The Battle Begins Page 8

  The Unnatural standing before Castor was truly hideous. It was part arachnid, that was clear, but not like the tiny spiders whose webs Castor had sometimes seen shimmering between buildings back home. This thing was bigger, hairier, creepier.

  Its legs were each as long as Castor’s tail, and were made up of four fat segments that started rusty brown near the tips and darkened to a deep blue-black near the bulbous body. When Castor saw the size of the red fangs wiggling between the two front legs, a violent shiver ran through him.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  “I am Pookie!” the high voice squealed happily, and it sounded so harmless that Castor forced himself to drag his eyes up from those menacing fangs to look at the animal’s face. Perched over the spider legs was a tiny head that featured a small, delicately pointed snout, two eyes like brown marbles, and a pair of comically large triangular ears.

  “You’re a mini!” Castor exclaimed in surprise.

  An old mini, which was rare. The fur on the canine face looked like it had once been black, but it was heavily speckled with the white whiskers of age. The hairs that sprouted above the animal’s eyes, fanned out of his ears, and dangled under his chin were all white, too, and, instead of the silky texture Castor usually saw on minis, they were long and wiry. He was probably the oldest mini Castor had ever seen.

  “I’d prefer that you not use that slur,” the mini—the creature—scolded. “You may call me ‘Pookie the Poisonous, Unnatural First-class Canis Atrax, Undefeated Chihuahua Warrior of the Streets, the Whistlers, and the Arena.’ Or you can just call me Pookie.” Pookie’s small muzzle stretched into a grin, and Castor saw that he only had a few of his pointy little teeth left. Not that it mattered, though, with those scary fangs. “And who are you?”

  “I’m . . .” Castor’s talons flexed against the sand. “They’re calling me the Underdog. But I’m not even a dog anymore,” he said, lifting and shrugging his awkward wings pointedly.

  “No,” Pookie agreed. “What you are is a heap on the floor.”

  Castor had felt too tired to get up before, and now he just felt dejected. He sprawled out even flatter on his belly.

  “I guess so. Just a jumble of parts that don’t work. A mutant. A monster. A freak.” He winced, thinking of Perry the parrot.

  “Never mind what you are right now. Let’s start with who you are, shall we? What is your name, pup?”

  “The Under—”

  Pookie held up a slender leg in protest. “Your real name.”

  “Castor.”

  “Is that all?” Pookie prompted, bouncing a little to show his encouragement.

  “Fine,” Castor sighed. With his chin still resting on his paws, he mumbled, “I’m ‘Castor German Shepherd, Descendent of the Mexican Wolf and Third Dog of the Trash Mountain Pack on the Southside of Lion’s Head.’”

  “Good!” Pookie lifted Castor’s chin with one of his sticky feet, and when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly firm. “Remember who you are, pup. Always remember that first, and you will take away their power. They will try to take many things from you while you are here, but they cannot take that.”

  “They already did!” Castor whined. “I don’t have any of that anymore. I’ll never see my pack again.” He’d been trying to put his old life out of his mind, and the thought of his pack mates, of Runt and Bill Bull and even Alpha, made his eyes glisten and his heart ache.

  Pookie was less sentimental.

  “Perhaps you will.” The Chihuahua-spider cocked his head matter-of-factly. “Or perhaps not. But perhaps you must find your new pack in here.” He gestured one of his many legs around the empty Pit.

  “New pack?” Castor was indignant. The thought of replacing his family was more than he could bear. “A pack is something you’re born into, not something you join.”

  Pookie didn’t argue with Castor. He just stood there patiently, smiling his little smile, swaying on his legs, and waited. It was maddening.

  “Besides, I don’t think the animals in here really trust me yet, anyway,” Castor added with a groan.

  “Show them, then. Show them you deserve their trust. Show them who you are, deep down inside.” Pookie reached out a long, hairy leg to tap the white patch in the middle of Castor’s chest. “Show them how your spirit soars.”

  Pookie flexed his eight legs and sprang high into the air over Castor’s head.

