by Lisa Fiedler
“Pinkie, come here. Look!”
Pinkie pressed in beside him and looked out. When she spotted the open door, she knew instantly what he was thinking.
Hopper pressed his mouth to the gap in the corner joint and called out to his scurrying cagemates.
“The door!” he cried. “Run for the door!”
They all stopped running at once. Five pairs of pink eyes blinked as they stared in awe. They didn’t seem to know what to make of this command. It was Hopper’s voice coming from somewhere high above them, but they could not see him.
“Run!” he cried again.
But the mice remained frozen. Hopper’s word echoed from inside the box, reaching their tiny ears in a hollow, ghostly howl. Even to him it sounded like the voice of some unseen being, some magical force.
“Idiots,” Pinkie growled. “They think you’re some kind of all-seeing rodent spirit.” She began backing up toward the far wall of the box.
“What are you doing?” Hopper asked.
Pinkie took a deep breath. “When I give the signal, we run as fast and hard as we can and throw ourselves at the opposite wall, got it?”
Hopper nodded.
“Ready? Go!”
Hopper bolted with all his might; Pinkie was like a flash of lightning. The brother and sister hurled themselves across the box and slammed into the cardboard wall at the exact same moment.
The box tottered, then tipped, landing on its side and knocking the lid askew.
“Push!” cried Hopper, pounding his tiny paws against the cover.
Pinkie did the same and the lid came away! Hopper and Pinkie leaped out of the darkness and found themselves on the counter near the money machine. All they had to do now was shinny down the machine’s cord and . . .
The door to the back room flew open, and Keep returned.
He was wielding a broom.
The straw weapon was kicking up a small tornado of dust and grime. The cagemates scurried madly in the dirty cloud, darting to and fro to avoid being swept into oblivion.
“Mangy little beasts!” Keep snarled.
The broom swung like a bristled gauntlet. Hopper gaped in terror as its angled edge connected with an errant tail, sending the petrified cagemate skidding and squealing across the floor to crash headlong into the base of the counter.
Pinkie was edging toward the fat electrical cord; was she still considering crawling down?
“Have you lost your mind?” Hopper breathed.
“Maybe, but if I stay here, I’ll lose my life!”
Hopper looked from his sister to the open door. The sharp claws of fear pricked his skin as doubt began to overtake him.
“It’s too big a risk,” he said, shaking his head.
But Pinkie was clearly done talking. She growled and lunged for Hopper, wild-eyed, sinking her pearly little fangs into the tip of his ear.
Hopper howled in agony as Pinkie jerked away, gripping a strip of tender skin in her clenched teeth.
The pain was blinding, and Hopper’s fury ignited. He leaped toward his sister even as the piece of his flesh still dangled from her teeth. He attacked her exactly as she had him, biting down viciously on her ear and yanking hard, maiming her just as she had him. Hopper sputtered, already sick from the vile taste of blood and skin in his mouth and from the knowledge of what he had done.
Would he have apologized? Would he have blamed his violent act on the pain and fear and sorrow that was threatening to overwhelm him? Would he have begged his sister’s forgiveness even as he spat the delicate pink fragment of her ear out of his mouth?
He would never know.
Because before he could speak, or move, or even think, the brittle yellow head of the broom slammed down on the counter, just inches from where he and Pinkie were crouched, panting and bleeding.
“Vermin!” Keep shouted. “Varmints! Get down from there!”
Hopper didn’t have to be told twice. He took off at a run, his claws rasping against the smooth surface of the countertop. He sensed Pinkie at his heels. As one, they sprang for the thick electrical cable, half scampering, half sliding down to where it ended at a socket near the baseboard.
Hopper jumped the short distance from the cord to the floor. Now that the broom dust had settled, he had a clear view of the open door. Summoning his courage, he sprinted for it, only vaguely aware of the motionless bodies of the cagemates that littered his path. His eyes searched desperately for Pup, but he didn’t spy him anywhere.
Pinkie was close, running just behind him. “Go!” she cried, her breath hot on his haunches.
