Canine Maximus Max (MOSAR Book 1)

by C. R. Turner

  By afternoon, the wind picks up to a freezing gale. I squint so hard in the ferocious wind, I can barely see where I’m going. It’s a struggle to walk. Finally, I can’t go any further and lead Max off the road to some rocks for shelter. Thankfully, there’s some protection from the wind, and I take Max’s saddle and reins off before get him to lie down next to me. With hours still left in the day before Hati sets, I pull out my blankets and deerskin and cover Max and myself as best I can, the blankets flapping violently.

  Hours pass. Hati sets. The wind intensifies — I didn’t even think that was possible. Max and I are curled together in a tight ball in the dark when the wind gets under my blanket and blows it away. I jump up to grab it and lose my footing, sliding down the hill in the dark, scrabbling for a hold. I climb back on my hands and knees, but I can’t tell which direction Max is, let alone see him in the dark. The wind freezes the tears in my eyes making it impossible to see. A heavy gust hits, and I lose my balance again, sliding down the rocky hill for thirty or so feet this time. “MAX!” I scream, but my voice is obliterated by the howling wind. With no idea where Max is, no blanket and barely able to stand on my own two feet, I collapse on the ground and scrunch myself up into a tiny ball.

  After what feels like hours of being hammered by the ballistic wind, and no sign of Max, I feel myself fading, losing awareness of my surroundings. I stop shivering. My father’s survival training has taught me this is the final stage of hypothermia. It’s unlikely I’ll make it through the night. I try to get up, to make it back to Max, but the wind knocks me back, and I slam my head against a rock.

  I wake to an incredible silence, leaving me wondering if I’ve gone deaf. I lift my head, dazed and nauseous but alive. Max is curled around me, keeping me warm. Hati is peering over the horizon, hours from having any effect on the frozen ground. Weak and dizzy, I sit up and look Max over.

  “Wake up, Max,” I call out. I swallow, about to be sick.

  Max lays still. “Max! Wake up!”

  I get to my knees and grimace in pain, holding my head. I shake him and call out again, “Max! Come on.”

  He doesn’t move.

  No. This can’t be. I put my hand on Max’s head and slide it down to his frozen neck, looking for a pulse. Nothing. I slowly climb to my feet and look around for my blankets and Max’s saddle. Spotting them a short distance away, I scramble up the rocky hill. If Max has any chance, I have to act fast. I unstrap the Heat-sheet from his saddle, grab the blankets and deerskin, then race back down the hill, tripping and sliding, grazing myself on sharp rocks. Max hasn’t moved. I unroll the Heat-sheet, reef the bright yellow tag, then frantically flex the sheet back and forth to speed up the chemical reaction. Once I can feel the heat coming off it, I wrap it around Max’s neck and chest along with a blanket and deerskin. Completely out of breath, I kneel in front of him, my own blanket pulled tight around me.

  I wait for what feels like hours, but Max still doesn’t move. Judging by how cold he is, I’m realising my best mate mightn’t wakeup. Tears streaming, I look over his curled-up massive body, which shielded me from the winds and freezing temperatures overnight: his massive legs and paws protrude from under the blankets, his head is tucked in, his eyes are shut and his ears are laid flat.

  I think about the first time we met and all the things we’ve done together. I couldn’t ask for a more loyal guardian and mate than Max. I run my hand over his beautiful jet-black shiny coat and mumble, “Max … I can’t go on without you.”

  I wait a while longer, not knowing what to do. I put my arm around his neck and rest my head on his chest. He should have responded to the Heat-sheet by now, but there’s still no sign of a pulse.

  This is it.

  I’ve lost loved ones before, but this was a special mateship. I can’t believe how much this hurts.

  “Goodbye, mate. I’ll miss you,” I whisper, wiping my nose.

  With my cracking headache and my tears freezing to my face, I struggle to my feet. I can’t look at Max’s lifeless body any longer, so I pick up my backpack and start walking slowly back up to the main road, heartbroken.

