From the roof of the Rascals’ van beside the Flealess, a troop of church mice appeared, wearing camouflage robes and armed with rubber band catapults and sharpened pencil spears.
Straight behind Titus, blocking the entrance to the alley, was a gaggle of creatures, rabbit and rat and ferret and stoat, rooster and frog and mangy dog, and in the front of this motley band was Kit, his front arms poking through tin cans he’d fashioned into armor, his hat tipped back on his head, and his eyes locked square on the eyes of his enemy.
“But how—?” Titus wondered. He hadn’t smelled any of this army. They’d been hiding all around him, and he’d not caught the slightest scent. That’s when he realized . . . those clever creatures stank up the alley on purpose. It was a trick!
Sixclaw whipped out the pouch that held Martyn and pulled the church mouse out, waving him in the air in front of Kit’s army.
“You forget I’ve still got another hostage,” said Sixclaw.
“Forget about me!” shouted Martyn. “I only regret that I have but one life to give for mousekind!”
“He knows we’re not all mice, right?” Eeni whispered to Kit.
Kit shrugged. “We’re all of one claw to him.” He turned his attention to the Flealess horde. “No one’s giving their lives today, brave scribe. Surrender now, Flealess, and you can go home to your masters. Surrender and live. The alley’s big enough for us to share.”
“Never!” shouted Mr. Peebles, striking a match and raising the flame into the air.
The Flealess army howled in response. They charged.
As the Flealess rushed forward, Kit almost lost his nerve. Basil slithered across the broken ground like a lightning bolt cutting the sky. The dogs leaped like crashing waves, and the cats cut the air like switchblades.
Kit stumbled backward at the sight, but Eeni touched his paw and gave him an encouraging nod.
“It’s a good plan,” she said. “And it’s time to do it.”
Kit nodded. He stepped forward, raised a paw in the air, and let slip his bark of war: “Aooooo!”
The battle for Ankle Snap Alley had begun.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE BARK OF BATTLE
AS the Flealess attacked in a solid wall of fur and scale and feather, the squirrels perched high atop the Gnarly Oak Apartments chattered their teeth against the heavy black power line that ran between the People’s buildings. With great care and tremendous speed, they gnawed through it, and the line fell. It crashed to the ground in front of the advancing army with a flash of spark and flame.
The electric current popped against the earth; the line snaked and danced and cut the Flealess charge short. The house pets skittered and tried to dodge the sizzling wire. Those in the lead of the attack yelped as the sparks singed their fur, and a particularly unfortunate tabby cat who’d covered his paws in metal nails found himself unable to break free of the electricity.
“Ahh!!” he hissed as his fur fried around him. The pit bull with a giant chew toy in his mouth smacked the tabby sideways, knocking him free of the shocks, but also knocking the cat unconscious in the process.
The houses and streetlights and all the People’s things that pulled electricity from that line went dark. People walking past on the sidewalks of the city stopped to listen to the great clamor of hoots and barks and screeches that accompanied the plunge into powerlessness.
Perhaps they thought it quaint how nature intruded on their city life, how the animals made their funny noises just as the power went out. They had no idea that on the other side of their buildings—in the rough-and-tumble alley where they dared not go themselves—the battle for the fate of the wild was raging.
In the chaos the electric wire caused, Martyn opened his little jaws wide and bit down on Sixclaw’s sixth claw as hard as he could.
“Yoowww!” Sixclaw hooted as Martyn jumped free of his clutches, scurrying across the battlefield toward his faithful acolytes.
“Go, Strike Force,” Kit yelled. “Strike!”
Seeing their leader was free, the church mice atop the van launched their catapults on the panicked Flealess army, pelting them with rocks and seeds and nuts.
The bearded lizard raised her blowgun to her lips to take out Martyn with a well-aimed needle, only to find the straw suddenly snatched from her claws by an arm that shot up from the dirt below. The ground in front of her quaked, and a cadre of moles burst up, hauling armfuls of rocks. The first mole turned the straw around on the lizard and pointed it between her eyes.
