Pickles vs. the Zombies

by Angela Misri

  “Be careful,” Wally advised, pushing the mug under a dripping leak to collect more water, “and stay off the tracks themselves. We’ll wait for you here. If you’re not back by sundown, I’m coming in after you. Standard protocol.”

  I had brought up some more sticks and the string and cloth I had dropped from the squirrel’s nest. In my absence, Wally was going to try and construct something he called a travois — a military invention used for transporting wounded soldiers — to haul our wounded hamster.

  I leapt down onto the muddy forest floor and scampered back into the tunnel. I immediately started calling for Hannah, Trip, and Ginger. I made my way down the first curve, losing the cloudy daylight behind me. I would be the first to admit that I have abandonment issues, but I think you would agree, I was dealing with them well. Or as well as could be expected under the circumstances of losing everyone I ever cared about. Connor seemed so far away right now that I couldn’t let myself think of him.

  My steps were near silent as I walked close to the tunnel wall, taking my time, scanning every dark corner for a glimpse of my friends. My worst nightmare would be to find their broken bodies, but I wouldn’t turn away: I had to know their fates. Not knowing was so much worse.

  The second worst nightmare was the sound I heard coming my way: the sound of groaning and dragging that I associated with zombies. Nowhere to hide, I froze in place, wondering if zombies could see in the dark. Wondering if they could see at all out of those dead eyeballs. I was ready to turn tail and race out the way I had come when I realized I recognized those grunts.

  “Trip!” I whispered, as the raccoon came into sight around a bend in the tunnel. My joy was tempered with the realization of what, or who, he was dragging.

  I sprinted to his side, but he barely noticed, and I could see why: he had a deep cut in his forehead and was weaving about like an over-nipped old tabby. In each paw was a cat leg I recognized — one for Hannah and one for Ginger — thankfully still attached to their bodies.

  “Trip,” I said softly, trying to stop his forward motion, “let me help you.”

  He turned confused eyes my way and I realized he was operating on pure instinct, dragging his friends to safety with no other plan than to get them out of this tunnel.

  I stopped him and examined the two cats. They were both breathing, bruised, and had cuts all over their bodies. Trip slowed down, but wouldn’t stop so I poked him in the belly. For the first time since we’d met, he growled at me, his ears flattening against his head. I jumped back in shock.

  “Trip, it’s me, Pickles,” I said in the softest voice I could. “I need your help, my friend. Can you carry Ginger? I will carry Hannah. We need to get out of this tunnel.”

  He didn’t seem to understand, just pushed me out of the way — teeth bared — and picked up our friends by their feet and continued to drag them. Deciding to help him rather than fight, I did my best to lift their heads out of the way of rocks and garbage and we painstakingly made our way out of the tunnel. At the exit, Trip dropped their feet and promptly fell flat on his face, unconscious. He had spent the last of his strength and I would never be able him to repay him for it.

  “Wally,” I yelled, patting Hannah’s face, trying to revive her.

  But instead of Wally’s face, twenty-five chipmunks looked down at us from the platform above.

  “Who’s Wally?” asked one of them.

  “I … well, that is …,” I answered, my brain trying to work in the driving rain with my friends scattered at my feet.

  “Is he the fat one or the squeaky one?” the chipmunk asked, prompting some muffled squeaks from somewhere behind him. They sounded like they were coming from an agitated hamster, and I just happened to be missing one of those.

  “Listen, do you think we could talk somewhere out of the rain?” I yelled up to him, wiping water out of my eyes.

  “We’re all full at the inn,” the chipmunk said, “but if you go back in that tunnel, we will come down and palaver.”

  It sounded like this chipmunk read the same books I did, and what choice did I really have? Leap up the tree and take on dozens of chipmunks on my own?

  I nodded and started dragging Hannah back into the shelter of the tunnel. When I had her tucked into the edge, I turned back for Ginger, but he had struggled to his feet.

  “I think I got hit by a train,” said Ginger, slurring slightly. “What did I miss?”

