Marcus Slidwell's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Marcus woke to a shape on the ridge above his shelter. Squelch sat on his six legs against the pale sky, coat buckles catching the light. He did not move for an hour. Then he shifted, chewed something, and settled again. Marcus watched him through the breach in the wall. The jar with the spike-slug sat on the box. The field guide sat under his jacket. He could not open it. He could not walk out with a specimen tin. The moment he did, Squelch would come down and smash the forty-eight. He needed a second place. Somewhere Squelch did not watch. He also needed eyes on Squelch when he moved. Marcus remembered the buried bunker he had passed two weeks back, three ridges south. Reinforced walls. A sunken door. Dry inside. He had marked it and moved on because his shelter was closer to water. Now the distance was the point. He also remembered the boy at the old comms wreck a day's walk east. Reid. Younger than Marcus, arm still wrapped from whatever hit his station. Marcus had traded him salt for wire once. Reid had asked no questions and given short answers. Marcus had liked that. He waited for dusk. When Squelch climbed down the far side of the ridge to drink, Marcus took the jar, the guide, a coil of rope, and one empty tin, and went east instead of south. He left the shelter door open so it looked lived-in. He walked until the stars came up. He found Reid sitting outside the wreck, feeding a small fire. Marcus set the jar down where Reid could see it lit pink and green through the glass. He said what Squelch had done and what Squelch had threatened. He said he needed a lookout. He offered half his salt and the wire he had left. Reid looked at the jar. He looked at Marcus's jacket where the book sat. "Six legs, coat, brass buckles," he said. "I've seen him. He passes the ridge trail every third morning." He poked the fire. "Panic sounds one way. Real trouble sounds another. I can tell you which is coming." He held out his good hand. Marcus shook it. They walked south together before dawn. Marcus led Reid to the sunken bunker. The door stuck, then gave. Inside was dry concrete, a bench, and a working hinge on the inner hatch. Marcus set the jar on the bench. He opened the guide on the bench beside it. He sketched a small brown cluster of common slugs he had passed on the way in, three lines, a note on the sheen of their backs. Entry forty-nine. He closed the book. Reid was already climbing back toward the ridge to watch the trail. Marcus had a room Squelch did not know, and a warning system with legs.