“Best be fleeing now, you cold-blooded monster,” the mole said.
The lizard ran backward so fast, she tripped over her own tail and got her head stuck in the broken bicycle wheel. She kept running home, with no idea what her People would think when they had to pry the wheel off her that evening.
“Regroup! Attack!” Titus shouted to his chaotic horde before they all fled the field of battle.
“Air assault! Let ’em fly!” Kit yelled, and the pigeons took to the air, along with the finches, owls, and any other birds who’d grown tired of their friends and family becoming snack food for overfed outdoor cats.
Their droppings coated the Flealess, blinding them and making the ground slick with filth.
“Disgusting!” the pit bull with the giant bone yelled. He dropped his bone and tried to lick the bird droppings off his own tail, chasing himself in circles. A hail of acorns rained upon him from the hens of the roof.
“At them!” Titus commanded, and the Flealess air force of parrots and parakeets and one well-trained starling burst into the sky to meet the wild birds. Talon clashed with talon and beak with beak as the birds drew blood.
“Ground assault!” Kit yelled. “Charge!”
And the animals of Ankle Snap Alley charged.
The Blacktail brothers ran at the pit bull with the big chew toy. They ran side by side in armor made from discarded paperback books. Shane had a pawful of sharp can lids to throw, and Flynn had a fork and knife. He slashed and whirled and sent his foes running. The big pit bull charged to meet the brothers, matching them blow for blow and snarl for snarl.
Enrique Gallo strutted into the fray, his razor-sharp talons flashing this way and that. He cut through the studded clothesline held by the Siamese cats, who spun on him and tried to sink their claws into his back. He pecked himself free just as Mr. Peebles struck his match to singe the rooster’s feathers. Enrique jumped the thrusting flame, the hamster missed, and the porcupine called the Teacher stabbed a quill through the little matchbook, swiping it away.
“En garde,” said the porcupine.
“Eek!” said the disarmed hamster.
Possum Ansel and Otis the badger fought side by side. Ansel blinded an attacking terrier with a handful of sunflower salt, while Otis laid the terrier flat with one massive punch. A red-furred Persian cat with fresh finch on his breath snuck up behind them and bit Ansel’s neck, making him fall frozen where he lay.
“You lay off my possum,” Otis roared, and clubbed the cat so hard with a trash can lid that the cat’s paws sank three inches down into the concrete. Ansel popped up again to his feet. The cat did not.
“Show no mercy to the filthy vermin,” Titus yelled.
“Trying, General T! Aieee!” Mr. Peebles squeaked out. He was being chased in circles by the porcupine and yelping every time a quill poked him in the backside.
Basil raced for the old turtle, whom he found resting by the door to the van.
“Ssssorry, Bossss,” said the snake. “But I’m the bossss now.”
He struck, but the turtle simply vanished into his shell. Basil smacked his nose into the dirt. He whipped his body around and coiled himself over the turtle shell, squeezing as hard as he could, but to no effect.
From inside his shell, the turtle calmly called out, “I’ve outlived more snakes than you will ever meet in
your life, Basil. You should never have betrayed the Rascals.”
“Nope, certainly not,” added Flynn, standing behind Basil now.
“Bad move, indeed,” said Shane, beside his brother.
Before Basil could uncoil from the turtle to attack them, they’d jumped on their former partner in crime with their blades flashing. Flynn’s fork pinned the snake’s tail into the dirt, as Shane sent a can lid sailing at his head. Basil dodged it and then another and one more after that. They clattered off the side of the van behind him.
Distracted by the attack, Basil didn’t see the turtle pop from his shell until it was too late to dodge a punch in the face that sent him sprawling on his back.
“Ugh!” he grunted, as his body pulled against the fork jabbed into his skin. He wiggled but couldn’t free himself. The boss stood over him.
“Now that we’ve got a prisoner . . . ,” said the turtle. “Perhaps I should call the teacher over for a lesson.”
“Forget thissss!” Basil cried and, with a wiggle and twist, shed his skin, sliding away from his old friends by darting beneath the van and racing from Ankle Snap Alley.
