“Tell me again,” Wally says as I wrestle with the pin holding the cage door closed. My paws aren’t as dexterous as Trip’s, so this is my third attempt.
“The 4077th is causing a distraction,” I repeat, grunting, “on the opposite end of the compound so that we can get out.”
“You left them on their own?” Hannah asks. I’m standing on her head because she’s the tallest cat in the cage.
“The sergeant has been well trained,” I say, daring Wally to disagree.
“Harrumph,” is his only spoken answer, though his tail is expressing his wish to disagree.
“Sonar’s got this,” Ginger says, leaning his full weight against the cage door so that when I do get the pin free, he’s the first to tumble out. Thankfully, this cat has the grace of four felines, and he rolls into a pirouette that looks choreographed.
“You seem different, Emmy,” Hannah says to me as she helps me climb back down.
“I am,” I reply. I mean it. I feel different. And it’s not just the cape.
“She’s talking more, that’s for sure,” Ginger says. “I like it.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Pickles asks Wally.
Wally nods at me. “We need to get everyone free to regroup and convince the humans that this new cage policy is unnecessary and insulting. Emmy and I can free the dogs if you three can find the rabbit and the weasel.”
“How about I go with Emmy to free Spike and the weasel?” Ginger proposes.
“Wheels,” I correct automatically.
“Right, Wheels,” Ginger says. “You’re the only one they’ve actually gotten to know. They might trust you rather than some random cats they met just before being captured. Plus, we still don’t know where Pal or Trip are. We don’t want misunderstandings to slow us down.” He’s on the balls of his paws when he says this, which means there’s something important in his words.
“This isn’t a misunderstanding,” Wally blusters. “The owl is a danger to all of us. Humans and animals alike.”
“Wally,” Pickles starts to say as Ginger’s back literally starts to arch in front of us, the orange hairs standing on end.
“I’ve got one of these boards loose if someone could stop arguing and help me,” Hannah says, pushing a board out of the way of Pal’s usual exit from The Menagerie with her paw and head.
“Fine,” Wally snaps, shoving us all up the ramp that leads to Pal’s perch. “I don’t care who rescues whom, just get everyone out that you can.”
“We meet at the first tree of Trip’s tree-to-tree highway, where Starbuck is waiting for us,” I say. “He’s the white kitten with the angry face.”
Wally looks incredulous at this latest reveal of strategy involving the 4077th, but before he can do more than gape at me, Pickles pushes him out onto the perch and calls over her shoulder, “Good luck.”
“Good hunting,” I answer.
WE DIVIDE AS SOON as we’re out in the wet night air. The rain has doubled in its ferocity, and the cats go from determined to miserable immediately. I’ve never seen weather take the wind out of a mammal’s sails like rain does to felines. Wally looks at my red cape like he’d like to use it as an umbrella, and I stare back at him, daring him to try.
“Come on,” I say to Ginger, who is grimacing up at the rain like he can guilt it into stopping. He shakes his fur and each of his paws before he follows me out onto the battlements, where we carefully make our way around to where the outdoor human litter box sits. We keep expecting to run into one of Ginger’s pets, but whatever distraction Sonar has put into action seems to have worked. We can hear human voices on her end of the compound, but they don’t sound panicked to my ears (which would have roused the other sleeping humans).
“Why are we going for Spike and Wheels rather than Wally?” I demand as soon as I can no longer see the other cats.
Ginger shakes his fur again. “Really? Now?”
“Now,” I say, crossing my forearms and waiting.
“Hamsters,” Ginger says, looking up at the rain again as if that will make me give up. I don’t care. It can rain till Ragnarök as far as I’m concerned.
Ginger comes to that understanding quickly. “Fine, like you heard, Wally’s not exactly open-minded about the whole Pal-rabies situation, and Pickles is on the fence. Hannah says we’re overthinking it all, and Diana is such a peacemaker I don’t know where she will land. I want less debate and more action, which I knew you’d be into. Plus, I figure you’ve got pull with the newbies seeing as you saved them and got them back here in one piece.”
He’s right. I know I have created valuable new allies in Wheels and Spike. Usually it’s the cats or the raccoon who bring in new mammals, but this time, it’s all me and Diana.
“And I know birds can’t get rabies,” Ginger says, flicking his tail at the rain. “My pet before all this was a doctor, and we watched a lot of looooong medical documentaries. Trust me. We need to be the ones to find Pal and figure out what’s going on with him.”
I take off, because that response not only makes sense but lines up with my plan perfectly. We need to find Pal. ASAP.
A black and silver goat sits behind the shed-like structure, chewing on a piece of hay, completely oblivious to the ruckus and the rain.
