MORTAL COILS (40 page)

That
gun could kill lots of rats, but no where near enough. They were surrounded by
hundreds of them.

The
rats slowed, confused by the light, pressing closer, climbing over one another,
squealing louder.

Fiona
raised the shotgun—fired one of the double barrels.

A
flash and thunder filled the tunnel. It left Eliot blind and his ears ringing.

Rats
cried in pain, surprise, and outrage. It sounded like a million tiny nails on a
blackboard.

Eliot
blinked and saw the rats running in every direction.

It
worked.

Eliot
stepped over one creature chasing its own tail. They could get out of here
while the rats were stunned. He took two more tentative strides back the way
they’d come. Fiona followed.

The
rodents slowed, however; they sniffed the air and peeped to one another.

Then
every one of them turned toward Eliot and Fiona.

Eliot
froze. It wasn’t going to work, after all. Shooting wouldn’t have worked if
they had a hundred shotgun shells; there were too many of them.

He
played his flashlight down the tunnels—looking for a way to escape. As far as
his light penetrated: all rats, a tide of them rushing in.

“They
smell that bread you have,” Fiona hissed at him.

Of
course. A rat’s nose, its stomach, the instinct to eat—that’s what was driving
them.

“They
can have it.” Eliot reached into his pack and grabbed the foil parcel. He
pulled it apart and flung the bread into the channel. The pungent smell of
roasted garlic permeated the air.

Rats
surged toward the free meal.

A
narrow opening on the ledge cleared.

“Hurry.”
Eliot pulled his sister along. “This way.”

Fiona
cocked and fired the other shotgun barrel.

The
percussion in the enclosed space made Eliot dizzy. He nearly fell into the
water.

Why
was she doing that? It just made them angrier.

Six
steps and rats again blocked his way. One dashed forward and bit into his
rubber boot. Chisel rodent teeth sliced the material; Eliot’s toes
instinctively curled away as he tried to kick it free. The rat held on—teeth
clamped.

In
the darkness the hiss of claw on concrete and chittering was deafening.

There
had to be something else they’d want to eat more than him and Fiona.

“Your
chocolates,” he screamed back at her.

“What?
No!” Fiona yelled.

Despite
her protests, though, Eliot felt her dig into her book bag and hurl handful
after handful at the water. The scent of milk chocolate and caramel filled the
tunnel.

The
rat on his boot released and scampered into the water . . . as did others.
Driven insane by this new odor, the rats pushed and ran over one another to get
to the candy.

The
way was clear.

Eliot
ran. Fiona was right behind him.

Their
flashlight beams bobbled ahead . . . until he saw an intersection.

A
rat clung to the corner—head height—glaring at him.

Eliot
slowed and played the beam back and forth over the ledges and walls. His heart
skipped a beat. Rats were everywhere—clinging, crowding, some climbing so high
they lost purchase and splashed into the water.

It’d
take too long to reload the shotgun, and they’d run out of food to throw. There
was only one thing left for the rodents to eat.

Fiona
bumped into him. She trembled. Or was that his body shaking?

She
fumbled and found his hand . . . gave it a squeeze.

Eliot
squeezed back.

Of
all the ways to die: killed by a hundred not-so-tiny bites. He wished Fiona
weren’t here with him. He’d rather die than see his sister devoured before his
eyes.

Was
that an option? He could throw himself at the rats and give Fiona a chance to
get away.

The
rats inched forward, sensing lunch close and helpless.

Any
theoretical heroics evaporated in a flash of white-hot panic. Eliot tried to
scream but his lungs were vapor-locked.

The
rats pushed and climbed over one another to get closer.

Eliot
had, however, seen this exact thing before.

He’d
seen it recently, too . . . in a book.

Rats
ran over his boots, scampered up his pant legs.

Fiona
screamed.

But
the rational, encyclopedia-loving part of Eliot’s mind spoke to him again:
rapidly sifting rodent facts and statistics—which halted on a woodcut picture
of a man surrounded by rats.

He
had that picture with him.

Eliot
pulled a rat off his backpack. He plunged his hand inside and withdrew the
heavy leather book they’d found in the basement. He cracked it to the last page
that had been opened.

A
rat tore at Eliot’s shirt; its claws raked his back.

Eliot
resisted the impulse to whirl about and get the creature off. He couldn’t. He
had to focus on the handwriting he’d seen in the margin.

Balancing
his flashlight, he saw the woodcut of a handsome rake playing a
recorder—surrounded by a thousand rodents, sitting up on their hind legs
obedient.

And
penciled in alongside this: musical notes.

