I shake my head. “no. i am the only one who made it this far. the others were all captured and taken back to the lab where, i’m sure, they are now kept in steel cages, the kind with bars you can’t nibble through. they are prisoners. i am the only one who is free.”
Gabriel and Gwindell drop their heads and say a silent prayer for my lost family.
Mikayla sings a haunting dirge. The sort of sad song you might hear at a funeral. She repeats the same refrain:
Dear Mouse God,
may our brothers and sisters find freedom,
may they find peace,
may they one day be released.
As Mikayla sings, I realize something. My brothers and sisters aren’t able to “find” freedom. They can’t “find” peace. And they’ll never be released by anyone who works for Lamina Research Lab.
No, if I want Mikayla’s beautiful words to come true, there’s only one way to make it happen.
And just like that, it hits me.
I know what I have to do.
I know how to rescue my family!
CHAPTER 46
“The best-laid plans of mice and men might actually work.”
—Isaiah
E arly the next morning, just before sunrise, I join Hailey up in her room.
From the window, I have an excellent view of the Brophys’ house and, more important, their driveway.
Hailey stayed up all night doing research on her computer.
“I had to do some digging, but I found an article about the local Lamina Lab, a leader in genetic engineering, being investigated by Humans for Animals.”
I hop onto the keyboard.
“are there really people like that? humans who care how mice are treated?” I ask.
“Sure. Lots of us. Anyway, HFA did an undercover investigation at this one Lamina Lab. But when they alerted the local authorities and the cops raided the place, ‘there were no mice or other animals present in the lab’ according to this article.”
“picnic day.”
“Huh?”
“one day, last spring, the long coats put us all in portable cages and took us for a ride to a quiet place in the forest where the trees were very tall and smelled like floor cleaner. they put our cages on long wooden tables, tossed cheese into our crates, and called it a ‘picnic.’ when one of the long coats received a telephone call advising him that ‘the coast was clear,’ we were hauled back to the lab.”
“This raid I read about took place back in the spring. Early May.”
I nod and type, “picnic day.”
“But even if the police had found you guys, mice and rats aren’t protected under the federal Animal Welfare Act like dogs, cats, and rabbits are.”
“why not? if you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?”
“That’s from Shakespeare, right?”
“indeed. mr. shakespeare was one human who definitely understood how it feels to be a mouse.”
At precisely 7:05 a.m., I spy Mr. Brophy waddling out of his house and heading to his pickup truck. He’s carrying a very large paper sack. I’m guessing it’s his lunch bag.
“what day is this?” I ask Hailey.
“Monday. I have school…”
“and mr. brophy, the mop man, has work. i think we can safely assume that he goes to the lamina labs every morning at approximately the same time.”
“Yeah. I usually hear his truck pulling out at around seven. Right before my mom comes into my room to wake me up.”
There’s a rap of knuckles on the door.
I run for cover. But the door is already creaking open.
So I strike a pose on Hailey’s bookshelf, next to her collection of odd plastic dolls.
Her mother steps into the room.
“Hailey? Time to… oh. You’re already up?”
“Yeah.”
“Excited about school?”
“You bet.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I’ll go fix you your breakfast. I think we still have some crumb cake.”
“Um, if it’s okay, I’m more in the mood for oatmeal,” she says, because we devoured the last crumb of the crumb cake last night.
“Oatmeal it is.”
Her mom leaves the room. I dash back to the keyboard.
“tonight, when mr. brophy returns home, we need to determine how much cargo room there is in the covered bed of his pickup truck.”
“Why?” says Hailey.
“it is time for another napoleonic invasion. this time, we’re taking our mouse army to the horrible place. the lab.”
CHAPTER 47
“Beware of big wooden horses.”
—Isaiah
Monday night, after the food run, Gabriel and I go on a scouting mission.
We scurry along the edge of the driveway, then scale the muddy tires and dented sides of Mr. Brophy’s truck. We peer through the windows of the structure covering the rear end of the vehicle.
“Wowzers,” says Gabriel. “You could easily fit a thousand, maybe two thousand mice in this little rolling room.”
“Such is my plan,” I say. “We put together a massive mouse army and hide in the back of Mr. Brophy’s pickup. We go with him to the lab, and when we’re safely through the security gates, we storm the castle!”
“The lab is in a castle?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Oh. I’ve heard of those. They taste good.”
I shake my head and move on. “This pickup truck will be just like the Trojan horse.”
“Um, is that another metaphor?”
“Actually, it’s more of a simile. It means that we will launch a sneak attack in much the same manner as the Greeks who attacked the city of Troy.”
“What did they do?”
“The Greeks built a huge, hollow wooden horse with a few soldiers hidden inside, then the rest of the army pretended to sail away. The Trojans thought the surrendering Greeks left the wooden horse as a gift, so they brought it behind their city walls. That night, while the Trojans celebrated their victory, those Greek soldiers crept out of the wooden horse, opened the city gates, and the rest of the Greek army came storming in. They destroyed Troy and ended the Trojan War!”
“Are we going to destroy the lab?”
“No. We’re just going to set my family free.”
