The Wild Ones

by C. Alexander London

  “That’s why the Bone must stay buried,” said the dog. “Their time in Ankle Snap Alley is over, and I will see these vermin evicted. No crazy deal some great-great-great-great-granddog of mine made will stop me from getting rid of them.”

  “Brutus was no granddog of yours,” said the cat, but Titus shot him a withering glance.

  Sixclaw yawned. He didn’t care much who he killed or why or what history had to say about it. Dogs loved territory and would do anything to claim it, but Sixclaw, like most cats, simply enjoyed the act of killing. The young raccoon’s parents were a good start, but he should’ve taken care of the young one himself, instead of leaving the hunting dogs to do it. There was, after all, nothing quite so satisfying to an outdoor cat as a young life cut short by his own claws.

  He stretched his back and crept off into the dark, the tiny bell on his collar dinging as he disappeared.

  Part III

  MAKING BONES

  Chapter Thirteen

  KIT CASSEROLE

  A sign outside of P. Ansel’s Sweet & Best-Tasting Baking Company advertised the night’s specials:

  Daily Trash Casserole

  Canned tuna and apple core with chocolate sprinkles, beef-bone-and-ant puree in an orange-and-lettuce-juice reduction sauce. Potato chip crust.

  Side of fried grubs or carrot stems (vegetarian option).

  Kit’s stomach grumbled as his uncle held the door for him. Inside, all manner of creatures had gathered to eat, filling the tattered booths, perching on the stools along the brightly lit counter, and lining up from one end of the store to the other to ogle the pastries and treats in the overflowing cases (which were made from the windshields of People’s cars).

  Kit’s eyes went wide at the stale-sourdough pudding, the lemon-peel honey brittle, the worm-and-bubble-gum-chew pies, and barrels and barrels of acorn candy. He’d never seen so many delicious scroungings.

  “Three casseroles, Ansel,” Uncle Rik called out over the crowd, and the big possum behind the counter popped his head up, his red eyes gleaming. Then he froze, completely still, with a cup of sour-cream beet sorbet in his hand. He looked like a statue of a possum serving sour-cream beet sorbet.

  “Look what you’ve done!” shouted a squirrel perched on a stool at the end of the counter. “You’ve made him play possum! It’ll take forever to get our food now!”

  “It’s not my fault,” Uncle Rik objected as all the customers glared angrily at him. Possum Ansel was the most popular chef in the alley, and folks got impatient waiting for their turn to try his famous treats. “Hey, P, wake up!” Uncle Rik snapped his claws.

  The possum shuddered and shook himself awake. All heads turned from Uncle Rik back to Ansel. His red eyes narrowed.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, Riky Two Rings,” Possum Ansel hissed, flexing his claws.

  A big badger popped his long nose out from the kitchen in the back. He wore an apron over a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his massive elbows. The big white stripe down the center of his face was speckled with chocolate frosting. “You want me to throw him to the street, Ansel?”

  “Now, listen here, Ansel, there’s no need for Otis to do that,” Uncle Rik spluttered. “I’ve got my nephew in from the Big Sky and his friend here, and we’re just trying to get some dinner. I know you and I have had our disagreements in the past, but there’s no need to resort to violence in front of the young’uns. Whatever I owe you, I swear I can pay soon. I’m just a little short on seeds right now, but if you’ll wait—”

  The badger stepped all the way from the kitchen, his body filling the door, menacing in the way only a badger in an apron can menace.

  “Hi, Otis, old pal. You’re looking well these days . . . ,” Uncle Rik simpered.

  Otis cracked his knuckles.

  “Listen, Ansel, I swear I’ll pay for my dinner tonight,” Uncle Rik pleaded.

  “Your money’s no good here,” Possum Ansel told Uncle Rik. In a corner booth, a skinny pigeon cooed. The tension crackled like a squirrel gnawing through a power line.

  “I . . . I’m just trying to . . .” Uncle Rik was at a loss for words.

