The big, brave bucks coughed and choked and grabbed their throats.
Was this the end for Zeno’s Thumpers?
ST-BT kept to the shadows. Oh, how light those paws were! He waltzed up pavements, tap-danced along bridges, leaped over roads, and foxtrotted across parks until he finally reached the high walls surrounding Buckingham Palace. As Shylo slid off his back, ST-BT wasn’t even panting. He looked as if he’d taken a short stroll around the park. Shylo, on the other hand, was exhausted. It had taken all his strength not to fall off. His arms ached and his legs burned, and he was gasping for air.
“Follow me,” said the fox, disappearing behind a garbage can. Shylo hesitated a moment, but then the loud siren of a police car made him jump into action. He followed the fox and found that behind the garbage can was a small chute in the wall. He dived through it, coming up on the other side in the garden of Buckingham Palace. ST-BT shook himself and was totally swish again.
It was dark now, but for the golden lights of the city, which made the sky above them glow orange. Shylo followed ST-BT around a lake and over the lawn to the back of the palace. The fox stopped beneath a sturdy plane tree.
“But how are we going to get inside?” Shylo asked.
“We are not doing anything—you are,” said ST-BT in his commanding voice. This reminded Shylo of the time Horatio had told him that he was going to have to find his way to London and to The Grand Burrow, all on his own, and his heart suddenly ached for his old friend.
“I’ll create a diversion, and when someone comes to see what’s going on, you will hop inside,” ST-BT continued. “Do you understand?” Shylo nodded. “Good. Nelson will never forgive me if I fail to get you any farther than the palace lawn. Now go.”
Shylo darted over the dewy grass and up the stone steps to the French doors. He ducked low and waited. ST-BT opened his mouth wide and began to make the most extraordinary noise. Have you ever heard a fox bark? It sounds something like a baby crying, a cat screeching, and a dog coughing, all in one. Shylo was familiar with foxes, having grown up in the woods, but even he had never heard any of them making a noise like ST-BT.
Suddenly, the door opened and a pair of shiny black shoes stepped out. Shylo didn’t wait to see to whom they belonged. He hopped inside and darted for cover beneath a table.
“A fox!” gasped the footman. He gaped in astonishment at the animal that was standing on the grass, staring back at him with a steady, fearless gaze. “How impertinent!” the footman muttered. Then the fox began to walk toward him with a menacing expression on his face, waving his bushy tail most arrogantly, and the footman hurried inside and closed the door. “Better make a call to Pest Control,” he said.
ST-BT smiled with satisfaction. Humans really were very feeble creatures. Even Prime Ministers. Without him, they could never run the country.
ST-BT glanced at the enormous gold watch on his wrist. It was just after eight o’clock.
Just enough time for a Butterscotch on the Rocks at the Fox Club before he had to escort the Prime Minister safely home from the banquet.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WHILE THE REST OF THE Ratzis were busy in the park fighting Thumpers, Mavis and Flintskin made their way into Buckingham Palace via a small square window in the roof that had been left ajar.
Once inside the palace, they slithered along a corridor, down a narrow flight of stairs, and on into the heart of the Royal Family’s home. Slithering came naturally to Ratzis.
It wasn’t hard to find the State Dining Room because of the din—humans make a lot of noise when they’re talking. And tonight there were more than one hundred of them all chatting at once as they looked for their places at the long tables arranged in a U shape, and waited for the King and Queen and the president and First Lady to enter.
But it was not as easy to break into the room as Mavis and Flintskin had hoped. Messalina and her fearsome pack were still guarding the big double doors.
The two rats watched as the dogs stared at an upside–down garbage can that was slowly moving across the crimson carpet as if by magic.
“What’s that?” hissed Flintskin to Mavis as they hid behind a giant pedestal upon which was placed a marble bust of Queen Victoria.
“It’s a garbage can, you idiot!” Slippery Mavis replied.
“But why’s it moving?”
“Because something inside it is making it move.”
“Is it one of us? If another Ratzi has sneaked in ahead of us, I’m going to be very angry,” he grumbled.