  Castor was about to say that it was too late, that his spirit had already been broken, when he remembered something: Moss had said that he and Laringo were the only veterans. Castor knew there were unchanged animals in other levels of the prison, but he hadn’t heard about any other mutants.

  “Hey,” Castor called behind him. “Where did you come from, anyway?”

  When Pookie didn’t answer him, Castor turned around to see where the many-legged mutant had landed. He wasn’t on the track or on top of the treadmill. And in the rafters, there wasn’t a trace of web.

  Pookie had disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

  PART TWO

  UNDERDOGS

  “All New Season of Unnatural Mutants!”

  “Fan Fatigue: Low Sales Show Scratch

  Skepticism on Opening Day”

  “Can Newbies Challenge Reigning Champ?”

  18

  CASTOR HADN’T LET HIMSELF IMAGINE HIS FIRST FIGHT. He didn’t even know how to fly yet, let alone fight! He’d refused to think about monsters or Domes or Laringo or the strange quiver in Moss’s voice when he’d talked about the matches.

  Instead, Castor had focused on getting through each minute of each long day. He’d focused on training hard and sleeping deep. He’d focused on the repetitive exercises in the Pit, the careful chewing of the gruel, and the grinding sound of the tunnel doors in his cell that marked the passing of time between them: Slop, Pit, Slop, Pit, door two, door three, hour after hour, day after day.

  And it had all become so routine that when Castor heard the rumbling of cement one night, his ears didn’t even twitch. It didn’t even occur to him that he’d just eaten an hour ago or that it was too late in the day for training.

  Not until he turned around.

  At the back of his cell, for the first time, the door on the far left—door number one—was wide-open. It was the door Moss had warned them about: the door to the Dome.

  Castor was afraid all over—in his heart and his gut, in his muscles, and deep in his bones. He felt the fear, cold as ice, pumping through his veins. But at the NuFormz facility, obedience came before fear. When a door opened, you walked through it. So Castor made himself move toward the ominous black hole in the wall before the guards did.

  When he stepped, trembling, out of the other side, Castor was surprised to enter a tiny room instead of a huge arena, and to recognize the familiar faces of his handlers instead of an anonymous crowd. He wasn’t ever happy to see his handlers, but today the sight of Slim and Horace filled Castor with relief.

  Then Slim snarled, “Where have you been, mutt?” and kicked him, and the feeling passed.

  The holding area was blazingly hot, and Slim had lit one of his fire sticks, so the air was choked with smoke. Castor’s eyes watered and his nose burned and he was panting like crazy from the heat, but he was happy to stay in here forever if it meant he could put off the fight a little longer.

  Slim clipped a leash on Castor and yanked him over beside him, but otherwise, the handlers didn’t pay him much attention. Horace sat on a chair with his thick hands clasped together, and Slim leaned with one foot against the door, and both men stared intently at a little box that hung on the wall.

  From down on the floor, Castor craned his neck to get a better look, and he couldn’t believe what he saw. Inside the box, he could see the other captives so clearly—from the tiny stripes on Enza’s tail to the diamond design on Deja’s skin—that at first he thought the Whistlers had shrunk them. Castor barked in alarm.

  “Quiet!” Slim blew a quick, shrill toot on his whistle, and Hor
ace turned to glower at him for the interruption.

  His ears still ringing, Castor looked back at the box. He saw the light glinting on the screen now, and he realized it must be glass or a virtual image, like he’d seen on the buildings in Lion’s Head. Still, the match was as real as anything.

  Deja slithered around the perimeter of a large, circular clearing—looking for a way out, Castor guessed—while Enza stalked the center, tracking the snake’s progress.

  “What are they doing?” Slim peered at the screen. “Why aren’t they fighting?”

  The audience seemed to be getting impatient, too. Castor could see them standing up in their seats and waving their arms, and though the volume on the box was turned off, he could hear the boos through the walls and feel the vibration of the sound. Castor’s own nerves returned—he hadn’t realized the arena was so terrifyingly close.

