Ratpackers

By Chris Blake

A couple of young ratbags are forced out of their inner-city apartment by murderous mobsters dealing in addictive rat poison. They set out on a rodent road trip across 21st century Austratlia, from the Wild West through the outback Red Center to the even wilder Far North. On the way they have to deal with various messes made by the humans. But these rats are clever (especially the girl); they know how to program robots and they want the right to bear arms (especially ones that grow back). On the way they get help (and hindrance) from unexpected places. Passing through the old Maralinga atom bomb test site in the desert they encounter the greatest threat to civilization ever known, the hideous after effects of mutation from radiation. Can they rise to the occasion and save us all?
Robots, martial arts, genetic engineering gone horribly wrong, battle fleets, planes and guns; this adventure has them all. You'll never look a pet rodent in the eyes again.
WARNING: this story contains some romance but no kissing. It also contains scenes of extreme violence.
DO NOT LET HUMANS read this: it might give them ideas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Blake
• Release date: May 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463422021

Chris Blake

Chris Blake grew up in the United Kingdom, and was lucky enough to experience the tale end of the fading glory of one of the old rural oral traditions, the social life of the west country pubs of North Devon. “My formative years were spent in Woolacombe, North Devon, one of the great surf beaches of the world, framed by spectacular scenery and seascapes, including the notorious Morte Stone, the tidal rock in the rip that the wreckers used in olden days to trap ships and sweep their crews onto Rockham Beach, where the women of the village waited on the tideline to pitchfork the sailors back into the undertow. Folk memories of that time still exist in some of the local place names: Beaconsfield where they hobbled the donkey to set the false light, Slaughtersfield at the back of the cliffs where the women used to wait, and Mortehoe of course, death ahoy in the old French. Our farmhouse itself was steeped in history, its beams and rafters were oak from ships’ timbers. Outside repairs often breached old middens to reveal clay pipes and broken brandy bottles from the days of smugglers. There was a story in the village that the steading was haunted, and no one would cross the fields to visit after dark. The tale went all the way back to the Armada, and a Catalan galleon that cleared the tip of Scotland to run south down the Irish Sea, and blow into the Bristol Channel to fetch up on the Morte Stone on the incoming tide. A Spanish lady was swept overboard and washed in at a small cove known as Bennet’s Mouth, where she scrambled up the contours of the valley drawn to the candles in the farmhouse windows. No one was home, everybody was either on Morte Point or the beach chasing wreck, but the door was open and she entered in to climb the winding stairs of the turret. She crawled into the first bedroom at the top, and climbed onto the bed. When they returned in the early hours the occupants found her there, dead from hypothermia and exhaustion. To this day certain visitors can sense her, more often than not the very young or the very old, those closest to the threshold of life and death. It’s a darkening of the deepest shadows in the furthest corner, and a sense of bitter chill. Or sometimes the guest wakes up imagining a cold clammy body sharing the bed, damp with salt and sea spray, and raddled with the smell of wrack. The villagers called her ‘The White Lady.’ They say they stripped her of her gown and jewels but left her shift. As I got older my parents made me sleep in there in the high tourist season so that they could rent out my room, but I never saw her. There was a wonderful tradition of storytelling in the local pubs. Another legend in the village was about one of the knights who slew Thomas a Beckett. Mortehoe was his manor and after the killing he was exiled there by the king. The story goes that he was never allowed back to court and lived out the rest of his days in the parish of Lee. When he died, he was laid to rest in the churchyard of the old Norman church. During the war the locals drinking in the pub, awash with cider, whisky and dreams of plunder, decided to dig him up to share out his treasure. But the grave was empty except for a lead lining in the shape of the coffin. There were no jewels, no grave goods, not even the remnants of a sword, and no bones. It had been centuries. Apparently, the ringleader claimed the lead, and used it as a trough to feed his pigs. Which probably would have poisoned them, and eventually him. I went onto to read Medieval and Anglo-Saxon Literature at the University of East Anglia. I’d be lying if I claimed my choice to be inspired by the legends from home, but it makes a good story. In any case I fell in love with the Dark Ages, that time of history where civilisation was fading into shadow, the imperial order breaking down and technology going backwards. The Anglo-Saxons themselves could only envisage the architecture of the Romans as ‘the work of giants.’ There’s this pervasive sense of loss and mystery, underwritten by the unyielding courage needed to face both the unknown past and the fickle future. A chance encounter with a friend from Melbourne led me and my family on an adventure to Australia. Our travels inspired me to write ‘Ratpackers’, a children’s story about a bunch of rodents crossing the Nullarbor. Eventually I found a home in Tasmania, another place of extraordinary landscapes but also tainted by a dark history. While working as a teacher in the old Bridgewater High School, its first incarnation before the kids burnt it down, a class debate about ethics morphed into the idea for a story about genetic engineering. We talked about civilisation and what makes a safe society, and we got onto Law, and we agreed that the most important law in the Judeo-Christian tradition is not to kill each other. Then someone pointed out that although legally we didn’t agree with murder, we seemed to manage it on a regular basis. Then someone else in the class proposed that with all the recent research into the Human Genome we could edit our genes to eradicate the urge to kill, in much the same way as we could programme safety into a robot? (Asimov has written on this with his proposed ‘Laws of Robotics’). However, then I thought, why would conservatives ever agree to a compulsory edit of their children’s genes? They would see it as an interference into natural evolution (a divine right). But if in the future this ever happened, how would the progressives, those who’ve risked becoming engineered, ever be able to defend themselves? Then one of the girls said they’d find a way, but it would require intelligence not testosterone, and that’s how ‘Erin’s Sword’ was born.”