Of course, for my plan to work, I needed mice. Lots and lots of mice.
So Gabriel and I scuttle back to the burrow and tell the whole mischief our plan.
In the great hall under the floorboards, I address the mass of eager mice. “My friends! We will use the same tactics that we used to defeat Lucifer in the Battle of the Bathroom,” I say. “Overwhelming numbers. A swift strike. The instant Mr. Brophy unlocks the lab door, one thousand, no, two thousand mice will race out of the back of his truck and storm into the building. My friends, always remember—we have the ‘eek’ factor on our side. What happens the second a human sees a mouse?”
“They shriek ‘eek’!” answers Mikayla.
“And jump up on a chair,” adds Gwindell.
“Well,” I say, “imagine how loudly they’ll shriek and how high they’ll jump when they see thousands of us. A vast, roiling army of furry, whiskered soldiers!”
I’m really whipping the crowd up.
Well, most of them.
Grundle, the disgruntled elder with the fake buckteeth, is glowering at me. She raises her paw. The crowd goes silent.
“We do not, as a rule, risk our lives for strangers,” she says, sniffing with disdain.
“They’re not strangers,” I say. “They’re my family.”
“Perhaps,” says Grundle. “But they are not our family.”
I feel my whiskers droop. “But I can’t do any of this without all of you…”
“Then, little boy blue, you shan’t be doing it. Now then, children, kindly disperse. I believe you’ve all heard quite enough from your so-called brother.”
> “Wait a second,” shouts Gabriel, jumping up beside me on my matchbox. “Do I have to remind everyone that this mischief has sacred words we live by? ‘No mouse left behind!’ Well, Isaiah has more than honored those words.”
“Indeed he has,” adds Gwindell, hobbling forward on her crutches. “Even when others were ready to abandon them.”
“And,” says Gabriel, “I should also remind the elders that you made Isaiah an honorary son of this mischief not too long ago.” Gabriel puts a paw up to his mouth so he can whisper to me. “Show them your medallion.”
“Um, I forgot where I put it…”
Fortunately, this is when James the Wise rises from his soap-bar throne.
“What Gabriel says is true. Isaiah is our son and brother. Therefore, his family is our family. The ancient edict applies: Leave no mouse behind! Go, all of you, and rescue our imprisoned brothers and sisters!”
“We leave at dawn!” I cry. “Who’s coming with me?”
Every able-bodied mouse in the burrow shouts, “Me!”
Hearing those wonderful words, I’ve never felt less alone in my life!
CHAPTER 48
“With a stout heart, a mouse can lift an elephant.”
—Isaiah
Mikayla sings for me again.
Well, it’s not exactly for me… she sings the Battle Call of the Mice to summon all our cousins to the cause. But I’m there to hear it, and trust me, it is be-yoo-ti-ful.
Mice come trooping into the burrow from every house up and down the block.
“Grab some cheese, fellas,” says my first lieutenant, Gabriel, greeting our neighbors. “And help yourself to Dwayne’s Doritos. It’s going to be a long night. We move out at first light.”
After midnight, there is a steady stream of fresh recruits marching out of the basement, down the driveway, and up into the back of Mr. Brophy’s truck. Fortunately, there is one window on the truck cap that Mr. Brophy should’ve replaced years ago with something stronger than a sheet of cardboard and duct tape. It’s easy for the mouse brigade to slip, one by one, through the crack and drop down to the soiled mattress covering the rusty truck bed.
Hailey lends a hand, loading her backpack and hoody with mice, ferrying them to the pickup. It’s a big help, because the hawk wouldn’t dare attack us with a human so close by.
As for Lucifer, he doesn’t interfere with our movements because he has become the ultimate scaredy-cat. He must sense the vast army of mice gathering in the underbelly of his home. That’s why he’s spending the night curled up tight on top of his cat tree.
When the entire truck bed is jammed with mice, Hailey comes over from her house with a tube of rolledup netting.
“I found this in the garage. Dad puts it up in the backyard so we can play volleyball. But if you guys use it to make a couple of hammocks in the truck bed, you could fit in triple your troops.”
I nod enthusiastically.
“Just make sure you return it,” she says. “I want to play volleyball this weekend. I think I could actually beat you, Isaiah. I have the height advantage.”
We both smile.
Around three in the morning, I climb up the side of the pickup to inspect my massive invasion force. Thanks to Hailey’s netting, Mikayla’s singing, and the courage of all the mice in Suburbia, we are five thousand strong!
I’m about to hop in and join the army when Gabriel taps me on the shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “One of us needs to go into the lab with Mr. Brophy and give an ultrasonic signal when the back door is propped open. We can’t really attack until he does that.”
He’s right. “I’ll do it,” I say.
“Are you sure? Because I’m willing to volunteer…”
I shake my head. “No, Gabriel. It’s my mischief. My old home. I know my way around inside the lab.”
“You could probably sneak into the lab riding inside his shirt pocket.”
“Or the back pocket of his pants,” I say.
“Bad idea. You don’t want Mr. Brophy sitting on you.”
“Good point. We’ll go with the shirt.”
