Uncle Brucker the Rat Killer

by Leslie Peter Wulff

  “Come in, amigo, join the party,” said Reyes. “Shoulda brought poppers. I ran outta hats!”

  General Hardesty pulled his automatic from his holster. “Damn it, I’m low on ammo!”

  “Try this!” Reyes tossed a laser pointer to General Hardesty.

  General Hardesty caught the pointer in his right hand. The rats rushed through the door and ran along the floor, down into the heating vents and straight up the walls. General Hardesty fired his pointer at the first rat, and the rat froze. For an instant its eyes glowed red from the killer laser beam, then the rat exploded and splatted all over the door.

  “Turn it up! Up!” cried Reyes.

  General Hardesty set his pointer on full auto and aimed with precision. Rat eyes glowed red, rats exploded as they rushed in through the door.

  With their backs to the studio wall, the two soldiers battled the rats. General Rolf Reyes had retired nine years ago after the First Uprising, and he was here on volunteer duty. He did his share of killing and more during Uprising #1 at the Galleria in Dengrove. But he was a much younger man back then and it was nothing like this.

  It was too much for the old timer. His pointer weighed a hundred pounds. He could hardly raise his arm. General Hardesty held him firmly around his shoulder. But General Hardesty’s pointer was low on juice. One, two more shots and it fizzled out. He took his automatic from his belt holster and checked the clip. Only two bullets left.

  General Hardesty looked to Reyes and Reyes looked to him.

  “Ya sabes lo que tienes que hacer,” said General Reyes. You know what you have to do.

  General Hardesty put the automatic to the center of General Reyes’ forehead.

  The retired General closed his eyes tight and his lips moved in prayer.

  But before General Hardesty could pull the trigger something overcame the rats. Their noses tilted up and they turned around, hooked on a scent so powerful it pulled them from the battlefield.

  General Hardesty smelled it too. The rat stew!

  “My God, they’re leaving!” he cried as the rats scrambled out the front door.

  General Hardesty stuffed the automatic in his belt holster and fell back against the studio wall. He took a deep breath and slowly he smiled.

  “Smell that stew, you old billy goat?” said General Hardesty to General Reyes with the widest of smiles. “I got a hunch who’s behind that aroma. Good work, Sergeant Brucker! I’d give that soldier ten, fifteen medals, but I only got six in the box.”

  46

  The rats abandoned their outposts and followed their noses to the Safe House and a meal to die for. Down in the kitchen they fought over the stew pots, ripping, chewing and gnawing. The rats broke through the windows and they came up through the floor. Uncle Brucker realized he’d better get the hell out of there, so he stuffed a few cold ones in his pants and went to the kitchen to take one last bite out of his sandwich.

  And sitting in the General’s chair with his head buried in a stew pot was the Rat Commander.

  The Commander looked up at Uncle Brucker.

  “Ah-th’-ta,” the Commander demanded. More stew.

  47

  “Every man’s got somethin’ he hates more than anythin’,” Uncle Brucker told the Rat Commander. “I hate cookin’. I hate preparin’. I hate heatin’ things up. I only cooked that stew in order to save the General, but that don’t make me hate cookin’ any less. So, I’m tellin’ ya, I ain’t cookin’ no more stew, you fat miserable rat!”

  My Uncle stood firm with his arms folded at his chest.

  The Commander sat in General Hardesty’s chair, watching cartoons on the TVs. One stewpot in his lap, two more on the floor beside him. His young assistant Grabs stood behind him.

  The Commander had arrived at the Safe House as a slim Lieutenant, and he ate his way up the ranks in record time. He made Captain about halfway through the first stewpot. After the second pot he promoted himself to Commander. Now he was shooting for Big Fat General.

  “How many licks you figure I got left in this pot?” he asked Grabs.

  “No more than ten, Commander,” Grabs said.

  “Commander? You’re tellin’ me I ain’t up to General yet?”