“Hey, Jammies,” Ginger calls down to the goat. The goat glances up at us and then returns to her way more interesting meal of tin cans and hay.
“Jammies, get yourself together, this is an escape,” I hiss down at the bovid.
“Escape? From what?” Jammies answers, not even looking up at me.
“You’re tied to the humans’ litter box,” Ginger reminds her.
“I chewed through that rope weeks ago, see? Tasted like hard spaghetti. In a good way. Anyway, this is where I like to be,” Jammies says with a snort. “Not all of us have a fancy manger built for us.”
That stymies us for a second until she says, “This is the best spot in the camp. This big box here? It’s filled with human food scraps. Your fat racoon wishes he lived this close to garbage nirvana. Ask him. He tries to get in here at least twice a night.”
“You could share,” Ginger starts to say.
“You could go fall off a log,” Jammies replies.
“Wow,” Ginger says, “and you wonder why no one wants to hang out with you.”
“No, I don’t,” Jammies says.
“Never mind,” I growl at both of them, “do you know where the rabbit and weasel are?”
“Weasel?” the goat repeats, actually stopping her chewing for a moment. “Weasels are the worst. They’re worse than cats. They’re worse than dogs. They’re worse than —”
“We get it!” Ginger says. “You don’t like anyone. Super clear. Have you seen them?”
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” the goat says, returning to her maddening masticating.
“That’s it,” I announce and throw myself onto the goat’s back. She immediately tries to buck me off, arching and kicking her single powerful hind leg in the air. But I’m not that easy to shake. I’ve ridden zombies into battle. And bears. And ravens. This goat has met her match, and it’s a mad hamster named Emmy.
“Where are they?” Ginger demands as he leaps down into the muddy ground, nimbly dodging Jammies’ flying hooves.
“Show us,” I loudly advise the goat, who is still trying her best to shake me loose. “The sooner we get the weasel and the rabbit, the sooner I leave you to your precious box of garbage.”
“Get off me!”
“Nope,” I reply, and I hang on even tighter as we dance around the orange cat like the world’s worst ballroom dancers. Jammies throws herself into the garbage bin, and I’m covered in detritus and smelly things, but I hold on. Breathing is for lesser mammals. I am a warrior. And I have friends to save.
“Argh!” Jammies whinnies, abruptly stopping her bucking. “I was wrong. Hamsters are the worst.”
“Truer words have never been spoken,” I say agreeably. “Now take us to Spike and Wheels.”
Jammies gives one more shake to make sure I won’t be dislodged and then takes off at a run with Ginger following us. She leaps over some barrels, and my cape flaps behind me as we are airborne. I have a moment to wonder if any other hamster has spent as much time in the air as I have before she skids to a stop at the opposite corner of the yard from The Menagerie.
“The cage was on that barrel when I —”
“Help!” Wheels calls from somewhere out of my sight.
The goat saunters to the other side of the barrel, where we see the cage.
It’s sinking into the mud because of the hard rain.
“Emmy,” Wheels says from inside the cage. “You found us.”
I scamper straight off the goat’s back onto the cage, running all over it, looking for the cage door.
Ginger slides into the mud, trying to get his shoulder under the cage. He may be the vainest cat I know, but when it comes to his friends, he will do anything for them. Including covering himself in wet dirt of questionable origins.
“Can you get it open?” Ginger calls up, his white paws sinking into the mud with the cage.
“The cage door is underneath us,” Spike says weakly, blood around her left ear. “We were trying to get out, and the cage fell off that barrel onto this side.”
“Spike is hurt,” Wheels says, pulling at the rabbit’s paw, trying to drag her out of the sucking muck. He’s got one paw wrapped around the top of the cage and one paw pulling Spike up.
“The goat’s horns,” groans Ginger from under us.
“What?” I say, reaching between the bars and grabbing Spike’s uninjured ear, pulling with all my might. She squeaks in pain, the clearest indication that yes, she is hurt. Hurt enough to not be able to hide it. Wheels lets go of the cage and wiggles down to get under her, pushing her up on his shoulders.
“Jammies,” Ginger yells. “Pull this cage out with your horns.”
The goat has been watching all of this with limited interest and says, “Why would I do that?”
“Because someday you might need our help,” I growl at the selfish bovid. I’ve got a good grip on Spike now thanks to the weasel’s boost, but Wheels’ lower body has disappeared into the mud. He’s holding the rabbit above him with a strength he should not have. His arms are shaking, but his face is determined. I wiggle out of the cape with my free paw and shake it down through the bars at Wheels.
“Get Spike out, Emmy,” he says, locking eyes with me and grabbing one end of the long red cloth in his teeth.
