George was still staring.
Ananda’s mouth went dry. She laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. “Rats are really nice when you get to know them. He’s really smart, and he’s friendly, too—”
A low moan started from George’s mouth. It sounded like an animal.
Ananda’s hair stood on end.
George’s eyes bugged out. The moan grew into an open-mouthed scream.
Ananda jammed the boxes back in front of the cage and slammed the door shut. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” she said. “Stop screaming! Stop it! George!”
George backed away, shrieking, until she was in a corner.
Ananda approached her. “George, stop it! Tommy’s harmless! He’s not going to hurt you!”
George thrashed at her as Ananda came near. “Murderer! You’ve killed us all!”
As if it had a mind of its own, Ananda’s arm swung back and she slapped her friend, hard. “Shut the hell up!”
A red handprint rose on George’s cheek. She stopped mid-scream, jaw hanging slack, and stared at Ananda. She raised her hand to her cheek. “You hit me.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Ananda. She made a move toward her.
George crouched back and spat, “Keep away from me!” She sprang past Ananda and bolted up the stairs, two at a time.
Ananda ran up the stairs after her. “I’m sorry I hit you! But don’t tell anyone about Tommy! George! Please!” She heard the slam of the front door.
Ananda fell against the nearest wall, slid down, and crumpled into a sobbing heap. A few minutes passed. When she heard the door open again, she leapt to her feet.
“George?”
“Ananda?” Perrin. “Help me carry in these groceries.”
“Coming, Mom!” She flew out the door and began hauling bags of groceries from the car.
“Who’s George?” said her mom, as they carried in the last of the bags.
Glancing over to George’s house, Ananda saw the curtains were drawn. It was quiet, as if the shrieking hysteria that had occurred only minutes before had never happened. But it had. The shrinking, sick feeling in her stomach told her this was real.
And if George told anyone about what she had seen, Tommy was dead.
“No one,” said Ananda.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“The plight of the lower and most of the middle classes was even more pitiful to behold. Most of them remained in their houses, either through poverty or in hopes of safety, and fell sick by thousands.”
Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–75)
The strange squalling of the other two-leg passed quickly, and Fin was left, once again, in peace. He had never felt so good.
Under his little two-leg’s care, his leg was strong enough for him to run again. When the two-leg tickled him, Fin couldn’t contain the glee that made him shoot around the cage. Or the feeling of love that welled up in his heart.
But when the two-leg wasn’t there—playing with him, feeding him snacks—he couldn’t forget where he was. This was also the nest of the big and cruel two-leg.
But the little one had saved him. The thought that it could have died from Fin’s Plague Rats? It made him sick. Now he knew Balthazar was right: two-legs could feel. Or at least one of them could. The little one had proven it.
When it was happy, it laughed. When it was sad, it cried. Just like Fin. How would Fin ever be able to lead another death squad without wondering if the targets were good two-legs or bad ones?
The question confused him.
Papa said there were no good two-legs. He’d said that the Old Ones meant for all two-legs to die. But they couldn’t have meant this little one, could they? There must be some kind of mistake.
The little two-leg was a gentle creature. Fin loved its funny bared teeth that meant it was happy. Loved its bulging shiny eyes that were more familiar every day. Loved how it scratched on its flat white leaves with a small black stick, watching him. The two-leg was strange, yes. But he loved it.
It was all too much for Fin. Who was he to question the Old Ones or his uncle? He was never meant to decide such big things. And yet everything had changed.
Papa would never understand. He would see Fin’s refusal to lead a death squad as betrayal. And wasn’t it? Fin had told his uncle to “Kill the two-legs!” Had shouted in the Forbidden Garden that he wasn’t ashamed. Had promised to stand by Papa forever. He’d even promised to save the Killing Chamber rats.
He had failed.
The night he left was horrible. More painful than getting his foot bitten in the metal teeth. More painful than the dreams that haunted his sleep.
