fell to the ground and struggled and screamed in terror as the dogs bit and snarled at them. One by one, Bo and the other drunks fought away and stumbled into the woods.
Baxter stood in front of his pack and stared at me. I was strangely proud of him. He was an Alpha. This was his pack, this neighborhood was his territory and he was defending it.
From the other side of the trees, I heard a neighbor lady screaming as the other mob approached her house.
I looked at Baxter. “Sic ‘em, boy!”
Baxter barked at me and then tore off into the trees, his pack following closely behind.
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by Kyle Dover Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/A🔔 More stories from author: Kyle Dover
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).