Toward the door.
Toward the dark.
Toward the rain.
Toward the world.
Hopper ran, the only sound in his ruined ear the scraping of his claws on the cement floor. The only thought in his head:
Escape!
They were close, so close. . . . Hopper could feel the damp, cool air swirling in from the street.
Keep was right there, stomping toward the door, ready to slam it closed and lock them inside forever.
But Hopper kept that narrow opening in his sights; the now-silenced bell lay rusty and forgotten on the floor.
Heart racing, muscles burning, Hopper put his head down and aimed for the slice of gray daylight visible through the opening, the breach that separated in from out, confinement from freedom, living from . . .
“I’ll teach you to run from me,” Keep cried, his hand reaching for the door.
Behind Hopper, Pinkie wheezed and grunted but managed to keep up.
They were nearly through!
Keep let out a mighty groan; too late, he slammed the door. The force of it propelled Hopper and his sister forward into the rainstorm.
They were out. They had escaped into the world beyond.
And still, Hopper ran. He wanted as much distance between himself and that horrible prison as he could get.
Only once did he dare to look back over his shoulder.
Keep stood framed in the doorway, in that bright rectangle of light, looking angry and defeated. He was pounding one fist against the door, even as he used the other to flip the cardboard sign.
CLOSED.
But he couldn’t hurt them now. He couldn’t sweep them up and throw them in a box or sell them to a wicked human boy with a reptile writhing around his shoulders.
Keep was the one who was trapped now. Keep was in.
And Hopper and Pinkie, for better or for worse, were out.
Without Pup.
chapter six
THEY WERE ON SOMETHING called a “sidewalk.”
Hopper had heard Keep use the word many times; he’d rap on the big glass and scold the young human packs who lingered aimlessly in front of the shop: “Hey, you punks, quit dropping those gum wrappers on my sidewalk!”
Hopper had never wondered or even cared exactly what a sidewalk was. But now here he was, scrambling along a wet one with his sister, dodging the shoes and boots of what seemed to be an endless throng of quick-stepping human travelers.
Hopper was surprisingly agile for one who had spent his whole life in a cage, and the sensation of the raindrops hitting his fur was strange and wonderful. Air and noise and shadow and motion were everywhere. And the smells! The myriad, indescribable smells! More than just insect, rodent, feline, and fish. His nose twitched of its own accord as he breathed them all in.
One of the scents he could not name was an acrid one, an unpleasant smell that seemed to come from the strange, enormous rolling machines that roared on their own kind of sidewalk, wider than the one along which the humans were treading. These machines growled like wild animals, flashing lighted eyes into the rainy gloom.
It was becoming clear to Hopper that danger was everywhere.
When he was satisfied that the shop was a good ways behind them, he slowed down; Pinkie again took her cue from him.
“Look what you’ve done,” she hissed, her eyes taking in the vastness of their new world. “You l
ed us into the rain. And Pup. We’ve lost Pup.”
Hopper curled his tail around his legs. Pup. What happened to Pup? “We’ll find him,” Hopper said. “Besides, you didn’t have to follow me,” he pointed out sharply.
He walked with his sister to the edge of the sidewalk, to the relative shelter of a large receptacle fashioned of metal mesh. Away from the foot traffic they crouched near the base of it, and despite their anger, they instinctively huddled together against the chill. Hopper looked upward at the tall, cagelike barrel and watched as passing humans dropped things into it: various items they seemed to regard as useless—crumpled paper, empty cups, and the remains of uneaten food. In fact, of all the smells that were assailing him out here in the universe, it seemed the best ones were coming from deep inside this strange cylindrical basket.
Hopper reached through one of the holes in the metal mesh and rummaged around gingerly. Finally he withdrew something that looked and smelled edible; he tentatively brought it to his nose.
His belly reacted instantly, tumbling with unbidden pangs of hunger.
Twitch. Twitch.
This was no pellet.