  “Pack of chipmunks took our treehouse,” I whispered, grabbing one of Trip’s feet and dragging him towards Hannah, “and I think they’ve got Wally and Emmy up there.”

  “We have a treehouse?” Ginger asked, taking Trip’s other leg and helping me.

  “Had,” I underlined grimly, keeping one eye on the dozens of eyes watching us from above.

  Ginger started licking Trip. “I woke up at some point,” he said, shaking his head and then wincing at the pain that brought on. “I thought I saw Trip wandering around, bumping into walls.”

  I nodded miserably, licking Hannah’s ear, still looking for a wound that would explain her continued unconsciousness. She had a big lump over her right eye that worried me, and I had no idea how to treat it.

  “Look out!” exclaimed Trip, scaring us both as he sat up suddenly. Then he grabbed at his head. “Whoa, I feel like I got hit by a train.”

  “He’s back,” Ginger said, turning to examine Hannah next. “One more to go.”

  “Plus the ones up there,” I said, nervously looking up at the platform where the little chipmunk heads had disappeared from sight.

  “So, what’s our plan with the chipmunks?” Ginger asked, licking at Hannah, his worry coming off his whiskers in vibrations.

  I couldn’t let my own fears for Hannah override the near and present danger Wally and Emmy might be in.

  “I’d prefer not to fight, but if it comes to it …,” I said watching three chipmunks descend from the treehouse, “then we fight.”

  “Fight? Okay,” Trip repeated, raising his paws like he was Muhammad Ali, a human boxer Wally’s pet seemed to worship. “Who are we fighting?”

  “Maybe you should watch Hannah, Trip,” Ginger suggested, stepping to my side as the chipmunks scampered into the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Now, you were asking after a Wally,” the head chipmunk said, nodding at the chipmunk to his left, who pulled out a tiny notebook and an even tinier pencil. The head chipmunk had a magnificent white moustache that curled perfectly at the ends. It shouldn’t surprise you that he couldn’t seem to stop twirling the thing. The secretary chipmunk was small and wiry with black spots all over his body, and the third chipmunk was the size of Emmy, and had his arms crossed over his large chest, so I guessed he was the “muscle,” such as he was.

  “We’re not looking for ‘a Wally,’ we’re looking for our friend whose name is Wally,” I corrected, trying not to be distracted by the chipmunk scribbling in front of me. “He’s a gray cat and he was up on that platform caring for our other friend, a hamster named Emmy.”

  “Ah, so now you are looking to get an Emmy and a Wally. Make sure you get that down Carl,” said the head chipmunk imperiously.

  “Carl, could you also maybe tell us if you have a Wally and an Emmy who fit the descriptions of our friends?” asked Ginger in a saccharine voice.

  I suggested he knock off the sarcasm with my whiskers, but the chipmunks seemed to take his question seriously.

  “Oh, as soon as we know what you have to trade with, my fine feline, we will enumerate our goods for trade. Now, I count three normal-sized felines and one extra-large feline wearing a mask. Carl, make a note,” the head chipmunk said.

  “Trade?” I repeated, confused. “You want us to trade for our friends like property?”

  The chipmunks looked at each other like it was obvious. “Well, of course,” Carl answered, earning a glare from his leader. “That is
the purpose of a palaver.”

  The leader cleared his throat, bringing our attention back to him. “If this is not a trade, then we will return to our nest, we have many other animals to do business with.”

  They started to turn away and I could feel Ginger getting ready to pounce and end negotiations with blood, when Trip called out, “We want to trade, oh wise sir. Let us gather our goods and make an offer.”

  My mouth dropped open at his suggestion, but the chipmunks simply nodded graciously and bounded back up the tree to the platform.

  HANNAH WOKE UP AS I was spooning water into her mouth with my paw. The rain had finally receded, which made sense, because Hannah was awake and she required the sun to glow.

  I was so relieved I started to cry, and she licked my cheeks as I explained our situation.

  She was dizzy and had a migraine of a headache, but she stood up and walked around, testing her limbs with success. Her fur on the top of her head and back had been rubbed almost down to the skin from Trip’s dragging rescue, but otherwise, she was remarkably all right.