  “It’s gonna take more than twenty licks to weigh in as a General, and I figure there ain’t but ten left in this pot.” Grabs shivered with fear. He didn’t want to disappoint the Commander. He’d rather chew off his own tail. The Commander’s long tongue came out and scooped a glob of stew off his snout. He was watching a Roadrunner cartoon playing on 24 TV’s. The Commander laughed and laughed. Laughing, he stuck his head back in the stewpot. Nothing left. Licked clean. No more laughing. The cartoons were not funny. They were sad, very sad.

  Grabs turned to Uncle Brucker. “I’m countin’ to ten and you better start cookin’!”

  “But rats can’t count!” said Uncle Brucker.

  “One . . . two . . .”

  “You get stuck on two.”

  “Four . . . nine . . . seven . . .”

  “And they got no idea what comes after three!”

  The Commander hissed. He was fed up with the human’s backtalk. He grabbed a can of beer from the floor, slurped it down and threw it across the room.

  Drunk he was and fatter than ever, but he wasn’t fat enough to be General. Now he had some gnawing to do—on that lazy cook. He tried to get up from the chair but he couldn’t move. Too fat to move, not fat enough to be General. He licked the rim of the pot, and with a smile on his face and the taste of stew in his mouth, his heart stopped, and the life went out of him.

  He had tasted the meal to die for, and now there was nothing left.

  More rats ran down the stairs and piled into the kitchen. They climbed up the stove and dove into the stewpots. The fought each other to death for the chance of a lick. Grabs showed a viciousness Uncle Brucker had never seen before. He climbed out of a pot and turned to Uncle Brucker with his eyes afire and his fangs dripping.

  Uncle Brucker wasn’t the type to take any chances. He expected the unexpected. He was prepared for any emergency, and wherever he went he always had his back covered.

  As the rats scrambled across the kitchen floor, he opened the refrigerator and reached in. Hidden from view in the back of the top shelf was one last bowl of stew he had saved for an emergency.

  He placed it on the floor and slowly backed off.

  The rats fought over the bowl of stew. Uncle Brucker ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He left the Safe House through the iron door and headed back to his squad at Base Camp.

  48

  The rats gathered their forces and attacked at dinner time. It was all part of a master plan. The tricky rats tunneled under the parking lot and came up through the mess hall while Uncle Brucker and his squad were having dessert. The rats were many and fierce. The soldiers dropped their napkins and fought back with forks and knives. In minutes the rats overran the kitchen, then they ravaged the supply tent. They drank the General’s wine and ate what they could find and they fought and ate and drank more wine.

  It was a battle feast.

  The rats bound Uncle Brucker’s arms and legs with hemp rope and stuffed him in a burlap sack. They dragged him by his feet down the street and in the gutters. They threw rocks at him and kicked him and busted bottles in his path, and they laughed when he cried out in pain. They laughed so hard they lost their grip and dropped him, and his head cracked on the curb, and the rats rolled over on their backs and kicked their feet in the air and howled with laughter.

  The rats, the miserable rats! What other creature finds such pleasure in pain?

  He fought off the pain by thinking of ways humans are better than rats.

  Humans use tools. . . . Humans build things. . . . Humans calculate. . . . Humans drive. . . .

  The rats dragged him past the rec tent and the mess hall. Drunken rats, cowards and deserters tagged along. There must be something pretty damn important in that sack and they wanted to find out what it w
as.

  “Who ya holen’ up, ratso?”

  “Can’t tell ya.”

  “We’ll give you a drink if you do.”

  After a drink: “It’s the Rat Killer!”

  “That’s no Rat Killer. You been fooled.”

  “I ain’t fooled by this.”

  “But everybody knows the Rat Killer’s twelve feet tall. He don’t fit in that sack.”

  “Now listen here. That’s the way he is before you catch him. You build him up so high, then when you catch him and beat him down he fits in a sack.”

  “He ain’t in there now. . . . That sack is empty!”

  Ahead, past the overturned dumpster, a leg disappeared behind a tent. Uncle Brucker untied his hands and feet but he couldn’t get the sack off his head. He ran blindly between the tents and tripped and fell to his knees and scrambled to his feet. Finally, he pulled the sack off and looked around.

  And he was standing at the foot of the Portal. The rats had chased him onto the Nowhere Road!