Book preview

Ratpackers

WARNING: Not to be read by adults. It might give them nasty ideas.

Published by Chris Blake at Smashwords

Text Copyright 2019 Chris Blake

All rights reserved.

* * * * *

Table of Contents:

PART ONE: The First Goodbye – Western Australia.

Chapter 1. The Bolt Hole

Chapter 2. Duty Calls

Chapter 3. Wrecked

Chapter 4. The Unwanted Guest

Chapter 5. The Manhole

Chapter 6. The Dirty Rat

Chapter 7. Sunk in the Sewers

Chapter 8. Woppiton Woes

Chapter 9. Creaker Squeaker

Chapter 10. You Dirty Rat!

Chapter 11. Robot Ruins

PART TWO: Rat, Pack and Run – Chasing the Moon

Chapter 12. Born to be Wild

Chapter 13. Red Sails in the Sunset

Chapter 14. Hop to It

Chapter 15. The Last Straw

Chapter 16. What’s Cooking?

Chapter 17. An Explosive Story

Chapter 18. The Logical Breakdown

Chapter 19. Stitched Up

Chapter 20. The Street Parade

Chapter 21. An Alarming Visit

Chapter 22. Basement Bedlam

Chapter 23. The Last Gasp

Chapter 24. Only a Legend

Chapter 25. Contract Killers

Chapter 26. Packing It

* * * * *

PART ONE: The First Goodbye.

Chapter 1. The Bolt Hole

Rowan the rat woke up and stretched in his bed and gave a great big, rather squeaky yawn. His bed was very comfortable; it was in a shoe-box behind a small hole in the skirting at the back of the bookcase. The box was filled up with all sorts of neatly shredded bits and pieces, such as cotton-wool, and feathers, and rags, and string.

How you may ask, did a shoe-box get behind the skirting? The answer is quite simple, simple that is to Rowan. He’d gnawed down the corners, folded up the box, and pushed it through the hole. Then he unrolled the box in the space behind the skirting, and taped up all the joints to keep out draughts. Rowan you see, was a very resourceful rat. He was a Brown Rat, and Brown Rats on the whole tend to like solid ground beneath their feet, comfortable holes, and regular meals. So it was just as well that he was resourceful, for to be comfortable and well-fed, and to be safe all at the same time, could sometimes be just a touch tricky in the modern world.

He was almost tempted to curl back up in his bed, and snuggle back to sleep. But he didn’t, he hopped out and pattered over to the hole in the skirting, poked his head out and twitched his nose. Nothing stirred in the front room of the apartment that he shared with the human beings called the O’Gradys. Rowan sniffed hopefully in the direction of the kitchen, but there wasn’t a hint of anything tasty, not even a whiff of any leftovers from last night’s dinner.

Beth must have had those, said Rowan to himself, and I’m too early for breakfast.

Rowan you see, was an early riser; he was generally excited by the thought of the day, and what it might bring, so he always got up early to greet it. He wasn’t like Beth at all. Quite the reverse in fact, for Beth always slept right through the day, and only got up at night, when the TV was on, or when the O’Gradys had gone to bed, and she could experiment with their home computer, and play with online streaming without being disturbed.

Beth was Rowan’s little sister. She was very brainy, a sort of rat electronic whiz-kid, and she was always making useful inventions, like automatic back-scratchers for rats, or a rat’s mechanical front tooth sharpener. Privately she thought Rowan could be rather boring, but she put up with him because she liked company and no-rat ever seemed to come to visit. She lived in a hole in the wall about half a meter off the floor behind the radiator in the front room. She’d dug the hole out specially with a dentist’s drill that she’d hired off the Dealer Rat down in the basement. All the drilling and digging had been done while the O’Gradys were out at work, or off shopping. When it was finished the hole was just big enough for a nice comfy rat’s bed to fit in, and Beth could snuggle up in it warm as toast all winter behind the radiator.