“We’re getting you both out,” I reply, holding tight to Spike’s ear with my right paw and to the cape that is keeping Wheels above the mud with my left. I will not let go. I will never let go. I have the strength of ten hamsters. It will be enough.
I turn to yell at the goat again, but she’s no longer there.
Ginger slips in the mire and drags himself back out with effort, his claws marking deep grooves in the dirt that get filled in with mud almost immediately by the rain. He spits dirt and yells up at us, “Jammies took off. Hold on, I’ll get help. We can’t do this on our own.”
I nod through gritted teeth, I’ve got Spike, and she’s holding on to the top of the bars with her paw, but though I’m still holding tight to the red cape, I can’t see Wheels at all anymore. I tug on the red cape, and I feel tension on the other side. He’s still holding on. Damn this rain!
“Och! Hold on, lassie!” says a hedgehog’s accented voice somewhere above us. In a tree, I see Trip and Malone and Starbuck all staring down at me, along with three other raccoons I don’t recognize. Trip is already digging in his fanny pack, and he pulls out his long, sparkly shoelace that we practice knots on.
“Hold on, Spike, Trip is here,” I whisper down at her, my own arms shaking now as well from the strain of holding on.
She blinks up at me through the rain. “ValHamster?”
I shake my head with effort. No way. Not now.
“We live. We are loved. We are strong because of it. We live,” I say through gritted teeth.
Trip leans out of the tree holding one end of the shoelace, and Malone throws himself down holding on to the other end. The hedgehog has to tie the shoelace to the cage because I have no free paws. Spike’s fading out of consciousness, her ear going limp in my paw.
Malone ties the shoelace and tugs on it to give Trip the go-ahead, and the raccoons start pulling from their position in the tree above us. The mud makes a greedy slurping sound as we move upwards, as if it doesn’t want to give up what the rain has gifted it.
“We’ve got you, lassie,” Malone says through the bars of the cage, reaching through and trying to grab Spike too, but his arms are too short.
“Malone, the weasel,” I say to the hedgehog beside me. “He’s under Spike in the mud somewhere on the other end of this red cloth. I can’t reach him … He’s …”
“I see him, lassie,” Malone says close to my ear. “I see him.”
And as we are pulled free of the mud by the strength of the racoons, I see him too, lying at the bottom of the cage, coated in mud so thick he looks more like an otter than a weasel. He’s curled in a ball, still clutching his end of the once-red cape.
Ginger finally returns, followed by two of his humans, and meows up at the cage now suspended half a foot above the mud by a sparkly shoelace.
The humans share a shocked look and then set to getting the animals out. They take the two limp bodies in their arms and run for the shelter of the medical room. I am collapsed on the top of the cage, the rain battering my face as I struggle to regain my breath. With Malone’s help, I climb down off the cage and follow Ginger and the humans.
“Wally said that weasel was better at playin’ dead than even you,” Malone says, pushing me along in the rain, “and that bunny’s as tough as a pub fight after a lacrosse game. Don’t you worry. We’ll get them fixed right up.”
I don’t answer, barely managing to put one paw in front of the other, my muscles in full rebellion. I don’t even flinch when Trip scoops me up in his paws, carrying me and Malone the rest of the way under his arms like two footballs.
Trip puts me down gently at the back of the room. We all watch the humans race around with medicines and bandages and water.
“We left them out there in that cage. We did this,” the shorter one says.
“The bunny will make it,” the other one says, though she sounds worried. “She got knocked around when the cage fell, but I think she’s just concussed. I’m going to clean her head wound.”
Trip is up on the counter, stroking his tail rhythmically. “Spike is moving,” he calls down to the rest of us on the floor. “She’s blinking a little bit. Coughing too.”
“See, lassie, I toldja,” Malone says, poking me with his shoulder quills. I barely feel them.
Ginger, who looks like an entirely different cat covered in mud, calls up to the raccoon on the counter. “What about Wheels?”
Trip looks back down at us, tears flowing from his masked eyes.
“I can’t,” says the shorter human. He raises his eyes from the table where he’s been working on Wheels to the woman who is now gently washing out Spike’s wounds with water. “He’s … gone.”
The woman’s eyes widen, and she scoots around the table to examine Wheels herself.
“No, let me,” she says, leaning over the weasel. “No, no, no.”
The man looks at Trip on the countertop and then down at all of us gathered on the floor of the medical room. “We’re so sorry.”
Spike reaches for Wheels from her table with shaking paws.
I calmly climb up the cabinet and onto the counter. The humans seem to understand why I’m up here and back away from Wheels, turning to focus on Spike, whispering to each other. I kneel at his side, press my ear to his thin chest. We are both good at playing dead after all. I listen. For a sign. For a beat. For a breath. I wait. But in my warrior’s heart I know. He has earned his place in ValHamster.