  At the road, I look to the south. The wind has blown all the clouds away, and I can see all the way back to Paelagus far off on the horizon. I stare at the city a while, unable to comprehend having to go on without my mate, then turn and head north.

  That’s when I see the Union four-wheel drive parked alongside the road. I take a few steps back and am about to run when I realise the bonnet of the vehicle is up. I cautiously walk up the hill towards it. As I get closer, I see someone sitting in the front seat, not moving. I peer through the window. It’s the striker scout. He’s dead. I open the door and reach in to take his blanket when he opens his eyes. Stunned, I take several steps back nearly tripping over my own feet.

  He groans and staggers out of the vehicle, struggling to breathe — clearly affected by the freezing temperature and lack of oxygen. I drop my backpack and rip out my knife.

  “Where’s your canine?” the striker scout slurs.

  I don’t say anything. Clenching my knife so hard, I can finally feel the tips of my fingers. The striker scout pulls out his all-black knife from behind his back and says savagely, “I’m going to enjoy this.’

  “Get back!” I yell.

  He smirks. “It’s about time I got my revenge.”

  Revenge? I’m thrown. For what?

  “You don’t know, do you? Of course not. What father would admit to his son he’d killed someone else’s kid?”

  He must be mad. “What are you talking about?” I scream, readying myself for his attack. “My father would never hurt anyone.”

  The striker scout takes a couple of steps closer. “My son was shot in battle, had lost heaps of blood and your father let him die. My son was still alive when your father moved on to another soldier.” He coughs violently, sucking in air.

  He steps towards me and I back up further. He lunges towards me. I sidestep his blade. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it thumping in my ears. He lunges again, slashing his knife at my face. I duck and shove his chest as hard as I can. He loses his balance and stumbles. He growls, his heavily scarred face accentuating his rage and hatred. He swivels his knife around one hundred and eighty degrees in his palm and grips it tighter. I hold my knife up in defence, and he lunges at me again. This time his knife runs straight across my shoulder. I holler at the hot flash of pain. I steel myself. I can’t afford to lose this fight. If I’m ever going to beat him, it’s while he’s at a disadvantage here, affected by the cold and high altitude.

  Remembering my father’s training, I look to maim him. Charging forward, I kick his leg causing him to lose his balance, then thrust my knife into his leg just above his knee cap. Right where I was aiming. Two inches to the left, I would have hit his femoral artery and he’d be dead in minutes.

  He flounders backwards stunned, grabs his leg.

  “Give it up,” I yell.

  “You’re going to die for that,” he roars, running at me.

  He thrusts his knife again, but I manage to block him with my free arm. Then out of nowhere, a massive punch to my chest knocks the wind from of me. I lose my balance and fall backwards, hitting my head on the road. My knife goes flying and my vision blurs. The striker scout lands on my legs and torso, pinning me. He’s easily fifty pounds heavier than me. With his free hand, he presses my bleeding shoulder to the ground and raises his other arm in the air, his black knife clenched in his fist against the blue sky. I’m helpless. Out of breath. Nothing left to fight back with.

  Time stops.

  I stare at the striker scout’s brutal face as he wheezes, his breath fogging the air, then look past his knife to the crystal clear blue sky. I feel the cold air chill my lungs, the frozen road against my back, and my pounding skull.

  It’s over.

  Shadow is filling my vision, growing larger behind the striker scout’s head until it’s blocking the light. Is this what it’s like to
die? Am I already dead?

  The shadow becomes clearer: Max’s jet-black coat contrasting against the brilliant blue sky, like a giant storm cloud. His blue eyes are locked on the striker scout, who doesn’t even know he’s standing there.

  Max bares his teeth, lets out a thunderous growl and grabs the striker scout by the leg. He yanks hard to one side, massive muscles rippling. I hear the striker scout’s leg snap. As Max let’s go, the striker scout goes screaming through the air and slams hard against the four-wheel drive, sixty or so feet away, knocking him out cold.

  I roll over on my side and get up as fast as I can to see if I’m dreaming. Max stands in front of me, head droopy, spent. I look over at the striker scout, then back at Max. I can’t find any words. It’s unbelievable.

