Story code: ST-000045
Part 2: The Witch Hunt
Toby’s blood turned to ice as his eyes locked onto the bold, capitalized words screaming from the top of the neighborhood watch post.
*SICKO DRIVER CAUGHT ON TAPE TORTURING OUR BLIND SENIOR LABRADOR! WATCH HIM TRY TO STRANGLE BUSTER TO DEATH! APP FIRED HIM BUT HE IS STILL ON OUR STREETS. MAKE HIM PAY.*
Torturing? Strangling? Toby stared at the looping video, his mind violently throwing him back to the reality of the pitch-black porch the night before. The homeowners had left their dog outside on a heavy, plastic-coated steel tie-out cable. In the darkness, the blind dog had wandered around the base of the massive brick pillar, wrapping the cable so tightly around the masonry that it was effectively hanging itself. When Toby had walked up to deliver the food, he had heard the wet, terrifying sound of an animal gagging and thrashing in the dirt beneath the bottom step.
He had dropped the paper bag immediately, throwing himself to his knees. The dog was panicking, its weight pulling the collar tighter. Toby had grabbed the thick steel cable with both hands, throwing his entire body weight backward to force enough slack into the line so he could unclip the rusted carabiner from the dog’s neck. He had fought the heavy wire for nearly thirty seconds before finally freeing the gasping animal.
But looking at the looping video now, a sickening realization washed over him. The fisheye lens of the doorbell camera was angled too high. It completely cut off the ground and the bottom steps. The camera didn’t capture the choking dog or the tether wrapped around the pillar. It only captured Toby from the chest up, his face twisted into a frantic grimace, violently yanking a metal leash downward into the shadows again and again.
Thousands of people were watching a distorted, contextless fraction of a second, entirely convinced he was a monster. The delivery app’s permanent suspension suddenly made horrifying sense. The company hadn’t investigated or asked for his side of the story; they had just reacted to a viral public relations nightmare by instantly severing his livelihood.
A sharp, erratic flutter banged violently against his ribs. Toby pressed a trembling hand to his sternum, his breath coming in shallow, inadequate gasps. His heart condition didn’t care about neighborhood witch hunts or algorithmic outrage. He needed his beta-blockers. Without them, his heart rate would inevitably spike into a dangerous arrhythmia. He only had two pills left in the orange bottle sitting in his console. Saturday and Sunday were covered. But by Monday morning, if he didn’t have the seventy-five-dollar copay for his refill, the resulting palpitations could easily put him in the emergency room.
His digital wallet app mocked him from the background of his phone screen: $14.12.
He needed cash, and he needed it today. He couldn’t go home-his apartment address was likely already being passed around in those rapid-fire text messages continuously buzzing against his thigh. He looked down at the keys dangling in his Corolla’s ignition. Clipped to the faded plastic fob was his late father’s gold wedding band. Toby had sworn on his father’s grave to never part with it, keeping it close to him on every long drive. But his chest was throbbing with another warning palpitation, a dull ache radiating into his shoulder. Survival demanded a sacrifice.
Toby shifted the car into drive and tore out of the strip mall. He drove five miles across town, constantly checking his rearview mirror, paranoid that every pair of headlights in the hazy afternoon sun belonged to a vigilante. He navigated to a faded, barred-window establishment called Gold & Gun Exchange on the industrial edge of the city, hoping the blue-collar clientele on this side of town wouldn’t be glued to upscale neighborhood watch alerts.
He parked his Corolla in the narrow back alley to hide his exposed license plate. Inside, the shop smelled of stale cigarette smoke and oxidized metal. A burly man with a thick, graying beard sat behind reinforced plexiglass, swiping aimlessly on a tablet propped up by the register.
Toby unclipped the heavy gold ring from his keychain, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. He slid the band beneath the narrow opening at the bottom of the plexiglass window. “I need cash. Whatever you can give me for this.”
The clerk picked up the ring, screwing a black jeweler’s loupe into his right eye. He turned the gold band over under a small fluorescent lamp, nodding slowly in appreciation. But as the clerk reached for his pricing scale, the tablet on his counter let out a loud chime-a local Facebook group alert. The clerk glanced at the screen out of habit.
Toby watched the man’s eyes lock onto the tablet, widen slightly, and then slowly rise to meet Toby’s face through the thick glass. The casual indifference drained from the clerk’s expression, instantly replaced by a furious, dark flush.
The man shoved the gold ring back through the slot with such violent force that it bounced off Toby’s chest and clattered onto the dirty linoleum floor. “Get the hell out of my shop.”
“Wait, please,” Toby begged, dropping to his knees to snatch the ring off the floor. “It’s solid gold. I just need seventy-five dollars. It’s for my heart medication. Just seventy-five.”
“I said get out, you sick piece of garbage,” the clerk snarled, his hand disappearing under the counter. “I saw the video. I saw what you did to that dog. You’re lucky there’s glass between us, or I’d break your jaw myself. I’m calling the police.”
Toby stumbled backward, the air knocked out of his lungs by the sheer, impenetrable wall of hatred in the man’s voice. He turned and bolted for the door, the electronic chime buzzing mockingly overhead as he burst back out into the stifling heat of the alleyway.
He sprinted toward his hidden Corolla, his heart hammering a terrifying, irregular rhythm against his ribs. He jammed the key into the driver’s side door, but before he could turn the lock, the screech of heavy tires echoed down the brick walls.
A lifted black pickup truck abruptly swung into the alley, slamming on its brakes and completely boxing Toby’s car against a chain-link fence. The driver’s side door swung open, and a muscular man in a camouflage baseball cap stepped out, clutching a heavy metal tire iron in his right hand. He raised his glowing smartphone in his left hand, checking the screen, then pointed the tire iron directly at Toby’s windshield.
“Hey! I got him!” the man yelled over his shoulder to someone still inside the truck. “It’s the dog killer!”
Toby scrambled into his front seat and slammed the lock button, his entire body breaking out in a cold sweat. He twisted the ignition key, but there was nowhere to drive. The massive truck blocked the only exit, the man with the tire iron was advancing with purposeful, angry strides, and a sharp, agonizing pain was beginning to radiate down Toby’s left arm.