Rowan slipped out from behind the bookcase and scurried over to the trash basket by the settee. He jumped in and started searching through the chip and biscuit packets for bits of food left over from last night’s TV snacks. A sudden click sounded in the kitchen and Rowan froze. A smooth whirring started up and something big moved in the far corner of the kitchen. Rowan relaxed, it was only Millie the Maid. Millie crossed the kitchen floor and turned the cooker on. A frying-pan rattled, some fat sizzled, and the fridge door clicked open. A delicious smell of cooking breakfast filtered across. Rowan’s nose twitched excitedly, and he hopped out of the trash basket and skipped across to the kitchen.

Good morning Rowan, Millie squeaked in Rattish, Have a nice day!

Morning Millie, said Rowan, and he jumped and scrambled up onto Millie’s arm, and then onto her shoulder. There he perched happily, mouth drooling. The kettle started to whistle, and switched off and poured its water into the coffee percolator. Millie gathered up a tray, plugged in the heating element, and started to lay it with cutlery. The toast popped up, and Millie dropped it onto the tray, and flipped the eggs and bacon onto it. Rowan ran nimbly down Millie’s arm and hopped onto the tray. He nibbled happily at a corner of the toast. The percolator poured out a cup of black coffee, and Millie put it on the tray.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, Millie chimed in English, Wake up Mr.O’Grady, here I come, breakfast in bed.

Millie reversed with the tray out into the hall. Rowan jumped off the tray and ran up Millie’s arm and hid in the front pocket of the apron. Another click and the bedroom door slid back noiselessly.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, Millie chimed out her message again.

Mr.O’Grady groaned and stirred in bed, and buried himself under the covers. Millie gently pulled them back with her free hand, and squirted Mr.O’Grady’s face with a fine spray of water.

Ooooarrghh! howled Mr.O’Grady. Mrs.O’Grady stirred uneasily beside him.

Go back to sleep Mrs.O’Grady, crooned Millie. Mrs.O’Grady started snoring again.

In 29 seconds exactly it will be 6.45 a.m, droned Millie, reading out from her digital display.

Mr.O’Grady sat bolt upright in bed, and Millie swung down the table unit off the wall, set it in front of him, and placed the tray on it.

It’s another lovely day, Mr.O’Grady, called Millie as she glided back out of the bedroom into the hall.

Get lost! snapped Mr.O’Grady.

Rowan climbed out of the apron, and scampered up onto Millie’s shoulder again. That was his favourite spot, for he could get a grand view of all the flat from up there as Millie toured around the rooms.

Could I have beans on toast this morning please? Rowan asked Millie.

Just a minute Rowan, squeaked Millie in Rattish, and she swished into the front room, and stopped in front of the radiator. She began to squeak melodiously:

"Rockabye ratty safe in her nest

Tired little Bethy have a nice rest

When the house shakes ratty won’t fall

For Beth is all snug and safe in the wall."

Mr.O’Grady began to shout in the background. Shut up that squeaking you tin crackpot! he bawled, What’s the matter with that useless robot now?

Rowan jumped down off Millie and hid under the settee. That’s torn it! he said to himself, that crazy Beth has programmed Millie to sing her lullabies!

Millie carried on squeaking, and Mr.O’Grady stormed into the front room. Switch off, you short-circuited junk-pile! he cried and took a kick at Millie’s leg. He stubbed his toe and grimaced in pain.

Ow, ooww, ooowww! he howled, holding his foot and hopping about on one leg.

Be quiet and go to work! shouted Mrs.O’Grady from the bedroom.

Mr.O’Grady slipped into his shoes, picked up his coat, and hobbled out the door.

Have a nice day, called Millie, as the door slammed shut.

Rowan nipped out from under the settee, and padded over to the radiator. I’ll have to have a word with Beth, he said to himself, she’s getting a bit carried away with it all. Too much more of this and we’ll get discovered. These humans are pretty stupid, but not that stupid!

He scrambled up to Beth’s hole. His sister was curled up in bed, twittering in her sleep. Rowan nudged her awake. Beth blinked open her watery looking eyes.

O it’s you, she said sleepily, I was just dreaming I was being rocked off to sleep, when a huge clap of thunder shook the house.

That was Mr.O’Grady slamming the apartment door, said Rowan, he heard Millie singing to you and lost his temper. You’ll have to stop that, or they’ll realise we’re here.

Beth yawned and mumbled sleepily, They don’t understand rat language you know, he just thinks Millie’s wires are crossed in her vocal box.

Just then Millie squeaked out from the kitchen, Beans on toast is ready, Rowan.

Rowan left his sister, and scurried across to the kitchen. As he sat down to breakfast