Fin found his chance when the two-leg left the cage door unlatched. The wire latch rested on the bars but wasn’t clipped shut. Climbing up, Fin nosed open the door and slid through. Even then, he wasn’t sure he could go.
You can’t stay, he told himself.
Why not?
You know why not. You came to kill it. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere, now.
The gap below the door of the fort-under-the-stairs was plenty big for a rat. Squeezing under, Fin peered around the basement room. A lifetime ago he’d lain there, bleeding, terrified. The cruel teeth were still there, metal jaws open and waiting, its spring baited with peanut butter.
Edging around it, Fin reached the wall. With his leg healed, he scaled it easily. Climbing up to the ledge, he found the hole he’d gnawed plugged with a rag. Fin tugged at the cloth with his teeth and dropped it into the darkness below.
From the open hole, cool night air blasted him, riffling his fur. Smells of the city, of his home, came rushing back to him. But the burst of joy was squelched by what lay ahead. And by what he was leaving behind.
Goodbye, he thought.
Wriggling through the hole, he was gone.
Part Three
THIRTY-NINE
“What can we do, we who have lost everything? We can find no peace.”
Petrarch, in a letter to a friend, 1350
Over the next few nights, Fin wandered, missing the little two-leg, missing Papa. Unable to see either one. The damp sidewalks only dimly registered on his paws. Whorls of fallen leaves tumbled past without Fin noticing.
When he would see a little two-leg coming toward him on the street, he’d force himself not to run to it. Hiding behind a water pipe or a dumpster or a garbage can, he would watch. Was it his? All of the two-legs now wore thick white cloths on their faces, but as the small one passed, he would see it wasn’t his little one.
One moonrise, strong odours cut into his thoughts. Startled, he sniffed the air. The familiar aroma of sausages, butter pastry, and fish prickled his nose. He’d wandered to the market! Fin turned and ran in the opposite direction before he was seen by an ARM squad.
All moonrise he travelled. Just as the sun broke over the buildings, Fin found himself in an open, cobblestoned square. Giant trees with trunks many tail-lengths wide towered overhead. Benches lined the area.
There was the scent of rotting food in a nearby garbage can, mingled with a sharp, sour smell he couldn’t identify. But the square was quiet; it seemed safe.
Fin edged into the clearing, his whiskers trembling on high alert, ears swivelling to catch any sound.
He scurried under a bench and hid behind its metal leg. Just then, noise exploded in his ears—rasping, furious barking. It came from over his head. What was it? Fin’s fur rose at the nape of his neck. Should he run? Would the barking thing grab him if he did? He trembled behind the bench leg.
Foul odour surrounded him. A dark shape loomed over, leaning down from the bench.
Phtt! A wad of slime shot past Fin’s hiding place. It made Fin jump.
The looming shadow paused, leaned closer. Huge bloodshot eyes glinted at Fin from under two hairy caterpillar eyebrows. White bristles covered a fleshy chin
and sprouted from flared nostrils. A two-leg. A really, really old two-leg.
The two of them stared at each other.
Its few teeth clung to its gums like kernels of corn, and from its withered mouth came a low, rumbling sound that Fin now understood to be laughter. It worked its lips around, like it was chewing on something. It sat up and fumbled in its pocket. Then it held out a lump of cheese to Fin. From its mouth came a clucking noise as it waved the cheese back and forth.
Fin didn’t move.
The old two-leg tossed it. The cheese landed in front of Fin. The smell of it made Fin’s nose twitch. Sharp, tart, delicious. With one eye on the two-leg and the other eye on the cheese, Fin inched toward his prize. Seizing it, he darted behind the bench leg and gobbled it down.
More deep rumblings from the two-leg. It tossed Fin a crumb of cookie. He gobbled that down too. The old one’s odour was foul and sour, but it was sharing its food, and it seemed kind.
More treats were tossed before Fin. But as he was eating a morsel of cracker, the old two-leg dropped a rag onto the pavement.
