Rusty Chains's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Rusty Chains wanted to rule every stray in the junk city. Tonight he could not even find a place to sleep. His broken chain dragged behind him, scraping the dirt. He curled against a heap of scrap and shut his eyes. Then a shadow fell over him. A bigger dog growled low. Rusty rose, but his legs shook from hunger. He backed off. This was not his patch. It never was. He had no den to guard, and a dog with no den ruled nothing. A smell cut through the rot. Food. Rusty followed it to a grimy dump truck piled with trash bags. He climbed the bumper and dug in. He found a bone with meat still on it and gnawed hard. The engine coughed. The truck lurched forward. Rusty froze, jaws locked on the bone, riding the swaying trash while the streets rolled past. The truck stopped inside a huge junkyard. Tangled metal rose in tall walls. A battered chain-link fence ringed the place, patched with wire and bent bars. Rusty leaped down. New smells hit him from every side. Oil, rust, rot, and old food. He liked it here. He could build something here. But he was not alone. Thin shapes moved between the scrap heaps. Strays watched him from the shadows. Their eyes caught the low light. Rusty walked stiff-legged, showing no fear, though his ribs still ached. He smelled it before he saw it. A doghouse stood against a wall of stacked cars. Battered wood panels leaned crooked. Someone had painted "dawg" across the front long ago. The dark mouth of the door was empty. No dog scent lived inside. Only dust. It was abandoned, and it was perfect. A growl stopped him three steps away. A gray stray slid from behind a rusted heap. He was lean and scarred, and he stood between Rusty and the door. His lips peeled back. This was his corner, the look said. Rusty did not run this time. A den was worth a fight. He dropped the bone. He lowered his head and stepped in. The gray stray lunged. Teeth snapped near Rusty's ear. Rusty drove his shoulder into the dog's chest and shoved him against the fence. Wire rattled. He snapped at the gray dog's flank and drew a yelp. He did not stop. He pushed and bit until the stray broke and bolted into the scrap, tail low. Rusty stood alone by the doghouse. His side bled, but he stayed on his feet. He turned in the doorway and faced the yard. The other strays had crept closer to watch. Now they held still. He had beaten one of their own. Slowly, they backed away. Rusty stepped inside the doghouse and lay down. For the first time, he had a den. He had ground to guard. The watching eyes told him the rest of the yard already knew.