“In a breakdown of medieval society,” the reporter continued, “plague victims were often sealed alive into their homes by panicked neighbours, and red crosses were painted on their doors. Once sealed in, very few survived…”
“No, no, Ananda can’t hear me! She’s in her room…”
Ananda quickly, quietly, shut her door. She sat on her bed, her hands shaking. The sketchbook lay beside her, the face on its page staring up at her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I hear you, evildoer, whispering in my ear.”
Gabriele de’ Mussis, 1348
The ARM squad circled the burrow hole. Fin shouted into it, “Come out! We know you’re in there.”
No answer.
There had been a recent attack on an ARM squad. One squad member had been killed in the ambush. Resistance against the Plague War was gathering force. Council’s orders to Fin were clear: quash it. Find the Wreckers and bring them in. The alleged ringleader lived in this burrow. “Get him out,” said Fin to Mink.
The big rat dived into the nest, followed by a shrill cry from within. Mink emerged, gripping the scruff of a sable-grey rat between his long teeth. The grey rat’s four paws pedalled the air wildly. Unable to speak, he gave off ultrasonic squeaks.
“Drop him,” said Fin. Mink opened his jaws, and the grey rat plopped on the ground where he sat huddled.
Fin walked around him. An oozing gash on the rat’s rump, a cut ear crusted over with a fresh scab—this rat had been in a fight. He was their Wrecker.
“Get up,” said Fin. The rat made no move. Fin jerked his head to his squad. “Get him up.”
The grey rat was brought to all fours. Blood already rimmed his nostril. “I’m…I’m innocent…” he stammered.
“You all are,” said Fin dryly. Turning to Scratch, who was standing beside him, he asked, “Would you like to handle this one?”
Scratch puffed out his chest. Bobbing his head, he said, “You betcha, Boss, you betcha! Let me at this ugly Wrecker!” Hopping forward, he reared up before the prisoner. “You,” he sputtered, “are nothing but an ugly, ugly Wrecker! Don’t deny it!”
“I…I…”
“Tell me your name, Wrecker,” said Scratch. He leaned in close, his red, beady eyes narrowed. “Tell me your name, or so help me, I’ll—”
“Oliver.” The rat’s eyes were huge. “My name’s Oliver, but I swear—”
“Oliver? Well, save your excuses, Oliver! We’ve got the goods on you. The goods! You’ve been reported!”
“For what? I haven’t—”
“Quiet!” said Scratch. “You’ve been reported!”
Oliver looked back and forth between the squad members. “But I’m telling you—”
“Shut up!” shrieked Scratch. “If you’re so innocent, then why are you scared? A Wrecker should be afraid, they should be very afraid, but if you’re innocent, you shouldn’t be, so what do you say to that?”
Oliver blinked at him. “I don’t understand your question…”
“You’ve been reported, stupid!” said Scratch. He stamped his foot in frustration. “Don’t you get it? Fin, he’s too stupid to get it!”
“This is taking too long,” grumbled Mink.
Fin sighed. Moving Scratch over, he said, “Oliver, if you don’t talk, not only you but your family will be collected, and anyone who knows you. Your mate just had a litter of pups, didn’t she? One by one your pups will be dragged out—”
“No! Please, no!” Oliver started to sob, sagging forward. “Oh…! By the Old Ones, please no! They haven’t done anything!”
In the nest behind Oliver, little faces watched. They were curious, no doubt, to see their big strong father crying like a pup.
Fin hated this part of the job. If the stakes weren’t so high there would be no way he’d do it. But there was a war on. Lives were at stake. He had to stay strong. “Bring out the pups,” he said through gritted teeth.
“No! No!” shrieked Oliver. “I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” The grey rat burst into a flurry of tears.
Fin breathed out, silently thanking the Old Ones it would go no further. “Take the prisoner to Councillor Sergo for investigation,” he said. Turning in the small space of the tunnel, he bumped right into Zumi.
