A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  He spun around, searching for a place to hide. But all he saw were people, everywhere: heeled women and suited men, hunched grandparents and screaming toddlers, clumps of teenagers and lines of school children, and all of them, every single one, was staring at Smalls in horror. “Forget the zoo, call animal control,” a man shouted.

  Bertie’s eyes landed on a concrete building a few doors down. It climbed upward, window stacking upon window, taller than any building he’d ever seen. “Perfect,” he decided. Behind one of those many windows, on one of those many floors, there had to be a place to hide Smalls. All they needed to do was stay out of sight until night fell, then Smalls’s black coat could blend into the darkness. “This way,” Bertie said, herding the animals toward the building.

  “Stop right there!” A man dove in front of Bertie, making him skid to a stop. A chill ran down Bertie’s spine as he caught sight of the star-shaped badge clipped to the man’s jacket. Hoolyloo City Sheriff, it read. The sheriff glared down at Bertie with soupy brown eyes. “Are you aware that it’s against the law to travel with a wild beast, son? This bear must be transported out of city perimeters immediately!”

  “But he’s not wild,” Bertie protested. He thought quickly. “Watch for yourself. Smalls, stand!” Immediately, Smalls lifted onto his hind legs, a trick he’d done countless times in the circus. “Smalls, down,” Bertie commanded. Smalls dropped down, lying flat on the ground, like a bear-shaped rug.

  “I don’t care if he can do tricks,” the sheriff sneered. “A bear is a bear, and I want him out of my city!” His hand went to his belt, where a long, metal baton hung.

  A thousand terrible thoughts boomed through Bertie’s mind at once, like a display of fireworks gone wrong: Claude reaching for his sharp-edged stick; Lord Jest howling in pain; Bertie standing on the sidelines, watching it happen. “Run!” he screamed, pushing Smalls and Wombat toward the building. Alfie grabbed onto Wombat’s tail, holding on tightly as they all pounded across the sidewalk, dodging people left and right. The sheriff was close on their heels, yelling for them to stop, but Bertie refused to listen. He lunged for the building’s door, yanking it open.

  “In!” he yelled, ushering the animals inside. They stepped into a lobby with gleaming marble floors and a huge display of flowers in the center. Up ahead, he caught sight of an elevator, its iron door sliding open to let a group of businessmen spill out. “Ours,” he whispered fiercely. He locked eyes with Smalls. “Run,” he said, pointing to the elevator. They took off at the same time, paws and legs kicking up as they dashed toward it. Wombat followed behind, Alfie holding tightly to his tail. All around them, the lobby was exploding into a frenzy, shrieks and hollers clogging the air, but Bertie ignored it all, keeping his eyes on the elevator. If they could just get inside and close that iron door, no one would be able to get to them. Bertie was panting hard by the time he reached the elevator. He waited for the animals to pile in before leaping in after them. Quickly, he whirled around, trying to wrench the iron door shut.

  “Not so fast.”

  A hand shot through the crack in the door, giving Bertie a rough shove. As he stumbled backward, the sheriff stepped into the elevator and closed the iron door behind him. He smacked his metal baton against his palm with a loud thwack, his soupy eyes darting over to Smalls. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Look what we’ve got here.”

  Fire in the Elevator

  The sheriff pushed the button for the building’s top floor, making the elevator shoot up with a lurch. They were moving, locked in. Smiling cruelly, the sheriff took a step toward Smalls, swinging his baton through the air. On the ground, Alfie was twittering away, jabbing at the Sheriff’s ankles with his quill, but the man paid him no attention. Nor did he seemed bothered by Wombat’s furious grunts. He only had eyes for Smalls.

  “The mayor won’t be able to say I can’t catch criminals after this,” he growled, pointing his baton at Smalls. “Get ready to surrender, bear. I’m taking you down!”

  “I’d be careful if I were you,” Bertie burst out. He threw his shoulders back, standing up tall. He had an idea, but it would only work if the sheriff didn’t sense his fear. Placing a hand on Smalls’s head, Bertie looked calmly up at the Sheriff. “Remember how he did those tricks for me before? Well, he knows other commands too. Like bite. And attack.” He smiled coolly. “And, of course, kill.”

