The Case of the Toxic Mutants Read online

  “The stuff,” said Danny patiently, ignoring the conversation behind him. “We need it back.”

  “Squeak!” Two pack rats hastily moved to shield their treasures. The rain-slickered pack rat wrung its paws.

  “We’re not trying to steal it,” said Danny. “I mean, you stole it first, but—well, look, that doesn’t matter. It’s okay. We just need it back. My granddad needs his dentures, and my friend needs his retainer.”

  “Tell them it’s a matter of life and death!” whispered Wendell.

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” Danny repeated.

  “Squeak! Squeak-squeeaaaaak!” cried the rat in the raincoat.

  “He thinks it’s a matter of life and death too,” said Danny to his friends. “I think he’s afraid that if we take the stuff, Mister Honkers will get angry.”

  “It’s a stone goose,” said Christiana. “What’s it going to do—fall over on them?”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Danny, nodding. “If Mister Honkers is angry, there won’t be any more clothes. They need the clothes. The sign says the clothes protect against the slime. They don’t like the slime. They brought him here, but there haven’t been any more clothes, so they’re trying to make him happy by bringing him stuff. Then . . . sorry, what was that?”

  “Squeak squeak squeak!”

  “Squeak!” said the pack rat, nodding emphatically.

  “But there aren’t going to be any more clothes now that they’ve taken it away from Miss Flicktongue!” said Christiana.

  “What was that about smiting?” asked Wendell.

  “Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

  “Squeak!”

  “I’m really concerned about this whole smiting business,” said Wendell.

  “We have to take the stuff,” said Danny to the rats. “I promise Mister Honkers won’t get angry. Seriously. He’s—err—a merciful goose?”

  “Squeak!”

  “Maybe we should go,” said Wendell.

  “What? We’re in the middle of negotiations here!” Danny said.

  “Squeak?”

  “Are you saying that the pack rats are actually intelligent?”

  “Now would be a really good time to get out of here . . .”

  Danny opened his mouth to ask Wendell what his problem was, and then he noticed that Wendell’s retainer wasn’t on the platform anymore.

  Unfortunately, the pack rats noticed it at the same time.

  “Wendell!” cried Danny, not sure if he was mad or astonished that Wendell had had the nerve to steal his own retainer back.

  “Well, I couldn’t leave it!” said Wendell, clutching the bit of dental equipment to his chest.

  The pack rats were not pleased. Suddenly they looked very hostile indeed.

  “I don’t think they’re happy, Wendell!”

  “I couldn’t leave it here and let them get plague all over it!”

  Several of them picked up sticks. The ends were pointed, and looked a great deal like spears.

  “Hey, look!” said Christiana, delighted. “Signs of tool use!”

  “Squeak!” yelled the rat in the raincoat. “Squeak, squeak SQUEAK!”

  “I could really use a little tiny chair about now,” said Wendell wretchedly.

  “Stop!” yelled Danny. “We can talk about this!”

  “It’s not that I want to be stabbed to death by intelligent pack rats,” said Christiana, “but you have to admit, if you’re gonna go, it’s much more interesting to be killed by a tool-using species that may have attained sentience—”

  “I don’t have to admit anything!” yelled Wendell.

  “Sacrifices are common fixtures of many primitive cults,” said Christiana thoughtfully. “I wonder if they’re planning on sacrificing us to Mister Honkers.”

  “We may not have a choice!” said Danny, backing away from a spear-carrying pack rat. He didn’t dare breathe fire—if the mound of trash caught, they’d burn to death before the pack rats managed to stab them.

  “Squeak! Squeak-squeak!” The rat in the raincoat had lost its temper and was screaming at the other pack rats in a frenzy.

  Danny tried desperately to think of something—anything!—that would appease the furious rodents.

  He felt something cool against his back. The plastic edge of Grandfather Turlingsward’s giant dentures dug into his shoulder.

  “SQUEAK!” The rat raised a tiny fist.