Nose to nose, they stared at each other, her eyes round with horror. She’d heard everything. Suddenly Zumi pushed him with her strong hind legs, making him stumble back. She turned and darted down the tunnel. Fin watched as she disappeared.
“What’s wrong with my bossy sister now?” asked Scratch, coming up beside him.
Fin said nothing but stared after Zumi long after the squad had left with the prisoner.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“This plague caused such terror that brother abandoned brother… The worst though, were parents who refused to care for their own sick children.”
Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–75)
The moon was high overhead, casting the alley in deep shadow. Fin was going to a Council meeting about the Plague War. The cobblestones, which burned Fin’s paws in the heat of day, were cool, but that didn’t abate the burning he felt inside. He felt sick, confused.
As he limped down the alley toward the Council Chamber, he passed the metal fence that enclosed the Forbidden Garden. Memories of that place flashed through his mind: Bothwell and the ARM, close on his tail; Zumi popping through the brush behind him, saying, “Follow me…”
Why did Zumi have to come up behind him when he was collecting that Wrecker? Now she would think he was a monster. She wouldn’t understand he was only doing his duty.
Collecting pups was his duty?
The ugly question clamoured at him, joining all the other questions. Fin pushed it away. The Common Good was bigger than any of them—bigger than what Fin liked or didn’t like.
Reaching the tunnel that led to the Council Chamber, he squeezed through and emerged on the other side into the cool darkness. He scanned the air. There was the tang of wet stone and concrete. As he padded along the narrow, uneven tunnel, his whiskers fanned out to feel his way and guide him.
He became aware of other smells. Mingling with the smell of damp earth and stone, Fin detected the usual scent markings of individual Council members, each member’s comings and goings crisscrossing the tunnel in bright strands of odour, like a catalog of events. But weaving through them were other scent trails, other ones he knew. Wreckers. Wreckers he had Collected. Wreckers he had sent here.
The Wreckers left a sour, bitter smell as they passed. The odour reminded Fin of something—something terrible. It made his stomach knot, and for a moment he leaned against the wall, gulping air. “Snap out of it!” he muttered to himself. But then it hit him.
The tunnel smelled like the Killing Chamber.
Fin stumbled and fell. The passage buckled around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t keep the faces of his captives from rising before him like sheets of fog off the sea.
The old rat named Hobbs, crying, drool running down his chin. Oliver weeping for his pups, their faces innocent and confused. And there were others, too. Lots of others, their faces, all terrified…
And they all blamed Fin.
He couldn’t do this anymore. He was no hero…and yet he had promised the Killing Chamber rats. Despair swelled up inside of him. Tears stung his eyes. Whichever way he turned he hurt someone.
He pulled himself off the ground and staggered to the opening. In the Council Chamber the Council members were hunched in a circle.
Papa looked up. “You’re late!” he snapped.
Fin nodded wearily.
“Your report?” asked Papa. His black eyes burrowed into Fin’s.
“Oh, our Fin’s a busy one,” cut in Bothwell, jovially. “Collects them Wreckers, Boss, and how! Finds ’em in the bloody woodwork, ’e does!” He winked at Fin with his pucke
red eye.
“That’s good, that’s very good,” said Papa. “Now—”
“Don’t matter ’ow much they carry on! Weeping and chattering, it don’t matter! Our boy is all business!” chirped Bothwell.
“Wonderful,” said Papa. “Now Fin, can I please hear your—”
“I quit,” said Fin.
The Chamber froze.
Bothwell was the first to stir. He looked around, blinking. “What did ’e say? I could swear ’e said—”
“He said shut up, idiot!” muttered Sergo.
“No, I’m sure ’e didn’t say that.”
Tiv began to laugh her high tinkling laugh.
“Quiet!” said Papa. He scowled at Fin. “This isn’t the time to joke around, boy. We are at war!”
“A war you started,” murmured Julian.
“I’m…I’m not joking, Papa,” said Fin. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t bring in Wreckers. I hate it. I hate collecting them, hate using what they love most to make them talk.”
