Junkyard Dog

By Devin Miller

DONOVAN FOUND A BRAIN in the junkyard beside a rusty bear trap; he figured he could use both. The last few jaws he’d constructed—one from a splintered hack saw, two others from shards of beer bottles—hadn’t passed the tests in the ring. This was a fortunate find. One that could catapult him to greatness.

He spent the starry night gathering bits and pieces—a length of strong metal, a tangle of intact wiring, six switches, and a car taillight for effect. He loaded his findings into a bag—also salvaged, years ago, and patched many times since—and threw it over his back. He worked in the shadows of the city’s monstrous skyscrapers, pausing every few minutes to stare upward at shuttles streaking into space from the nearby spaceport.

I want to build those one day, he thought.

First, the dog, a voice in his head replied.

* * *

Don, fifteen, lived in a small attic room above Mrs. Pitt’s restaurant that everyone called The Grill, deep in the junks. More than anything, Donovan wanted to get out of the junks—with his parents long gone there was nothing left for him here—and his only ticket out was a winning robot, a “dog.”

He worked in The Grill all day and tinkered in the attic all night. He could never get all the grease—bacon or petrol—from under his fingernails. Mrs. Pitt didn’t ask what he did up there; she minded her business, like everyone with sense in the junks. It was an enclosed world. No outsiders. Save one—Mr. Charles Hartman. That man, in his business suit and shaven face, could come and go as he pleased.

Once Donovan left, he would never be back.

* * *

The night before the fights, Don slipped the brain—the size of a softball—into the slot he’d created in the dog’s back. Holding his breath, he plugged it in, lifted the protective metal flap (once a can of tuna) and turned the switch to on.

The dog’s eyes clicked to life, red and menacing. Don asked for a shake and got a bark in reply. He waited, gloved hand outstretched. Then the dog shifted its weight and lifted its left forepaw—the ten fishhooks weren’t as heavy as the knives he’d used in last quarter’s breed. It placed the hooks carefully on Don’s glove. Don beamed.

He clicked the dog off and carried him out a side window, down a ladder he’d stashed for quick escapes, and back to the junkyard. Carefully, he reprogrammed the brain: all safety mechanisms off. Maximum aggression. Guard duty.

The sofa dummy was fluff in seconds.

* * *

Donovan had had dogs fight well before, but this one would have eaten his others. The bear trap performed beyond his highest hopes, severing the wires and clamping the hard drives of his rivals. He stared across the ring at one crestfallen face after another. He couldn’t empathize; he’d worn that face too many times.

Mr. Hartman had watched Don’s dogs die in the ring for three years, but Don knew he’d never remember any kid but the winner. He glanced at Mr. Hartman now as his dog progressed to the semi-finals; only now would he really start to pay attention. A scholarship awaited the winner.

He and all the businessmen around him wore pins in the shape of shuttles; the ring, in the basement of a dive bar on the outskirts of the junks, was a guilty pleasure for the thirty or so rich people who snuck in under Mr. Hartman’s umbrella. Don saw bets change hands.

* * *

The dog Don beat in the quarterfinals was the toughest he’d ever seen—hydraulic jaws did major damage to his dog’s hind legs, crushing the industrial springs he’d tightened for powerful thrusts. A fortunate swipe with the fishhooks unplugged the opponent’s brain and left it inoperable. Don advanced.

He wiped his hands on his pants. Mr. Hartman was looking at him. Appraising him. Wondering what kind of potential he might have? Don met the great man’s eyes and nodded. Mr. Hartman raised a beer bottle and turned back to the ring.

Across the dirt stood a girl named Isabel. She set her dog in the ring, a small thing with a humming motor. Don knew he was in trouble.

Isabel’s dog ran circles around his, darting in and out and striking with precision. How had she done it? It didn’t matter—he’d gotten so close this time, to the final, only to feel the dirt slide away beneath him.

The match wasn’t a contest; the crippling blow came just a minute in—Isabel’s dog clamped down on the injured leg and tore it off in one great tug. Don watched his dog hit the ground, twitch. Cheers went up from the rich; Mr. Hartman applauded. Don’s spine sagged; his lower lip trembled.

But the fall positioned his dog brilliantly. The fishhooks dug into the dirt. The bear trap gaped open. One last lunge forward. Metal shrieked against metal, and both dogs tumbled, one mass of scrap. Red eyes blinked out.

“A draw!” the rich men yelled, but Donovan held his breath; only Mr. Hartman’s opinion mattered. The great man strode out to the middle of the ring and looked down at the inert specimens.

“Isabel’s hound dealt the killing blow first,” he proclaimed. Don felt his face fall; he squeezed his mouth shut. So close. So, so close.

A shadow fell over him. “How many contests have you lost?” Mr. Hartman asked. Don didn’t understand. “You’ve competed since you were, what? Twelve? You’ve been in the semi-finals multiple times. You’ve built a competitive dog from spare parts every tournament. If you ask me, that’s a hell of a résumé.”

Mr. Hartman reached into his jacket pocket and handed Don a sealed envelope. “A program plan,” he said. “Read it carefully tonight. There are lots of details. Go over it with your parents, and if they agree, there are directions to meet me at the train station tomorrow afternoon.”

“My parents ... aren’t around,” Don mumbled.

Mr. Hartman looked sad. “A shame,” he said. “But if you decide you want to look into the program, you’ll be well taken care of.”

He put a hand on Don’s shoulder then and fell back into the crowd of business suits.

Don stared across the ring at Isabel. She stared back at him, clutching her own letter tightly.

* * *

That night Don threw all his belongings into his patched sack. He’d gotten so used to bringing his dogs’ ruined parts back to the junkyard that he was there before he realized it.

But this dog deserved more than a reunion with the trash from which it had been born. Don found an old shovel and, taking most of the night, buried it beneath a manhole tombstone. 

Devin Miller is a judge for the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. He helped organize the online community of writers known as Write1Sub1. His fiction has appeared in “Daily Science Fiction,” “Ray Gun Revival,” “Electric Spec,” and other magazines.