by Will Mabbitt
Don’t you recognize me?
PICKLED ONION . . .
I am in disguise. As an ice-cream seller!
ALL MADE WITH FRESH MILK, HAND-SQUEEZED FRESH FROM THE SKUNK’S TEAT!
Quick! Duck behind my trolley.
Dawn is breaking and we are approaching our desired position in the busy market that fills the Great Square.
Push through the crowds.
So.
Many.
Pilgrims.
Though the day has only just dawned, the Great Square has been turned over to the market traders and merchants, and the city is awake and looking for bargains.
It is often said that you can buy anything from the market at Otom.
Here an old whaler from the Frozen North sells the furs from a colony of hand-clubbed seals.
“I throws in a narwhal tusk if ye buys more than a dozen.”
Behind him, the narwhal peers unhappily from a rusty tin bath full of grimy water.
A mysterious ibis from the faraway deserts of the Unknown sells shiny brooches in the shape of large scarab beetles. Such trinkets are popular among wealthy Otomites, but beware—that is no ordinary trinket! The beetle is actually alive and trained to play dead until you fall asleep, when it will go through your pockets and run back to the merchant with as much of your spare change as it can carry.
Yes, anything you could possibly want: steamed mackerel from the Cold Gray Sea, exotic spiced tobaccos from the Near Far East, or soft and creamy lizard cheese from the coastal forests of the NOO WORLD.
Anything you could possibly want . . .
Or steal.
For the market is home to the honest and the dishonest alike. The rich man, the poor man, the tinker, the thief, and the beggar.
And the living statue. Although don’t give that one any money—he actually died last week and no one’s noticed yet. That’s not performance art. That’s
rigor mortis.
Mabel Jones scratched her bum. The heavy monk’s robes she was wearing to conceal her hooman features were made of a particularly itchy fabric. She cautiously lifted the hood a little and looked around.
“Where is he?” she hissed at the monk next to her.
Jarvis peered back at her from beneath his own hood.
“I don’t know. He’s been gone a while. Maybe he’s been caught!”
“Omynus is never caught! Besides, he’s only supposed to be looking for a secret way into the palace.” Mabel frowned. “I hope he’s not stealing anything.”
“I’s not been stealing nothing,” said a sulky voice from behind them.
Mabel turned around.
“Hello, Omynus.” She went to scratch his head, but the loris pulled away.
“I’s found a ways in but it’s too dangerous-deadly-difficult for you,” he said, folding his skinny arms.
“I’m sorry, Omynus,” said Mabel. “I’m sure you weren’t stealing. Show us the way in you’ve found.”
As she spoke, Mabel sidestepped to avoid a gopher in a conical hat who was pushing through the crowd toward the cute and fluffy chick stall.
He glared at her.
“Mind where you tread!”
Mabel turned momentarily to apologize, forgetting that her face was still partly exposed.
The gopher’s eyes narrowed.
“You! What kind of creature are you?”
Mabel pulled her robes closer to her face.
“Just a humble bald-faced monkey, Your Worship.”
The gopher scowled and returned to browsing cute and fluffy chicks. “I’ll take a basket of twelve,” he snapped to the merchant. “And make sure they’re good and plump.”
Mabel turned back to Jarvis and Omynus.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s too dangerous here.”
But, as she turned to go, Mabel felt a hand tugging at her robe.
“Any money for a poor sailor who’s got no eyes?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got any money,” replied Mabel, looking nervously back toward the gopher.
The beggar tugged on her robe again, delving his paw deep into her pocket.
“Any money for a poor sailor who’s got no legs?”
There were three guardsman with the gopher now. They were all looking at her suspiciously.
“Please! I have to go!”
Mabel pulled at her robe, but still the creature held on.
“Any money for a poor sailor who’s got no hope?”
Mabel Jones finally looked down upon her unfortunate assailant. There, sitting in the gutter, small face peering from a bundle of filthy rags, was a guinea pig.
There was something strangely familiar about this beggar, though. Something about the eyes that bulged out from behind his round sunglasses . . .
The beggar smiled a toothy smile. Then he bellowed:
“A HOOMAN! A BLASPHEMY! AN ABBERATION! I’VE CAUGHT ME A HOOMAN!”
The gopher whirled around.
“I knew it! Seize that cloaked creature!”
“Quick, run!” yelled Mabel, yanking herself free.
Through the busy crowd they ran.
Ignoring the shouts of startled market-goers, Mabel, Jarvis, and Omynus ducked and weaved through the stalls and dashed into a narrow, dark alleyway that led away from the square.
A dead end!
Mabel looked back from the shadows.
A wolf soldier was standing at the end of the alleyway.
He hadn’t seen them yet, but if he just turned his head a fraction . . .
“Look!” whispered Jarvis. “Steps!”
Steps that led down into the darkness.
The wolf soldier was joined by another. Muskets drawn, they began to edge cautiously into the alley.
Quickly the three friends scampered down the steps. They led to a rusting metal grate that blocked the entrance to a dark tunnel.
