The rusted corrugated roofing of the locomotive repair shed shuddered beneath the relentless downpour of the outer fringe. Rainwater poured through split iron seams, drumming against empty oil drums and splattering across the grease-slicked concrete floor.
Arthur Vance sat cross-legged on a low wooden packing crate, his shoulders braced against the shaking of the cooling rig strapped across his upper-back bones. The harness was fashioned from heavy canvas webbing and scavenged copper refrigeration tubing, salvage from the outer edge triage depot. Inside the dorsal pool, cooling-oil coolant hummed with a muted clockwork shaking. It was driven by a compact battery pack salvaged from a dismantled field generator.
Beside Arthur’s left combat boot, Grimm lay curled with his heavy jaw resting flat against the concrete. The hound’s coat had thickened into a coarse, soot-black pelt, tipped with a faint oily sheen that swallowed the dull halogen light from the overhead lamps. His left ear, notched and ragged from his time in the cull pens, twitched at the rhythm of the dripping roof edges. Every breath from Grimm’s deep chest lifted his ribs in a slow, rhythmic surge.
Perched on Arthur’s right knee, Pip was engaged in manic grooming. The sparrow-sized falcon snapped his black glass beak against his covert feathers, smoothing the ash-gold barbs with furious care. Every few seconds, Pip would pause, turn his bright amber eyes toward Arthur, and tilt his head at a ninety-degree angle. That let out an inquisitive, dry chip.
