The Wild Ones

by C. Alexander London

  Basil snored quietly coiled in a corner, but he smirked to show he heard them talking about him.

  “You forgot pigeon,” Blue Neck Ned added. “You’d have to fight me off too.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem,” said Rik, locking eyes with the bird.

  “Why you no-good, down-and-out, garbage-scrounging liar.” The pigeon ruffled his feathers. “I don’t need to wait for Kit. That boy ain’t coming back! Now I’m going to show you what happens when you mess with this pigeon.”

  The bird leaped from the gearshift onto the top of the cage and started pecking down through the bars at Rik’s ears.

  “Ow, stop that,” Rik shouted. “Get off of me!” He punched up with his claws, but Ned danced from side to side as he pecked, shaking the cage and knocking Rik off his feet.

  “Cut it out up there, youse!” The boss popped his head out of his shell. “A turtle can’t hardly think with all that noise.”

  “He’s giving me guff,” Blue Neck Ned said. “He’s gotta learn to respect a bird like me.”

  “Respect is earned,” the old turtle said. “And a bird like you hasn’t earned it from anyone.”

  Ned’s wings flexed, but he didn’t reply. A pigeon who talked back to the boss turtle could get his wings clipped faster than a mosquito fries on a bug zapper.

  “We will wait until the boy returns or the sun comes up and the bet is lost,” the turtle said. “Until then, Rik and his young rat friend are our guests. And we do not peck at our guests.”

  “You think the boy will come back to give up the Bone, Bossss?” Basil asked.

  The turtle shrugged. “No, I don’t think he’ll come back to give up the Bone.” He looked at Rik and smiled. “I don’t think he’ll come back at all. Even if he finds it, there’s Gayle, who wouldn’t let a tasty morsel like him out of her sewer alive.”

  Just then, the van door slid open with a startling crash.

  “You’re wrong, Turtle!” Kit declared. The sky had just begun to swell with morning light, and his fur was tinted red against the glow. The dogs circled, sniffing the wet fur and sewage smell that clung to him. “She’s a very reasonable reptile.” He held up the Bone. “And I win.”

  “How . . . how did you get away from her?” Shane stammered.

  “We made a deal,” said Kit.

  “What kind of a deal?” The turtle narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  “That’s between me and Gayle,” said Kit. “Now let my friends go.”

  The turtle nodded. “Well played, Kit, well played indeed!” The turtle gestured to Shane and Flynn. “Let ’em out.”

  “But, Boss!” Shane and Flynn objected together.

  “A deal’s a deal,” said the Turtle. “We Rascals pay what’s owed.”

  Kit glowered at Shane and Flynn as they let Eeni, Martyn, and Uncle Rik out of their cages. “I want my hat back too.”

  Flynn grumbled, but pulled it out of the glove compartment and tossed it to Kit.

  Uncle Rik touched his paw to the image of Azban’s paw inscribed on the Bone that Kit held. “You really found it,” he said. His eyes filled with wonder. “Your parents would be so proud.”

  Kit smiled.

  “We can show this to the Flealess,” said Martyn. “We can show them we have the right to live here for good.”

  “Well, it’s not up to us,” said Kit. “A deal’s a deal.”

  He tossed the Bone into the sand in front of the turtle.

  “You can’t give him that!” Martyn protested.

  “I may not be able to make everyone else around here keep their promises, but I can sure as seasons keep mine,” said Kit. He looked back to his uncle. “Still think Mom and Dad would be proud of me?”

  “I know they would,” said Uncle Rik. “You’re a raccoon of your word, brave and quick of paw. What more could they hope for?”

  “A raccoon who doesn’t give priceless artifacts away to gangsters?” Kit suggested.

  “Hey,” said the turtle. “We live here too, you know. What good’s running a neighborhood if the Flealess think they can kick us out? This Bone says we get to stay, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  Kit’s uncle hugged him. “See?” he said. “You did well. Now I think we ought to go back to my apartment and get some well-deserved rest. Eeni, I’m sure your own family is wondering where you’ve gotten off to.”

  “Uh, right, sure . . . ,” said Eeni.

  “You do have somewhere to go, don’t you, Eeni?” Kit asked.