  “Because whatever you want is on the house!” the possum exclaimed, throwing his paws up and bursting out in an uproarious laugh. The big badger laughed too, and all the customers cheered and clapped and barked and squawked. “You gave those Blacktail goons what for, and for that, I thank you! They shake me down once a week and never pay for their food. Any enemy of theirs is a friend of mine. Sit, please. This is your nephew? Handsome lad! And his rodent friend? Sit! Make yourselves comfortable!”

  Kit looked around for a place to sit, but all the booths were taken. Possum Ansel immediately jumped from behind the counter and shooed the skinny pigeon from his booth.

  “Hey, I was sitting there!” the pigeon objected.

  “You’ve been there an hour and had one cheese ale and half a cracker!” the possum scolded him. “These folks are heroes, and they’re hungry for real food!”

  “Sorry, Ned,” Uncle Rik apologized to the pigeon, even as he slid into the pigeon’s seat.

  “Sorry don’t smooth my feathers,” the pigeon grumbled and strutted out of the store in a huff. Kit felt bad about taking the bird’s table from him.

  “Don’t worry about Blue Neck Ned,” Uncle Rik told him. “He’ll find some other place to perch. Always does.”

  “I’ll get cooking on those casseroles,” said Possum Ansel. “And you folks enjoy yourselves. Fresh acorn bread for the table?”

  “Please,” said Kit. He loved acorn bread when his mom made it, and he was happy to taste one small reminder of home.

  “Otis, darling, bring these fellows some fresh acorn bread,” Ansel called, and Otis lumbered back into the kitchen.

  Once they were alone at the table, Uncle Rik leaned in close to Kit and Eeni. “I need to go talk to that badger for a minute,” he whispered. “You two eat up. Enjoy yourselves, and I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Kit, eagerly watching the kitchen door for the arrival of his snack and glad they might get some protection on their side. Strength ruled in Ankle Snap Alley, and Kit and Eeni had more brains to offer than brawn.

  Uncle Rik scurried into the back room, leaving Eeni and Kit to themselves again.

  “So . . . that was exciting,” said Eeni.

  “That was terrifying,” said Kit.

  “That’s life here in Ankle Snap.” Eeni shrugged. “It’s a wild place. You walk out the door, and you never know what’ll happen next.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “An animal can get used to anything,” Eeni told him. “We’re no house pets here. We adapt to the world; we don’t expect the world to adapt to us.”

  “I never thought about it like that before,” said Kit.

  “See? Already thinking in new ways.” Eeni smirked. “This here alley is an education and a half!”

  “I guess . . . but, don’t you go to school too?”

  Eeni shrugged. “My school’s the mud and mystery of life beneath the Slivered Sky.”

  “You mean, you don’t go to, like, regular—?”

  Eeni cut him off with a wave of her paw. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

  “Sorry.” Kit blushed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Eeni told him. “By the way . . . I’m real sorry about your parents.”

  “Yeah.” Kit wiped his eye with his paw. “Like you said . . . we adapt. It’s what wild animals do.”

  Eeni nodded. “You’re a quick learner, Kit.”

  “I sort of have to be now that I’m an orphan,” he told her. “But I made my mother a promise, and if I can figure out what’s so important about this clue, then I’ll be able to—”

  Just then, a loud clatter interrupted him
, followed by crashing noise. He’d barely cocked his ears in the direction of the kitchen, when Uncle Rik came flying backward through the door and smashed into three heaping plates of piping-hot trash casserole. An instant later, Otis came flying through the door and smashed into the pastry case, crushing all the liver cakes and marrow cookies into crumbs.

  The customers gasped and cried out. Possum Ansel froze in place once more. Uncle Rik groaned on the ground, and Otis stood up from the wrecked case and flexed his fists. He charged back into the kitchen.

  Faster than a hummingbird’s wink, the badger came flying back out of the kitchen again just as Uncle Rik stood up again, and the big fellow landed flat on top of the dazed raccoon, smashing them both back down into the ruined pastry case. This time badger and raccoon were knocked out cold.

  And then Kit heard the tinkling of a tiny bell.

  Ding-ding-ding.

  His blood froze in his veins. A large orange cat slipped into the dining room and licked the baking sugar from his front paw.

  Sixclaw.

  The cat glanced around the room and grinned. “Business is closed for the night,” the cat said. “Everyone out.”

