The sound reverberated off the bench, the fountain, the iron-barred fence like a clanging gong.
“Are you trying to get us caught?” Zumi hissed.
“Sorry,” he said, panting. “I didn’t mean—”
It was too late. From the alley there came shouts, the sound of digging. Council’s Arrest, Removal, and Management squad. The ARM was coming for them.
The grating voice of Bothwell, Councillor of the ARM, rang out like squealing metal. “Follow me, you lot! Someone’s in here! We’ll find out who and make short work of ’em! Bite first, ask questions later is what I say!”
Fin could hear their tramp, tramp, tramp…
Closer.
He hunkered low. This was all his fault. Zumi was right not to trust him. Shivers ran up and down his body. The tramping stopped a few tail-lengths away. Snuffling sounds moved toward him. Bothwell’s steel-grey fur flashed through the leaves. Fin froze with fear.
“Over here, crew!” called Councillor Bothwell. “I caught me a whiff, and there’s more than one!”
The bushes rustled behind Fin. “This way!” whispered Zumi.
That broke the spell. Fin dived after her. Zumi zigzagged through the garden, mixing up their scent-trail, and raced to the base of the fountain where she crouched low.
“Over here!” cried the Councillor. “They’re doing a runner! Get ’em!”
The fountain was a giant stone bowl. Coiling her legs beneath her, Zumi sprang onto the bowl’s rim. She leaned over the edge and whispered down to Fin, “Come on! Hurry!”
Fin clawed his way up the side with his three paws, and sat panting beside Zumi. Water burbled out of a pipe in the fountain’s centre. Inky black water rippled in the basin below.
Bothwell bellowed, “Snouts to the ground, you lot! Don’t lose their trail!” The ARM was closing in.
Zumi whispered, “We need to throw them off our scent. We need to swim across.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“Neither do I.”
They looked at each other, their eyes huge.
“Come on, Fin.” Zumi dived into the black water.
Fin hesitated, then jumped in. The icy cold water stole his breath, and he plunged like a stone. But something deep inside him took over. His legs began to pump.
He broke the surface. Beside him the tip of Zumi’s pale nose and ears peeked above the black ink. Sounds were muffled as he swam. He could only hear the whooshing in-and-out of his own breath, the swoosh of his paws through water. Finally, they reached the far wall and scrambled up.
They both scanned the air. A scent trail caught Fin’s nose—a garbage can twenty tail-lengths away. He motioned to Zumi. Was it too far? They looked at each other.
The ARM burst through the underbrush, barrelling toward the fountain in a ball of teeth and tails. They swarmed around the base of the fountain, snuffling for a trail.
Zumi coiled her back legs and launched herself toward the garbage can. Sailing through the air, she landed silently. Her black eyes peered over the rim. Fin’s turn. His paw throbbed with each beat of his heart. Cold dread gripped him. They stared at each other from across the distance.
Bothwell’s voice grated. “The tricky devils went up the fountain! After ’em!” The ARM swarmed up the side.
Fin kept his eyes fixed on Zumi and jumped.
He landed short. His forepaws clung to the rim while his one good back paw scrabbled against the dented metal surface. It found a foothold. He pulled himself over the top and burrowed into the garbage next to Zumi. They waited, listening, hearts pounding.
The ARM flowed over the side of the fountain and back down to the ground. There was the sound of sniffing. The Councillor growled, “Where did those devils get to?”
“Maybe it was just a dog, or a squirrel,” said one flunky, panting. “Maybe there weren’t no rats in the garden at all.”
“Right,” said Bothwell, “and I’m an alley cat!” He nipped the flunky’s ear, who yelped in pain. Bothwell barked, “Keep looking!” But after a while even the Councillor gave up. He assembled his crew at the base of the garbage can.
“Slippery devils! Vanished into thin air. But there’s no need to trouble the Chairman about it, eh? We’ll keep this between ourselves?”
“Right, Boss,” murmured his patrol. “Mum’s the word.”