“Good riddance!” Shane yelled after him.
“And don’t come back!” Flynn added.
“Good job, boys,” said the boss. “Now get back in the fight and show those prissy pets the meaning of pain.”
The raccoon brothers bounded back into the battle.
Titus stood behind his army, watching the fight unfold. Across the battlefield, he locked eyes with Kit. He snarled and pawed at the dirt, then bounded straight in the pesky raccoon’s direction.
Even though the gray dog was small and thin, he looked bigger than any other creature as he ran across the alley. His eyes were possessed by the madness of war; his jaws snapped this way and that. He bit the stoat and tossed him aside like a chew toy that’d lost its stuffing. He clamped his teeth down on the frog in the fur-trimmed coat and then trampled him underfoot, before the frog could mutter so much as a “heyo!”
“The lad’s mine!” Sixclaw yelled, when he saw Titus running at Kit. The cat tossed three moles aside with one terrible swipe of his claw. “I want the head!”
“What is with you and your heads?!” Titus yelled back at him.
They ran, and as they ran, hidden traps sprang around them, but the two beasts moved so fast, so nimbly, that the traps snapped shut only on empty air in their wake.
Snap, snap, snap echoed off the high houses.
Squawk! Squawk! Squawk! cried the battling birds above.
Fighting animals snarled and barked all around.
“What now?” Kit wondered, as the dog and the cat rushed at him. Eeni and Uncle Rik still stood by his side.
“Well, there’s the oldest tradition our kind has,” Uncle Rik said.
“What’s that?” Kit wondered, hoping it didn’t involve him getting torn apart by a dog and a cat.
“An old-fashioned brawl,” said Uncle Rik.
“I’ve never brawled before,” said Kit.
“Well,” Eeni instructed him, “the most important thing to remember is this: Don’t get killed.”
“Uh . . . thanks?” Kit flexed his claws. He’d never been in a fight in his life. He liked to win with wits and words. He wished he could think of a thing to say to stop this fight . . . but it was his words that had started it in the first place.
“Don’t worry, Kit.” Uncle Rik held his paw up. “We’re fighting right beside you. Howl to snap.”
“Howl to snap,” added Eeni.
“For the Wild Ones!” Uncle Rik yelled, then charged forward to meet the little gray dog, whose jaws were wet with slobber and red with blood.
“For the Wild Ones!” yelled Eeni, charging after him.
“For my parents!” yelled Kit, and raced into the fray, his eyes fixed firmly on the six-clawed cat.
The bloodlust that overtook Kit as he ran wasn’t a pretty feeling, and it wasn’t nice, but the wild places of this world aren’t always pretty and they aren’t always nice. Kit was an animal after all, and he was about to unleash his wild side.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CLAWS UP
WHILE Uncle Rik fought his way toward Titus, Kit scurried and weaved through the fight toward the orange cat.
He dove between the legs of the stray dog, Rocks, struggling to wrench the pit bull’s chew toy from his grasp. The skunk from Larkanon’s sprayed the pit bull straight in the face with his stench.
“Aw, disgusting,” the pit bull cried, dropping the toy. “First bird poop? Now skunk spray? I’m going home!”
The pit bull left the battle, bruised, bloodied, and stinking.
Kit couldn’t see Sixclaw anymore. He scanned the fracas for a flash of orange fur, but saw none. Two dogs in brightly colored collars had a fox in a three-piece suit pressed against a wall by the neck, where they took turns ramming him in the stomach with their heads and laughing. Mr. Peebles was now fighting the teacher with one of the porcupine’s own quills, matching him jab for jab and poke for poke.
In other spots, outdoor cats had stepped on traps and the mice had taken them prisoner. Dogs fled from rabbit punches, and the pigeons had sent the parrots flying south early. Kit couldn’t tell who was winning the battle and who was losing, such was the chaos of fur and feather before him.
But then he saw Eeni, high in the air, slung over the back of the bright orange cat, who was carrying her away toward the fence and the train tracks below.