  “Of course I do!” Eeni snapped back at him. “I spend most nights with some squirrels in the old theater.”

  “The dancing squirrels?” Uncle Rik shook his head. “That’s no place for a young rat like yourself.”

  Eeni shrugged. “I do just fine,” she said.

  “By my stripes you do!” Uncle Rik said. “You’ll stay with us tonight. I’ve a comfy couch you can sleep on and a newspaper quilt that’s cozy as can be.”

  Kit noticed Eeni looked bashful, like she might turn down the offer out of pride. Since he’d arrived in the alley, he’d heard all kinds of creatures lie for all kinds of bad reasons, so he decided he could tell a lie for a good reason.

  “Oh, please stay with us,” he said. “You’re my only friend in this city, and I’ll be so lonely without you.”

  After he said it, he realized it wasn’t quite a lie after all.

  “Okay,” Eeni agreed. “I’ll come along . . . for your sake.”

  She looked relieved.

  Just then, Basil cleared his throat. “Exssscusssse me, Bossss,” the snake said. “I have ssssome bad newssss.”

  “What is it, Basil?” the turtle grunted.

  “I’ve taken a new job, sssseee?” Basil smiled. “My new employer offered me a very comfortable exsssissstenccce in the houssssessss.”

  “In the houses?” The turtle narrowed his eyes at his enforcer. “You mean the Flealess?”

  “I do,” said Basil. “And my firsssst job for them issss thissss.”

  Without another word, Basil struck at the sand in front of the pool.

  The turtle’s head retreated into his shell. Blue Neck Ned screeched and took off in a panicked flight, slamming right into the windshield and knocking himself out. Shane and Flynn screamed and tried to shove themselves into the glove compartment as Basil swallowed the Bone of Contention whole and spun around to face Kit.

  The bone-shaped outline in his neck slid slowly down his gullet. He couldn’t speak, but he gave Kit a wink and a nod of thanks, then rushed from the van, zigging and zagging into the alley.

  “Hey!” shouted Martyn, waving his fist. “You can’t steal that!”

  The brave little mouse chased after the snake, while Eeni, Kit, and Rik stood dumbfounded. The Rabid Rascals had just been cheated, and now the Bone was lost and, with it, any claim the Wild Ones had to call Ankle Snap Alley their home.

  Part IV

  THE BATTLE FOR ANKLE SNAP ALLEY

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE DOG’S DAY

  SIXCLAW licked his orange paw as he waited for the tiny dog to prance across the sidewalk to him. The People had all left their homes for the day. The neighborhood belonged to the Flealess now.

  The sun glinted off the bell around the orange cat’s neck, which dinged every time he smoothed the fur behind his ears. He had trained the whole neighborhood to quake at the sound of his bell. He often didn’t need to do anything more than make it chime to get a creature to confess their deepest secrets to him.

  Of course, he liked it more when they resisted. Then he got to use his claws.

  “So you got the snake to turn on his own kind?” Sixclaw asked Titus.

  “I got the snake to remember where he came from,” Titus said. “He began as a well-fed house pet, and I promised him he could return to being o
ne. In exchange for the Bone.”

  “Reptiles,” Sixclaw grunted. “Can’t trust ’em.”

  “He did what you could not,” said the dog. “He retrieved the Bone.”

  “Funny, I thought only dogs played fetch.”

  “Don’t you dare insult me, you bird-breathed doorknob scratcher!” Titus barked.

  He loathed these cats and their pride. They ate the People’s food, drank their water, and accepted their care, but still, they thought they were somehow better than the other Flealess, just because they lived outside. As far as Titus was concerned, Sixclaw was little better than the wild vermin he so hated. He was no house cat. For all Titus knew, Sixclaw actually did have fleas.

  “You know, Basil brought me a present too,” Sixclaw said. He produced a small sack he’d tucked into his collar and untied the drawstring. He dropped the pouch on the ground with a thump, and a small mouse rolled out, his white robes dirty and torn. The little rodent squinted up at the sudden sunlight. “Hello, Martyn,” Sixclaw said.

  Martyn looked up at the looming faces of the cat and the dog. “You shampoo-stinking monsters,” he yelled. “The Bone of Contention does give us the right to stay, and you know it! It’s proof that your ancestor did make a deal with Azban. You can’t hide from the truth.”