  Up there at the Portal, the air was turbulent. The ironwork creaked and the bridge swayed in the wind. Uncle Brucker hugged the hand rail as he climbed up the ramp to the top platform. Powerful crosswinds whistled back and forth. Hold on to that rail! The rift between dimensions created a vacuum. The whistling wind was short on oxygen.

  The rats had decorated the entire ramp and Portal with blinking lights and streamers. It’s their way of celebrating victory. A rat timer turned on the lights at dusk or when they got it to work.

  “Come on, you rats!” A cry from below. “They got the timer workin’!”

  One by one the lights went on, from the entrance ramp all the way up the bridge. Red, blue, green, yellow, and strange rat colors unseen by humans. A magnificent hundred-bulb collar outlined the portal, and every bulb blinked.

  For a moment the rats were still, transfixed by the blinking lights. For a moment Uncle Brucker felt he could knock the rats over with a whisper, and they would tumble down like cutouts and clear a path all the way to Base Camp.

  But how long is a moment? The spectacle wore off when the moment had passed, and the rats came on.

  He turned to the rats, the miserable stinking rats. They came up the ramp, more rats than he’d ever seen, more than he could imagine, and like a World Champion he raised his arms high above his head.

  “Humans teach! Humans cook! Humans prevail!”

  The wind blew and the wind whistled. The ironwork creaked and grumbled. The bridge swayed and the railing shook and the bolts shivered. Uncle Brucker took one deep breath and stepped into nowhere, and he was gone.

  49

  My first week alone at the old house went fast. Every night before I went to sleep, I crossed off the days on the calendar. The second week slowed down. Now week #3 was dragging its ass and Uncle Brucker still hasn’t returned from his two week assignment.

  I walked to school every day. When I woke late I ran every other block. Charlee said her mom will give me a ride when it rains but it never got past a drizzle.

  I prepared another World Shaking Event report. I got an A on the last one and Charlee got an A+. This was not an assignment. I did it because I was into it. Charlee helped me out at first and then she joined me. Now it was a dual report and we got Mr. Ross’s permission for next week. First I wanted to give a report on the Black Plague, then we decided World War Two was better.

  People with rat emergencies called up and left messages on the phone. When I got home from school I called them back and told them I ain’t the Rat Killer. He can’t make it today but he won’t forget about you. Don’t give up, he’ll get to you pretty soon.

  Manny and Leroy came over and hung out. Manny was a good looking guy who rolled his sleeves up like a lumberjack. Leroy wasn’t so good looking but he got the girls. They drank my milk and said they didn’t, ate the peanut butter and put the empty jar on the shelf. They never threw out their beer cans. It was a perfect house for hanging out, and everybody knew it.

  I made up some new rules, and that goes for you, Manny. You can visit when you want, but I tell you when to get out. Fall asleep on the couch, you better clean up before you go home. And don’t touch my Uncle’s War Medal.

  I told nobody, not even Manny or Leroy, about my Uncle’s two-week assignment or why he was gone. They just knew he wasn’t home.

  I worked on the Eagle and the Camaro. With Leroy’s help I put new plugs and wires in the Camaro. I get it back on the road, it’s a great accomplishment for all mankind, but especially me. Uncle Brucker will be pleased when he sees it.

  Leroy came over and we did some body work on the Scout that I forgot to mention. Leroy brought a 48 piece wrench set with him and we didn’t need it, but we used his glue gun. We glued the windshield trim and adjusted the hand brake, and then we decided to call it a day or two.

  Everything looked good with the Eagle, the Camaro, the Ram and the Monte Carlo. And the Scout too, considering.

  50

  Every evening before dark I put my Identifiers on and drove the Eagle around town, but I couldn’t find Renata.

  I drove down to Tuskie’s Pizza, then I went down Center past Half Price Stores and the strip mall, and up through the heights and Crown Street where I first met her. I couldn’t find her anywhere.

  I identified a lot of people. Most I didn’t know so I wrote down descriptions such as “the man with the black cap in the doorway” or “two kids with cool jackets walking out of Half Price Stores”.