  “Max.” I wipe away my tears and wrap my arms around his neck. He’s still cold. I collect my backpack. “Come on, mate. We need to get the hell out of here before we die.”

  We head past the striker scout still lying against the four-wheel drive, one leg badly broken with puncture marks from Max’s bite and the other bleeding from the knife wound. I pause. I’ve carried my father’s knife for years and always wondered if I could actually use it to defend myself. Here is my answer.

  The striker scout’s chances aren’t good here in this desolate terrain.

  My father told me how hard it was being a paramedic and deciding who to help and who to let go. Although I have every reason to hate the striker scout, and wish he were dead, I can’t leave him. My father would want me to help him.

  “Lie down, Max.”

  The striker scout is still breathing but unconscious. I climb into the vehicle and try the ignition, but not even the lights or radio will come on. I flip open the glove box. There’s an emergency broadcast beacon. I rummage through the rest of the vehicle, find a first aid kit, then walk around the bonnet and snap one of the aerials off to use as a splint. I lay the striker scout on his back, pull out my knife and tear open his pant legs. Max really did a number on him. Blood everywhere. Both his tibia and fibula are broken, one sticking out of his skin. I straighten his leg and push the bone back beneath the skin, bandaging his leg tight with the splint, then dress his knife wound. I step back and look down at him. A pretty good job considering. My father would be proud.

  Max is lying on the road, waiting patiently. I know it will only take a Union jet ten to fifteen minutes to get here, so I gather my stuff and make sure Max is ready to move out. One last look at the striker scout — this better be the last time I see him —and I crack the emergency panel and flip the switch.

  I look to the north, where the road continues climbing for hundreds of feet before meeting the sky and disappearing over the horizon.

  Max is still struggling to breathe in the thin air. “Come on. Max. Let’s get out of here.”

  A tough climb for both of us, and soon the road flattens out and we see over the Seration Mountain Range to the north for the first time. I muster all my energy and jump up on some big boulders to get a better look. I grin. To the north, on the horizon, sits a small town and the abandoned naval base next to the ocean. “We made it, Max!” The view is absolutely amazing, being able to see as far as the horizon in all directions. Our road winds down the north face of the mountain range, and I look in vain, yet optimistically, to try and see Arcadia. No luck.

  “Come on, Max. We’re nearly there.”

  Max lethargically lifts his head as I turn back to look at him, unable to wipe the smile from my face. I jump off the boulder and run up to him, wrap my arms around his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 10

  The road down is much steeper and winding than the one leading up the southern face, and by the end of the first day, Max and I are already halfway down. The air is thicker, and it feels like breathing soup after spending so much time at high altitude. The nausea and headaches have abated and we stop for the night. There are no side roads to hide from passing vehicles, so we’ll have to camp in the middle of the steep road. I look out over the guardrail to the naval base on the horizon.

  Max yawns and snaps his jaw shut.

  I smile. “Feeling better, Max?”

  Max swishes his tail from side to side a few times and stares at me. I carve him off a large chunk of meat that’s starting to thaw, then cut some off for myself. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have Max still with me. After surviving the Seration Mountain Range I have a new-found respect for nature and its extremes. I hope life on Arcadia isn’t as harsh, but I feel Max and I are ready for whatever’s thrown at us.

  We’re up early the next day and reach the bottom before midday. With Max back to his usual self, I remount, enjoying the smell of the sea on the cool breeze and the warmth of Hati on my face. We pass old fishing boats that have been left to rot on the shore and dozens of old timber houses with paint peeling and guttering hanging off. Some of them have blown over.

  Protected by an enormous rock sea breaker, the harbour cuts into the seaside town. It’s lined with old cranes, warehouses, and dozens of Talon Navy seagoing battleships tied up along the piers — some three-deep as if they ran out of dock space. Many of the battleships are covered in rust and one has sunk, with only its bridge protruding above the water. I can’t resist taking a closer look, so I lead Max towards the largest of the battleships. Unsure whether the gangway can take both our weights, I go slowly, one step at a time. When we reach the top and step onto the deck, I turn to Max. “Sorry, mate. You’ll have to wait out here.”