Another dead end!
Jarvis grabbed the grate and shook it. It wouldn’t budge.
“We’re done for!”
“Spread out and search everywhere,” said the wolf from the top of the steps. “The blasphemy ran this way. It must be around here somewhere . . .”
The wolf took a sausage from behind his ear and munched on it as the other soldiers dispersed. Mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he peered down the steps into the darkness.
“Probably nothing down there . . .” His stomach rumbled. “Better get back to the barracks for lunch.”
Mabel sighed with relief. The soldier was leaving! Maybe there was still time to get to the palace before Speke and Carruthers set off their distraction.
But Mabel Jones had sighed too soon.
For suddenly the wolf dropped his sausage. It teetered at the top for a moment and then, to Mabel’s horror, began bouncing down the steps toward them.
Closer it bounced . . .
Closer . . .
And closer . . .
Before finally coming to a standstill at Mabel’s feet.
She tried to shuffle farther back into the shadows, but there was nowhere left to shuffle.
And now the wolf was cautiously padding down the steps.
Closer he came . . .
Closer . . .
And closer . . .
“Where is that blooming sausage?”
Mabel held her breath. In another minute the wolf would be able to see them. She gripped her cutlass and—
A tiny scruffy rat face appeared through a hole in the grate right next to Mabel’s head.
“You are in extreme danger!” it whispered.
Mabel blinked in agreement, too afraid to move or speak.
The rat’s face disappeared back into the darkness and a small door concealed in the grate slid open noiselessly—almost as though it had be
en well oiled in preparation for an occasion such as this.
Quickly Mabel, Omynus, and Jarvis stepped into the dark tunnel. The door silently slid closed behind them.
“This way,” hissed the rat, wrapping a dark raincoat around himself. He shambled farther into the gloom.
The friends followed the creature, feeling their way deeper underground. They were safe again—but for how long?
What were these mysterious tunnels?
And who was their mysterious guide?
CHAPTER 19
Their Mysterious Guide
Mabel could barely see the tiny rat as he shambled down the dark, damp, and dripping tunnel. He was a curious creature, hunched over and limping slightly. The rat paused, leaning on an old cotton swab for support, then spasmed into a dry and scrapey coughing fit.
Mabel squatted down beside him. Beneath the dirty coat that dragged along the floor, Mabel could see bald patches in his fur. His eyes were caked with crusty grime.
“Are you OK?”
The rat coughed again.
“It’s just sewer fever. I’ve got the filthy dampness in my lungs and there’s no cure apart from fresh air and clean underpants.”
Jarvis peered into the gloom, his nose wrinkling.
“This is a sewer?”
The rat nodded. “Indeed. These tunnels belong to the sewers of an ancient city built and abandoned before the founding of Otom. A hooman city!”
He paused and fumbled inside his pocket. Then there was the sound of a striking match, and a fuse hanging from the wall of the tunnel caught fire with a bright flame that burned upward to a dim lamp hanging on the side of the tunnel. Another fuse sparked and burned along the length of the tunnel to another lamp. Then another fuse was lit. Then another and another until the long tunnel was illuminated in a flickering glow.
The brick-lined tunnel sloped gently downward into the gloom. A small trickle of dirty water ran between their feet and soaked into Mabel’s slippers. And all along the tunnel’s length were openings to other tunnels: some smaller, some larger, and some as huge as vaulted chambers.
All gloomy.
All cold.
All damp.
And all very,
VERY
smelly.
“Where are you taking us?” asked Mabel.
The rat smiled grimly.
“You’ll see.”
They turned sharply into a side tunnel, then sharply once more into a smaller tunnel that led to a tight spiral staircase. The rat turned to Mabel and held out a trembling paw.
“Would you be so kind? My bones are weakened from the darkness, and the stairs are slippery with the slime of ages.”
“Of course,” said Mabel, taking the rat by the paw as they carefully descended the staircase. “I’m Mabel, by the way. Mabel Jones.”
The rat looked up at her with a tired smile.
“May St. Statham bless your kindness, Mabel Jones.”
“And this is Jarvis and Omynus Hussh.”
The rat nodded to them politely.
“You are all welcome,” he said, gesturing through a huge arched opening. “Please, my home is this way.”
The three friends gasped.
The opening was a window that looked out over a giant vaulted chamber almost a hundred feet high. ENORMOUS STALACTITES hung from the ceiling and rivers of slime branched down the walls, casting a pale eerie glow over the vast space. The chamber was half full of brown water that reflected the dull light.
But none of this compared to the gargantuan object that floated in the middle of this subterranean lake. A huge, glistening white mound, riddled with tiny paths and carved with tiny doors and windows, like a miniature city.
A city beneath the city.
The rat smiled proudly.
“Welcome to the
FATBERG.”