“You’re a good lot! Now, off we go.” The ARM tramped back out of the garden the way it had come and left the two trespassers to their hiding place.
TWELVE
“No person is so naïve and blind that he should concern himself with the care of others more than his own self.”
Chalin de Vinario, physician, Italy, during the plague
Fin climbed slowly out of the garbage and dropped on the ground. Zumi dropped down beside him. After a moment’s silence, Fin said, “Sorry. I guess I forgot where I was.”
Zumi shook her head. “At least I know you’re not a Council spy. No spy would’ve been so dumb.”
Fin snorted, but he said nothing.
The moonlight made the garden shimmer. Even Zumi seemed different in the moonlight.
She lifted her nose, breathing deeply. “This is my favourite place. Scratch has never seen it. He says it’s against the rules.” She lowered her head. “I’m worried about him, Fin. Scratch is…is weak. He needs protection. With all of the Collections going on in the Lowers, I’m afraid he’ll get hurt.”
“Collections?” said Fin. He pulled back. “You really believe in those?”
She looked up at him, tears glinting in her eyes. “Rats are collected. Collections happen all the time. You just never see it because you live in the Uppers.”
Fin shook his head. “No. The rules are the same for Upper and Lower, Zumi. Papa treats everyone the same. You can go to him—I’ll go with you! We can tell him what you’re afraid of and he will—”
Her mouth dropped open. “I’m not going to see the Chairman!”
“Papa. Call him Papa. He’s not just the Chairman, he cares for each Tunnel Rat like a father cares for his pups. He will help you, Zumi. And when we go see him, we’ll ask him about Scratch, okay? Don’t worry so much. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“No. No!” Zumi shook him off, blinking.
Fin stepped toward her. “No, you were right to come to me. Council is right across the alley. We’re going over right now. I want to help you.”
She stumbled back. “No! I’m not going. I don’t need your help.”
Fin’s ears burned. “Stop being so stubborn! You make everything complicated. Just like Scratch said!”
They stared, their dark eyes locked on each other.
“I need to go,” she said. She slipped through the bushes and was gone.
Fin stared after her, grinding his teeth. Unbelievable! There were no Collections, and the idea of the Lower Tunnel rats being targets for the Council, for his uncle, would have made him laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic. If that’s what Lower rats thought of Council, it was time for Fin to step up and help change things.
He was the Chairman’s nephew. It was time he started acting like it.
***
The moon carved the shapes of overturned stalls, tables, boxes, into unmoving witnesses. Gnaw marks scarred the legs and edges of the fishmonger’s table. Feces and urine laced the floors, the counters, every surface the two-leg might touch.
That same moon reflected the matted outline of a dead rat: underfed, scruffy, unmissed. Bite marks marred its neck. Its stiffening limbs were splayed flat upon the fishmonger’s table.
A warning to the two-legs.
THIRTEEN
“The peasant must do a bit of starving.”
Vladimir Lenin
Most students ate in the cafeteria, so Ananda headed out to the inner courtyard, a garden that was maintained by the hort
iculture students.
She did a quick scan. No Neanderthal activity. She settled herself on a bench next to the pond.
She’d come early to school to tape photocopies of her cartoon strip in the hallways before anyone was there to catch her.
In History class, she’d sat near the door and had slipped out as soon as the bell rang without talking to anyone, but as Ananda walked through the halls to the courtyard, she saw a crowd gathered around one of the strips. She heard Litko’s name mentioned. Heard snickering. She felt a stab of anxiety.
Posting the cartoons had seemed like a good idea in the morning. An act of rebellion—proof to herself she wouldn’t put up with being intimidated. And she hadn’t signed it. But Chris, with the canniness of a wounded hyena and the bruised ego of a Neanderthal, might figure out it was her.
Bird feeders were placed around the garden. Swarms of chickadees and sparrows flitted from feeder to feeder, their wings making that strange, wonderful thrumming in the quiet. A squadron of lemon-yellow goldfinches plucked seeds from clusters of cone flowers, their wings fluttering to keep them balanced on the swaying stalks. Watching them made Ananda’s stomach unclench a little.
