Names among cannies tended to be like life: nasty, brutish and short. Also intensely literal-minded. It was hot and humid here in the late afternoon. The air was thick and smelled of the river, and also the shit and piss and decomposing body parts in the vast stickie nest a little bit to the north. The buildings right down by where the brown water lapped up against the top of the old river wall had most of their walls standing, mostly in brick the color of a human liver. A color Scratch knew well. The pack had enjoyed a big feed a few days back, when they chased some outlanders. They hadn’t caught any of them. But several of the pack had been chilled. And so had four scavvies, at least whose bodies the Landing pack had managed to recover. So everybody had feasted until their bellies were round. But that food would be gone soon. What didn’t get eaten would go all liquid and slough off into the dust in another day or so of this wet heat. So Scratch had to come out here and forage. He was by himself, considered too junior to be accorded a role running with the bulk of the pack, which was hunting richer grounds, on the heights of Highway 70, or south along the waterfront.