  “I’m too smart to die!” cried Wendell. “I’ve never even taken the SATs!”

  Danny, in desperation, jumped on top of the enormous dentures and lunged for Mister Honkers.

  The pack rats let out squeaking gasps and pulled back. Danny shoved at the goose, and it rocked on its base. If he had to, he was sure that he could push it over and maybe smash it against the pile of offerings below.

  “Squeak!” cried the rat in the raincoat. “Squeaaak!?”

  “They’re backing off!” said Wendell hopefully.

  “Yeah, but now what?” asked Christiana. “We can’t carry that thing all the way back to the surface—once we’re in the tunnel, they can get us from behind!”

  Danny thought even this was overly optimistic. As soon as Mister Honkers was off the mound, and in no danger of smashing, the pack rats would be all over them.

  It was a standoff. Both sides were stuck. The rats couldn’t move, and Danny and his friends couldn’t get away.

  “How are we going to convince them to give up our stuff?” asked Wendell.

  “I’d be happy with not being skewered, myself,” said Christiana.

  “I’ll think of something!” said Danny desperately. Chasing his grandfather’s dentures had gotten them into this mess, and if Wendell was killed by pack rats, he’d never forgive himself. (He’d probably feel a little bad about Christiana too.)

  The rats moved restlessly. More of them seemed to be appearing in the cavern all the time.

  Christiana cleared her throat. “Say, Danny . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “What if we got Miss Flicktongue to make them their own clothes?”

  “Okay,” said Danny, leaning back. “So you let us go, with the dentures.”

  “Squeak.”

  “And the retainer.”

  “Squeak.”

  “In return, we give you two shirts, one jacket—”

  “My mother is going to ask where my shirt went,” muttered Wendell.

  “Tell her you lost it heroically defending your retainer,” muttered Christiana.

  “In return for that,” said Danny, ignoring this, “in addition to the shirts, we will introduce you to Miss Flicktongue—”

  “Squeak?”

  “The Bride of the Great Goose. The one who makes the clothes.”

  “Can we trust them?” whispered Wendell.

  Danny snorted. “He just asked the same thing about you. After all, you stole his offering to Mister Honkers. Which reminds me, they want to hold on to your retainer until we’ve handled the sludge.”

  “What? No!”

  “C’mon, Wendell . . .”

  Wendell folded his arms and pointedly ignored the dragon.

  “You have to let the rats hold it while we fix the problem. Otherwise they think we’ll run out on the bargain.”

  Wendell muttered something and fished his retainer out of his pocket. “Fine. But don’t let them do anything weird to it.”

  “I’m more worried about keeping our end of the bargain,” said Christiana. “Those pipe mechanisms are really old. What if they don’t work?”

  “Then you’d better figure out a way to make a toxic waste containment unit out of peanut shells and miniature Santa suits,” said Danny.

  Christiana and Wendell screwed up their faces in identical expressions of deep tho
ught.

  “I’m gonna need some rubber bands,” said Wendell finally. “Or a bungee cord.”

  “Let’s just hope the mechanisms work.”

  The pack rat leader seemed pleased with their bargain. Danny stuck out a hand. The pack rat sniffed and then shook it.

  “Now,” said Danny. “Let’s go see about this toxic ooze . . .”

  The trio of kids and a phalanx of pack rats marched back to the sludge-filled chamber. The pack rats had brought their spears. Danny hoped that he’d gotten the trying-to-fix part across in his negotiations.

  The rats clustered around the base of the steps, while Danny, Wendell, and Christiana climbed to the platform alone.

  “Okay,” said Wendell, studying the levers. “I think this is the outflow from an old storage tank under the hospital. There should be a manual switch to shut off the pipe.”

  “Won’t the tank explode or something?” asked Danny, having a vision of a geyser of toxic sludge transforming Sunny Acres into Slimy Acres. Normally he would have thought this was awesome, but he had a gloomy feeling that he’d be the one who had to clean it up. Danny Dragonbreath hated cleaning.

