Riding ravens is both the best thing I’ve ever done and the worst. The best because no one needs a cape when riding the dark night winds on the back of an ebony bird. The worst because I don’t trust that these fowl animals won’t betray us, laughing as they drop us to our deaths.
Normally, that wouldn’t bother me in the least. I’d throw myself into this flying adventure like it was the last thing I would ever do. But if I die, who will rescue Diana and Spike? Who will find out if the camp is still there? Or if Pal, Pickles, and all the rest are alive? A glorious death is so final, why doesn’t anyone ever talk about that? What is glorious about leaving everyone you love behind to fight without you?
“My den mother used to ride ravens all the time,” Wheels says, looking almost comfortable on his large bird, its black feathers glistening against the night sky. If you squint, it’s almost like he’s riding the wind itself.
“What happened to her?”
The weasel shakes his head. “I don’t know. We were attacked by zombies, and we ran in all directions. Spike and her pet saved me, but we never found anyone else. I made Spike wait to see if anyone would return to the burrow, but no one did.”
His story sounds very like Trip’s. We are all orphans in this new zombie-filled world.
“My den mother would trade for food, shiny things we found, all kinds of stuff. The weasels on my mom’s side of the family are well-known fliers.”
I find I have no answer for this revelation. I want to doubt him because I doubt anything that comes out of a weasel’s mouth, but here we are, riding the winged beasts. Some of his story must be true.
“A whole box of cat fur,” the raven I am riding reminds me with a caw. He’s making a real effort to communicate, because normally, I wouldn’t understand a word he says.
“A whole box. Just find the big gray cat named Wally,” I promise again. The things these scavengers treasure are as random as their loyalty. Much like the bargains I’ve witnessed Trip negotiate, the ravens argued amongst themselves about the trade. I had to push down my impatience, my fear over what was happening to Diana and Spike, waiting for the stupid birds to finally land on a price we could deliver. Wheels came up with the idea. A box of cat fur, to be delivered by the felines back at our camp. I had disagreements with the cats, but they were honorable mammals. They would deliver on our promise, and by involving Wally, who shared my distrust of, well, everything, these birds would be hard-pressed to steal more than they were promised. And if the camp were destroyed, well, these fell beasts would no doubt seek us out to renegotiate the bargain. And I would have more information about The Menagerie.
“The den,” the raven says, slightly out of breath. I hoped they would direct us. Who knew they could carry us? The weasel. He knew and made the trade. I squint down at the cave as the raven makes a tight circle, his peer following us.
“Land there,” I say, pointing at a copse of trees to the left of the cave. My eyes may not be the best in the animal kingdom, but I’m practiced at picking out strategic attack points. I leap off the raven before he even lands on the branch, my eyes searching everywhere for Diana’s bright orange coat. I squint at the cave, my eyes shooting lasers of intimidation.
“What are you doing?”
I ignore the weasel’s disrespectful question, and the ravens take off, flying after their promised box of cat fur.
I keep one ear trained on the skies in case they turn back and betray us.
My poor eyesight means that I hear Spike before I see her. Wheels bursts into sniveling tears of relief behind me on the branch. I give him a hard poke, and then run down along the branch toward Spike’s echoing voice. She sounds like she’s threatening someone.
“Back,” she hisses, a lit branch in her paws. She’s inside the cave, but just barely, her back to one of the rocky walls. The wolves are panting and growling within feet of her location. Diana is nowhere to be seen, but she had the last match in her collar. Surely that’s how Spike got that burning branch.
“What do we do? What do we do?” Wheels whispers from my left, the tears in his voice still audible.
“How many wolves do you count?” I hiss at the weasel.
“Five,” he blubbers.
I feel the warrior’s cloak drop over my shoulders, the battle lust rising. Five wolves. I could take at least three of them. Maybe all five with Spike’s help.
I grab a branch next to me, wresting it free of the tree and handing it to Wheels. “Defend Spike. Watch for Diana. Good hunting.”
The weasel looks shocked, and I’m not sure if it’s the cowardice bubbling back up or if he’s surprised that I included him in my attack plan.