  “Maybe they need a little nudge,” Horace said. He wheeled his chair backward and hit a big red button with his palm. “That should do it.”

  In the little box, the screen seemed to blur, until Castor understood that it was the animals that were blurring—Enza and Deja were both shivering strangely. Castor wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Despite his fear of Horace, he leapt to his feet and barked at the big man.

  Enough! he growled. Stop hurting them!

  “Easy, Underdog,” Slim snickered. “You’ll get your turn soon enough.”

  But Horace was already lifting his hand, and when he released the red button, the two animals seemed to understand what they had to do, and immediately took off toward each other.

  The match had finally started.

  Enza crouched like a practiced huntress, her body quivering and ready to spring toward her prey. But though the grizzly-tiger’s pose was distinctively feline, she seemed to sense the awkwardness of her huge, lumbering body, and instead of lunging, she danced away from the snake’s zigzagging advances.

  “I thought we were gonna see those sharp sabers flashing!” Slim pouted. “And why is the Cunning still on the ground?”

  “It’s like this every season,” Horace explained. “Their old instincts are still kicking in.”

  A bear would have stood up to its full height and used its weight to swoop down and stamp at the snake with its giant front paws. A saber-tooth might have swiped at the reptile with its knifelike incisors. But Enza crept low to the ground like a cat, failing to make use of her new body.

  Still 100 percent snake, Deja seemed much more comfortable in her own skin. She slashed a side-winding pattern across the floor of the arena toward the grizzly-tiger, forcing Enza back into a corner.

  Suddenly, Deja shot forward, snapping her fangs as Enza defensively batted the snake away.

  Both animals regrouped, circling each other, hissing.

  Castor glanced up to see the wet underarm circles staining Horace’s shirt and heard the anxious rhythm as the man tapped his foot. He tensed instinctively—an unhappy handler in a tight space could get nasty.

  On the screen, Deja’s tail rattled and her head struck forward; this time Enza was done dodging. They clashed together in the center, their bodies locked in a vicious embrace. As the Unnaturals rolled heavily across the sandy ground, the people in the audience were on their feet cheering.

  The two Unnaturals were so tangled up it was hard to tell who was who, but Deja’s scaly body looked stretched tight, and Castor thought that Enza’s furry brown arms looked awfully limp. . . .

  “Come on, you’re supposed to be fearless!” Horace shouted at the screen suddenly, his face reddening. “At least use your claws!”

  The handler punched the red button again, but this time he held it down too long. Castor could see the whites of Enza’s eyes, and the length of Deja’s body bunched into one tightly clenched muscle. It took a long time for their bodies to stop shivering, and when they did, the stillness was even scarier.

  Castor started to pant and whine in distress, pawing at the box.

  Why did Deja look all crumpled like that? And why was Enza’s tongue lolling out on the dirty sand? Why weren’t they moving?

  They didn’t stir even when a pair of Whistlers came out to drag them off the field, and the announcer called the match in Deja’s favor. Horace swore and slammed his fist onto the table.

  “You really wanted that natty teddy bear to win, huh, Horace?” Slim joked. It wasn’t often that the young handler had the chance to hold something over his boss.

  Horace glared at Slim as if he had the intelligence of an earthworm. “The shocks help them break their original instincts. And like I told you, the mayor wants Team Scratch to perform better this season.”

  “Why is the mayor such a big Team Scratch fan all of a sudden?” Slim gave Horace a sideway glace.

  “You think Mayor Eris really cares about the team, you nitwit? No, she wants ratings. If no one thinks the Invincible can be beaten, then why watch the matches? It needs to at least seem like Team Scratch could win for once. Which means if the eagle-dog doesn’t perform like he did in the street, certain bookies are going to be very unhappy with the odds they were given.” Horace got very close and spoke into Slim’s ear. “You ever been on Vince Romano’s bad side before?”

  Slim’s chin dimpled uncertainly, and when he looked down at Castor, he actually frowned. “He’s ready.”

  “He’d better be.”

