The Night of the Sciurus

by Linda Watkins

  The refrigerator was empty except for staples so I turned to the cabinets. There was some instant rice I could cook up and some pretty harmless chicken soup. Petey had only had a little dog food earlier, so I mixed the rice and soup together and warmed it for him in the microwave.

  “Here you go, boy,” I said, placing a bowl in front of him.

  I nuked a can of tomato soup for myself and forced it down. I tried to call nine-one-one again and the police station, but no one answered.

  I finished my soup. Petey was now pacing back and forth, growing agitated. Assuming he needed to relieve himself, I hunted around until I found some old newspapers and placed them on the kitchen floor by the slider.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to use these, buddy,” I said.

  The dog reluctantly did his business and, when he was done, I cleaned it up. Then, without much else to do, I curled up on the family room couch and closed my eyes. Petey jumped up beside me and we both entered into a fitful sleep.

  12

  Invasion

  I WOKE WITH a start.

  Blinking my eyes rapidly, I tried to focus. Petey was no longer by my side.

  I glanced at my watch – it was four a.m.

  “Petey!” I called. “Where the hell are you?”

  Not unexpectedly, the dog didn’t answer, so I got up, stretched, and went in search of him.

  It didn’t take long to find him. Curiously, he was on point outside the doors that led to the master bedroom. And, he was growling.

  “What is it, boy?” I whispered. “What’s in there that’s got you so wound up?”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. All of his attention was focused on the door and, possibly, what lay behind it.

  “What’s in there, Petey?” I asked, wishing he’d suddenly be blessed with the gift of speech.

  He finally answered, but not in words.

  “Grrrrrrr.”

  His growl was louder and more forceful than I’d ever heard before and, with some trepidation, I put my ear to the door, listening for whatever was behind it.

  At first, I heard nothing, but then the sound of a faint scraping or scratching assailed my ears, as if something or someone were digging at the walls. As I strained to hear, the noise got louder.

  It was the squirrels. It had to be.

  My heart began to pound. They were coming for us. We were to be allowed no sanctuary. If they got in, odds were we would soon be as dead as that policeman, poor Ruth, and God only knows how many others.

  Main Street.

  It was our only chance.

  I led Petey away from the door, then looked out into the night. Just two more lawns to cross.

  We can do it, I told myself, though deep inside I had plenty of doubts.

  I glanced at my down coat which was still lying in the entryway. The back of it was shredded. I would need something new.

  I was about to look in the hall closet, but a sound from outside made me stop.

  An engine – like the hum of a tractor or lawn mower.

  I put my plans for escape aside and looked out the window. A man wearing a football helmet and other protective gear was riding down the middle of our street on a lawn tractor!

  I didn’t recognize him at first, he had so much outerwear on. But, as he approached the area in front of the house, I realized it was Mr. Martinson, who lived at the far end of the lane.

  He was in his mid-fifties and, from what I could see, kept himself fit. He was divorced, but had a whole slew of children, all grown, who visited frequently. I hadn’t spoken to him much, but now wished I had. The squirrels had become the equalizer in this neighborhood – we were all the same now – victims – hostages whose only chance was escape.

  I opened the front door and stood staring at him through the screen. He must have caught my movement, because he looked in my direction and waved. He yelled something – I thought it was “I’ll bring help,” but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  Unconsciously, I crossed my fingers, praying he would make it to Main Street.

  He was just approaching my driveway when they attacked. Quickly, he increased the mower’s speed and turned on the cutting apparatus. Squirrels trying to scurry up over the deck found themselves surprised, caught by the whirling blades. The result was horrific and I jumped away from the door as bits and pieces of squirrel meat and bone flew through the air.

  “He’s going to make it,” I said to Petey, who was standing by my side.

  But then, the unthinkable happened. The tractor stopped – stalled – and I watched as Martinson tried desperately to get it started again.

  He was just yards from me and I yelled at him through the screen door. “Come here! Run! Get inside now!”

  He stared at me, then after one last attempt to get the blasted mower going, jumped from the seat and began to sprint toward us. His foot touched the first porch step and I opened the door for him.

  But inexplicably he stopped moving forward.

  His face, which had been ruddy, suddenly turned white and then a sickly shade of gray. His features contorted in pain and he grabbed his left arm.

  Heart attack!

  He collapsed to his knees and I reached out to try to help him inside to safety, but he was unconscious. Not knowing what else to do, I gripped him under the armpits and began to drag him up the steps.

  The squirrels were strangely silent – watching my efforts. Surprisingly, they made no move to attack him.

  This puzzled me, but I had no time to dwell on their behavior now. I had to get his man inside to see if I could save him.

  Finally, with the football helmet banging against the final step, I pulled him into the house and shut the door. I knelt beside him, trying to feel for a pulse. There was nothing. I tried what I knew of CPR but the man was gone.

  Hot tears of grief and anger exploded from my eyes as I grabbed an afghan from the back of the sofa and covered him with it. I said a brief prayer, then walked back to the kitchen and poured myself the last of the wine.