  “Nah. They’re not adding anything more to it, since the hospital’s gone. Although I’m still writing a letter to the EPA.”

  “Our bigger problem is whether the mechanisms have rusted too badly,” said Christiana. She squinted at the sign. “I think it’s this switch, then that one, then pull that lever there all the way to the bottom . . .”

  Wendell nodded. He pushed one of the switches. Grinding noises started inside the walls, and the pack rats drew together, squeaking worriedly.

  Christiana threw the second switch. The grinding noises got louder, combined with the squeal of abused metal. The wall shook. Bits of dirt filtered down from the ceiling.

  Danny grabbed the heavy metal lever in both hands and heaved. It stuck fast. Danny threw his full weight against it, gritting his teeth—and the metal snapped off in his hand.

  “Aaaaaand we’re doomed,” said Wendell.

  More grindings and rattlings started inside the wall. From the pipe came a loud KA-CHUNK!

  “Is it working?” asked Danny.

  KA-CHUNK!

  “Squeak?” called the pack rat leader.

  KA-CHUNK!

  “I think something’s stuck,” said Christiana. “The pipe’s trying to close, but there’s something in the way.”

  KA-CHUNK!

  “If it keeps doing this, the ceiling’s going to come down,” said Wendell.

  “Do something!” said Danny. “Flip another lever!”

  “There’s only the one lever! You’re holding it!”

  The pack rats were milling around the base of the stairs, squeaking nervously. Danny did not think that his bargain would hold if he accidentally destroyed their home.

  “If somebody gets into the pipe, maybe we can knock out the bar!” said Wendell. “It’s probably in even worse shape than the lever.”

  “Won’t they have to stand in toxic sludge?” asked Christiana. “And by ‘they,’ I of course mean ‘Danny.’”

  “Well, obviously,” said Danny, who had no illusions about his role in the group.

  “Not if he hangs off the railing,” said Wendell. “If we grab his tail, I think he can reach the bar.”

  One of the bridges collapsed behind them. The ooze engulfed it. Several pack rats rushed to rescue their fellows from falling masonry.

  “We don’t have much time!” said Danny, climbing onto the railing. “I think the dens are going to fall down next, and there might be baby pack rats or something in there!”

  “Actually, baby pack rats are called pups,” said Wendell.

  “That’s not helpful, Wendell!” Danny ducked his head under the railing. Christiana grabbed his tail and braced herself.

  “Can you reach the pipe?”

  Up close, the grill over the pipe looked even more like teeth—big pointy teeth that were trying to chew their way through something. They went up and down, striking against a heavy bar across the opening. Every time they hit, they bounced back up with a loud KA-CHUNK!

  The bar wobbled every time the grill hit it. Danny thought it would probably break eventually no matter what—but not before the cavern roof fell down on them. He banged it experimentally with his fist. It felt distressingly solid.

  “I need a rock!” he yelled. “Something!”

  Wendell looked around wildly. In a huge underground room full of junk, there ought to be plenty of rocks, right? Why couldn’t he see one?

  KA-CHUNK!

  KA-CHUNK!

  A den collapsed. Several pack rats climbed out of it, shaking themselves off and squeaking in terror.

  “Now might not be the best time to mention it,” said Christiana conversationally, “but my arms are getting tired.”

  “If you drop me into the toxic sludge, I’ll—I’ll—” Danny was unable to come up with a threat dire enough. “I’ll call you Brainiac until the whole school picks up on it!”

  “Pfff!” said Christiana. “Free advertising.”

  KA-CHUNK!

  “Squeak?” The pack rat leader climbed over the edge of the railing. In its paws it carried a round metal object.

  “What?” Danny took the object from the rat. It looked almost like a miniature iron cauldron . . . in fact, it looked exactly like the sort of miniature iron cauldron that an elderly lizard might put out in front of her beloved stone lawn goose on Halloween, probably combined with a witch’s hat and miniature broom.