  “So, where are Trip and Ginger?” she asked after lapping water from the discarded bottle cap I had filled in the rain last night.

  “According to Trip, trade negotiation with chipmunks is all about the drama and spectacle and less about the actual items themselves.”

  “So, his plan is to make a big deal about garbage he finds in this tunnel and trade that for Wally and Emmy’s lives?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I know, it’s nuts,” I said, shaking my head, “but it’s the only plan we’ve got.”

  “Maybe not the only plan,” she said, her whiskers resonating with an idea. “You said they called Trip an extra-large feline?”

  Trip and Ginger returned about a half hour later to find us curled up in a contented ball of purring and planning.

  “Ahem,” said Ginger as they approached, his eyes able to see in the dark better than Trip’s.

  I stood up. “Tell me you found something.”

  Ginger was already shaking his head, but Trip was excited, bouncing on the tips of his feet. “Did we ever!” He shook a plastic bag of things our way. “Let’s get this palaver going!”

  He walked straight out into the sunlight and called up to Carl, announcing that we were ready. I looked over my shoulder at Hannah, who nodded and walked farther into the tunnel to curl up in a ball.

  “She’s awake,” Ginger said, glancing back at her. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s better than all right,” I said with a nervous shake of my tail. “Follow our lead.”

  Five chipmunks came down out of the tree this time, including the leader we had met before, the secretary Carl, and three more of the bulky bodyguard chipmunks.

  The leader’s eyes lit up seeing the bag of goodies in Trip’s paw and he stopped in front of him, signaling to Carl to bring out his notes.

  “Good day, felines. Shall we go over the minutes from our last meeting?” he asked, pressing his paws together.

  “Yes, please,” said Trip politely, mimicking the leader’s stance.

  “A trade for one Wally and one Emmy was proposed by the right honorable Kimchi the second,” Carl read from his notes, nodding at the leader. The rest of the chipmunks in the treehouse were hanging on every word, their chubby faces pointed down at us, their eyes locked on Trip’s bag.

  “We would like to add to that offer,” Kimchi said, twirling his ’stache towards Hannah and eliciting a unified gasp from his audience of chipmunks. “We have three healers in our community who would be happy to take a look at your damaged feline over there.”

  Hannah picked up her head, giving a small meow of pain.

  “We would welcome the help,” I said, nodding at Carl to add it to his list.

  Kimchi beamed and rubbed his little paws together. This mammal was a tiny caricature of Disney villains. “Now, what do you offer in trade?”

  Trip waved his paws over the plastic bag dramatically. “Prepare to be astounded, chipmunks, as I present the spoon of Abalone!”

  He carefully removed a plastic spoon from the bag, using only two fingers to handle it. “Used by only the most refined of mammals to carry items long distances, this spoon of Abalone was passed through generations to get to you.”

  Kimchi’s eyes were the size of saucers as he reached for the plastic spoon and Trip reminded him twice to be careful with it before gently passing it on to him. The rest of the chipmunks gathered round the spoon, ooohing and aaahing, and Carl held his pencil poised over his tiny notebook, waiting for judgment.

  Kimchi finally nodded imperiously at Carl, who quickly scratched something onto his pad. Ginger threw an incredulous look my way, but I flicked my tail at Trip. This show was far from over.

  “I wonder if I should …,” Trip said, looking into his bag of goodies. “No, I shouldn’t. But this!”

  He pulled out a marble the size of his hand. “This orb of destiny is rare and worthy of trade.”

  He placed it on the ground between his feet and those of the chipmunks. “It foretold our destiny of meeting you here, and I know of fewer than five in existence!”

  The chipmunks stared down at the marble in wonder. “How does it work?” one of them asked in a hushed tone.

  Trip looked to Kimchi with a secretive smile. “This is a very powerful orb, oh great Kimchi. Perhaps its powers are not for all members of your group.”

  That started a squabble, the chipmunks descending into squeaks and arguments, Carl frantically trying to keep up with his notes. Two chipmunks on the platform above started fighting and fell off the platform into our midst, much to the chagrin of Kimchi.

