by Lisa Fiedler
He glanced around but saw no signs of water. He did see a building of sand-colored bricks, less imposing than those that surrounded it. It seemed to exist as an island, just like Sicily or Capri, floating between the two black-tarred streets, which, with every passing second, were becoming more alive with zooming vehicles. And more dangerous.
Titus studied the structure; it bore the words ATLANTIC AVENUE. He liked the rounded roofline and the decorative garlands of carved fruit that draped from it. Titus imagined that no rodent would ever starve in a building made of fruit. It was cement-and-brickwork cornucopia. But it was not the river.
“Never cared much for the water myself,” Cassius sneered. “I say we find ourselves one of those places where humans gather to relax and gorge themselves. A rest-or-eat-all-you-want. I bet that’s where we’ll find the best garbage in the city.”
“Hah! Speaking of garbage . . .”
The voice had come from a gap between two tall buildings. Titus felt an instinctive prickle of worry when he saw the group of rats hovering at the mouth of the alleyway. He had read in one of the library cellar’s many books that such a gathering of rodents was called a plague—a plague of rats.
Looking at these sloppy strangers, Titus feared the term would prove to be accurate. A quick count gave him six rats in all, every one of them burly, most of them battered. None friendly and every last one of them up to no good.
The scruffiest rat stood at the front of the mischief, baring his teeth. “Speaking of garbage,” he repeated, “what’s that you’ve got there? Smells tasty.” He motioned to the food Cassius was cradling. “Give it up.”
“No,” snapped Cassius. “This belongs to us.”
“Well, well, well,” said the leader. “Somebody’s got a bad rat-itude.”
Without even realizing it, Titus stepped closer to Conselyea. But he knew there was no way he and Cassius could take on six rats and live to tell the tale. A mad dash to escape would be their only option.
The head rat pressed forward. His bedraggled little army did the same.
Titus turned to Cassius. “Give them the food,” he said through his teeth.
“Absolutely not,” huffed Cassius, clutching his garbage.
“Well, if you won’t give it,” snarled the head rat, “I guess we’ll just have to take it.”
Titus could see that this streetwise rodent meant what he said. He took hold of Conselyea’s paw and gave the command: “Run!”
“Where?” cried Cassius, gaping at the busy street. “We can’t cross.”
“We have to cross,” said Titus. “These rats will tear us to shreds. Just head for that building.”
He darted into the street, pulling Conselyea along with him. The cars sped past, but Titus bobbed and wove and minced and leaped, somehow managing to avoid every massive tire, every red-hot tailpipe. Cassius was right on his heels, tracing his path.
The three rats made it to the island where the Atlantic Avenue building stood, smaller than the others but still massive to them. They were panting and quivering, but unharmed.
On the far sidewalk the scruffy leader shook his head. “Idiot rats,” he spat. “Crossing Flatbush Avenue at rush hour.” When he realized the trio was heading into the building, he snorted. “So yer headin’ underground, are ya?”
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” called one of his grubby mischief-mates. “Word on the street is them tunnels is haunted by the ghost of a bloodthirsty feline.”
“We ain’t goin’ after them, are we?” asked another rat, who was missing half his tail. “I don’t wanna tangle with no cat ghost!”
“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said the mischief leader. “I ain’t messin’ with no undead kitty cat.”
With that, the rat gang scampered off.
“So now what?” asked General Cassius, still gripping his cache of treats.
Titus considered it. Between the madness of “rush hour” and the potential for running into more hoodlum rats, it seemed that continuing on in search of the river might be ill-advised. But the gang leader had said something about this Atlantic Avenue building leading underground. Titus reasoned that if a place as deep as a library basement was good, perhaps somewhere even deeper would be better. He’d seen humans descend below the streets—why, he did not know—but who knew more about survival than they did? They were the ones who built the buildings and produced the delicious trash. They were the ones who wrote all those miraculous, wonderful books.
“Let’s go in here,” he said, starting toward the building’s entrance.
As Titus led Cassius and Conselyea inside, he felt a wave of excitement. As omens went, these were good ones: they’d escaped a rowdy rat pack and made it safely across a busy street. It may not have been a voyage across the ocean, but it was a crossing nonetheless.
His adventure had begun.
There were humans everywhere.
They toted bags and carried cases of all sizes. The light had a sickly quality; it bounced off the shiny walls, making the human faces glow green. Just beyond the floor where Titus and his friends crept was a chasm, a wide canyon where the floor dropped off. The humans stood perched at the edge of this, craning their necks to peer into the darkness. Titus wasn’t sure what sort of beasts might live in the shadows into which the canyon stretched, but he was certain he didn’t want to encounter one. So the three rats kept to the wall as far from the edge as it was possible to be, and tried to avoid being seen.
“Where are we?” Cassius asked, nibbling a chunk of old baloney from his stash. Titus glared at him, hoping he was enjoying his snack, since it had nearly cost them their lives.
A thundering sound suddenly filled the cavernous space, and a shining serpent sped out of the darkness, screaming to a stop where the humans awaited it. With an expulsion of breath the serpent opened its several gaping mouths, into which the humans willingly offered themselves. A moment later, it was gone.