  Thank goodness for Miss Flicktongue.

  “Perfect!” said Danny. He swung the cauldron at the bar. It went BONNNNG!

  Had the bar given a little? He swung again.

  “You’re slipping!” said Christiana. Wendell grabbed for Danny’s tail. The pack rat climbed over him to the railing, and Danny felt tiny paws on his left foot.

  BONNNNNG! This time the bar was definitely bent. When the grill hit it, instead of KA-CHUNK, it went KA-CHUNGA-CHUNGA-CHUNK! and the pipe shook so violently that Wendell lost hold of Danny’s tail.

  Danny figured one more blow ought to knock the rusted bar clean off the wall. It would also probably knock him clean off the railing and into the ooze.

  He heard the squeak of terrified pack rats as another den collapsed. Really, what choice was there?

  The bar broke. Christiana lost her hold. Danny slid over the railing, teetered sickeningly on the edge—and a dozen tiny paws clutched at him and held on tight.

  The grill slammed down. As Danny dangled, the river of ooze beneath him slowed, stopped, and began to dwindle away.

  “I thought Miss Flicktongue was very nice about the whole thing,” said Christiana an hour later, lugging the bottom half of Grandfather Turlingsward’s dentures through the grass.

  “Yeth,” said Wendell, who had scrubbed his retainer for five minutes before pronouncing it free of Black Plague. “I mean, we did get her denthureth back, but the ratth . . .”

  “Well, they’re kinda cute,” said Danny. “Once she got over them wearing clothes at all . . . I mean, you know she’s going to dress them in little pink smocks and thingies, but I guess they won’t mind.”

  “Good thing she still had all those extra outfits for Mister Honkers.”

  “I thought the little panda thuit wath pretty cute,” said Wendell.

  “Yeah . . .” Danny rubbed

  the back of his neck. “I still say there’s something weird about a pack rat in a bikini, though . . .”

  “And a goose in a bikini isn’t weird?” asked Christiana.

  Danny shuddered. He’d been trying not to think about it.

  “And you have to admit, she didn’t even blink at being called . . . what was it?”

  “The Bride of the Great Goos
e,” said Danny, grinning. The pack rats had been very impressed to learn that Miss Flicktongue was the source of Mister Honkers’s finery.

  “Not that they need the clothes,” said Christiana. “I mean, we shut off the sludge overflow, and the bikini couldn’t have been much use anyway.”

  “Yeah, but they like the clothes,” said Danny. “And if it makes them happy . . .”

  “I jutht with they hadn’t claimed my thirt,” said Wendell sadly. “Mom ith gonna be mad. Not ath mad ath if I lotht my retainer, mind you.” He shuddered. “And that wath too clothe for comfort. I thought that one wathn’t going to give it back.”

  Danny shook his head.

  After they’d shut off the sludge pipe, he’d thought they were home free—until they tried to get Wendell’s retainer back and discovered a very small pack rat wearing it as a hat.

  Fortunately the pack rat leader had come to their rescue, and Danny had calmed Wendell down.

  “Squeak!”

  “Oh god! Pack rat cooties!”

  “Squeeeak . . .”

  “Now, Wendell . . .”

  The pack rat leader had exchanged a look with Danny. It was a why do we put up with this? look. Danny really felt they’d bonded.

  They came around the corner of Miss Flicktongue’s house and found her sitting on her front step with a measuring tape and one of the pack rats. It was staring up at her adoringly while she noted down its dimensions.

  “Hey, Granddad!” called Danny. “We got your dentures!”

  Grandfather Turlingsward was lying on his rock and glaring at the pack rats. He lifted his head as Danny approached.

  “Well. Well, well, well.”

  Grandfather Turlingsward took the dentures, turned them over a few times, and said, “Well . . . they look like mine . . .”