  Castor tore his eyes from the screen and looked up at the men. He didn’t know if he could ever win. But he did know he was the furthest thing from ready.

  He started to back his rear end under the table, but there was nowhere to go. Horace tugged the leash attached to his collar, and when Castor didn’t move fast enough, he snapped the metal chain against the floor. The sound crackled almost as bright as the whistle. It was enough to make Castor walk nicely out of the room and into the elevator, but when Slim pulled the sack over his head, he totally lost it.

  The rough fabric clung against his fur, and Castor could hardly breathe. He shook his head, trying to get it off, and when that failed, he howled for mercy. But Horace and Slim didn’t have mercy to give. Instead, they taunted him, jostling him roughly between them, until finally the elevator shuddered to a stop.

  It didn’t matter if he still didn’t know how to fly, or if he was scared, or if Enza and Deja were hurt, or worse. Tonight, ready or not, Castor, the Unnatural Underdog, would make his debut in the Dome.

  19

  CASTOR HEARD THE MUFFLED VOICE OF HIS HANDLER SAY, “Show ’em what you got, mutt,” and in the next instant, the bag was ripped from his head, he felt the shove of a boot against his hindquarters, and he stumbled forward out of the elevator, sprawling face-first onto the ground.

  If Castor had thought watching Enza and Deja’s match had prepared him for what to expect in the Dome, he was wrong. It was an assault on his senses and, at first, he was too overwhelmed to move.

  The stadium spotlights were blinding, the shouts of the crowd deafening. The dust from the Dome’s floor had risen in a cloud when Castor fell, and it coated the back of his throat and tickled his nostrils. It did nothing to dull the heavy scent that hung in the air, though. The Dome smelled of the stress of animals and the sourness of men.

  When his vision had adjusted to the light, Castor saw a vast, circular arena. The walls around him rose twenty feet high, and above them, humans peered down from their seats. He had never imagined so many humans could exist. They had faces of every color, and every age. Some cheered and some leered and some shouted at him, but they all wanted one thing: to see him fight.

  Alone on the field and exposed from every side, Castor had never felt so very small.

  He wasn’t alone for long, though. Far across the Dome, two red doors slid open, and another figure stepped into the arena.

  If Castor had found Rainner intimidating at the slop, that was just a preview. Under the bright lights of the stadium, the Komodo-rhino looked every bit the king of dragons he claimed to be. Hi
s armored body seemed as big as a Crusher Slusher. His scales were an impenetrable armor. He held his head high in the air, as if his horn was spearing the sky.

  The humans got even louder then, the noise so big it hurt Castor’s ears and made him dizzy, and they were no longer faces, no longer men, just an unending wall of enemies barking as one.

  “We’ve got so many more WOWZA new magical monsters for you this evening!” a voice, louder than all the other voices, announced.

  Castor didn’t know where it was coming from—it echoed all around the arena. Then he saw her, near the gold ceiling high above them: a human woman who walked on air.

  “Get ready to meet your favorite new mutants,” she said, and her body flickered like the ads in Lion’s Head. “Because the Underdog . . . is here . . . to take on . . . the Vicious!”

  The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted, and Castor learned that the only thing worse than the humans’ noise was their silence. Now he could hear his own heart, racing as fast as a bird’s. Then, the bell.

  The match had started.

  Rainner didn’t hesitate like Enza and Deja had. In the low light, his dark silhouette was already moving across the field, and Castor finally understood why sometimes Jazlyn and Runt completely froze up.

  Not only could Castor not move, he couldn’t even breathe, and now there was a stronger, more pungent smell in the air that he recognized: the smell of his own fear.

  Do something! he thought.

  But what could he do? He could hardly run without tripping on his talons. He couldn’t even get off the ground when he tried to fly. The walls towered up around him, and there was a sea of people beyond them. Horace had told him to show them what he had, but Castor had nothing.

  Castor was just a scrappy street dog, and this was no alley fight. He didn’t stand a chance.

  Thick legs thundered toward him. A lizard tail swung side to side. Black ruthless eyes had him in their sights.