Titus couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. “What in the name of Caesar Augustus was that?”
“I think it was a subway train,” said Conselyea.
Now Titus remembered. He had heard of these when he’d lived outdoors, before he’d moved into the library basement. The rodents on the street mentioned them occasionally, but Titus had never taken much interest.
His outside home had been a modest nest built upon one of the city’s rare patches of dirt and underbrush. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Cassius, who was useless when left to his own devices, was an occasional boarder at Titus’s place, paying his way by scavenging for food and sharing it with his landlord. But one day the humans had come with their growling bulldozers and plowed Titus’s nest into oblivion. That was when he’d moved into the cellar and discovered the joys of residing indoors . . . among books! Since then he’d spent as little time outside as he could, and frankly, he’d forgotten the street myth about these subway monsters, screaming around beneath the earth. Now he understood that it wasn’t a myth at all.
“Let’s go,” said Conselyea, interrupting his thoughts. “Before another silver beast arrives.”
The rats crept onward, until Titus spotted a rodent a few yards ahead. He was significantly smaller than Titus, and his coat was more brown than gray. Titus realized this was a mouse. Despite his small stature, he was working diligently, clawing at a spot where the wall met the floor.
For a long moment, Titus, Cassius, and Conselyea watched the determined little rodent at his work.
“Shall we eat him?” Cassius suggested, licking his chops.
Conselyea’s expression said she found this to be an utterly repulsive question. Titus was in full agreement.
“How about we just talk to him,” said Titus.
As they approached, Titus could see the mouse’s tiny paws scraping away at a place where a small gap had begun to take shape. It was evident that his intention was to enlarge it.
“He’s digging a hole,” Conselyea observed.
When Titus’s enormous sha
dow fell across the mouse, the pawing ceased abruptly. The mouse looked up from his task and blinked into the rat’s face. He looked concerned but not frightened. Titus could see immediately that this was no ordinary mouse. There was a dignity in his face and an intelligence crackling in his bright black eyes. Most interesting was the circle of pure white fur surrounding his left eye; Titus had never seen a mouse with such a distinctive marking.
“Are you going to slaughter me?” the mouse asked calmly.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” said Titus.
“Good.” The mouse grinned. “The name’s Ebbets.”
“Titus.” The rat nodded to his companions. “Conselyea, and Cassius.”
“General Cassius,” the rat corrected, then gulped down his mouthful of baloney and belched.
“Nice to meet you all,” said Ebbets.
“Our pleasure,” said Conselyea.
Titus eyed the gap Ebbets had been digging at so industriously. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m creating a portal.”
“To . . . ?”
“The tunnels.”
“Why would a little mouse like yourself have need of such a portal?” Titus asked.
Ebbets shook his head sadly. “Until a few weeks ago, my entire family and I were happily residing in the rafters of an empty building. But the wrecking ball came and took care of that. So we made our way into the tunnels to find a new home. My mate was very close to birthing our litter when we set out.” Ebbets puffed out his little chest with pride. “I’m a father, as of two days ago.”
“Congratulations,” said Conselyea, offering him her pretty smile.
“Today I ventured upland to find food to bring back to them.” Ebbets eyes shot to the haul of treats in Cassius’s grip, but he refrained from remarking on it. “But it’s a long and treacherous journey. Getting back and forth into the tunnels by crossing that track over there is a death-defying endeavor. So I thought if I could poke a hole here between the floor and the wall, I could jump and sort of free-fall my way home. It’ll probably be one doozy of a drop, but I think if I tuck and roll, I can manage it.”
Titus thought for a moment. “Is it safe in the tunnels?”
“No less safe than anywhere else, I suppose. And as far as I can tell, there aren’t any wrecking balls. And definitely no humans, except for the ones in the trains.”
“How about ghosts? Big, white, cat-shaped ones?”
Ebbets looked at him funny. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” said Titus. “Would it be all right if we came with you?”
Cassius’s eyes flew open. “You want us to go into the tunnels?”
Titus turned to Cassius, nose twitching at the stench of the general’s baloney breath. “If we go back out onto those streets, that pack of rat ruffians will track us down eventually. And even if we could get far enough away from the city to build a nest, sooner or later the humans will obliterate it. I think the tunnels are worth a try.” He turned back to Ebbets. “Let us come with you and we will give you a portion of the food my friend is carrying.”
“What!?” Cassius shook his head. “That’s out of the question!”
Titus flattened his ears and scowled at the general. “Either you share those rations with our new friend, or you get lost. Back to the streets . . . on your own this time.”
Cassius glowered, but nodded his reluctant consent.
Satisfied, Titus crouched beside Ebbets and reached toward the gap. Together the rat and the mouse began to dig.
So intent were they on their task that they barely noticed the human with his photography equipment, snapping shots of the bustling station. When the camera turned in their direction, Conselyea squeaked in surprise as the sudden brilliance of the flash lit up the platform.
“That’s a keeper,” said the human as he strode away. “Transit museum’s gonna love these shots.”
