Strange Highways (41 page)

“It’s gone,” she said after a long silence.

“You’re not going to
open
that, are you?” Tommy asked when she put her hand on one of the door handles.

“Well, of course I am. I have to see how it got in, if maybe it’s chewed a hole in the cabinet backing.”

“But what if it’s still in there?” the boy asked.

“It’s not, honey. Anyway, it’s disgusting and filthy, but it’s not dangerous. Nothing’s more cowardly than a rat.”

She thumped the cabinet with one fist to be sure she scared off the foul thing if in fact it was in there. She opened the middle doors, saw everything was in order, got on her hands and knees, and opened the lower doors. A few cans were knocked over. A new box of Saltines was chewed open, the contents plundered.

Doofus whimpered.

She reached into the lower cupboard and pushed some of the canned goods aside. She removed several boxes of macaroni and put them on the floor beside her, trying to get a look at the back wall of the cabinet. Just enough light from the kitchen seeped into that secluded space to reveal a rigged-edged hole in the plywood backing, where the rat had chewed through from the wall behind. A vague, cool draft was flowing out of the hole.

She got up, dusting her hands together. “Yep, it’s definitely not Mickey Mouse stopping by for a visit. This is a genuine capital R, capital A, capital T. Better get the traps.”

As Meg stepped to the cellar door, Tommy said, “You’re not leaving me alone?”

“Just till I get the traps, honey.”

“But … but what if the rat comes around while you’re gone?”

“It won’t. They like to stay where it’s dark.”

The boy was blushing, embarrassed by his fear. “It’s just … with this leg … I couldn’t get away if it came after me.”

Sympathetic but aware that coddling him would encourage his irrational fear, she said, “It won’t come after you, skipper. It’s more scared of us than we are of it.”

She switched on the cellar lights and went down the stairs, leaving him with Doofus. The shadowy basement was lighted by two bulbs dimmed by dust. She found six heavy-duty traps on the utility shelves, rat breakers with steel hammers, not flimsy mousetraps—and a box of warfarin-poisoned food pellets—and she took them upstairs without seeing or hearing the unwelcome houseguest.

Tommy sighed with relief when she returned. “There’s something weird about these rats.”

“There’s probably only one,” she said as she put the traps down on the counter by the sink. “What do you mean—weird?”

“They’ve got Doofus jumpy, like he was when we came home, so it must’ve been rats that spooked him then too. He doesn’t spook easy, so what is it about these rats that have him so nervous?”

“Not rats, plural,” Meg corrected. “There’s probably just the one. And I don’t know what’s gotten under that pooch’s skin. He’s just being silly. Remember how he used to be scared witless by the vacuum cleaner?”

“He was just a puppy then.”

“No, he was scared of it until he was almost three,” she said as she took from the refrigerator a packet of Buddig dried beef, with which she intended to bait the traps.

Sitting on the floor beside his young master’s chair, the dog rolled his eyes at Meg and whined softly.

In truth she was as unnerved by the Labrador’s behavior as Tommy was, but by saying so she would only feed the boy’s anxiety.

After filling two dishes with the poisoned pellets, she put one in the cupboard under the sink and the other in the cabinet with the Saltines. She left the ravaged crackers as they were, hoping the rat would return for more and take the warfarin instead.

She baited four traps with beef. She put one in the cabinet under the sink. The second went in the cabinet with the Saltines and the dish of warfarin, but on a different shelf from the poison. She placed the third trap in the walk-in pantry and the fourth in the basement.

When she returned to the kitchen, she said, “Let me finish washing the dishes, then we’ll move into the living room. We might nail it tonight, but certainly by tomorrow morning.”

Ten minutes later, on leaving the kitchen, Meg turned off the lights behind them, hoping that the darkness would lure the rat out of hiding and into a trap before she retired for the night. She and Tommy would sleep better knowing that the thing was dead.

While Meg built a fire in the living-room fireplace, Doofus settled in front of the hearth. Tommy sat in an armchair, put his crutches nearby, propped his castbound leg on a footstool, and opened his adventure novel. Meg programmed the compact-disc player with some easy-listening music and settled into her own chair with a new novel by Mary Higgins Clark.