Other benches filled up, but no one paid her any attention. Ananda stared at the birds, wishing she could fly from flower to flower, gathering seeds. Thinking of nothing.
In History, Mrs. Zimmer had given them an assignment: pick one pivotal event in history and give a ten-minute oral report, due in a week. The research part was no problem, but the thought of standing in front of her History class with Litko smirking at her for ten minutes made her want to puke.
Ananda pulled out her book, the one she’d borrowed from her dad. It was all about Soviet Russia, about government-issued killing sprees called “The Great Terror,” and Stalin the Psycho-in-Chief at the head of it all. Her dad had been right. The book was interesting.
Maybe she’d do her project on the Terror. She wished she could talk to her dad about it, about the ideas and the mindset of a person who could do that kind of thing. She missed those talks with him. She missed him.
The edges of her mouth quivered and she swallowed hard.
A shadow covered her. She looked up. >Chris Litko and his Merry Band of Cavemen. By the look on Chris’s face, she knew the jig was up.
Ananda put her book aside and stood up. Her head only came to Chris’s chest, but she put her hands on her hips. “What?” she said.
Chris stepped closer.
“I know it was you, Rat-Girl.” The circle of goons tightened.
Ananda’s heart pumped, but she smiled broadly. “What was me, Chris? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were just making excuses to talk to me.”
She grabbed her bag and pushed through them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
It almost worked.
She was nearly at the school door, when Chris called, “Rat-Girl. You forgot this.” He held up her book. Stalin’s eyes winked at her from the cover.
Ananda’s smile dropped from her face. She walked back to Chris and grabbed for it. “Give it over.”
Chris grinned. He swooped the book out of her reach.
Blood rushed to Ananda’s face. She gritted her teeth and snarled, “Give it back, you bloody hyena!”
Chris’s unibrow arched at the insult. “Ooh. Such names.” He held it over her head.
Ananda reached again. “Give it back! It’s my dad’s book!”
Chris and his pals cackled. He said in falsetto, “It’s my dad’s book!” They threw the book back and forth between them, pages fluttering. A few of the students sitting at the benches got out their cell phones and began recording.
“Give it back, I said!” Ananda’s voice came out high-pitched and quavering. And then to her horror, she burst into tears.
The pack loved it. They mocked her in whiny falsetto. “G-g-give it b-b-back!”
Her mouth froze into a grimace as she sobbed. No one helped her. She was just the lunch-time freak show.
Above the noise, a voice shouted, “What is going on here?”
Mrs. Zimmer appeared at the doorway as Ananda’s book cartwheeled past Chris and fell with a phloop! into the pond.
It drifted down. Stalin’s eyes stared up at Ananda like two drilled holes, before sinking into the murk. Ananda’s mouth dropped open. “That was my d-dad’s book.”
“That was my d-d-dad’s b-b-book,” said Chris.
“Idiot!” she shrieked, and pushed him so hard he stumbled backwards to the edge of the pond.
Chris’s arms windmilled for balance. He teetered, and then pitched in, butt-first. A plume of water showered down on everyone like a freshwater geyser, causing the birds who’d been feeding nearby to rise in a flurry of feathers and seeds.
The students on the far benches cheered and fist-pumped, cell phones held high. Mrs. Zimmer was drenched, her shirt and pants dripping.
Ananda backed away, her hand over her mouth.
Chris was hoisted out and thrown onto the ground like a fish hauled onto the dock.
Mrs. Zimmer looked at Ananda, then back at Chris. Snarling through dripping hair, she said, “Blake! Litko! Come with me!”
FOURTEEN
“For God has said, ‘I will obliterate Man, whom I created, from this earth.’”
Gabriele de’ Mussis, 1348
The Council Chamber was cavernous. The entrance was a tiny crack at the base of a two-leg building, almost invisible. Easier to keep it safe from two-leg eyes.
Fin squeezed through the opening and hurried along the dirt passage until it opened into the grand hall of the Council Chamber. Its walls were notched, grooved with the tooth marks of those who had carved it from the concrete long ago. Fin burst into the room and pushed through the startled Council members until he came into the centre.
