Gunther Muck's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Gunther pressed deeper into the crack in the trench wall. The battery ticked. Above, the scavenger's boots crunched closer. Then a new sound came from lower down the trench — a wet dragging, and the clack of many small mouths. Something in the dark had smelled Gunther. It rounded the bend. A crud-eater, three times Gunther's size, its body a heaped ridge of rusted bolts and chewed wire. It moved on a fringe of grasping mouths along its underside. A hand-painted claim mark ran the length of the trench floor — Gunther had crawled straight across it without seeing. This was the crud-eater's territory, and Gunther was cargo now. Gunther tried to roll back. The antenna caught on the cracked wall and held. The crud-eater slid forward and opened a wet seam along its front. It would strip the battery, the antenna, the lens, and leave Gunther as a smear of paste. A sharp bark cut down the trench. A small orange dog trotted out from behind a fallen panel, headphones clamped over its ears, tinted goggles pushed up on its brow. A pack rode its shoulders with a red light blinking on the strap. Behind the dog came a girl in a purple jumpsuit, hood up, her own headphones half-swallowing her face. Mud streaked her sleeves. Her eyes had the flat shine of someone who had not slept in days. "Galahja," she said to the dog, low. "Mark it." The dog barked twice at the crud-eater and darted sideways. The crud-eater swung its ridge to follow. Galahja was scribbling on a scrap of ceramic with a stub of chalk — the same jagged wave pattern, over and over, as if her hand could not stop. She did not look up. "Little crud," she said. "Your battery is screaming on my band. Give it to the tank or you die here." She pointed. Set against the trench wall stood a squat metal box, rectangular, its gray paint blistered with rust. A septic tank, dumped and forgotten. One access lid hung open a finger's width. Gunther understood the trade at once. Drop the battery in the tank. Kill the signal. Live. The crud-eater lunged. The dog snapped at its mouths and skittered clear. Gunther tore free of the antenna, rolled hard across the grit, and shoved the battery up over the tank's lip. It fell inside with a hollow clang. The ticking went muffled, then gone. The crud-eater stopped. Its mouths worked the air. Without the ticking, Gunther was only a small lump on cold ground. It turned toward the louder heat of the dog, then lost interest in all of them and dragged itself back into the dark. Galahja closed the lid and clamped it. She looked at Gunther for the first time. "You're lighter now," she said. "Good. I need you small. I have work for a crud that can fit through a wire." Gunther had lost half a night's growth. Gunther had gained a handler.