  Titus circled the mouse on the ground. “I have had enough of ancient history, you sanctimonious cheese eater! Who cares what deal was made so long ago? We’re not historians, we’re animals. Our way is tooth and claw; our law is power. We don’t bark and bargain for our turf. We take it! Now that I’ve got your precious proof, I’m going to bury it so deep, not even your ghost will be able to find it.”

  “So you’re going to pretend like it never existed?” Martyn asked.

  “He who controls history, controls the future,” said Titus. “Without it, the vermin have no claim to call this alley home.”

  “You are the dirtiest, stinkingest, lyingest, bedbug-brained canine I have ever—”

  Before Martyn could finish, Sixclaw swooped him back up in the sack and cinched it shut. The mouse’s voice shouted on, muffled to nonsense by the fabric.

  “A useful little prize,” Titus told the cat.

  “I was going to eat him,” said Sixclaw.

  “First, I want you to send an eviction notice to the vermin. Tell them they are to leave their homes and shops immediately or be destroyed. The alley is ours, and anyone left in it when the sun reaches its peak is pet food.”

  “The sun’s already up,” the cat observed. “The vermin will be sleeping.”

  “So?” The dog shook his head. “Wake them. I’m sure Martyn’s friends can be of help in that.”

  The cat smiled. “So it’s war then?”

  “War?” The dog sat back and scratched his ear. “No. Not war. This, I think, will be a massacre. You’ll bring the outdoor cats?”

  “Of course,” said Sixclaw. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When this is done, I get to eat Kit’s head,” the cat said.

  “You and your heads.” The dog scratched behind his ear. “Fine. You may eat his head.”

  Sixclaw licked his lips.

  Titus thought the feline assassin could use a visit to the veterinarian to treat his obsession with eating heads, but the dog had bigger things to worry about than one crazy killer cat. His parents always told him that some dogs were bred to greatness, some were given greatness by their People, and some, like him, had to grab greatness by the scruff of its neck and tear it to pieces for themselves.

  He could taste the greatness on the tip of his tongue.

  Or maybe that was toilet water.

  Either way, it was going to be a delicious day.

  It was time to lead the Flealess to battle.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  PAMPHLETEERS

  KIT and Eeni helped Uncle Rik hang a new front door, shared a snail-and-Snickers sandwich from Ansel’s bakery, and lay down, dejected, to get some rest.

  Kit curled into a ball on Uncle Rik’s sofa, and Eeni curled into a ball on his tail. Uncle Rik laid the newspaper quilt over them both.

  “So . . . what now?” Kit asked. “They took the Bone.”

  His uncle sighed. “I don’t know, Kit. I just don’t know.”

  “Do you think they’ll kick us out of the alley?”

  Uncle Rik nodded. “I do. But I don’t want you to worry about it. You’ve done enough worrying for a raccoon your age. When the time comes, we’ll find a new home somewhere, I promise. Now get some sleep.”

  Just before closing the shade to block out the sun, Uncle Rik cleared his throat, getting both the young animals’ attention one more time.

  “I have to ask, Kit,” Uncle Rik said. “What kind of a deal did you make with the alligator to escape her sewer?”

  “You really want to know?” Kit asked. Uncle Rik nodded. “I promised her a better snack than me . . . I promised her the six-clawed cat who killed my parents.”

  Uncle Rik gasped. “I am not comfortable with this bargain.”

  “I had to offer her something, or I never would have made it back to rescue you,” Kit explained.

  “But this promise to her . . .” Uncle Rik shook his head. “It’s too terrible to think about. You aren’t a killer.”

  “I’m not going to kill anybody,” Kit protested.

  “You may not be the jaws snapping shut on that cat,” said Uncle Rik. “But if you put the cat on the menu, then you are responsible for it.”

  Kit looked down at his paws. He blushed. “Well, it’s not like I can just hand over the cat to Gayle anyway. I don’t have a dinner bell to ring for a sewer alligator.”

  “It’s a good thing you don’t,” said Uncle Rik. “There is no shame in feeling angry at what Sixclaw did to your family, but Wild Ones do not seek revenge. It is not our way. The Flealess and their so-called civilization hold grudges and seek vengeance, but in the wild, we forgive and we forget. It is the only way to survive.”