“Then you hate war,” said Tiv. “Because that’s what war is. It’s dirty, and sometimes you have to get your paws mussed.”
“War!” said Sergo. “It is a dirty, dirty business!” He didn’t seem too upset by it. He smirked as he said it.
“Quiet!” said Papa. The smiles dropped from the Councillors’ faces. They looked at him.
He studied Fin. “Nephew, you are young. Things bother you now, but in time you will see the wisdom in all of this. Even in the cries of your enemies, dear boy.”
Fin said nothing. He shook his head. Tears tugged at his eyes, but he gulped them down. He would not cry in front of Council.
“None of us doubt that you are a good Tunnel Rat,” said Papa, glancing sharply around the room. The other Council members murmured agreement. “So what is behind all this?”
“Well,” said Fin. “I don’t want to collect Wreckers. I…I just want to stop the Killing Chamber.”
“Then that’s what you shall do,” said Papa. “Finish your duties this day, and tomorrow you will captain your own squad of Plague Rats. You may lead them into the jaws of Doom, if you wish, as long as you shut down that Killing Chamber.”
“Really?”
Papa smiled. “Really.”
Bothwell piped up, “But mind you, keep your distance, Mister Fin! Don’t catch no fleas from that lot!”
Everyone laughed. And in that dark, damp room it was as if the stars had risen in the sky. Finally, Fin would help the Killing Chamber rats with the blessing of Council. With the blessing of his beloved uncle.
Fin said, “Oh thank you! Thank you! I won’t let you down!”
“No, my boy,” said Papa. “I know you won’t.” Turning to the others, he said, “And now, honoured members of Council, we have matters that require attention. Councillor Sergo, what is your report on…” Fin’s issue sorted, Council moved on to the next item on the agenda.
Fin didn’t stay to listen. Wandering back out through the passageway, the smells assaulted his nose again, but it was all right. One last afternoon of collecting. He could do that.
TWENTY-NINE
“You who were once so rich, are now just food for worms.”
Gabriele de’ Mussis, 1348
Fin listened as his first lieutenant relayed his last collection orders from Council. There were three suspected Wreckers to deal with, the first two being the usual sort. They’d been overheard saying that the Plague War was wrong. Fin wished they could see the Killing Chamber for themselves! Handling those two would be easy. The next one stunned him.
“It’s his sister, Boss,” whispered the lieutenant. She jerked her nose toward Scratch, who sat cleaning his whiskers.
“Zumi?” said Fin.
“Yep, that’s her. Council wants her. Says she’s a bad apple. Hey, wasn’t she the one who kicked you earlier?”
Fin ignored the question. Keeping his voice even, he said, “We’re going after the two Wreckers, full force, all of us on it. No splitting into groups. Got it?”
The lieutenant’s brow wrinkled. “But wouldn’t we get more done if we split up? I can handle a little pip like Scratch’s sis—”
“Are you going to follow orders, or shall I report you?” said Fin.
Flustered, the lieutenant said, “No, no, sir. I’m on it, sir.” As she bustled off to prepare the squad, Fin ambled over to Scratch who was digging at an itch behind his ear.
“Scratch,” whispered Fin. The other squad members were in a huddle, listening to the lieutenant. They were too far away to hear Fin. “Go and warn Zumi. Tell her to leave the Tunnels.”
“Now why would—?”
“Council wants to bring her in,” hissed Fin.
Scratch squinted at Fin. “Why? What’s she done now?”
The lieutenant glanced over. Fin smiled and nodded at her. He forced himself to speak slowly. He whispered, “Scratch, they’ll interrogate her. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, yes. It means we find her, and we get her. We bring her in to Councillor Sergo for investigation.” Scratch blinked at Fin. “I’m not dumb, you know.”
“We can’t take her in. You know what might happen.”
