The Plague Dogs by Richard Adams

low, watery sounds, the lappings and gurglings filling the room, drove Rowf almost hysterical, so that it was he who pushed on to the next pair of doors while Snitter was still searching in vain for a negotiable open window.
    They came to a halt at last in the guinea-pig house, where all manner of guinea-pigs—ginger, black, white, black-and-white, ginger-and-black, long haired, short-haired, tragical-pastoral, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral—were kept in reserve for the needs of the station.
    A number had had one or more of their legs amputated—the interesting thing being that they possessed no power of adaptation, but continued to attempt to behave as though they had four legs.
    Here Snitter, having searched the entire room, at last stopped in the furthest corner, his nostrils pressed to the crack under the door. This was no swing door, but a heavier affair altogether, a door of the normal kind, painted green and shut as fast as the Arabian trees.
    "Wet mud and rain," said Snitter. "Gutters and leaves! Smell."
    Rowf put down his nose. Both could smell a steady rain falling in the darkness outside. Rowf pushed at the unyielding door.
    "No good," said Snitter. "Postman's door—paper boy's door. Oh, never mind," he added, as Rowf remained silent and uncomprehending. "We've eaten down to the plate, that's all."
    "No getting out? Can't we fight the postman?"
    "Cats up a tree. Climb until the top branches bend. Then what? Hang yourself up on a cloud while you're thinking. Hang me up on another." As though to reassure himself, Snitter lifted his leg against the door, peed a moment and then sat back on his haunches, shivering in the damp draught and wisps of cloud-wrack blown in across the sill. "It's cold. My feet are cold."
    "Burn," said Rowf suddenly. "What?"

    "Burn, over there. Smell of ashes. It'll be warmer. Come on."
    There was indeed a perceptible source of heat—not much, but some—coming from the opposite side of the block, beyond the central mass of guinea-pig hutches piled in tiers. Turning his head in the direction towards which Rowf was looking, Snitter could not only smell the ashes but see, in the dim light, minute particles, dust and motes, swirling upwards in an air current that must be warmer than the rest of the room. Following Rowf round the hutches, he found him already sniffing at a square door of iron set in a frame of brickwork and projecting from the wall a little above the level of his head. It was ajar. Peering upwards, he could glimpse, within, the roof or upper side of a kind of metal cavern, which must be deep, for not only was a warm draught coming up it and a light drift of powdery ash, but also minute sounds, tinklings and crepitations, magnified as they echoed against the iron sides of the shaft.
    "What is it?" asked Rowf, bristling as though for a fight.
    "No animal; so put your teeth down. Swing thing—door of some kind. Get it a bit wider open."
    Rowf made as if to push at it and Snitter quickly stopped him.
    "No, no, you'll shut it that way. You have to nose them open, or else use your paws. Let me show you."
    He stood up and rested his front paws on the projecting brickwork, thrust his muzzle into the crack of the opening and jerked his head sideways, levering the square of iron wide on its hinges. At once he backed nervously away, bristling as Rowf had done. The two dogs crouched together under the lowest tier of hutches facing the iron door.
    "What is it?" repeated Rowf. "Something's been burning, some sort of death—bones—hair—"
    "These creatures in here—whatever they are—the whitecoats must burn them. It's the same smell, you see, only burnt. Yes, of course," said Snitter. "Of course that's it. They burnt my head, you know, and the tobacco man keeps burning that thing he puts in his mouth. Obviously they burn these creatures in there."
    "Why?"
    "Don't be silly." Snitter went slowly back to the open door. "It's still warm in there. Dead things
    —but not cold. Hot