The wind sounded cold and sharp, but the living room was cozy. In half an hour Meg was involved in the novel when, in a lull between songs, she heard a hard
snap!
from the kitchen.

Doofus lifted his head.

Tommy’s eyes met Meg’s.

Then a second sound:
Snap!

“Two,” the boy said. “We caught two at the same time!”

Meg put her book aside and armed herself with an iron poker from the fireplace in case the prey needed to be struck to finish them off. She
hated
this part of rat catching.

She went to the kitchen, switched on the lights, and looked first in the cabinet beneath the sink. In the dish, the poisoned food was almost gone. The beef was gone from the big trap too; the steel bar had been sprung, but no rat had been caught.

Nevertheless, the trap wasn’t empty. Caught under the bar was a six-inch-long stick of wood, as if it had been used to spring the trap so the bait could be taken safely.

No. That was ridiculous.

Meg took the trap from the cupboard to have a closer look. The stick was stained dark on one side, natural on the other: a strip of plywood. Like the plywood backing in all the cabinets, through which the rat had chewed to get at the Saltines.

A shiver shook her, but she remained reluctant to consider the frightening possibility that had given rise to her tremors.

In the cupboard by the refrigerator, the poisoned bait had been taken from the other dish. The second trap had been sprung too. With another stick of plywood. The bait had been stolen.

What rat was smart enough … ?

She rose from her knees and eased open the middle doors of the cabinet. The canned goods, the packages of Jell-O, the boxes of raisins, and the boxes of cereal looked undisturbed at first.

Then she noticed the brown, pea-size pellet on the shelf in front of an open box of All-Bran: a piece of warfarin bait. But she had not put any bait on the shelf with the cereal; all of it had been in the dish below or under the kitchen sink. So a rat had carried a piece of it onto the higher shelf.

If she hadn’t been alerted by the pellet, she might not have noticed the scratch marks and small punctures on the package of All-Bran. She stared at the box for a long time before she took it off the shelf and carried it to the sink.

She put the poker on the counter and, with trembling hands, opened the cereal box. She poured some into the sink. Mixed in with the All-Bran were scores of poison pellets. She emptied the entire box into the sink. All the missing bait from both plastic dishes had been transferred to the cereal.

Her heart was racing, pounding so hard that she could feel the throb of her own pulse in her temples.

What the hell is going on here?

Something screeched behind her. A strange, angry sound.

She turned and saw the rat. A hideous white rat.

It was on the shelf where the All-Bran had been, standing on its, hind quarters. The shelf was fifteen inches high, and the rat was not entirely erect because it was about eighteen inches long, six inches longer than an average rat, exclusive of its tail. But its size wasn’t what iced her blood. The scary thing was its head: twice the size of an ordinary rat’s head, as big as a baseball, out of proportion to its body—and oddly shaped, bulging toward the top of the skull, eyes and nose and mouth squeezed in the lower half.

It stared at her and made clawing motions with its upraised forepaws. It bared its teeth and hissed—actually
hissed
as though it were a cat—then shrieked again, and there was such hostility in its shrill cry and in its demeanor that she snatched up the fireplace poker again.

Though its eyes were beady and red like any rat’s, there was a difference about them that she could not immediately identify. The way it stared at her so boldly was intimidating. She looked at its enlarged skull—the bigger the skull, the bigger the brain—and suddenly realized that its scarlet eyes revealed an unthinkably high, unratlike degree of intelligence.

It shrieked again, challengingly.

Wild rats weren’t white.

Lab
rats were white.

She knew now what they had been hunting for at the roadblock at Biolomech. She didn’t know
why
their researchers would have wanted to create such a beast as this, and though she was a well-educated woman and had a layman’s knowledge of genetic engineering, she didn’t know
how
they had created it, but she knew beyond a doubt that they
had
created it, for there was no place else on earth from which it could have come.