  I pull out my torch and step inside. There’s a strong smell of rust and mould, and after turning a few corners, I need to turn the torch on as the corridors are in near blackness. I come across a set of stairs, shine my torch up and start climbing. The stairs open up to the ship’s bridge. These battleships must be ancient; the electronics are way outdated. A much smaller patrol boat is tied up alongside the pier, several hundred feet away. I consider it for a moment, then head back out to Max.

  The patrol boat is about ninety feet long. It doesn’t take me long to look through the cabin and bridge. I descend the steep ladder to the engine room and shine my torch around. It’s in surprisingly good condition with very little rust. Could this be my ticket to Arcadia? I check out the rest of the boat, then climb back up to the pier and stand wondering. “What do you think, Max. Do you think it’s too big?”

  I pull out my father’s map and try to get my bearings. “Okay. This way.” I lead Max down the abandoned streets. Like every other town I’ve come across, the buildings have smashed windows and doors kicked in, grass growing in gutters, cracked footpaths and roads.

  At an intersection, there’s a building on the edge of a cliff-face overlooking the ocean, and after taking one last look at the map, I head towards it.

  Halfway up the driveway, a blast from an Ashra hits the ground right in front of us, showering us in dirt. Too exposed to make a run for it, I raise my hands and hope to hell it’s not the striker scout. There’s a few seconds of silence then: “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “My name’s Joel,” I call out. “I’m looking for Lindsey.”

  A figure appears in the shadow of the balcony.

  “How do you know that name?” His voice is old, irritable.

  “My father used to teach survival training on Arcadia. He was good friends with Lindsey, who used to live at this address.”

  “I’m Lindsey,” the stranger replies as he walks toward us.

  I can see him more clearly now — short hair, long grey beard, clothes that can only be described as homemade, and not very well at that.

  He approaches us, eyeing Max.

  “It’s okay, he’s friendly,” I reassure him.

  He huffs, frowning. “What’s your father’s name?”

  “Andrea Stinson. He was a paramedic and a survival trainer in the Union.”

  The man lowers his Ashra. Both his arms are heavily tattooed, but the artwork is hard to make out, looking like they were done a
lifetime ago.

  “What do you want?” Lindsey asks, wickedly cranky.

  “My father told me you were a Navy Commander. I was wondering if … you might be able to help me get to Arcadia.”

  Lindsey laughs. “And why would you want to go to Arcadia?”

  “To live.”

  “Seriously?” he asks.

  “Seriously!”

  Lindsey shakes his head and turns to head back to the building. “Well, come on then.”

  I catch up with him. “What is this place?”

  “Used to be an outpost for the Talon Navy.”

  When we reach the balcony, I stop to check if the roof and doors are high enough for Max. They seem fine. “Can Max come in?”

  Lindsey looks up at Max and laughs. “You called you’re Canine Maximus Max?”

  I smile but don’t say anything.

  “Yeah, sure. Why not, but he better not bite.”

  Inside, the building is filled with hundreds of pieces of maritime paraphernalia, every surface covered. Lindsey calls from the kitchen, “Do you want a cupper?”

  “Yeah … okay,” I say, distracted.

  As Lindsey busies himself, I drop my stuff on the floor, take Max’s saddle and reins off, then look out the large windows overlooking the ocean. There’s a strong smell in the room that I can’t quite place. A cross between oil and salt water maybe. Lindsey returns with two steaming cups and hands one to me.

  He hobbles back to the table and takes a seat. “So your Andrea’s son?”

  I look at the floor before looking back up at Lindsey. “Yeah.”

  “I remember Andrea. Really tall bloke with dark hair.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah.”

  Lindsey adds, “Nice guy … would do anything for you. Damn … that was a long time ago.”

  “Were you a Navy Commander?”

  “Yeah. For nearly a decade, until they decommissioned it. Since then, I’ve just been picking up work here and there, subcontracting to the Union.”