“Oh, shut up,” Mavis snapped. “It’s not a Ratzi. It’s a rabbit. Look, you can see the paws.”
Indeed, the garbage can lifted off the ground for a moment, and a pair of rabbit’s paws was revealed.
“How are we going to get into the State Dining Room?” asked Flintskin, scratching an itch on his bottom. “You think you’re so clever, Mavis, but look! We’re stuck! We’ll never get to film the president now.”
Mavis’s narrow eyes darted up and down the corridor and finally settled on a door at the end that kept opening and closing as women in long dresses and jewelry went in and out. LADIES’ ROOM it read.
“Follow me,” she hissed. “And be quick!”
Inside the Ladies’ Room, an elderly woman, the dour Duchess of Goldborough, who had a neck like a vulture and eyes like buttons, was sitting at a dressing table, applying lipstick very badly in front of a mirror (somehow she had just managed to poke the lipstick into her nostril by mistake, which was not a good look), while a much younger woman, an American film star wearing a multicolored minidress, was taking a selfie. The Duchess’s handbag, which resembled a leather box and was practically big enough to feed a horse out of, was lying open beside her as she tried to get the lipstick out of her nose.
Now that they were inside, Mavis didn’t bother to explain her plan to Flintskin. After all, she thought, how much better would it be if I was the only rat to make it into the State Dining Room? With a triumphant grin, she scampered up the curtain behind the dressing table and slipped unnoticed into the Duchess’s handbag. It was filthy. There was even an old tuna sandwich at the bottom. Mavis felt right at home and took a bite.
Flintskin was furious. He floundered in the shadows, not knowing what to do. He scowled, and his slick fur bristled crossly as the Duchess gave up trying to get the lipstick out of her nostril with the words: “If I do it, everyone will want to do it.” And she picked up her handbag (with Mavis peeking jubilantly out of it) and left the room.
The American film star was busy posting her selfie on the Internet, but she had her large (and very sparkly) crown-shaped handbag tucked tightly under her arm.
Just when Flintskin was about to abandon all hope, he noticed a pair of black court shoes visible beneath the lavatory door. Between the shoes was a green flowery handbag. Flintskin’s scowl turned into a smirk. I’ll show Mavis! he thought as he scuttled beneath the door and slithered into the handbag. There wasn’t much room among the phone, keys, and powder compact, and Flintskin was so squished that he was unable to pull in his tail; it hung limply out of the bag in a streak of pink. The lavatory flushed and the woman (who was, in fact, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Araminta Fortescue) pulled up her knickers, straightened her dress, and grabbed her handbag without noticing Flintskin’s tail. Nor, as she made her way to the State Dining Room, did she notice that the handbag had mysteriously grown heavier. She was much too busy making sure that all the guests had found their chairs.
“Did you see that?” Hunter whispered urgently to Clooney, who was watching Laser inside the garbage can cautiously edging her way across the carpet. “There was a rat’s tail hanging out of that woman’s bag!”
Clooney turned to him in panic. “A rat’s tail! Are you sure? Perhaps it’s a new fashion accessory!”
“Rats’ tails will never be in fashion,” snarled Hunter. “We have to hurry. If any Ratzis make it into the State Dining Room and the president sees them . . .” But it was much too awfu
l to speak about and he stopped. “We cannot allow that to happen.”
Messalina was now pricking her ears at the strange garbage can. She stood up and wagged her tail. She could smell rabbit. In fact, she could smell rat, too. Perhaps there was a rat in there as well as a rabbit. She licked her chops and went over for a sniff. The Pack trotted after her, their lips curled and growling. Inside the can, Laser tried to summon up all the strength she had. She had a job to do, and she wasn’t about to let the Royal Rabbits down.
Just as Clooney had planned, with Messalina and the Pack distracted, he and Hunter darted across the corridor, sprinting behind the dogs as they sniffed their way toward the can, and scurried through the double doors.