This was some human delicacy, to be sure. Meat, Hopper thought, examining it; it was narrow and rounded, shaped like a plump human finger smeared with thick yellow goop. Clinging to Hopper’s aromatic find was a square of flimsy paper decorated with a series of markings like the ones he found emblazoned on the shreds of paper that lined his cage.
WILBUR’S WEENIE WORLD
555 Atlantic Ave. Brooklyn
BEST HOT DOGS IN NEW YORK
Of course, like the ones in his cage, these printed curves and slashes meant nothing to Hopper. The drawing showed a larger version of the half-eaten item he now clutched in his paws, which was still giving off a most tantalizing aroma.
Cautiously Hopper nibbled the end of it.
It was warm and succulent and spicy, and there were tiny chunks of something green and sweet mixed in with the yellow glop. As he chewed, the meat left a slight film of grease on his mouth.
His stomach quickly filled, and Hopper wondered if he should share this culinary treasure with his sister. Then he remembered sourly that she’d already eaten a piece of his ear.
But she was eyeing his prize with a look of longing.
“Give it,” she demanded.
“No,” said Hopper, his mouth full. “Find your own.”
Pinkie narrowed her eyes and ground her paws into the sidewalk. She pounced, toppling Hopper backward and sending the mysterious and wonderful food morsel flying through the air.
The siblings tussled, pulling at fur, nipping at tails, unaware that all the while they were rolling closer and closer to the edge of the sidewalk, toward the wide black stripe upon the earth where those rolling, growling, light-eyed monsters zoomed past.
As Hopper and Pinkie struggled, punching and kicking, Hopper became aware of a droning sound—it was like rain but more than rain. It sounded like all the rain that had ever rained. But now it was not falling from the dark sky above; this sound was close by—just over the edge of the sidewalk. Rushing, splashing, moving—a watery torrent.
Panic clenched in Hopper’s gut. “Stop!” he cried.
But, of course, Pinkie went right on pummeling him.
He nearly managed to right himself, but his sister would not release her hold. They continued to somersault toward the border of the sidewalk, closer to the sound of the rushing water.
Suddenly Hopper and Pinkie found themselves submerged. The water held them in an icy, airless stranglehold. The miniature rapids tossed and spun them, bearing them furiously forward while they clung to each other for dear life.
Just when it seemed to Hopper as if he could not hold his breath a single second longer, a small wave swelled from the bottom of the whipping river, lifting and thrusting him upward. He broke the surface, gasping, flailing, gulping in oxygen, blinking filthy droplets from his eyes and slapping at the water in a pitiful attempt to swim.
Breathe, he commanded himself. Keep your head above water and be calm . . . drift . . . float. Relax and breathe, and help Pinkie . . .
It was then that Hopper realized: Pinkie was no longer wrapped around him, sharing the terror of this wild ride.
She was gone.
His stomach clenched in a knot of anguish. How had he lost her? Why had she let go?
Hopper shouted, “Pinkie!” But his voice was lost to the whooshing noise of the raging water.
Ahead, a dip in the gutter had created a tiny whirlpool.
Tiny but deep.
And strong.
The water that ferociously pulled Hopper now seemed to confuse its course, turning around on itself, chasing its own current in a swirling circle of speed.
Round and round.
Hopper began to stroke, frantically trying to steer himself back upstream. He kicked his legs, swished his tail in hopes of changing direction.
But the drag was unrelenting, reaching for him with liquid fingers, reaching for him as Keep had once reached for his mother . . . as Hopper should have reached for Pup, to save him from the fall.
And then the whirlpool caught him. Dizzy and weak, Hopper tried to tread water. But the spiral was sucking at his tail, his paws, pulling him, tugging him.
Down.
Down.
Deeper.
Farther.
The whirling gave way to plunging, and Hopper felt as if he were a part of the water itself—as though his mind, body, and soul had turned to fluid, spilling into some blackness that waited way below the world.
Lost in the waterfall, he surrendered to the deluge. . . . The water had become a rushing column, and Hopper toppled and tumbled within it, plummeting toward . . .
. . . nowhere.