Fin froze.
The old, watery eyes watched him. Soft sounds rumbled from the withered mouth. Leaning down, the two-leg nudged the rag toward Fin with its fat sausage claws.
Fin crept from his hiding place. Without taking his eyes from the two-leg, he grabbed the edge of the rag in his teeth, then pedalled backwards, dragging it to safety. Bunching it into a ball, he burrowed inside. He could hear the two-leg rumbling.
Fin realized this was a good two-leg, just like his little one, but the thought troubled him even more. Two good ones? Were there more?
Fin would not think about it now. He would think about it later. Besides, what could he do? He was just one rat.
Wriggling into his rag nest, he tucked his nose under his paw and curled his tail around himself. As the ancient two-leg welcomed the dawn with its snores, Fin drifted to sleep.
Shouting awakened Fin. From his nest, he saw white covered legs stride by. Down the square there were more two-legs, also in white. Their heads, faces, and eyes were covered by clear screens they could look through. White, noisy machines encircled the area. On top of each machine, a light pulsed and flashed, around and around.
The old two-leg sat up as white legs approached. Gloved hands reached for it, but it fought against them, swatting at them and bellowing. Fin trembled in his rag. What was happening?
More white legs. More hands on the two-leg. It was hoisted up. String that was wrapped around its feet came loose on one foot. The shoe flapped open, exposing a foot that was grey and pale, like an oyster shucked from its shell.
Slowly, the white legs hauled the old one to a white machine with back doors that were open. As Fin watched, they loaded the old one into the back. The two-leg’s chin shook, as did its sausage hands. Its eyes were wet.
Fin buried his head in the rag. It was too much, to lose his new friend—the only friend he had left in the world. He couldn’t bear to watch. The old two-leg had shared its cheese, its bits of cookie and crackers. Don’t look away, Fin told himself, forcing himself to look back. You owe it that much.
Other two-legs in the square were also gathered up. A few struggled and swung their arms. Their bellows bounced off the building in the square, making Fin’s ears ring, but the white legs did not seem to hear. The two-legs were lifted up from the benches, over to the waiting white machines, and into their gaping mouths.
In a few minutes the square was empty. The white legs jumped in the noisy machines and slammed the doors shut. With lights still pulsing, the machines rumbled away.
When the next swarm of machines buzzed up, Fin knew he was in trouble. White legs poured out of those too, but these ones had shiny blue claws and two bulbs that stuck out from their faces. Their breath sucked in and out through the bulbs. No soothing sounds, only shouts.
First, they emptied garbage cans. As they moved, the white legs beat the bushes, grabbing food wrappers and empty pop cans. He’d seen two-legs take garbage away before, but this was different. This was swift and deliberate. And they were heading toward him.
“Glad I’m not you,” said a voice above him.
Fin jumped. A big grey seagull was perched on top of his bench.
It screeched over to a white leg, “Hey! Over here! There’s one over here!”
“Stop it!” said Fin. The bird cackled. Lucky for Fin, the white legs didn’t seem to understand the seagull, but they were scouring the bench next to him. They’d find him if he didn’t move, and Fin was starting to get an idea of what all of this was about.
If they caught him, he’d be dead.
“Over here, before it gets away!” the gull screamed.
The white legs moved to Fin’s bench. One of them pointed to his coiled rag. Masked eyes peered closer. Fin shrank back.
“Too late! Ha! You left it too late!” said the seagull. “Now you’re in for it!”
“Why don’t you shut up!” said Fin. He sprang from the rag and up the bench leg. As blue gloves came smashing down, he was already gone, launching into the air. There were muffled shouts. More white legs came stumping over, swarming after him. Zigzagging across the square, Fin raced through the forest of stomping boots.
The seagull flapped above, screeching, “Over here, idiots! No, not that way, fish-for-brains! Over here!”