CHAPTER 20
The Afterlife of a Bacon Sandwich
We are in your own time now, reader. No longer in the footure but in your doomed hooman age, in a hustling and bustling, thriving city. You may recognize the grand buildings, the proud bridges, and the vainglorious monuments. Hold them in your mind. For soon they will be crumbled, fallen, or derelict.
Time is running out and we must be quick—I for one do not wish to be present when the End comes. But it is not the End in which we are interested. Not quite yet. We are interested in a beginning.
The beginning of the FATBERG.
Follow me down an unusual path that begins with the eating of a bacon sandwich and the subsequent washing-up of a used frying pan.
The rendered fat from that bacon is swept down the drain by a jet of clean water and a liberal squeeze of dish soap. Through the pipes of the kitchen it winds until it joins the main drain, where the warm liquid fat meets the rest of the sandwich—albeit chewed, digested, and compacted.
Its component parts reunited, our former bacon sandwich continues its journey to the sewer, where it joins the similarly filthy remnants of hooman life that your species gaily flushes from sight. There it separates again, the bacon fat cooling and solidifying, settling against the wall of the tunnels in GLISTENING GLOBULES of coagulated lard, bound together with the other insoluble debris of hooman life. The wet wipes, the flushed toys, the hooman hair . . .
Eventually it breaks free of its sticky moorings and travels on, deeper into the sewer, until it meets other floating masses of congealed fat, which it joins.
And so it continues, day after day, until one day it is too big to move any farther.
And there it remains. Trapped.
A floating berg of solid fat.
Growing. And growing.
And growing.
A white, sweating, monstrous form lurking beneath the city.
Until, years from your time, deep, deep into the footure, it is found.
Found by the very rat now sitting with Mabel, Jarvis, and Omynus Hussh in a round chamber hollowed into the center of the
FATBERG.
The rat wrapped his raincoat around his hunched and mangy body. Wiping his dripping nose on the back of a paw, he began to talk . . .
“My name is Findus, and this is my story.”
CHAPTER 21
Findus
“He hates us.”
Findus shivered and pulled his coat closer still.
“The Grand Zhool hates me and every one of my family.”
Mabel looked around. She hadn’t seen any other rats in the FATBERG. Maybe they’d popped out for some shopping or something.
“But why?” asked Jarvis.
“He hates us because he fears us. And he fears us because he thinks we are dirty. He thinks rats are the second dirtiest species of all time. And he hates dirt.” Findus smiled sadly. “But we weren’t dirty before he banished us to the ancient stinking sewers.”
Jarvis frowned.
“Why did he banish you?”
Findus frowned thoughtfully.
“Nobody knows for sure. But it was ten years ago, just after that outbreak of the DEADLY PLAGUE.”
He smiled at his new friends and continued. “Anyway, what we do know is that there is only one species he hates and fears more than rats. The species that built this stinking sewer, the dirtiest species to have ever lived . . .”
Mabel looked at Jarvis.
Jarvis looked at her.
“Hoomans!” they said together.
The rat nodded.
“That’s right, comrades.”
He stood, clenching his tiny paw.
“But soon the foul winds of change will blow out of the sewers and through the streets of Otom. No longer will my family be confined underground. Tomorrow, on the FESTIVAL OF ST. STATHAM, we will rise up, our courage against his army. The fight will be tough. Many rats will fall in the stree
ts of Otom, but in the end we will be free!”
Findus sat down again.
“I just hope there’s enough of us.”
Mabel looked around. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen any other rats at all since she’d entered the sewers. The odds didn’t look good, so she coughed politely and changed the subject.
“We’re trying to get into the Grand Palace. To steal something from the Grand Zhool.”
Findus placed his little paw on Mabel’s hand.
“These tunnels spread beneath the whole city. To the novice they are an impenetrable labyrinth, but I know the exact one you need. It climbs upward into the chambers of the Grand Zhool himself.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“You need to climb the Filthpipe!”
CHAPTER 22
The Filthpipe
Mabel looked at the dark hole in front of her. It was barely wide enough for her to squeeze into. The smell was almost overpowering.
I can’t do it . . .
She looked over at Findus.
“Have you ever climbed it?”
Findus scratched his scabby belly, sending flakes of dried skin floating down into the filthy water that trickled past their feet. He screwed his little nose up.
“Never,” he said. “Only the dirtiest species can brave the Filthpipe.”
Mabel grimaced.
I really can’t do it . . .
Then she thought of her mom and dad, and Maggie, her little sister. At some time—sometime soon for them perhaps—a mystery event would wipe out all the hoomans.
She needed to find out what that event was. Then maybe, just maybe, she would be able to stop it. But to do that she needed to find the DOOMSDAY BOOK.
“My name is Mabel Jones, and I’m not scared of anything.”
And, with those words, she gripped the rim of the hole and began to haul herself upward.
CHAPTER 23
A Cunning Distraction
The Grand Zhool pressed his snout into the luxurious fur collar of his luxurious fur coat and stretched his stubby legs. Then he repositioned himself slightly in his magnificent gilded throne and slowly opened his colossal jaws.