The rats did not know, nor did they care what a “keeper” was, and they had no idea what a transit museum could possibly be.
All they knew was that they were on a mission.
To find themselves a home.
The fall into the sub-tunnels was not exactly Titus’s idea of fun, and the muck in which they landed made his pelt stiff and smelly. The air was stale and the lighting was dim. But at least there were no shovels, or poison, or crazed librarians running about. Not that he could see anyway. Still, he was wary of this new, dark place.
“Where is your nest?” asked Titus, eager to find shelter.
“My village is quite a trek from here. Three days, give or take. But we will find my mate and our litter waiting at a spot about half that distance.”
Ebbets began to walk.
“Just out of curiosity,” said Titus with a jerk of his tail in the opposite direction, “what’s that way?”
“An abandoned platform where trains used to stop. There are still some human artifacts about, like signs and mechanicals. Mostly just trash.” Ebbets eyed Cassius, who was now enjoying a crumb from a broken pretzel. “You’d love it there,” he noted, then shrugged. “But it’s basically a ghost town.”
“There’s that word again,” muttered Cassius, gulping down the salty crumb. “Ghost.”
“I’m going to go take a look,” said Titus. “You guys go on. I’ll catch up.”
As his friends continued on their way, Titus went off to explore. It was only a short scamper to the place Ebbets had called the “abandoned platform.”
And a more promising piece of real estate Titus had never seen!
He looked around at the remains of what once had been a functioning subway stop. Signs still clung to the upper parts of the tiled walls, and there was a porcelain basin attached to one wall, with pipes running from it. He’d seen one of these back in the library basement, in the custodian’s closet, and seemed to recall that water could be extracted from such a device if one knew how to properly milk it.
A clever rat could really make something of such a place.
There were plenty of other human-made objects scattered about as well. He saw broken tiles, cardboard boxes, old clothing, pamphlets, newspapers, empty bottles, even a lost shoe with a high heel.
Titus marveled at it all, studying the platform just long enough to keep the image vivid in his sharp little mind. Then he raced off to join his friends.
“Ebbets,” he said when he caught up to them, “that platform is truly amazing. Might I ask why you and your, um . . . pack? . . . cluster? . . . faction? . . .”
“Mischief,” Ebbets corrected with a smile. “A gathering of mice is known as a mischief, which might be true in other cases, but my family is not like that. We’re a more thoughtful bunch. We’re strong and resourceful when we have to be, but we prefer a more peaceful, philosophical approach to life. We like to think of ourselves as a tribe.”
“Okay,” said Titus as they continued onward. “Why didn’t your tribe just settle back there at the abandoned platform?”
“We knew that, although it was roomy and conveniently located for scavenging, in its current state it would not provide enough protection for rodents as small as we. That would require major construction, which we did not have the time nor the mousepower to undertake. So I sent scouts in search of a safer place for the tribe to settle, directing them to head south, into the depths of the depths. There they found even older, more secluded branches of these tunnels.” He grinned and added, “Just as I suspected they would.”
Ebbets led the rats farther and farther into the tunnels. Cassius grumbled the entire way, but Titus was gratified to discover that Conselyea was quite a trouper. She did not whine or grouse or even ask to rest. This pleased Titus more than he could say. Having such grit would be a benefit while living here in these tunnels.
After several hours of walking, Ebbets stopped. “Here is where the tribe camped while we awaited word from the vanguard.”
Titus could see the remnants of the temporary encampment mixed in among the pebbles and trash. Evidence of
campfires and snug sleeping spots dotted the landscape. He was beginning to develop a profound respect for this little mouse, who was so courageous and wise. He wished he could give Ebbets the name of a Roman emperor, or at least an impressive-sounding Latin moniker that would reflect his bravery and wisdom; he certainly deserved it.
“We were safe and comfortable here,” Ebbets explained. “Days passed before the scouts came back with news that they’d discovered a great wall, a flat gray surface that rose up from the dirt floor and stretched all the way to the arched ceiling of the tunnel. I knew such a barrier would provide all the protection we could ever need, so I decided we would make our home behind it. The tribe packed up, ready to set out again, but just as we began the march, my mate whispered in my ear that she could not travel . . . it was her time to deliver. So I sent the others on ahead, asking only the tribe’s midwife to stay behind with us. I built a makeshift but sturdy nest over there, by that rock, and it was there that my children came into the world. The first of our line to be born into the tunnels.” A smile of genuine joy lit up the mouse’s face. “As soon as they have grown strong enough to travel, we will take them to our new village behind the gray wall. Come. I’ll introduce you.”
The rats followed Ebbets, picking their way across the rubble to a small pile of twigs, fortified with bits of string and paper. There Titus saw Ebbets’s delicate little mate sitting quietly with their napping litter.
“Ten in all,” boasted Ebbets, pointing to each pup and announcing its name. “That’s Koufax, Hodges, Reese, Robinson, and that one with his tail sticking up in the air there, that’s Lasorda—he’s got spunk. These two are Snider and Campanella, the twins, and that’s Spooner, and Erskine.”