Now I just have to figure out a way to climb across Mr. Brophy’s chest and into his pocket without his noticing me.
I’m good, but am I that good?
CHAPTER 49
“Given a challenge, be like the sun: Rise to the occasion.”
—Isaiah
I’m napping in the truck’s cup holder when I hear footsteps and grumbling.
“You need to buy more, Luanne. Today! We’re down to one snack pack!”
Oh, no! I must’ve dozed off. Mr. Brophy is coming down the walkway. Heading for the cab of his truck.
Where I’m sitting with my electric-blue fur in plain sight.
His hand is on the door.
If he sees me, our invasion will be over before it’s even launched!
Thinking fast, I scoot up and hide in the crack where the seat cushion meets the padded seat back. I’m right behind the seat-belt buckle when Mr. Brophy swings open the door and slides behind the wheel. He drops a brown paper bag in the passenger seat, turns the ignition key, and backs out of the driveway.
We’re on our way!
After a few minutes of rumbling down the road, I smell something foul. Like rotten eggs.
No, it’s not Mr. Brophy or what he had for breakfast.
We must be close to that alleyway strewn with toxic-waste barrels that I crossed over during the high-wire-act portion of my escape. That means we’re getting close to the Horrible Place. Lamina Labs. I need to make my move and climb into Mr. Brophy’s pocket.
Quietly, very quietly, I slip out of my hiding place.
My plan is to carefully work my way up the passenger-side seat, tiptoe over to Mr. Brophy’s shoulder, slide down the front of his work shirt, and crawl into his front right pocket, which I can see in the pickup truck’s rearview mirror.
Which means Mr. Brophy will be able to see me sliding into his pocket, too!
Okay. I need a new plan.
While I’m thinking, I glance in the truck’s side-view mirror.
Well, hidey-ho and what do you know?
It’s Hailey. She’s following Mr. Brophy’s pickup truck on her bicycle!
Mr. Brophy’s arm reaches across the front seat. His hand disappears inside the brown paper sack.
I jump back and, arms spread wide, freeze against the cab’s rear window.
“Where’s my ding-dang pickled egg?”
He finds what he’s looking for. Plucks it out of the bag. And jams the slick white ball into his mouth.
This is not only grossing me out, it is giving me an idea.
I can hide inside his lunch bag instead of his shirt pocket. No way is Mr. Brophy going into the lab without his beloved Doritos. It’s easy for me to slide down the seat cushion and slink into the sack. I work my way underneath the chip bag without crinkling the plastic wrapper.
The truck comes to a stop.
“Morning, Brophy,” says a voice outside the cab.
“Morning, Tom.”
We must be at the security gate.
“Who’s this kid on the bike behind you?” asks Tom the guard.
“I don’t know,” says Mr. Brophy. “Never seen her before in my life.”
“Could be another one of those Humans for Animals nuts,” says Tom. “I better take care of it. Have a good one.”
“You too, Tom.”
We’re moving again. Now it feels like we’re backing up. Swerving left.
The truck bumps into something. We bounce and rock. I hear the ultrasonic squeak of five thousand startled mice behind me.
“Stupid loading dock,” grumbles Mr. Brophy. “Why’d they have to put it there?”
He shuts off the truck’s engine and grabs his lunch sack. I’m swaying back and forth, bumping into another one of those slimy pickled eggs.
Now I can tell we’re walking up steps. We reach a plateau. This must be the flat sla
b of concrete I leapt off of when I ran out the back door.
Winnie and Abe and Benji are only twenty, maybe thirty, feet away, on the other side of a thick steel door.
I hear keys jingling. We’re going in!
CHAPTER 50
“If a cat wants a fish it has to get its paws wet.”
—Isaiah
I’m dropped on a metal surface of some sort. I peek out of my bag.
I’m inside Mr. Brophy’s janitor closet. I can see his rolling bucket and his jugs and canisters of cleaning chemicals.
“Mr. Brophy?” says a familiar voice outside the closet. “Might I see you for a moment?”
“Sure, Dr. Ledbetter,” says Mr. Brophy. “Right away, sir.”
I hear Mr. Brophy’s shoes squeak and his key ring jingle as he leaves. I crawl out of the lunch bag, drop down to the floor, and lean around the doorjamb to spy on Mr. Brophy and the Long Coat named Dr. Ledbetter.
“Please be advised, Mr. Brophy, that we are at a heightened state of alert and have activated the alarms on all the windows and doors, including the one behind me. The one, I am told, you like to prop open when you mop this floor.”
“It’s for the mice,” says Mr. Brophy. “I figure the fresh air might do them good.”
“Be that as it may, this door and all others in the facility are to remain locked tight until shift change at three.”
Uh-oh.
If Mr. Brophy doesn’t prop open the back door, how is my five-thousand-mouse army going to storm into the building?
Will I have to free my family all by myself?
And even if I can manage to do that, how are all ninety-seven of us going to escape if every door or window we try to open will trigger an alarm?
“No problem, Professor,” Mr. Brophy tells Dr. Ledbetter. “But if you don’t mind me asking, why all the fuss?”
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