The Battle Begins (3 page)

3

T
ODAY WAS THE LUCKIEST OF DAYS.
C
ASTOR SHOT AFTER
Runt, knowing that where there was one raccoon, there were a dozen. Sure enough, though the raccoon disappeared between buildings and under garbage, each time they scared it up again, there were a few more of its little friends in their dark face masks. Castor had dreamt of meat, and now they would have a real feast.

They just had to wear them out first. Raccoons were a bit trickier to hunt than rats or squirrels. The sly little
thieves were pretty scrappy in a fight, and if they weren't good and exhausted by the time you cornered them, you risked a flank full of holes from their razor teeth. Together, he and Runt tried to corral the critters into a narrower path, but it was tough without the whole pack. The raccoons kept turning and scattering, and it wasn't long before the dogs were on unfamiliar ground.

“We should turn back!” Castor called ahead to Runt.

“No way!” the usually meek omega answered, tongue wagging as he ran. “The Invincible wouldn't turn back! Laringo wouldn't be afraid!”

They were deep in enemy territory, far from their pack's markings. Castor couldn't even smell Chauncy and the wee weenies anymore, and the markings he could smell made him nervous.

“Got one!” Runt called suddenly.

Now the smell of raccoon was the brightest scent of all. Castor's stomach growled, and he felt almost delirious with hunger. Runt was right: just a little while longer, and they would have the rest of them! They were so close.

His legs carried him faster, farther, and finally, he was closing in on a group of raccoons. By the time he noticed the streaking shape of the enemy beagle in his peripheral vision, Runt was far ahead of him.

The beagle pressed toward Castor, its ears flopping
in the wind. Castor knew he could beat the smaller dog but didn't want a fight if he could avoid it. He nipped at one long ear in warning.

But the beagle wasn't backing down. His snarls told Castor he would show no mercy, and Castor's hesitation had cost him dearly: a skinny greyhound and a vicious dalmatian had joined the beagle, and together, they were closing in on him.

As a last-ditch effort, Castor took a sharp pivot and shouldered against the beagle. The force and his hefty weight caught the smaller dog off guard and sent it hurtling into both the greyhound and the spotted hothead. They all careened sideways, a jumble of limbs and tails.

“Yes!”
Castor howled gleefully, shocked at his success. Now all he had to do was catch up with Runt and find a way home!

But looking ahead, Castor saw that Runt was barreling down a hill. And downhill led to a place Castor had been forbidden from puppyhood to ever, ever approach: it led to the river.

The river wasn't even water. It was muck. Swirling brown acid, where nothing survived except pink rats whose fur had been burned away, along with half their brains.

“Runt!” Castor barked a frantic warning. “Runt,
stop!
”

Knowing he should turn around, Castor surged forward, desperate to catch up with his brother. He called Runt's name over and over, but Runt didn't hear him, couldn't focus on anything except the fat raccoons luring him toward them. He was wild with the hunger of the hunt. Castor watched as Runt ran to the end of the road.

And right out to the end of the dock.

When Castor finally reached him, Runt was panting giddily, surrounded by four fat raccoon meals, which he began eating with his usual fervor.

“Runt,” Castor said pleadingly, the toxic smell of the river burning in his throat. “We need to go. Now.”

“I got 'em!” Run grinned around a mouthful of raccoon fur. “I told you I'd get 'em!”

“And we got you,” a voice barked from behind them.

Castor whirled around. It was the beagle's voice, but the dalmatian and the greyhound were there, too . . . along with eleven more of their friends. The entire rival pack was lined up, blocking their exit.

“Ohhh no,” Runt whimpered when he saw the other dogs. The limp raccoon fell from his jaws.

“Oh yes,” the beagle said. His ear was still bleeding.
“On this side of town, we don't take kindly to Southside mutts stealing our meat.”

“On this side of town,” the dalmatian said, his pale eyes unblinking, “meat is so scarce we sometimes feast on enemy dog.”

Runt couldn't help it—he let out a submissive whine. The other dogs laughed.

“Runt, get behind me,” Castor commanded in a low, cautious growl. Then he lowered his head. He would fight every last one of them before they could touch his brother. “Come at me,” he growled at the rival pack, his lips twitching over his fangs.

And come they did. They were muscled or skinny, long-haired or short; they were all vicious. The dock was narrow, so he only had to fight two or three at a time, but the next group was always ready. Castor felt teeth sinking into his belly, snapping at his legs. Gnawing on his tail like an old bone. The beagle whose ear he'd nipped got revenge by biting one of Castor's ears down the middle.

Within minutes, Castor seemed to be hurting from everywhere at once, and every inch of his body quivered in agony. Still, he fought back with a fierceness he never knew was in him. He bulldozed into the foe, snarling as he lunged. He shouldered a husky off the dock, and though he heard the splash, the next dog was already on
him before he could look toward the river.

He had to get one more bite in, disable one more dog. He only wanted to save his brother, and maybe survive while he was at it. He knew he probably didn't have a chance, but at least he'd go out with honor.

Then, all of a sudden, the other dogs were scrambling away. One after another, with their ears flat against their skulls and their eyes wide with fear, they turned tail and fled. Were they afraid of the river after what had happened to the husky? Or had Castor actually managed to win?

“We're okay,” Castor said, still bewildered. He was bleeding and limping, and he could feel the painful tear in his right ear where the beagle had latched on, but they were both alive.

“We're better than okay.” Runt scooted toward Castor, gratefully licking at his ears and cheeks. “I can't believe you took on that whole pack!”

“Maybe I should challenge Alpha,” Castor joked, feeling proud despite himself. Runt frowned. “Or not . . . I mean, I was kidding.”