  The customers popped to their paws, feet, and claws and bolted through the front door. The possum played possum still; the badger and Uncle Rik lay side by side on the ground, and the cat fixed his yellow gaze on Kit and Eeni.

  “You, Kit, I’d kindly ask to stick around,” the cat meowed, although his meow was about as cute and cuddly as a sack of rusted razor blades.

  “You . . . you . . . ,” Kit stammered.

  “Oh, Kit.” The cat chuckled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again. Or, should I say, eat you again. This is a restaurant after all, and I’d love some Kit casserole.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE PARISH SCRIBE

  SIXCLAW smoothed his ears with his paw, flashing all six of his claws at the same time. Eeni glanced to the restaurant door, then back to the cat again, which seemed to amuse him.

  “Try to run and I’ll be burping up your bones before your paws hit the floor,” he said.

  Kit jumped from the booth and pulled the garbage-can-lid tabletop up with him, holding it like a shield. He put himself and his shield in front of Eeni without hesitation. “You leave her alone,” he barked.

  The cat burst into a fit of laughter. “He-he, ha-ha! What a sight! Honor among vermin!” The cat’s laughter stopped as suddenly as it started. “Too bad it won’t save you.”

  With one paw, Sixclaw grabbed a broken shard of the pastry case from the floor and tossed the glass at Kit’s table-shield. Kit batted the projectile away, which left part of his right side exposed. The cat’s other paw lashed out, swiping so fast Kit barely had time to leap backward to avoid being gutted on the spot. He tripped over Eeni, and they both tumbled to the floor on their backs, Kit still holding the shield over them.

  Sixclaw’s swipe left six red gashes across the light gray fur of Kit’s belly, but before he even felt the sting of the wound, the cat pounced. He slammed his weight down onto the shield, pinning Kit beneath it. Eeni squirmed free to avoid being suffocated in his fur.

  She saw a book of People’s matches that Ansel used to burn the sugar on top of his sweet and savory sardine brûlée, and she dove for it.

  Just before Eeni’s paw gripped one of the wooden fire sticks, Sixclaw jabbed one claw clean through her tail, pinning her in place, while the rest of him still held Kit down.

  “Ahh!” Eeni screamed. The matches were just out of reach.

  “I think no fire for you, little rat,” Sixclaw told her. “You Wild Ones are not supposed to have People’s things, and I do hate the smell of singed fur.” He dug his claw deeper into her tail, and she did her best not to scream again, still straining to reach the matches. With one flick of his tail, Sixclaw swished them away from her and turned his attention back to Kit. “I fear you are out of tricks, young one. And now it’s time to die.”

  He opened his mouth, showing his fangs, just as sharp and deadly as his claws, but before he could bite down on Kit’s neck, he was struck in the face with a shining brown acorn.

  “What in the soggy sardine was that?” The cat turned, just in time to get another acorn in the eye, and then another right between the eyes. “Ow!” he yelled, and Kit used the distracted moment to heave up the shield and knock Sixclaw off him.

  The cat released Eeni too, as he had to jump away from a sudden barrage of hard acorns aimed straight for his head at high velocity. “Ah! Stop it, you vermin,” he shouted, seeking shelter behind the ruins of the counter he’d destroyed, and finding none, continued to leap this way and that, hit over and over again by an unceasing hail of nuts.

  Kit saw the source of his salvation: six mice, their robes bright white, manning tiny catapults made from mousetraps, and behind them, in a straight line to the front door, six more mice, passing acorns in to the firing squad, so they would never run out of ammunition. Sixclaw was pressed against the back of the shop, cowering and covering his head with his forepaws.

  One of the mice stepped forward and raised a tiny fist. The barrage of nuts ceased, and Sixclaw peered through his fingers at his assailant.

  “I am Martyn of the Church Mice, Chief Scribe of this parish, and you, Sixclaw, are trespassing. Begone now or face our wrath!”

  Kit recognized the mouse from the alley. This was the one who’d handed him the pamphlet.

  Sixclaw lowered his paws to the ground so he stood again on all fours. “You and your kind’ve no right to this alley. It was loaned to you for seven hundred and seven seasons and those seven hundred and seven seasons are up.”

