The dogs watched

That’s all. They just watched. They didn’t bite, or bark. They didn’t really get in the way, try to stop us, or push us to somewhere else. They watched, while we walked.

Usually from somewhere behind us, occasionally they’d get up in front. They usually kept a safe distance from us and didn’t interfere, both reassuring and nerve wracking. A fight would break out occasionally; suddenly they were monitoring from much closer. Their ears tuned to the multiple loud voices coming from some perceived threat vector amongst us. There was usually a few of them in the pack, makes recording everything we do from more than one angle easier.

We’d been walking for weeks, moving from one town to the next. Seeing if any of them would be suitable for a few of us to settle down and start again. Mostly we just picked up a few more families who’d given up trying to rebuild again and again.

They’d pay a little bit more attention to them, until we were well outside of town.

It’s obvious when we’ve walked into the borders of a new township. They’d just stop and sit. Like a good dog. They’re programming preventing them from moving past their invisible geofence. A new pack would find us soon enough.

The different council logo or crest on their hind was usually fairly easy to spot. Different dogs with different instructions, different programmed quirks.

The older ones don’t shut up. Those damned relentless piston legs marching over any terrain with an unearned indifference. Their aggressive march that makes everyone nervous: we all seem to walk a bit faster when there’s an older model. Our heartbeat trying to sync up with their stomping legs.

At least the newer ones become almost playful on uneven ground. Despite more nuanced behaviour, these are still deep in the uncanny valley. The stabilisers in their neck and head never letting up that they were there to watch.

Throwing a ball or a stick didn’t help. Putting them into the body of a dog was a cruel joke. You want to interact with them, treat them like you used to do with your own. Assume that there was life in there. Instead of being local or government surveillance on four legs.

Maybe someone was piloting them from one of the big cities or a base, we had no way of knowing. It’s creepy thinking that someone could be on the other end of these things, even though we realise there’d have to be human input at some point. They’d just stare at you as the stick would land in the scrub behind them. Not being a good boy. Just watching.

Nights were mostly no different. They’d settle down a bit when it went dark, but only because we had. You didn’t really want to stray too much from our herd at night — definitely didn’t want to be alone with those things — so once camp was called on suitable ground everyone tended to bed down with whatever they had and share what was left of their slowly diminishing food.

In a way it felt reassuring, primal even. Having them around at night, even though they weren’t really keeping guard. Just watching.