Spotting baskets of bread rolls on a sideboard, the two rabbits jumped onto a chair and from the chair onto the table, and dived into the baskets to hide. Gradually, they advanced up the sideboard, leaping from bread basket to bread basket. The Indonesian ambassador told the Duke of Cumbria that he thought he’d seen a rabbit jump out of the bread.
“Unlikely,” said the Duke, wondering if the ambassador wasn’t perhaps a little overexcited.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SHYLO HURRIED THROUGH THE PALACE toward the smell of human beings. His sharp nose picked up the scent easily, and he scampered over the crimson carpets, following the smell as it got stronger and stronger. He could also detect dogs, but was in too much of a rush to worry about them. He had to get to the State Dining Room and warn the Royal Rabbits of the Ratzis’ plan.
In the State Dining Room, the Master of Ceremonies brought down his gavel and shouted, “All stand for Their Majesties the King and Queen and the president and First Lady of the United States of America!”
The guests stood and turned to face a pair of mirrored double doors situated at the opposite end of the room to the corgis and the sideboard where Clooney and Hunter were currently hiding among the bread rolls. (Clooney was watching the action from the reflection in his hand mirror, which he had poked out of the basket.) An air of excited anticipation filled the room.
Behind those doors, coming down a long red corridor and moving very slowly (at a stately pace), the King and Queen led the president and the First Lady toward the State Dining Room.
Beneath the Weeping Willow, Zeno looked across at Lola, who was waiting with her Secret Service Jacks in the bushes for him to give her the signal. Zeno, outnumbered by the vast seepage of farting rats, now gave it with a nod.
Lola saluted to Zeno and turned to her Jacks and said: “Adelante, conejos!” which means “Advance, Rabbits!” in Spanish.
There was only one thing for it: acorn guns. As the green mist acted like a poisonous gas and the Thumpers staggered dizzily, a wall of dark suits and big sunglasses moved through it in a long line, then stopped. The Ratzis put down their tails and stared at the unfamiliar Jack Rabbits. Then they saw the guns. They knew very well what they were.
The big Jacks aimed.
“Fire!” Lola commanded.
In the Ladies’ Room at Buckingham Palace, the American film star heard the distant sound of the Master of Ceremonies’ voice. She realized to her horror that she was going to be late for the dinner. (It is very rude to arrive after the Royal Family.) In a panic, she tottered hurriedly into the corridor, unsteady on her dangerously high stilettos. As she stumbled toward the State Dining Room, she thrust her phone into her crown-shaped handbag, leaving it open in her haste, just as Shylo came bounding around the corner.
Shylo heard the crack of the gavel and the voices quieten in the State Dining Room.
He only had seconds to spare. . . .
The corgis sat around an upturned garbage can in front of the big doors, ready to pounce. How on earth could he get past them?
Then the open bag swinging in the hands of the actress caught his eye. This was his chance.
Shylo, who by now was very tired of running, mustered one final burst of energy and landed softly in the bag, ears peeking out of the crown.
As the little rabbit rode the bag into the State Dining Room, the film star tottered right past the Duchess of Goldborough and Lady Araminta Fortescue.
Mavis poked her head out of the Duchess’s handbag and stared at Shylo in amazement.
Flintskin, who was peeping out of Lady Araminta’s, gasped in disbelief.
Shylo grinned and saluted.
Both Ratzis were so shocked and furious that their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
Shylo would have been triumphant had he not felt so sick. The swinging bag was beginning to make him nauseated. What was he to do now?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE IMPORTANT GUESTS TOOK THEIR places at the head of the table. The president was placed on the right of the Queen; the First Lady next to the King. The gavel hammered again.
Silence.
“Your Majesties, Mr. and Mrs. President, Your Royal Highnesses, Lords, Ladies, and honored guests, dinner is served!” the Master of Ceremonies cried.
Flintskin popped his head out of the handbag and slunk onto the table. Mavis slipped to the floor and positioned herself with her smartphone to film the moment the president saw him.
Every eye in the room was on the Royals at the head of the table. Except for the president’s.
His were on Flintskin.
