The Dead Zone didn't just begin, it was where the last of the shanties finally surrendered to the rot.

  Here, the ground dropped away in slow, uneven steps of twisted metal and half-collapsed hulls, forming a labyrinth of ravines. What passed for streets were nothing more than rusted beams, broken walkways, and chains slung between skeletal supports. Warning plates, pitted and scarred, were bolted into surfaces at odd angles. Their hazard icons were half-scrubbed by years of corrosive rain.

  Mike’s boots slid on the fine layer of rust powder that seemed to coat everything in this part of the world. Each step sent up a faint puff of orange-brown particulate that clung to his pants, his hands, and his eyelashes. He pulled the scarf tighter over his nose. The fabric was stiff with old sweat and grit, but it was the only filter he had against the toxins. He forced a rhythm to his breathing, ignoring the fluttering fear in his belly that had been a companion for so long it was almost part of him.

  He hadn't told anyone he was going. He didn't owe anyone that explanation. The gangs would assume he was lurking around and fixing leaks, while his neighbors would assume he was hiding from Rigg. No one would think that Mike went to the Dead Zone. Sifters didn't go this far. That meant no one would come looking if he didn't come back.

  Keeping to the shadows, he slipped under sagging catwalks and navigated narrow ledges that hugged deep chasms. Below him, sludgy rivers oozed downhill. They carried a slow parade of debris that included plastic husks and dismembered drone limbs. Occasionally, there was the bloated carcass of something that had thought it could drink from the runoff.

  The air felt heavier here. It was charged. Ahead, the meteor’s impact plume rose like a stagnant pillar of pearlescent gases. It was slow to disperse. When the wind shifted and carried a thread of that strange vapor, Mike’s skin prickled and his teeth ached. He skirted a cluster of bone-white vents where the rims were crusted with crystalline buildup that glowed a sickly green. Once, he'd seen a boy stick his hand into one on a dare. The skin had sloughed off in wet sheets and peeled down to raw muscle in seconds. Mike didn't take dares.

  Moving quickly, he tested every foothold. Surface rust concealed holes, and the Dead Zone loved to open its mouth for the unwary. Twice he had to backtrack when a path ended in a sheer drop or a rotten support. Every detour cost time. Every lost minute was another minute for the gangs to close in.

  At a narrow chokepoint, a former maintenance conduit with a collapsed roof, he froze.

  Sound.

  It was faint but distinct. A rhythmic clank and the scrape of claws on metal was punctuated by wet squelches. Then came a huff of breath. Deep and animal. Fear flooded Mike’s veins. His hand moved on its own to the cheap multi-tool at his belt, and his fingers wrapped around the useless weight of it.

  A Scrap-Wolf.

  He'd seen one once from a safe distance. It was a predator bred by the toxins of the Heap. It was all instinct and cancer and hunger. He flattened himself against the conduit wall. The air smelled of burnt oil and something sharper, the acidic tang of old electronics. His heart hammered against his ribs and was loud enough to vibrate the metal behind him. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and run. Instead, he edged his head forward just enough to peer past the crumpled edge of the roof.

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  The Scrap-Wolf stood in the junction beyond, framed by a tangle of twisted beams.

  It was massive, standing shoulder-high to Mike’s chest. Its hide was a patchwork of warped bone plates and knots of scar tissue where the skin stretched so thin in places that raw muscle bulged through in unnatural ridges. Each step it took brought a faint rasping scrape of sinew dragging against the rough interior of reshaped joints.

  Its head swung slowly from side to side. The front half of its muzzle had calcified into a jagged triangular extension of exposed bone studded with tumors that glowed like smoldering embers. The back half was wet and pulsing, as if something inside kept rhythm with a heartbeat too slow and too strong to be normal.

  In its jaws hung what was left of a man's torso.

  The body was limp, with the lower half missing and guts trailing wetly across the ground. A faded red gang scarf clung to the corpse's neck, soaked black. Mike pressed a fist against his stomach and swallowed bile. That scarf design, a broken gear and black stripe, belonged to one of Rigg's rivals. The Dead Zone's food chain didn't care about alliances.

  The wolf dropped the corpse with a wet thud. It planted one massive paw on the chest and tore off a chunk of meat with grim, deliberate force. Its jaw muscles bunched and twisted while the mutated flesh along its neck shivered with each grinding bite. Thick, dark fluid dripped onto the metal beneath and hissed softly. Even its saliva was caustic.

  He shouldn't be here. He wasn't built for this. His arms were stringy and his wrists were thinner than the wolf's toes. He was prey. His entire life had been a lesson in that fact.

  Suddenly, the wolf's head snapped up.

  Mike stopped breathing. One of the wolf's twisted ear-like growths swiveled toward him. Its nostrils flared and drew in a deep, wet draft of air. The dim ember-glow in its eyes brightened and smoldered with focus. He hadn't moved. He hadn't made a sound. But fear had a smell, and he was drenched in it.

  Slow as rust, the wolf turned its whole body to face the conduit. Mike pressed himself flatter and tried to become part of the wall. His fingers dug into corroded metal until flakes embedded themselves in his skin. He debated running or fighting, but he had a screwdriver and lungs made of mesh. Dying seemed the most efficient outcome.

  The wolf took a step toward him. Soundless.

  Its gaze locked on the dark slit of the conduit. The thick cords of mutated tissue along its neck tightened and vibrated with a low hum that prickled across Mike's skin like static. The wolf’s head dipped and sniffed again. Muscles coiled to lunge.

  Then a gust of wind knifed through the open space.

  It carried a ribbon of vapor from the meteor's impact plume. The alien gas slid into the junction like a ghostly curtain and rippled over the wolf's flanks. The beast recoiled with a sharp, strangled snarl. Steam rose where the vapor kissed its exposed flesh. It shook itself violently with hackles standing on end and scrambled backward.

  With a final throat-tearing growl directed at the gas, it spun and bolted in the opposite direction. Its tail lashed out and shattered a rusted beam into sparks as it fled.

  Mike stayed pinned to the wall long after the sound of claws faded. His pulse was a drum in his ears. Sweat crawled down his spine. His knees turned to water and he slid down the wall into a crouch. He waited for his lungs to stop seizing. His cough lurked under the surface, but he forced it down.

  Not dead. Surprising.

  When he finally edged forward, the junction was empty save for the savaged remains of the meal. He stepped around the corpse, careful not to look at the face. The stink of opened guts and hot metal made his eyes sting.

  Ahead, the meteor's plume loomed closer. It was a towering column of iridescent vapor shimmering with colors Mike didn't have names for. Every instinct screamed that if the gas scared a Scrap-Wolf, it would melt him. But he moved toward it anyway. He was prey, but even prey could starve. Better to risk being eaten by something new than die in the jaws of the old world.