  The sheriff’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed loudly. “Kill?” he squeaked. As if on command, Smalls dropped his jaw, revealing his jagged, razor-sharp teeth. Several beads of sweat sprang up on the sheriff’s forehead.

  “Oh yes,” Bertie lied. He couldn’t imagine Smalls killing a bug, much less a man, but the sheriff didn’t know that. “That’s his favorite. He can rip out a heart in three seconds flat.” He glared up at the sheriff, who had started to sweat profusely. “And if you move that baton a single inch, I’ll have him demonstrate it for you. Or, if you prefer, you could get off at the next floor instead.”

  The sheriff backed away from Smalls, gripping the baton so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “N-next f-floor,” he stammered, jabbing at the button for floor thirteen. The elevator jolted to a stop, sending Alfie sliding into a wall.

  “Wait!” Bertie jumped in front of the sheriff, blocking the iron door. “First tell me where we can hide until nightfall. Or . . . or I’ll sic my bear on you!” He couldn’t help but smile. Standing in the man’s way, he felt bigger and stronger than he ever had, as if he’d just doubled in size.

  The color drained from the sheriff’s face, making him look ghostly. “The stairwell in the back,” he choked out, stumbling over his words. “No one uses the stairs in these tall buildings.” He pressed his back into the iron door, a greenish tint creeping into his cheeks. “Now please, just let me out!”

  “Sure,” Bertie said, stepping aside. “But don’t forget,” he added cheerfully as the sheriff dove out of the elevator, sliding the iron door shut behind him. “If you come back for us, or tell anyone about us, all I have to do is say the command and . . . well, you know the rest.”

  Adrenaline surged through Bertie as the elevator rose to a stop on the building’s very top floor. There was only one way he could think of to get Smalls to the stairwell without being noticed. He first had to clear the floor. He pushed the red emergency button on the elevator, locking it in place. “Stay,” he whispered to the animals.

  Sticking his head into the hallway, he cupped his hands around his mouth. Here goes nothing, he thought. At the top of his lungs, he shouted: “Fiiiiiire! Fire in the elevator! Save yourself! Take the stairs down!”

  “Fire in the elevator?” A woman’s high-pitched voice floated into the hallway. “Oh my, fire! FIRE! Everyone evacuate! Take the stairs!”

  As people poured out of their offices, stampeding toward the stairs, not a single person took notice of the small boy and three scruffy animals hiding in the elevator. The mass of legs flew down the hallway, their voices growing fainter and fainter as they pounded down the stairs. And then, just like that, there was silence.

  Bertie could hear the whoosh of his own breath as he stepped into the deserted hallway. It was lined with offices, desk chairs askew and abandoned. Hanging on the walls were framed sketches of motorcars. Next to a large corner office was a steel sign: Greenberg Automobiles, it read in fancy, swooping letters. “Coast is clear,” Bertie whispered. He ushered the animals out, then reached back into the elevator to release the lock button. Once the businessmen and women realized that there was no fire, they would all take the elevator back up—leaving the stairwell free for the animals to hide in. Bertie took a deep breath as he led the animals to safety. He’d done it; he’d saved them. He should have felt thrilled, elated even, but instead a soft pang reverberated through him. He just wished Susan could have been there to see it.

  • • •

  There was a small window in the stairwell, and Bertie and the animals had been staring at it for what felt like days, though it was rea
lly just several hours. Outside, the sun continued to sink in the sky as, behind the stairwell, the office work day marched on. Telephones rang, doors creaked open and slammed shut, and every once in a while someone would start yelling. But just like the sheriff had predicted, not a single person had opened the door to the white-walled stairwell.

  Bertie stood up, going over to the window for the twelfth time since they’d stowed away in there. Outside, a web of lights tangled and stretched across the sky, windows glowing in every building. But it wasn’t the lights he was looking at, or the way the buildings cast long, flickering shadows over everything. No, it was the stone wall in the distance, rising like a fortress behind the crowded city streets. In the middle of the wall was a door, and jutting high above that door were two huge, green, interconnected T’s—the same T’s that were stamped onto the wooden boy’s foot.