  But it takes up time when you’re on the lookout. You have to keep your eye on the road when you’re behind the wheel. So after a while I just made notes and added the descriptions later. Uptown past Holmes and through the Heights past High Mary’s down to Tuskies again and made a right at the strip mall and headed back home.

  “Nice house. You got the house,” Manny said after I got home and sat on the couch with a beer. “If your Uncle was my Uncle, I’d be here with ya. Charlee’s cool. Nuthin’ wrong with Charlee. But Renata makes up for what she’s missin’. A hot babe like Renata, don’t waste no time. You gotta move on into action!”

  Some girls are hot. Some girls are hotter than hot. Renata, you are a fireball.

  51

  Every Sunday at sunrise Keith and Reed and my Uncle drove out to Jack’s Creek with their rods and reels and returned before noon with a sack of bass and brookies. The Sunday tradition began years ago after my Uncle’s first stroke.

  For the last three weeks he did not join them.

  Keith was disappointed, Reed suspicious. They came to the old house and I told them everything I could without blowing my Uncle’s cover. When I ran out of facts I turned to excuses.

  “He’s out Early Trackin’.”

  “He should be back sometime too late for fishin’.”

  “He went to visit a relative. I forget the name. A sick one.”

  After the last excuse Keith and Reed stood on the back porch and refused to leave. Where was the old Rat Killer? Something’s up, they knew it, but I couldn’t say a word because my Uncle said don’t tell anybody about his two-week Assignment.

  Keith did the talking. He was in his sixties, Reed somewhere around forty. They have the same amount of hair on their heads. Keith was Reed’s father but they looked like balding brothers. Keith nudged Reed.

  Keith said, “In all the years I know your Uncle he never mentioned nobody but you and your dad.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t talk about the sick ones,” I told him.

  “I don’t even know who they are until they die.”

  52

  Charlee says she’d rather have a Mustang any day. Camaro’s aren’t worth fixing up. It’s just talk but she gets it from her brother, I mean her older brother Arnie with the black Mustang. Uncle Brucker’s sky blue 327 Camaro had a 4-speed and a vinyl top, and I put on the fog lights and silver mudflaps. Arnie’s got a sixteen valve. It flies, Charlee says. But not without a six and you can’t get a six.

  Charlee came ove
r after school and we were sitting in the Camaro parked under the shady willows by the barn. It’s nice out here under the trees with a view of the house and the yard, and we came here a lot. I got the passenger seat. I let Charlee get behind the wheel most of the time.

  There’s not much wrong with that girl except she likes Mustangs and she won’t eat pizza.

  “Peugeots,” I said. “Peugeots are the safest cars you can buy. There are only a few of them on the road so they hardly get into any accidents.”

  “Mustang’s faster than any Camaro,” she said.

  “You think so?”

  I consider it bad luck to badmouth a car while you’re sitting in it, and Charlee knows it. And don’t bug me with Mustangs. They have a reputation, but the Camaro’s got the speed. Ask anybody, just don’t ask Arnie.

  “If you don’t like the car you’re sittin’ in, you don’t have to sit in it. But don’t stick around if you’re gonna badmouth the Camaro. . . . Where you goin’, Charlee?”

  “I guess I’m goin’ back home where I can badmouth in peace,” she said.

  “Wanna sit in the Monte Carlo?”

  “Only if I get the driver’s seat.”

  53

  It was a new Ford Police GT, and it came down the road with the Sheriff behind the wheel. He turned into the driveway and pulled up next to the old house.

  “Hideout!” Charlee cried.

  By the time the cop got out, Charlee and I had moved from the Monte Carlo to the Hideout in the barn.

  We made the Hideout up in the loft years ago. It stretched across the front of the barn. There was a ladder to climb up on the right. First it was a clubhouse, then a rec room and then it was the Hideout.

  We cleaned out the loft and put a bridge table up there, and we had candles and an oil lamp in case of a blackout. A picnic bench fit under the roof where nobody could see us. Through the knot holes and the slats in the siding we looked down at the world and thought of ways to fool adults.