And then the pouring sensation ceased and he landed hard, the back of his head colliding with some unforgiving ground. The pillar of water had deposited him in a vast but shallow, slimy puddle; the puddle trickled and seeped away from itself, edging outward into even more blackness, more nowhere. Dampness clung to the walls, the ceiling, the very air, though Hopper could see nothing in the gloom.
This new world into which he’d been so violently and helplessly dropped was a dank, sprawling cavern filled with echoes.
Hopper knew he should rise. And run. He should find his way out and head to higher ground. He had to get out of this godforsaken cave.
But the little visibility afforded to him was suddenly turning to haze; his eyes were going blurry. His stomach roiled.
“Pinkie . . . help me,” he whispered, but it was only his own voice that came to him in a ghostly repeat. Down here, even the whispers echoed.
He was aware of an ache in the back of his head; it joined forces with the sting of his torn ear. When he tried to lift his shoulders, an exquisite pain thundered inside his skull, and he had to lower himself again into the slime.
Hopper felt his eyelids flutter; prickles of light broke behind them. It was better than the gloom, he decided, so he closed his eyes and kept them closed. In the moment just before he yielded to the void, he called for his sister one last time.
“Pinkie . . . ,” he rasped.
He was fading fast, but he heard himself speak her name as clearly as if he’d bellowed it.
chapter seven
HOPPER CAME TO SLOWLY, his mind replaying the grisly scenes from the last several hours. His bruised body protested even the slightest movement, so he simply lay there. How far away those clean, crisp aspen curls, that tiny bowl of fresh, clear water, seemed now. And Pup . . . it hurt most to think of Pup.
He drew in a long, trembling breath; his ribs throbbed and his lungs felt sodden and sluggish. He was wetter than he’d ever been in his life, soaked all the way through his fur to the delicate pink skin beneath. His bones seemed chilled to the marrow.
The mere thought of opening his eyes nearly overwhelmed him with dread.
Because Hopper knew.
He was not a worldly mouse
, nor an educated one, but he was wise enough to know that once he allowed himself a glimpse of this unexpected nightmare into which he’d fallen, his life would never be the same again.
No going back.
What had been before would be forever gone. All of it. All of them.
But there was no point in delaying the inevitable. If he were doomed to exist in this miserable hole in the world, he might as well see what it looked like.
Swallowing hard, he opened first one eye and then the other.
The place was still a vast, empty cavern. Still dark, still clammy.
His eyes began to adjust and shapes availed themselves—Hopper could make out the jagged stones of the walls that curved overhead in a towering arc of chipped tile. The pillar of water that had deposited him here had subsided, and now only the odd drip or trickle fell from above, landing on the surface of the puddle with a plink or a ploink or a splat, sending a dark shimmer of ripples across the black surface.
Plink.
Ploink.
Splat.
As though the ceiling were crying.
Hopper lifted himself from where he lay in the shallow pool. He was wobbly at first but eventually regained his equilibrium and set out to explore his immediate surroundings.
Taking cautious, mincing steps, he made his way out of the puddle, then up a slight slope, where he found himself standing on a long, rusted metal rail. His eyes followed its path, where it curved around a bend in the long arched tunnel and disappeared into the darkness. A similar rail lay parallel to the one on which Hopper perched, and between these two solid metal bars lay a series of narrow, evenly spaced wooden planks. These, too, continued into the darkness and out of sight. For all Hopper knew, the rail, the planks, and the tunnel stretched all the way to infinity.
Overhead he saw a web of heavy cables and frayed wires.
He spied a burned-out, naked lightbulb with a rusted pull chain mounted to an ancient fixture on a wall.
Mostly, though, he saw garbage.
Things abandoned, lost and long forgotten, littered the place, moldering and rotting before his black eyes. Bits of human artifacts like worn shoes, torn paper, items electrical in nature, and a scattering of the small, shiny discs—coins, like the ones he’d seen Keep drop into the money machine a hundred times a day. There were more empty cans and broken bottles than he could count.