  As I sat sipping my drink, I tried to wrap my head around what had just happened. Martinson had a good idea using the tractor. However, the squirrels had been onto him from the get-go. Why? It had to be the noise – that steady hum of the tractor’s engine. I thought about the other two people who’d died. Ruth – she’d been yelling as she ran. And, the policemen – there’d been noise from his car’s engine as well as the flashing lights on top. The only ones I knew of who’d survived being outside were Petey and me. Why?

  Was it because we were quiet – stealthy – and had somehow fooled the squirrels?

  But why hadn’t the little varmints attacked Martinson after he collapsed? Did they sense he was already dead? Was that what their endgame was – all of us dead? They had mutilated the officer’s body, but they hadn’t eaten him or torn him apart. Same for Ruth – after she died they left her lying in her driveway.

  My mind strayed to the phenomenon of Main Street. Why was that place a safe haven? I finished my wine, mulling this over.

  No tall oaks, I decided. Could it be that the squirrels just wanted the trees? A place to build their nests that also provides abundant food? Are they actually just trying to survive?

  I lay my head on the counter, too emotionally drained to think any longer. I needed my dog.

  “Petey!” I called. “Come!”

  The patter of his nails on the tile floor was music to my ears and, as he pressed his body close to mine, I buried my hands and head in the soft tangle of his fur and let the tears come once again.

  We sat quietly for a while, then Petey disengaged himself from my arms and returned to the bedroom door. I followed.

  The noise inside the room was louder now – it sounded like hundreds of tiny teeth and claws scratching and biting – trying to find a way inside – a way to get to us.

  I was out of options. We had to leave. There would be no waiting until morning.

  13

  Escape

 
I LEFT PETEY guarding the door while I, once again, began to search for items to protect us on the short journey to Main Street. As I walked to the entryway, I paused next to the afghan-covered body of Mr. Martinson. His football helmet could provide a lot of protection. He was lying face down and I grimaced at the thought of turning him over to get at the chin strap.

  I hesitated. It seemed sort of sacrilegious – a desecration of the dead. But then I thought about my daughter and, taking a deep breath, I knelt down and rolled his corpse over.

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Martinson,” I said as I removed the helmet. “But I’ve got a family to think about and you don’t need this anymore.”

  I put the helmet on the couch, then searched through in the hall closet. Hanging inside were several lightweight jackets and coats. Nothing heavy. This was spring-summer stuff. The winter gear was probably tucked away in the back of the bedroom closet, but nothing and no one was going to get me to go into that room. Not for all the tea in China. Not even for a Mylar jacket and pants set.

  Maybe upstairs, I thought. In one of the guest bedrooms.

  I ventured to the second floor and searched each room methodically. Finally, in the third bedroom, I found gold – ski apparel.

  “Must be their grandkids’ stuff,” I said.

  Eyeballing the outfits, I decided on a pair of padded ski pants and a longer, probably boy’s, down jacket.

  The ski pants were a little small for me and only came down to the top of my ankles, but they were better than the gardening gear I had on and my leather boots would provide needed coverage. The jacket, however, was large, but that was a good thing. I could still wear my leather coat underneath.

  Having gotten myself sorted out, I turned to the problem of Petey. He had his two dog coats, however, they were shredded in spots. Glancing around the living room, I got an idea. I went back to the kitchen and looked in all the drawers. I finally found the one I wanted.

  A utility drawer.

  Inside, I found another can of pepper spray and the item I’d been looking for – a roll of duct tape.

  “Come here, Petey,” I said, returning to the living room.

  I dressed him in his two coats, then grabbed a couple of small, decorative pillows from one of the chairs. I placed the pillows strategically on either side of him and secured them in place with the duct tape, which I wound around his body. Last, but not least, I put his booties back on.

  “There,” I said to my dog. “It may be a bit cumbersome but it will help.”

  Now it was time for me to get ready. I donned my layers and topped everything off with Martinson’s football helmet.

  Dressed for the slopes or the gridiron, I took one of the canisters of spray and tucked it into the pocket of my jacket. Back at the utility drawer, I found a box cutter and, while I didn’t have much hope that I could survive close combat, I tucked that away also. I put my cell and charger in the down jacket’s inside pocket.

  I hurried as I got ready. Time was slipping away. The sounds from the bedroom were more audible now. We could even hear them from the kitchen. Petey was panting rapidly, looking nervously toward the bedroom door.

  I glanced out the window. The rain had stopped. Not a plus for us. But everything seemed quiet. All we needed was a little luck.

  As before, I opted to start our journey out the back door, hoping to catch the squirrels napping. As I stepped outdoors, I said a small prayer, hoping that, God willing, I would see my daughter again.

  Petey and I headed around the side of the house, making our way carefully past the Hartmans’ garbage cans and raised garden bed.

  Even though it was approaching daybreak, it was still dark out – the moon hidden behind cloud cover. I was afraid I would attract attention if I used my flashlight, so we had to move slowly to keep from falling or knocking something over.

  We edged around to the front of the house. So far, everything remained still – no sign of any rodents.

  I held one of the cans of pepper spray out in front of me as we walked. We made it across the first front lawn without incident and I was beginning to relax. Main Street was only yards away. I began to think we were going to make it.