  “You want me to forget my parents?” Kit growled.

  “No,” said Uncle Rik. “I want their memory to be a source of joy, not anger. Celebrate the time you had with them, not the way they were stolen from you. Choosing what our memories make us is the privilege we have as intelligent animals. If you want to spend your life remembering everyone who wrongs you, you can, but wouldn’t you rather be a source of goodness in the world?”

  Kit studied his paw and thought. He looked at Eeni. “It’s kinda like what you say down here, isn’t it? We’re born with a howl and go out with a snap, but it’s what we do in between that matters.”

  “Howl to snap,” Eeni agreed.

  “Howl to snap,” said Kit.

  “Howl to snap,” said Uncle Rik.

  Kit smiled and closed his eyes. He could feel Eeni’s breath rising and falling where she rested on his tail. He was amazed at how quickly she fell asleep. He figured when you lived on the mean streets of Ankle Snap Alley, you learned to steal whatever sleep you could get as fast as you could get it.

  Before he knew it, he was asleep too. He dreamed he saw his mother and father sitting around a table, playing the shell-and-nut game with Azban, who was sweeping his winnings off the table into the mouth of an alligator.

  “But I picked the right shell,” his mother cried out. “I win.”

  “No such thing as winning in shells-and-nuts,” said Azban with a wink. “I should know. I invented the game.”

  “But I found the nut. You can’t just change the rules of a game as you go along.” His father stood from the table.

  Azban turned to look at Kit, who was suddenly standing in front of the table, dressed like a warrior in armor. The old raccoon spoke not in one voice, but in a hundred voices, like the Rat King had. “Who says we are playing a game?”

 
BANG! BANG! BANG!

  A loud knocking at the door dissolved the dream and snapped Kit awake. Eeni was already standing, pulling on her vest. Uncle Rik came scurrying down the hall.

  “Who is it?” he shouted. “Who’s knocking on my door in the middle of the day? Don’t they know we’re trying to sleep?”

  On flinging the door open, Uncle Rik saw a crowd of church mice trembling in their white robes. The one in front had a black eye and a bruise on his head. The other church mice didn’t look much better off.

  “They . . . they . . . they just . . . ,” the mouse said.

  “Say it, mouse!” Uncle Rik bellowed. “Why are you knocking at my door at this unmousely hour? What’s happened?”

  The mouse thrust out his paw, holding a crudely printed pamphlet, which Uncle Rik took from him. “That cat . . . ,” the harried mouse said through trembling snout. “He burst into our print shop just as we were getting ready for bed. He took us by surprise . . . He threatened to eat Martyn if we didn’t print this out and give it to everyone in the alley.”

  Uncle Rik looked up and down the alley and saw all the groggy creatures roused from slumber, terrified mice at their doors handing them pamphlets. Enrique Gallo, the rooster, stood in the doorway to his barbershop with a sleeping mask hanging from his beak. His feathers ruffled as he read the pamphlet in his talon.

  Ansel and Otis stood in the doorway to their home beside the bakery, wearing matching pajamas and matching frowns, reading what the mice had given them.

  Even the news finches were silent as they read, and the Rabid Rascals had gone to wake the turtle with a pamphlet.

  “We had no choice . . . ,” the mouse muttered. “The Flealess have Martyn. We had to do as they said. I’m sorry, Kit. We had to . . .”

  Uncle Rik looked at the pamphlet in his paws. Eeni and Kit had come up behind him to read over his shoulder.

  SWORN TESTIMONY OF MARTYN,

  CHIEF SCRIBE OF CHURCH MICE

  Made on this morning of the 707th Season

  As Chief Scribe and Keeper of History, I, Martyn, Parish Scribe, swear before these witnesses that there is no such object as THE BONE OF CONTENTION, nor has there ever been a DEAL giving rights and privileges to the VERMIN of Ankle Snap Alley. All claims by one juvenile Raccoon calling himself “Kit” are false. We are SADDENED that one so young could be so CORRUPT, and we URGE all creatures of the alley to DISFAVOR, DISREGARD, AND DISOWN said raccoon and his family now and for all time.