Clearly, it had not ridden on the undercarriage of their car. Even as Biolomech’s security men had been searching for it, this rat had been here, out of the cold, setting up house.

On the shelf behind it and on the three shelves below it, other rats pushed through cans, bottles, and boxes. They were repulsively large and pale like the mutant that still challenged her from the cereal shelf.

Behind her, claws clicked on the floor.

More of them.

Meg did not even look back, and she didn’t delude herself into thinking that she could handle them with the poker. She threw that useless weapon aside and ran for her shotgun upstairs.

5

BEN PARNELL AND DR. ACUFF CROUCHED IN FRONT OF THE CAGE THAT stood in one corner of the windowless room. It was a six-foot cube with a sheet-metal floor that had been softened with a deep layer of silky yellow-brown grass. The food and water dispensers could be filled from outside but were operable from within, so the occupants could obtain nourishment as they desired it. One third of the pen was equipped with miniature wooden ladders and climbing bars for exercise and play.

The cage door was open.

“Here, see?” Acuff said. “It locks automatically every time the door is shut. Can’t be left unlocked by mistake. And once shut, it can only be opened with a key. Seemed safe to us. I mean, we didn’t think they’d be smart enough to pick a lock!”

“But surely they didn’t. How could they—without hands?”

“You ever take a close look at their feet? A rat’s feet aren’t like hands, but they’re more than just paws. There’s an articulation of digits that lets them grasp things. It’s true of most rodents. Squirrels, for instance: You’ve seen them sitting up, holding a piece of fruit in their forepaws.”

“Yes, but without an opposable thumb-“

“Of course,” Acuff said, “they don’t have great dexterity, nothing like we have, but these aren’t ordinary rats. Remember, these creatures have been genetically engineered. Except for the shape and size of their craniums, they aren’t physically much different from other rats, but they’re
smarter.
A lot smarter.”

Acuff was involved in intelligence-enhancement experiments, seeking to discover if lower species, like rats, could be genetically altered to breed future generations with drastically increased brain power, in hope that success with lab animals might lead to procedures that would enhance human intelligence. His research was labeled Project Blackberry in honor of the brave, intelligent rabbit of the same name in Richard Adams’s
Watership Down.

At John Acuff’s suggestion, Ben had read and immensely enjoyed Adams’s book, but he had not yet quite decided whether he approved or disapproved of Project Blackberry.

“Anyway,” Acuff said, “whether they could have picked the cage lock is debatable. And maybe they didn’t. Because there’s
this
to consider.” He pointed to the slot in the frame of the cage door where the stubby brass bolt was supposed to fit when engaged. The slot was packed full of a grainy brown substance. “Food pellets. They chewed up food pellets, then filled the slot with the paste, so the bolt couldn’t automatically engage.”

“But the door had to be open for them to do that.”

“It must have happened during a maze run.”

“A what?”

“Well, there’s this flexible maze we constantly reconfigure, half as big as this whole room. It’s made of clear plastic tubes with difficult obstacles. We attach it to the front of the cage, then just open their door, so they go straight from the cage into the maze. We were doing that yesterday, so the cage was open a long time. If some of them paused at the door before entering the maze, if they sniffed around the lock slot for a few seconds, we might not have noticed. We were more interested in what they did
after
they entered the maze.”

Ben rose from a crouch. “I’ve already seen how they got out of the room itself. Have you?”

“Yeah.”

They went to the far end of the long room. Near floor level, something had tampered with an eighteen-inch-square intake duct to the building’s ventilation system. The grille had been held in place only by light tension clamps, and it had been torn away from the opening behind it.

Acuff said, “Have you looked in the exchange chamber?”

Because of the nature of the work done in lab number three, all air was chemically decontaminated before being vented to the outside. It was forced under pressure through multiple chemical baths in a five-tiered exchange chamber as big as a pickup truck.

“They couldn’t get through the exchange chamber alive,” Acuff said hopefully. “Might be eight dead rats in those chemical baths.”

Ben shook his head. “There aren’t. We checked. And we can’t find vent grilles disturbed in other rooms, where they might have left the ducts-“