  “Toddle’s Toy Emporium.” Bertie touched a hand to his pocket. Somewhere behind that wall was everything they were looking for: Tilda and the wooden boy and, hopefully, Susan and Rigby. “And now I know how to get there,” he said.

  Behind him, Smalls stood up, rising onto his hind legs to peer out the window over Bertie. Night was settling in, draping everything in darkness. Soon, it would be easy for Smalls to slip into the shadows, melt into nothingness.

  Out in the hallway, the elevator door rumbled open, and voices filled the air as people piled in. “I’m so glad it’s Friday,” Smalls heard someone say. He dropped back down on all fours, nudging Bertie’s arm with his nose. He wanted to be out there, making his way toward Tilda, not in here, cooped up in a stairwell. What if the train dropped Rigby and Susan off at Toddle’s Toy Emporium, and they weren’t there to greet them? He whinnied impatiently, giving Bertie another nudge.

  “I know,” Bertie said softly, scratching him under the chin. “But we can’t go outside until we’re sure it’s safe, Smalls.” He sighed, his gaze drifting back to the window. “I refuse to lose you too.”

  So they waited in the stairwell, time creeping by. Wombat was telling Alfie all about Tilda, but Smalls couldn’t bring himself to join in. All he could do was count the seconds, moaning softly when they piled up into minutes. Finally, when so many minutes had accumulated that Smalls was sure they must have turned into hours, Bertie gave a sharp nod. Behind the door, the building was silent, and through the window Smalls could see that the sky had blackened.

  “Here we go,” Bertie whispered. Putting a hand on Smalls’s head, he led the way down the stairs.

  A Cacophony of Voices

  They stuck to back streets and alleyways as they made their way toward the tall stone wall looming in the distance. The rough pavement scratched against the pads of Smalls’s paws, but he ignored it, concentrating only on slinking through the shadows, letting the night swallow him up. Wombat and Alfie trotted behind him, nothing more than wavering shapes in the darkness. Both were uncharacteristically quiet. They had to be thinking the same thing Smalls was: this was their last shot. If they were spotted now, they might never reach Tilda and the others.

  “If we keep sticking to back streets, we should be able to make it to Toddle’s without Smalls being seen,” Bertie said, stepping carefully over a pothole. He jumped a little as a glass bottle shattered just a few feet behind them. From a window in the distance, a throaty laugh rang out.

  Smalls’s stomach churned nervously. These were dark, discarded streets, streets no young boy should be walking down, and Bertie was there because of him. He slowed his pace, sticking close to the boy’s side. I’ll protect him, he thought fiercely. No matter what, I’ll take care of him.

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard it: the whisper of voices. It started out faint, but with each step Smalls took, the sound intensified, until soon even Bertie’s human ears could hear it. Chants, rising into the air and swirling together, a cacophony of voices. “What are they saying?” Bertie whispered.

  Smalls flicked his ears back, struggling to distinguish the words. One by one, he picked them out. Bear. Catch. The. Every muscle in Smalls’s body tensed. The crowd was chanting the same three words, over and over. Catch the bear.

  Bertie made a choked sound. He looked over at Smalls, his bright eyes blackened by the darkness. “Someone must have spotted us on our way out,” he said shakily. But Smalls knew what he really meant: Someone must have spotted you.

  Smalls whirled around to face Wombat and Alfie. “We can’t let them catch us,” he breathed. “We’ll never get to Tilda then. We need somewhere to hide until they pass.”

  Alfie bent his sword between his paws. “I know just the place,” he said slowly. “Humans would never think to look for us there. But I have to warn you: it isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s a dark, unscrupulous place, filled with creatures of the city’s underworld—creatures willing to do anything to get what they want.”

  “Will it keep us away from them?” Wombat glanced over his shoulder at the dark, narrow streets behind them. Somewhere in the distance, the voices continued to build, spinning toward them like a storm.