But Runt wasn't looking at him. His usually floppy ears were standing up, alert, and he let out a fearful growl.

“What?” Castor asked, confused. He heard nothing.

Runt scrambled to his feet now, and there was no trace of the joy that had been on his face moments before. “Is that . . . ?”

Then Castor heard it. His ear must've been damaged worse than he thought, because the noise was close now—too close—and it made every hair on Castor's coat stiffen.

It was a crushing sound—like bones being ground up—and then a slurp.

4

C
ASTOR LOOKED UP THE HILL TO SEE THE SNAILLIKE
machine with the words WASTE MANAGEMENT stamped on it. Then the Crusher Slusher was hurtling toward them, giant and menacing, and before Castor and Runt could reach the start of the dock, it was already blocked off.

Near the Crusher, they could see the dust and debris trembling on the pavement. Then Castor saw the raccoons' fur rustling, and he could feel the high-force
suction starting to pull at him. He and Runt scrabbled at the wood planks of the dock, desperately trying to find purchase.

Castor bared his teeth, and the loose skin of his jowls pulled away from his face. The wind was so strong now that it dried his eyes, making everything blurry. As he was dragged blindly toward the awful gears, Castor couldn't believe that, after everything he'd survived in his scrappy life, this was the end. He almost wished the dogs had torn him apart instead.

Abruptly, the sound cut out. The Crusher had stopped.

Castor blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Runt, only a few feet from the machine now, turned to look at him, wide-eyed. Castor stepped forward and peered around the Crusher Slusher with tentative hope. If it had died, they could squeeze around it. . . .

A figure in orange stepped out of the top of the Crusher, and Castor froze. Runt's eyes went wider and white with terror, and Castor knew he could never make up for how wrong he'd been, how stupidly reassuring, how confident.

It was a human.

Not a faraway figure trapped behind glass. This was a human on the street, standing in front of him. At least
that's what he thought it was.

Castor had thought humans looked like the faces he'd seen in the virtual posters, but this creature looked almost insect-like. Its face was greenish, and it had large, round, tinted eyes, like those he'd seen on flies. It seemed to have trouble breathing—he could hear its labored breaths coming out of its weird circular mouth—and it was covered in billowing orange fabric and gloves—probably to hide the rest of its hideous skin.

It was terrifying, and it was lumbering toward him.

Castor didn't know what to do, so he studied it like prey or an enemy dog. He noted the vulnerable parts—the fleshy sides, the fingers, the unstable two-legged balance.

Get away,
he barked at the human.

The creature hesitated and turned its head, and for a moment, Castor thought his warning had worked and it was about to retreat. But instead, another human was moving in on them.

“What do you have there?” the second one called.

“Just a couple of mutts,” the first answered over its shoulder. “I tried to suck 'em up, but the old clunker's not what she used to be.” It reached one of its orange arms toward the Slusher Crusher and rapped against the metal. “Careful,” it said as the second human stepped
toward Castor. “That one's vicious. Just saw him take on a dozen other dogs in a fight.”

“Really?” The human cocked its head but continued forward anyway, and Castor saw that it was holding something in its hands. Something hard and dark and mean-looking. Something that seemed familiar somehow, that Castor might've seen on one of the flashing pictures at some point. . . . The human brought it up to its face, peering through its hard, reflective eyes.

Castor snarled, crouching back on his haunches. But before he could so much as spring, a whirr echoed in his ears, and Castor was suddenly on the ground, bewildered at the failure of his muscles. A piece of colored plastic was poking out of his flank, Castor noticed with alarm. He'd been shot!

Runt whined and licked at him, distraught. “What is it, what is it, can I kill it?” he panted.

Castor didn't have time to think about that now, though—his senses felt off. There seemed to be twice as many men, their orange outlines blurring every time he blinked, and Runt looked like he was glowing strangely. When the men spoke, their voices were hollow and muffled.

“What'd you do that for?” The first man's hazy form stepped forward.

“You know NuFormz, the warehouse on the island, where the old prison used to be? I got a buddy over there, Slim, who says they're looking for a fresh crop of animals for that Mega Media reality show—
Unnaturals
, or whatever. I bet those lab coats will pay a pretty penny for a prize like this.”

“I'd sure put my money on 'im in the ring,” the other agreed. “I love a good match.”

Castor's mind was racing. He'd heard of dog disappearances before. Was this what had happened to his great-uncle Carmine or to the collie mutt last year? Had the Gray Whiskers' warnings been right all along?

He struggled to his feet, or rather he scuttled sideways like a spider, tripping over his own paws. His legs weren't working right. They were heavy and felt like they were made of the brown sludge in the river—all liquidy.

“Come on, then,” the man with the weapon said, his voice echoing. “I'll give you a cut of the cash if you help me get him in my truck.” Their bodies seemed to flicker as they stepped toward Castor.

Now it was Runt's turn to defend his brother. He stood in front of him, and his frantic barking was an alarm for every animal within earshot.

“Easy, there,” one of the men said, gesturing for Runt to move aside. “It's not you we want.”

Castor was proud when Runt responded with a snarl and a snap of his jaws, but then they shot him with the poison arrow, too.

Castor's head felt so heavy now that he couldn't even protest as the insect men lifted him with their gloved hands and threw him into a cage in the back of a truck. The bars crossed in front of him and he smashed his face into them, scratching his nose.

Runt started to howl now, and even after the doors of the truck closed and the metal box started to move, Castor could hear his brother's voice—a long, mournful wail of protest. It trailed them for miles, until Castor lost consciousness.