  “Please!” he chirped at his brethren. “Calm yourselves! We will add an addendum to this transaction for a sub-negotiation on the use of the ….” He looked to Trip for help.

  “Orb of destiny,” Trip supplied with a low bow.

  “Yes, Carl, please add that to the minutes,” Kimchi said, his paws making grabby motions towards the marble.

  Carl scratched the appropriate notes with no less than five chipmunks reading over his shoulder to make sure the minutes reflected their lobbying.

  “Finally, my fair and reasonable chipmunks, I offer this invaluable weapon for your defense,” Trip announced in a booming voice, all eyes turning back to him. “This is the sword of … Shakira!”

  He pulled out a small plastic sword, the kind humans used at parties to spear, well, pickles and other small food items. This one was blue and glinted in the sun-light as Trip held it aloft.

  Another appreciative gasp went up from the group of chipmunks and I heard a squeak from the platform. I coughed to cover the sound, and Ginger looked at me curiously, but none of the other chipmunks seemed to notice; the sword had their full attention.

  With a final flourish, Trip stabbed the sword into the soft ground at his feet.

  Kimchi looked from Carl to the items in front of Trip with naked greed in his eyes.

  “You honor us with this trade, felines,” he said finally, signaling to his brethren to silence, “and for these items, we are willing to offer you one Wally and the service of one healer for your damaged cat.”

  He again pointed towards the ball of gold curled inside the tunnel.

  “And what about Emmy?” growled Ginger through his teeth.

  Kimchi turned to confer with his band, and Ginger’s tail began to snap against me. He wanted to attack so badly his twitching tail was sending off sparks of static every time it touched me.

  I knew Kimchi was going to deny us before he turned around, in fact, I’d assumed it from the moment he’d proposed the trade.

  “I’m sorry my feline friends,” he said finally, looking anything but sorry, “but unless you have more items to trade ….”

  Trip threw a desperate look my way, so I stepped forward. “We d
o, honorable Kimchi.”

  Kimchi’s surprise was immediately replaced by that familiar look of greed I had come to expect from him.

  “Oh?” he asked, waving impatiently at Carl to pick up his pencil again, twirling his moustache anew.

  “Yes, we have fourteen …,” I glanced up at the platform, “sorry, fifteen chipmunks to trade as well.”

  Kimchi looked confused. His beady eyes flicked from me to the empty plastic bag in Trip’s paws and then back to me.

  Ginger grinned for the first time since being hit by the train, his eyes locked on the platform above. The chipmunks finally followed his gaze to see a glorious Abyssinian standing over a bundle of trussed-up chipmunks. Wally was standing at attention, his bronze medal gleaming around his neck as he glared down at them, and Emmy traced limping circles from the roof.

  “I WOULD HAVE LOVED to see a transcript of those minutes,” I said as soon as we were out of earshot of the chipmunks. We left them in the midst of loudly electing a new leader. Kimchi was in tears and taking the brunt of their failure to negotiate a winning hand. Carl was alternating between consoling him and smacking him with his tiny notebook.

  “It was a pile of leaves?” Trip kept repeating at Hannah, walking beside her. “You hid behind a pile of leaves and then snuck out, and they didn’t even notice?”

  “You didn’t notice,” Wally pointed out, taking his turn pulling Emmy’s tiny travois, “and their eyesight is much weaker than yours.”

  “Hey, Trip was busy giving the performance of a lifetime,” Hannah said, patting the raccoon on the back. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  Trip pulled at his whiskers. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more surprised than when I looked up to see what you had done to those chipmunks.”

  “We!” squeaked Emmy from her travois.

  Emmy’s voice had returned for good and it was laced with well-earned pride. Hannah had climbed up the back of the tree and cut Emmy’s bonds first. It was she who had cowed the chipmunks into shocked silence as Hannah released Wally. Then the three of them trussed up the mammals in a bundle of fur and shocked faces and waited to see the results of our negotiations below.