  Alfie nodded solemnly. “No one will find us there.” Gesturing for the others to follow, he made a sharp turn, leading them down an alleyway even darker and narrower than those before it. At the end of the street sat a long row of dumpsters, each one brimming with garbage. “Prepare yourselves, friends, for the horrors of Sewer Alley. You might want to plug your noses,” he added. “Because our fate awaits us on the other side of that trash.”

  • • •

  “Step seven completed!” Tilda held out a freshly groomed paw, admiring the way its fur glistened like spun silk. “Now, step eight: smooth ears.” She had just flattened down her ears with the pads of her paws when the door to the bedroom suddenly flung open.

  Tilda froze in her place. In bustled Petunia, Chrysanthemum’s nanny. Petunia was a thick lady, with thick legs and thick arms and thick hands that, at the moment, were pushing an empty cart. “Let’s see,” she sang out. “Which of you need to be cleaned today?” She rolled the cart over to the tangled toys at the foot of Chrysanthemum’s dresser.

  “You could certainly use some work.” She wrinkled her nose as she lifted a stuffed penguin by its ear. The penguin had what appeared to be a blob of jelly matted into its back and a sticky residue on its paws. “Oh yes, you need a good scrubbing,” Petunia declared, tossing the penguin into her cart.

  Tilda’s eyes widened. “Scrubbing?” She looked down at her meticulously groomed fur, a scandalized gasp escaping from the back of her throat. “Uh uh, no way,” she whispered. “No one scrubs me but me!” She held stock-still, waiting until Petunia’s back was to her. Then, with a flying leap, she dove under Chrysanthemum’s bed. She zigzagged around dust bunnies and abandoned toys until she had her back pressed up against the wall, far out of Petunia’s reach. She gave her tail a smug twitch. “Let’s see you try to scrub me under here!”

  Karate King

  Smalls was halfway over the dumpster when he made the mistake of looking down. Underneath him, the bin was filled to the brim with spoiled food and soggy bags and rusted tins of moldy bread. The stench wafting off it was like nothing he’d ever smelled before: the worst kind of rotten, as if someone had mashed up a thousand decaying bugs into one deadly stew. His eyes darted from a browning banana peel to a scaly fish head to a piece of paper dripping with dark, gooey liquid . . . and was that a tail moving underneath it?

  He scrambled the rest of the way, nudging a doubtful-looking Bertie along with him. He’d had to practically pull the boy up onto the dumpster by his suspenders, but as they landed on the other side, Bertie broke into a smile. “This is great,” he whispered, quickly plugging up his nose. They were in a small alleyway lined with sewers. The dumpsters were behind them and on the other sides were the backs of three buildings, their curtains drawn tight. “No one in that mob would ever think to climb back here.”

  Smalls looked around as Wombat landed next to him with a disgusted snort. Alfie
came next, sliding down the corner of the dumpster with his sword pointed straight ahead. “He’s right, Alfie,” Smalls whispered. “This is perfect.”

  Behind the dumpster, the thunder of voices intensified. The sound thickened the air, each word like a dart of poison. Catch. The. Bear. Catch. The. Bear.

  “Not if we’re back here, you won’t,” Bertie muttered. Smalls pressed his muzzle into the boy’s side as the chants drew closer. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Wombat burrowing furiously at the pavement, his snout set in concentration. Next to him, Alfie was turning in circles, sword at the ready, as if he expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any second. The noise rose to a crescendo. Catch! The! Bear!

  Soon the voices were only inches away, swelling through the air and making the dumpsters rattle. “I see something,” someone shouted. Smalls stopped breathing. Bertie’s hand clamped down on his fur. There was a ruckus: feet shuffling, voices arguing, and then the noise suddenly veered left. “This way,” a man called out, his voice floating back to them from down the block.

  Smalls’s ears perked up. The men were passing; they were turning left!

  The footsteps faded sharply, the voices whistling into the distance. A minute later, there was silence.

  Bertie waited a beat before turning to Smalls, his cheeks pink with excitement. “Brilliant!” he said, scratching Smalls under his chin. “This was the perfect hiding spot.”

  “Hey, thank the hedgehog!” Alfie protested. “The one here to face this alley’s gang of huge, filthy, ferocious—”