He froze. Then his skin paled. His eyes bulged, and he began to tremble all over, which was definitely not befitting an ex-member of the Marine Corps. He was about to let out an almighty scream that was definitely not befitting a commander in chief.
Shylo spotted Flintskin crawling along the table and knew he had to do something and fast. He swung back and forth, back and forth, making the bag move like a trapeze artist in a circus. (Luckily, the film star was so busy staring at the King and Queen that she didn’t notice the little bunny in her handbag.) Then, on the third swing, just as the bag reached its highest point, Shylo strained every muscle in his hind legs and sprang out. He didn’t think he could do it—he’d never had to jump so high. But one can always do more than one thinks.
With a giant leap, which would have astonished his brothers and sisters back home, Shylo crashed straight into a butler carrying a tray of oysters. The oysters were propelled into the air and rained down upon the guests, sending Flintskin dashing for cover underneath the table.
One particularly heavy shell hit the Duchess of Goldborough right on her lipsticked nostril. As she lifted her hand to retrieve the flying mollusk, she knocked over her wineglass, which toppled onto the spoon in the sauce boat, which, in turn, spun into flight, twisting like a silvery boomerang. A butler reached to catch it, but missed and, instead, knocked into a footman carrying an enormous lobster on a tray. Just as the president opened his mouth to scream, the lobster was catapulted across the room.
Making the most of the diversion, Clooney leaped out and flung himself onto Mavis, sending her smartphone tumbling across the floor, while Hunter aimed his gun from the bread basket and fired an acorn at Flintskin. The acorn missed by an inch and the two rats pounced on Clooney with a squeal.
Shylo landed on the carpet with a soft poof, but no one was watching him. Instead, all eyes were on the lobster, which was flying through the air in the direction of the Queen.
The president had seen it too and narrowed his eyes as it soared closer to Her Majesty.
Luckily, the president was a brilliant sportsman: capable with a racquet, deft with a ball, and a superb golfer. He was also a very chivalrous man. Immediately, he forgot all about the rat, shut his mouth, and diverted his attention to the lobster. Reaching out quickly with his hand, he caught it, just before it hit Her Majesty right on the nose.
There was a long silence.
Everyone held their breath.
The president stared at the lobster in surprise. Then he looked at the place where the rat had been and saw that it had disappeared.
The Queen turned to him and said: “Very well caught, Mr. President.” Then she sat down and put her napkin on her lap as
if nothing had happened.
The room erupted into applause. A footman quickly took the lobster from the president, who then sat down, a little shakily, because he really thought he had seen a rat and also because he realized he had very nearly screamed in terror in front of the Queen, a room full of important people, and on live television. His wife patted him gently on the hand.
With dinner service now resumed as normal, a footman lifted a bread basket from the sideboard and offered it to the Duchess of Goldborough. Her pudgy, bejeweled fingers settled on a very soft, warm roll. “Goodness, the bread must be straight out of the oven,” she said, impressed. Just as she was about to take it, the roll twitched, and she withdrew her fingers with a gasp. “I think I’ll take this one,” she said, picking a cold roll from the top instead.
Messalina and the Pack of corgis were distracted by the excited noise in the State Dining Room, and when they looked back, Laser had escaped. However, the dogs were now much more interested in the goings-on in the hall. They trotted in just as the clapping was dying down.
There, under the table, were two big, pudgy rats fighting a rabbit in a tuxedo.
The corgis wasted no time in racing toward them, tails wagging, teeth bared, snarling and growling.
Clooney saw the dogs before the Ratzis did and leaped beneath a chair. Hunter seized his chance as the footman was distracted by the dogs, and dived out of the bread basket. The two rabbits shot from the room as fast as their legs could carry them as the corgis chased the rats beneath the table.
This time the dogs did not catch the rats; after all, Mavis and Flintskin were Papa’s crack Ratzis. They managed to dart from under the table and shimmy up the backs of the curtains at the end of the State Dining Room. Spotting an open window, they dived through it, soaring into the air and landing on the roof of a catering van that was slowly beginning to make its way out of the palace grounds. By the time they realized where they were, the van was heading down the Mall.
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