  “No,” said the mouse. “We know there was another deal, between Azban, the First Raccoon, and Brutus, Duke of Dogs. Brutus made a bet and lost, and our mousecestors were the scribes who signed the deal upon the Bone of Contention. The deal gives the Wild Ones the right to this turf for all time.”

  “And if this Bone was real, you’d have showed it generations ago,” scoffed the cat.

  “The Bone is real,” Martyn replied calmly. “And you are in no position to argue.”

  The cat’s big yellow eyes stared at the mouse, his bell dinged, and he spat on the ground. “Choke on cheese, church mouse!”

  Martyn lowered his fist, and another hail of nuts pelted Sixclaw.

  “Ahh, enough, enough,” the cat yelled. “Fine!”

  Martyn raised his fist and the barrage stopped.

  “Know this, vermin,” the cat shouted so that even the cowering animals outside the shop could hear him. “Without that Bone, you’ve no proof you belong here. Any of you who are still in Ankle Snap Alley in two days’ time will face the wrath of the Flealess. Not even your gang of Rascals will keep us from driving you out of this place forever.”

  “I have a counteroffer,” said Martyn. “You tell the Flealess they are not welcome here in Ankle Snap Alley anymore. Not a cat, not a dog, not so much as a hamster. This is a place for the Wild Ones, and any house pet who dares disturb us again will be in violation of the ancient treaties and will face dire consequences.”

  “I eat mice like you for breakfast!” the cat hissed, but he turned to leave through the back door, the way he’d come. Just before exiting, he stopped. His tail swished against the ceiling, and he spoke over his shoulder. “There won’t always be someone to save you, Kit. We’ll meet again, and I promise, it will be painful.”

  “Go!” Martyn shouted.

  The cat left the restaurant, meowing sweetly as he strolled away, his tiny bell tinkling.

  The mouse turned to Kit. “You’re bleeding.”

  “My uncle is hurt worse,” said Kit. “I think the cat knocked him out. And Eeni’s tail could use a bandage probably.”

  “My acolytes will tend to their wounds,” Martyn said.

  “Your what?” Kit had never heard that wo
rd before, and he feared Martyn would be another fast-talking alley creature.

  “Ac-o-lytes,” Martyn repeated slowly. “It means my followers. They are members of my faith, and you can trust them with your friends. Not only have they studied the healers’ textbooks, they wrote them. We mice do all the writing here. But now you must come with me. We haven’t much time to lose. If we do not find the Bone of Contention, all our arguments will be for naught. It is the only proof we have that our kind belongs here. Come along!”

  “Our kind?” Kit wondered. “We’re not the same kind, though. You’re a mouse.”

  “We are all mice in the eyes of—” Martyn began to recite. “Oh, never mind, what I mean is, we’re all wild so we’re all in this together against the Flealess. Now come on!” He grabbed Kit by the jacket and tried to tug him out of the bakery.

  Kit just looked down at him, unmoving.

  “Hey, mouse,” Eeni interjected, even as she clutched her bleeding tail in her paw. “Wherever Kit goes, I go. We made a promise. Howl to snap.”

  “If you wish, young lady.” Martyn let go of Kit’s jacket and brushed himself off. “Perhaps it is for the best if we go together. We are going to see a friend of yours . . . well, one friend who is many friends.”

  Eeni seemed to understand what the mouse meant, though Kit didn’t. She dropped her tail and her arms hung at her sides. “You mean . . . ?”

  Martyn took a deep breath. “We have an appointment,” he said.

  “With who?” Kit wondered.

  “With whom,” corrected Eeni.

  “With the Rat King,” Martyn said.

  “The Rat King doesn’t make appointments.” Eeni shook her head. “The Rat King hasn’t had an appointment in hundreds of seasons. Everyone knows that.”

  “Three hundred and twenty-four seasons, to be precise,” said Martyn. “Which is when my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmouse made this very appointment. So I think we should not keep him waiting any longer, don’t you?”

  “I guess not,” said Kit. “But . . . uh, who is the Rat King?”