He glanced over to where his uncle was fighting Titus. Otis and Ansel had joined him, the three of them against the one miniature greyhound, but the small gray dog whirled and knocked them back with paws and teeth. He kicked the badger between the eyes, snapped his jaws at the possum, and whacked Uncle Rik sideways with his tail.
“Nice try, vermin!” the little dog taunted. “But I’ve studied with the greatest claw-jitsu masters in the world.” He jumped and knocked Ansel into Otis, then flipped Uncle Rik onto his back. “Ha-ha!” he cried.
“Ahh!” Kit heard Eeni’s scream.
“Go!” Uncle Rik panted, lifting himself to his feet and spitting the blood from his snout. “We’ll keep this mutt busy.”
“Who are you calling a mutt, ringtail?” Titus snarled. “I’m a purebred, and you’re worm food!”
“Come at me!” Uncle Rik barked, and Titus charged.
•••
At the fence over the train tracks, Sixclaw stopped. The cat carefully bound Eeni to the wire with twist ties at her wrists and ankles. He ran a claw under her chin and he smiled. “Let’s just see how clever your friend is now, shall we?”
Eeni spat in the cat’s face. “You’re a hairball with fangs!”
The cat blinked his bright yellow eyes and licked the spittle off his nose. “Well, you’re just a filthy white rat who’s going to be forgotten as soon as she’s been eaten. Not even your mommy will cry for you.”
Eeni flinched as if she’d been punched. Sometimes the worst wounds came from words, not claws.
The cat grinned. “Oh yes, I know all about you,” he whispered into Eeni’s ear. His face loomed giant next to hers. “The eldest girl of your family always joins the Rat King. An unbroken chain from your mother and your grandmother all the way back as far as memory goes. Except you broke that chain. You dropped out of school, refused to volunteer, and now, unlike any daughter in your family before you, you will die all alone . . . just as soon as I kill that pesky raccoon pal of yours.”
“Well, you better hurry up,” said Kit, catching his breath. “Because we haven’t got all day to wait for you.”
The cat turned to face him.
“Let my friend go,” said Kit. “And we can settle this.”
“We can settle this even if I don’t let your friend go,” said Sixclaw. “You forget, you have nothing to offer me but y
our life, and that I plan to steal.”
“You can’t steal what’s freely given,” said Kit, opening his paws wide in a gesture of surrender. “Let her go, and you can do with me what you please.”
“Kit, no!” cried Eeni.
Kit nodded. “Too many innocent creatures are getting hurt.”
“But you can’t sacrifice yourself,” said Eeni. “You’re my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” said Kit, “so I have to. But please, Eeni, do me a favor when I’m gone?”
“What favor?” Eeni asked, stifling a sob.
“Please, stay out of the sewers,” Kit said. “Gayle’s still hungry, and it’s not safe there. I told her I’d ring the dinner bell when it was time to eat . . . and I haven’t yet.”
He winked at Eeni.
“So, please,” he pleaded. “Don’t go in the sewers.”
Eeni nodded. “Okay, Kit, I promise. I won’t go in the sewers.”
“Adorable,” said Sixclaw. “Friendship among vermin.”
The cat untied Eeni, then picked her up by her neck, pinched between his claws, about to let her go.
But he did not let her go. He laughed, and the little bell around his neck tinkled as he laughed.
Kit tensed.
“You see, I don’t want you to surrender, Kit,” Sixclaw said. “I want the thrill of the kill. I’m a cat, after all. That’s what I do. I kill vermin.”
He lifted Eeni up higher and held her over the sewer grate.
“Please, sir,” Kit pleaded. “No matter what you do, don’t drop her into the sewers with the hungry alligator.”
“Oh, well, when you ask me that way . . .” Sixclaw laughed and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed Eeni down the drainage grate into Gayle’s sewer.
“Ahh!” Eeni yelled, but she winked at Kit as she fell. The cat didn’t even notice her quick pickpocket paws snatching his collar off as she flew. The bell dinged once before she and it were silenced in the darkness below.
The Wild Ones Page 14