Except for the white machines that surrounded the square, the street beyond was empty. Fin dashed across the street and into the alleyway on the other side. He slipped behind a pipe that stuck out from the wall. White legs stood on the other side of the road, staring down the alley. “It’s here!” screamed the gull, wheeling over Fin’s head. “Hey! What are you giving up for? It’s right here!” But the white legs had turned away. Landing beside Fin’s hiding place, the bird fixed its eye on him. “I guess I’ll have to do it myself, rat.”
“You…you…!” sputtered Fin. “What’d I ever do to you?”
“You’re all the same! Garbage on legs!” Flapping into the air, it dived close to Fin, snapping its orange beak. Snap! Snap! “Nest-robbers! Flea-gatherers! Filthy, disgusting—” Snap! Snap! Snap!
Fin crouched low under the pipe. “Leave me alone!” he said, his voice shaking. From where he hid, he could see its webbed feet approach.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” the gull sang. “Come on, rat. Gully wants to play. Ratty isn’t scared, is it?” The bird bent low, peering under the pipe with its head cocked to one side. Its beady black eye looked straight at Fin. Lifting its head, a second later the gull brought its beak down hard. Snap!
Fin leaped to one side. Grunting, the seagull pecked again. Fin dodged it easily. He realized that the bird couldn’t see him and peck at him at the same time.
The gull screamed in frustration. As the beak came down a third time, Fin bounded out from under the pipe, grabbed the seagull’s scaly leg, and dug in his claws.
“Yagh!” screamed the gull. It waggled its leg, but Fin held on. He was about to sink in his teeth when he saw a familiar face staring up at him from the ground. He lost his grip, slid off the leg, and tumbled onto the cobbled pavement.
The seagull pounced. Pinning Fin under its rubbery foot, it lunged at him with its beak.
Fin couldn’t move. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting to feel the beak slice through his head, but the beak snapped harmlessly above him.
“Yowch!” the gull screeched. “All right! All right! Just let go!”
Fin’s eyes popped open. “Huh?”
Blood streamed down the bird’s leg where a small brown rat had bitten it. The gull wept, “Let go, I’m begging you!”
The brown rat stepped back, the gull’s blood dampening her fur. “Leave!” she said.
The gull took off, flapping crookedly into the air, shrieking, “I hate rats!”
Chuckling, the brown rat watched
it go, then turned.
“Hello, Fin,” said Zumi.
FORTY
“The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of millions is a statistic.”
Josef Stalin
When Ananda discovered Tommy’s empty cage, she cried, but she was also relieved. Now it didn’t matter what George did or didn’t do. Tommy was beyond her reach. Ananda knew that he’d made it outside, because the rag in the hole was out. Smart enough to have avoided her dad’s horrible trap, now Tom Little was in even more danger. The world was at war with rats.
When George’s mom knocked on the door with George by her side, and Ananda’s parents were led down to the nook under the stairs, there were only boxes. Ananda had shrugged and said nothing when George had told them all about a rat Ananda had named “Tommy something.”
George was led back out, her mother looking worried for her daughter. Ananda felt bad for lying. George had left her no choice, she told herself.
The months left in the school year passed slowly, now that Tommy was gone. Home felt like a prison.
The end of the school year came and went. Summer made the boredom of the spring look like a holiday. The hot weather made the number of plague deaths soar. September arrived with no resumption of school. The last school year would need to be repeated, and possibly this year’s, too. That is, if there was any need for school once the plague had played itself out.
Every day the news had updates on the plague. Plague Watch, they called it. The rising death toll flashed in red at the bottom right of the TV screen. The worldwide death toll was now around 84,000 with over 2,000 in the city alone. It was getting worse, and people were terrified.
News channels gave dire warnings about the hazards of leaving out trash: “Residents are urged to clean all garbage, litter, and garden waste from their properties in an effort to reduce habitable areas for rats. Again, authorities urge everyone to keep children and pets away from baited traps. Only yesterday, a toddler in a suburb of Toronto found a bait box and…”
The Great & the Small Page 14