I don’t stick around to figure it out. I leap from my position with a bellow as loud as a lion on the savannah in those TV documentaries my pet sometimes watched. The wolves jump apart, and I hit the ground at a roll. I grab a small branch in my teeth and run straight to Spike’s side to light my own stick on hers.
“Took you long enough.”
“Fell in a hole.”
“Where’s Wheels?”
I point at the tree where I left the weasel, expecting him to be standing there, still holding the branch in his shaking paw. But I can’t see him from this distance. Then the wolves close back around us, and I bare my teeth.
“There are two now,” says one of the wolves, licking her lips.
“All the better,” says her straggly-looking peer.
“That’s what you think,” I hiss, diving under the nearest wolf and poking the lit branch up at his underside. I roll left, careful not to lose my weapon as the wolf tears off into the underbrush, howling. I don’t see the paw that comes swiping from behind me, knocking me into the side of the cave wall. I pick myself up, trying to get my eyes to refocus. Spike is jumping around so fast she’s a blur of long ears, sparks, and fuzzy tail. I hear the snap of jaws too close to my foot and leap backwards, whirling like a dervish to face my next opponent. Only he’s not facing me. He’s looking back at the trees, his nose in the air. Actually, all the wolves are looking at the darkened forest, sniffing, paying no attention to the mammals with fire sticks. Their mistake. I race from wolf to wolf, stabbing painful parts of their anatomy and lighting tails on fire, narrowly missing the pair of zombies who stomp their way out of the treeline.
The wolves (lit and unlit) tear away, yipping and yapping their fear into the night, but I’m watching for what’s behind the zombies — the animal who has driven these zombies into our midst. This battle isn’t over. Sure enough, a once bright-orange mammal barks from the edge of the forest, signaling her strategy.
“Diana!” I say, dodging a clumsy attempt from the skinny zombie to grab me and running up its pant leg. Spike has already climbed her zombie, bouncing from shoulder to shoulder lighting the undead attacker, and then jumping to the nearest tree branch, out of the flaming zombie’s reach.
The zombies are on fire, waving at the air with flaming arms.
“Emmy,” Diana calls, her coat covered in dirt and leaves and who knows what else, nearly unrecognizable but for her beautiful fox face. “Over here!”
“Zombies,” I say, nodding at Diana with an appreciative grin. “Good weapons.”
She’s panting, tired from her efforts of rounding up zombies and luring them here, but she returns my grin. “Weaponized zombies, patent pending.”
The zombies are basically dealt with, even if they don’t know it, as their limbs crumble to ash and they sink to the forest floor. I wait until the twitching stops and then stamp them a bit to make sure. Two guaranteed ways to get rid of zombies — remove their heads or burn them to ash.
“Diana?” Spike says, her voice full of wonder. “You came back for me?”
“Of course I did, silly,” she says, laughing.
“I lost sight of you when we got to the cave,” Spike says, “after you threw me the last match.”
“I couldn’t smell Emmy anymore,” Diana says, “but I smelled the zombies and thought the wolves might take them more seriously than a corgi and a rabbit with a bit of fire.”
“Your dog is not normal,” Spike says to me, throwing her arms around the corgi. “She’s amazing.”
Pride wells up in me before I can stop it. When my anger and feelings of vengeance recede, all kinds of other emotions show up. I hate that. Next, you’ll find me blubbering about the healing power of sharing like a racoon.
Spike brushes some soot off Diana’s coat with her fluffy tail before asking me again, “Now, where is Wheels?”
I point at the branch again, leading Spike and Diana to the tree where I left the crying mammal. Along the way I explain about the death of the bear and the hole I had to dig my way out of.
“You burrowed out?” Spike asked.
I know I should say that “we” burrowed our way out of the hole, but I don’t. It feels weird to admit aloud that I needed anyone’s help. Especially a weasel’s help. Which, of course, I didn’t.
Diana is the first to react to the smell. “Whoa, what is that? It’s horrible.”
The stink washes over us, and I recognize it immediately, though Spike says it aloud. “It’s Wheels. He must have …”
She doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence because suddenly I notice the eyes all around us, and I jump in front of her, teeth bared. They’re not wolves. They’re too low to the ground. And they’re not growling. Their teeth are chattering in unison. Turns out that’s worse.