Papa was standing on a carved platform at the head of the Chamber. “Now, good Tunnel Rats, I will share with you a momentous thing. I have smelled something in the air. It is something great. A gift from the Old Ones that would—”
He caught sight of Fin and stared down at him. “To what do we owe this honour, Nephew?”
“I wish to join Council!” Fin’s voice reverberated through the halls.
Papa’s eyes glittered, but he said nothing.
“What do I need to do? I will do anything.”
“You wish to join? My nephew wishes to join me?”
Fin smiled up at his uncle. Papa had asked him to join many times, but Fin had always refused. He’d never wanted the responsibility. Never wanted to endure meetings that droned on and on.
Addressing the Council, Papa opened his arms wide. “Good Tunnel Rats! We have before us my sister’s son, who has asked to join our ranks! What say you? What say you, good Tunnel Rats?”
The Chamber erupted with cheers. Papa nodded. “And my Councillors? What say you?”
Fin stiffened. He had met the Councillors before. They were so important, so lofty, that Fin had felt even more scrawny and deformed in their presence. Bothwell was there too, fresh from the chase. Would he recognize him? Fin kept his eyes on Papa. The Councillors gathered around him.
Councillor Tiv, Councillor of Information, was beautiful. Plump with lustrous black fur, she pressed close to Fin, but her dark eyes stayed on his uncle’s face. “Your nephew is most welcome, Papa.” The Councillor of Compliance, a withered old rat named Julian, squinted at Fin under his furrowed brow. He nodded and said, “Yes, yes, Papa! I say yes! Of course!”
Bothwell stepped out from the others. Fin forced himself not to run. A pink scar puckered one of Bothwell’s eyelids closed. He looked Fin up and down with his good eye. Bothwell’s quivering nostrils snuffled him.
“Is there a problem?” Papa glared at the Councillor.
Bothwell stopped mid snort. He drew back. “Nah! No problem, Boss.
Your nephew is a fine sort, the best sort. That’s what I say!”
Before Fin could even breathe out, the rat beside Bothwell stepped forward. This was Sergo, Councillor of Investigation. He had the longest teeth Fin had ever seen. He didn’t look at Fin but bowed his head toward Papa. “Sergo also says yes to Papa and his nephew!”
Papa smiled. “Ah. My loyal Sergo.” He raised his arms to the gathered rats, saying, “Council has decided. Council has—”
“Wait!” called a voice. All eyes turned to the sound. Fin strained to see who it was.
“Not all the Councillors have voted.” A hunched figure stepped from the shadows and into the dim light of the Council Chamber.
It was a crumbling, ancient rat. His body looked like skin-covered bones. He lurched forward, weaving through the crowd, waving his nose back and forth like the white cane of blind two-legs, until he stood before Fin. He gazed at Fin with cloudy, marble eyes.
He called to Papa, “Did you forget about me, Koba? I have not given my approval, and I have a question for this young pup.”
Fin frowned. Koba? he thought. Who is Koba?
Papa said nothing. His eyes bulged, and his mouth formed a tight line.
“I am Balthazar,” said the old rat to Fin. “I was once Chairman, just like your uncle.” Fin gasped and Balthazar laughed. “You are thinking, ‘Impossible!’ But it is true, is it not, Beloved Chairman?”
“It is true.” Papa’s voice was flat.
“May I ask your nephew a question?”
“You know I must allow it. It is Tunnel Law.”
The old rat chuckled. “Yes. I know.” His milky eyes bore into Fin. “Why do you wish to join Council, young Fin?”
Fin had been expecting a trap, but the question was simple. Yet he stammered. “I…I want to join Council…I want to…because…”
“Yes?” said Balthazar, leaning closer. He blinked his marble eyes.
“Because…because of something I heard,” said Fin. “Someone told me about Collections. Someone told me that Council only cares about the Upper Tunnels and not the Lowers.”
The Great & the Small Page 5