Eliot
had never read music before, but the dots on the higher lines and spaces had to
correspond to higher-pitched notes. It seemed so easy . . . as if the ability
had been written into his genetic code.

He
dropped the book—grabbed his violin.

A
dozen rats ripped at the hem of his pants.

He
experientially plunked out the music.

The
air stilled.

Every
rat simultaneously stopped squealing. Claws on concrete quieted. Tiny furry
ears ticked forward.

Eliot
didn’t dare move . . . as if it would break the spell.

Behind
him Fiona leaned closer and over ragged breathing whispered, “Keep doing that.”

He
nodded and plucked out the tune once more.

The
rats on his body clambered off and sat on their hind legs.

He
slowly knelt and retrieved the violin’s bow from his pack. He drew it over the
strings. It skittered and scratched, making the wrong notes squeal.

The
rats hissed and nipped at one another, shuffling anxiously.

Eliot
closed his eyes and forced himself to relax his hold on the instrument, let the
bow flow over the strings.

He
played.

The
song from the book was a simple tune like Louis’s nursery rhyme, but whereas
that music made Eliot think of children dancing in a circle, this song was for
marching—forward it moved, ever on.

He
opened his eyes and saw that every rat watched him, enraptured.

Fiona
tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here while we can. Can you walk
and play at the same time?”

He
wasn’t sure. Until yesterday, Eliot hadn’t even known that he could play at
all. He nonetheless nodded and took a few steps along the ledge, careful not to
squash the becalmed rodents.

They
let them pass but turned in unison and followed.

It
was just like in the picture. He could lead the rats anywhere and momentarily
distract them from eating them . . . but that wasn’t good enough.

Eliot
halted. “This isn’t getting us any closer to finding that alligator. We need to
stay.”

“Are
you crazy?” Fiona said. “We stay and we’re rat kibble.”

“And
if we don’t find the alligator? Finish the test?”

He
paused in the song. The rats instantly grew restless . . . so he started once
more.

“I’ll
take my chances with Aunt Lucia and the Council,” Fiona said, and looked at the
rats as they again settled. She shuddered.

Eliot
struggled to keep his arm and fingers moving. His body shook with spent
adrenaline, and he wanted to sit down—to laugh or cry—he wasn’t sure which.

But
he was sure what would happen if they failed the test. He felt it in his bones.
He knew his newly discovered family were more dangerous than a million
bubonic-plague-ridden rats.

“Uncle
Henry, Aunt Lucia, they’re not going to let us off the hook. Run if you have
to. I’ll stay.” The resolve in his voice surprised him, but he meant it. He was
going to finish this, one way or another.

“You
can’t do this alone, moron.” Fiona exhaled her patented
why-do-I-always-have-to-put-up-with-my-brother sigh. “So other than serenading
rats all day, do you have an actual plan?”

“Start
with the book. What else does it say about the Pied Piper?”

Fiona
set down the shotgun and picked up the Mythica Improbiba volume. “I cannot
believe I’m reading this stupid book surrounded by a thousand rats about to eat
us,” she muttered. She scanned the page. “It’s in Middle English—bad Middle
English. Just about every other word is misspelled.”

Eliot
kept playing. His arm wasn’t used to the bowing motion. It burned with fatigue.

The
rats’ eyes were fixed upon him, a sea of glassy stares in the shadows as far as
he could see.

“According
to this, the piper charmed the rats away from a village, but he didn’t get paid
as promised. So he charmed the village children away to extort a payment . . .
no, wait.” Fiona squinted at the page. “There’s another part that says there
were never any children taken. That the piper sent the rats back to the village
to steal their silver.”30,31

“How’d
he do that?”

She
adjusted the flashlight. “It says he played the rats ‘notes of silver’ to give
them the idea.”

“Is
there anything in the margin? More music?”

She
flipped the pages back and forth. “Nothing.”

Eliot
thought he understood what the piper had done. Not understood as if he’d read
about it, but understood as if it were hardwired into flesh and bones,
knowledge that was literally at his fingertips.

“I’m
going to try something,” he said. “Get ready.”

Fiona
reloaded the shotgun. She picked up their packs and flashlights. “Okay.”

30.
“Silver notes played by full moon / swarm a thousand crooked tails / Piper paid
none too soon / strings broke and maidens wailed.” Father Sildas Pious, Mythica
Improbiba (translated version), c. thirteenth century.

31.
Variations on the Pied (or Paid?) Piper tale include cleansing the village of
rats, wolves, or bats. Alternative versions have the piper lynched; made mayor;
or absconding with the village’s silver, children, and/or virginal maidens as
his payment. Gods of the First and Twenty-first century, Volume 4: Core Myths
(Part 1), 8th ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).