“But it’s an order,” said Scratch. Confusion clouded his face. “An order from Council. From the Beloved Chairman, who also happens to be your uncle! Besides, what’s it matter to you? You don’t even like her!”
Fin’s ears burned. “She’s your sister.”
“So? If she’s innocent they’ll let her go, right?” Scratch kept blinking at him like it was all so simple. Fin had told himself the same thing over and over again with the Wreckers he’d pulled in. If they were innocent, they had nothing to worry about. If.
Fin glanced nervously over to the squad. He couldn’t stall them much longer. His lieutenant had already looked over a few times. Fin whispered tersely, “I’m in command here, I’m Captain, and I order you.”
Scratch’s mouth dropped open. “Does your uncle know what you’re up to? Switching orders? That’s not good, Fin! That’s not good at all!”
Fin pulled himself up to his full height. He held Scratch’s gaze even though his heart felt like it would hammer out of his chest. “The Beloved Chairman who—as you keep reminding me—is my uncle, doesn’t want me to bug him for every little thing that comes up. But if you won’t follow orders, I’ll ask someone else.”
“Oh no you don’t!” snapped Scratch. “I’ll tell her, Captain Fin! Bending laws back and forth, just like in the market when your paw was crushed to jelly! It’s up to Scratch to obey. It’s up to Scratch to follow orders!”
“Come on, Scratch,” wheedled Fin. “Don’t be mad!”
At that moment, the lieutenant called over. “Captain?”
With a final pleading look to Scratch, Fin turned and puffed out his chest. “Who’s ready to hunt some Wreckers?” he called. He swaggered over to the group.
The squad members cheered. “I am, Boss!” “You know it!” “Let’s go!” As they set out, Fin risked a glance back.
Scratch was gone.
That moonrise, Fin was assigned his new mission. While the Plague Rat squad was being prepped, Fin would go to the Killing Chamber to get information on the cruel two-leg who kept them prisoner. He would then return to the Tunnels and lead the Plague Rats to their target.
When he left for the Killing Chamber, Fin still hadn’t seen Scratch. He did his best to ignore the questions that batted around his head like buzzing flies.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves.”
Josef Stalin
Heat shimmered off the pavement as Dr. Tom Blake drove into the parking lot. Sweat soaked his shirt in spite of the car’s air conditioning, which had only managed to blow a slightly cool, musty vapour.
He parked the car, got out, and locked the door. As he walked across the lot a small grey and white rodent streaked across his shoe, causing him to stumble.
“What the…?”
He stared after it as it galloped across the grass with an uneven gait and slipped under a shrub at the research department’s entrance. There was something familiar about it—the colouring, the size, even the limp. Maybe there was an infestation of lame grey and white rats in the city.
Tom cut across the lawn. Dry grass crunched under his shoes. At the front doors, he knelt and peered under the bush. There was a flash of white and grey. It was a rat, all right. A rat that looked just like the one that had bitten him. And like the one at Middle-Gate Market.
This was getting weird.
Don’t make too much of it, he told himself. There’s a reasonable explanation. I have no idea what it is, but there’s got to be one.
In his office, Dr. Blake called the custodian. “Yes, it was a rat, and I think it broke in before. Yes, I know rats usually try to break out of here…yes, I know you’re busy…then put out more poison!” He slammed down the phone.
As Tom worked that day, the incident in the parking lot weighed on him. His progress felt slow. He turned on the radio in time to hear the DJ announce that there would be soaring hot temperatures today. “Thanks, Einstein, I hadn’t noticed,” he muttered. A few scattered rain showers were expected for tomorrow night. Something to look forward to. Sweat trickled down Tom’s forehead, dripping onto the table where he worked.
“The city’s death toll has now reached twenty-three,” the news announcer said. “Health officials blame the continuing hot weather for the rising count. A concerned citizens group has launched a multi-million-dollar lawsuit against the city, stating that local government neglected to take action quickly enough…”
The room felt stuffy—closed in. Tom switched off the radio and worked in silence.
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