  I stepped onto the driveway of the house on the corner of our street and Main. I cringed as the heels of my boots hitting the bare concrete resounded like a jackhammer in the still of the night.

  For a moment, I froze.

  Was that a faint stirring in the branches above? Could it be the wind?

  I thought not.

  Petey was now staring up toward the trees, pulling on his lead. A soft growl emanated from his throat and I saw his lips curl back into a snarl.

  Something was scurrying above. We’d been discovered.

  They would soon be upon us.

  “Run, Petey!” I cried. “Run for the street!”

  I dropped his lead, not wanting to keep him from dashing to freedom while I tried to hold off the charging rodents.

  But he didn’t move.

  Instead, he turned his head and looked at me as if to say, “We’re in this together, Mom, for better or worse.”

  My heart swelled with pride and love for this little dog and I prayed that even if I fell, he’d make it back to Tessa.

  “Let’s go,” I said, beginning to run.

  The noise in the trees above us heightened and I recognized the sound of squirrels dashing along the branches and down the tree trunks.

  Two of the creatures leapt from above, landing squarely on my back and left shoulder. The unexpected weight caused me to stumble, but, somehow, I regained my balance and kept going.

  They were swarming all around us now.

  Petey was fighting them off as best he could while I closed my eyes and pressed the button on the pepper spray, waving the canister at the ground around me.

  I heard screeches and screams from some of the squirrels, blinded by the spray. But I still had two on my back and I could feel them digging through the soft down as I tried to move forward.

  A small squirrel darted under my coat, scampering up my boot to my thigh. Its claws penetrated the ski pants, tearing them, and I screamed when its teeth found my skin.

  I couldn’t help myself. I stopped. I had to get that beast off me.

  I reached under my coat, but as I grasped the offending squirrel, two more of the little bastards attached themselves to my legs, digging their claws in and biting at my knee caps. In agony, I collapsed on the lawn, dropping the pepper spray as I fell, unable to cross the remaining few feet to the street.

  I huddled on the ground, gritting my teeth as I tried to pull the squirrels from my legs. I’d just tossed one aside when I felt another scamper up my back. I could hear its claws scraping against the surface of the football helmet as it moved up onto my head. I knew I needed to get it off, but another one of the squirrels on my legs bit down, ripping a hunk of flesh from just above my knee.

  I screamed.

  The squirrel hopped off my leg and stared at me, blood dripping from its mouth. I was about to swipe at it with my hand when the one on my head regained my attention.

  I looked up.

  A furry paw was reaching down from my head, toward my right eye. I stared at it, mesmerized. The creature’s claws were impossibly long – curved – and, as they inched closer, I could see flakes of paint from the helmet stuck to their surface.

  Terrified, I tried to shake the squirrel off, but it held fast, the paw now hovering right above my occipital orbit. I reached up to swat it away, but another of the furry bastards leapt onto my hand and bit down hard on my finger.

  In pain, I screamed, grabbed the little creep, wrenched him off, and threw him into the bushes.

  As I moved, the paw reaching for my eye suddenly disappeared, giving me a sense of hope. But that was short-lived. In an instant, the hairy hand was back, one of its filthy claws brushing across my eyelid almost tenderly.

  I tried again to push the squirrel away, but my hand, badly bitten, was useless. I reache
d for the can of pepper spray, knowing that if I sprayed that squirrel, I would probably end up blinding myself, too. However, it seemed that that was my only option.

  Suddenly, there was an unexpected movement by something on the ground in front of me.

  A flash of white fur brushed my cheek.

  The squirrel on my head screeched in rage as powerful jaws grasped it by the neck and pulled it away from me. The paw that had been threatening my eye, raked savagely across my cheek as Petey shook the creature once, then tossed its corpse out onto the lawn.

  My dog had somehow sensed my plight and hurried to my rescue.

  “Good boy,” I whispered, turning the spray canister away from my face and training it on the squirrels that were still on my legs.

  When I blasted the last one, I noticed that the other squirrels were no longer targeting me.

  Petey was their enemy now.

  Ignoring me, they began to attack him, jumping from behind onto the back of his neck where he couldn’t reach them. Soon his poor little body was covered in gray fur.

  A wave of anger coursed through me. They would not have my dog!

  With an adrenaline surge, I pulled myself to my feet and limped as fast as I could toward Petey. I aimed the canister at the squirrels, going for their eyes.

  Furiously, I soaked the little bastards with the burning spray. One by one, they let go of my dog and, when he was free of them, I grabbed his leash and pulled him to my side.

  We were now surrounded, but the varmints seemed leery of me, not wanting to feel the bite of the pepper spray.

  “Okay, boy,” I said as firmly as I could. “We’re moving on now. Stay by my side.”

  Petey responded with a weak wag of his tail and together we once again began our journey. The oaks were thinning out as we approached Main Street and this made it easier to avoid being dive-bombed by the nasty rodents. All we had worry about were the dozens on the ground that had us surrounded.

  I continued to spray and could feel the can getting lighter. I would have to switch to the other canister soon, but would those few seconds be our downfall?