Mousemobile Page 6

  But there was one last thing Megan found that she couldn’t clear out—the deepest mouse secret. A mountain of mouse poop piled high in a closet.

  “Well, that’s a dead giveaway,” whispered Uncle Fred, when she told him. “We’d better get out of here before someone realizes robots don’t poop. Did you know that? That robots don’t poop?”

  And he laughed hysterically in a way that made Megan wonder if the strain had been too much, finally.

  When Megan looked back on that first hour after they pulled away from Headquarters and its exterminators, it was hard to decide which memory was worst.

  Maybe if Uncle Fred had taken the time to get used to the huge RV. Maybe if they’d found a big empty parking lot where he could practice before diving into freeway traffic. Maybe if they’d had time for another meeting with the Big Cheese and sorted out a few things, like who was in charge now, and who was to make decisions, and where they were going, and how could the mice help, and who’d be responsible for keeping a lookout. Things like that.

  Yeah, right.

  It all could have happened, but for the poop. Within minutes, Luis and Al would find it and get word to the cops. We were lied to about those robots. Stop those robots. Those robots could be a health hazard. Those robots poop.

  “Is it a crime?” Megan asked her uncle as he pitched the RV into the roaring traffic on the freeway. Did he actually shut his eyes for a moment as he merged in front of a massive truck that blared its horn in anger?

  “What, a crime to carry a few thousand mice without seat belts? Or not reporting poop?” He laughed again with a new touch of hysteria. “Let’s not stick around to find out.”

  He gunned the RV up to the same speed as everyone else on the freeway, which was much faster than his comfort zone.

  If Uncle Fred was scary driving a Prius, the twenty-five-foot RV was even more exciting. First, there was the little problem of the gears. He’d always driven an automatic, so changing gears seemed to take forever, with metallic screams as the stubby little gear shift hunted for the right slot. Add to that the pedal problem: Uncle Fred wasn’t used to three pedals, so whenever he had to change gears he’d look down at his feet while the RV lurched toward someone else’s lane.

  Megan tried one question: “Where are we going?”

  “Thataway, I guess,” said Uncle Fred. “East.” He took a large hand off the wheel for just long enough to point dead ahead, as they jerked and swayed and wobbled and zigzagged their way along the bottom end of San Francisco Bay toward some golden-brown hills.

  “To Cleveland?” she asked.

  That brought a short laugh.

  “Yeah, we might hit Cleveland,” he said, “if it gets in our way.”

  Megan looked up at the Big Cheese swinging gently in his cage as he gazed straight ahead. Was he in shock? Or mesmerized by being out in the world for the first time in years? Or scared literally witless by Uncle Fred’s driving? Hard to guess. His back seemed to be telling everyone that whatever was happening in the RV had nothing to do with him. Two thousand two hundred and forty-three highly intelligent mice heading who knew where? Not his problem.

  A benevolent despot, that’s what Jake had called the Big Cheese, which was like a dictator, but one who does good. If he was still that despot, Megan thought, still that dictator, could he please start to dictate? Take charge and somehow make everything come out right, the way he always seemed to do before?

  “Sir?” she tried.

  No answer.

  She took a quick glance back into the depth of the RV, hoping that maybe some enterprising director might step into the vacuum—organize the brain-power and Thumbtop-power of his department, and come up with some sort of plan. But like their leader, the mice seemed to have been stuck in robot configuration, still standing in neat rows, looking straight ahead, as if they now expected the humans to make all the decisions.

  And Uncle Fred was giving all his attention to the task of surviving the traffic.

  “I’m calling Jake,” Megan announced. Now, there was a human she could use—he’d know exactly what they should do next. But all she got was voice mail. Of course: Joey’s game would be starting about now. She visualized Jake in his hat, watching Joey as he maybe pitched a shutout that would take his team toward the State Championship, toward the World Series, and she felt a stab of jealousy, because if only the Big Cheese hadn’t made that cry for help, they might all be there at the game. Instead of here.

  “I’m leaving a message for Jake,” she said. But what message? She thought of saying, “Get out here now,” or at least “We’re on a freeway with two thousand mice. Help!” but she settled on something that wouldn’t freak anybody out. “Hi there. Call us after the game. And hey, good luck to Joey.”

  egan reached up to touch the comforting form of Trey on her shoulder.

  “We need a grown-up,” she whispered.

  The RV had made it to the east side of San Francisco Bay, and forced its way onto a freeway that was twice as busy as the one they’d left. And now Megan noticed something even more scary. Uncle Fred was starting to enjoy himself. She could even hear a soft “vroom-vroom” coming from under his beard as he pulled out to overtake a truck, flooring the accelerator to see just how fast the massive RV could go before lurching back into the slow lane.

  And the Big Cheese? There was no movement in the cage. He stood still as a rock, gazing straight ahead.

  “I’ve got news,” whispered Trey as Uncle Fred vroom-vroomed to within inches of the truck in front before pulling out to pass it just a few feet ahead of a very angry SUV.

  “I’ve got news,” Trey repeated. “You’re the grown-up.”

  “Oh, please,” Megan said. “You’re more of a grown-up than I am.”

  “Me?” said Trey. “Being fully grown doesn’t always help—like when you need thumbs for finding a map? So we can get off this road?”

  Megan used her thumbs to open the glove compartment, and yes, there was a map of the Bay Area, and after she’d found their position on it, she saw a solution to their immediate problem. A way to get out of this traffic. A way to give them a sporting chance of staying alive.

  “If we take the next exit, Uncle Fred,” she said, “it’ll get us onto a smaller road.”

  “So?” said Uncle Fred.

  “It’s a shortcut,” she said, “toward Cleveland. We’ll need to get off this road in about a mile.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “If I can get into the exit lane.”

  Megan checked the right-hand mirror for him and saw two things: First, it was safe for the RV to move into the exit lane. Second, a familiar-looking vehicle was right behind them.

  A little green pickup truck.

  “Trey,” Megan whispered, a prickling feeling starting in her feet and running up to her head. She pointed at the mirror. “Can you see…?”

  “Uh-oh,” he said, peering at the mirror. “I’m on it.”

  He ran off toward the back of the RV, taking the high route over countertops and seats to stay above the ranks of mice on the floor. Megan turned to watch him pull aside a piece of the blind that blocked the back window. He looked out, then sprinted back to her.

  “It’s definitely him,” he said. “The guy from the hotel. Pink face. Squishy nose. Woman in the passenger seat. Small green truck with light green fender. But it could be a coincidence, right? They could just happen to be on this road?”

  Well, maybe. But when Uncle Fred steered the RV into the exit lane, was it a coincidence that the green truck moved into that lane too? And when Uncle Fred turned off the freeway onto the smaller road, and the little green truck turned right behind him—coincidence?

  Megan put her head down in her hands with an “Aaargh” sound.

  “What’s up?” asked Uncle Fred. “Don’t like my driving, suddenly? Or is this the wrong road?”

  “It’s that man,” she said. “From last night. He’s following us!”

  “The guy in the…can’t be.
Can it?”

  He jammed his foot down on the accelerator, but that brought another problem. This new road followed the bends of a small river, and it only took one big bend at speed for mice to start flying. And soon the floor of the RV had become a wriggling, wrestling morass of mice, flopping into furry piles so you couldn’t see which tail belonged to which set of ears.

  And even going as fast as he dared, there was no way Uncle Fred could outrun the green truck.

  “Trey!” wailed Megan. “Think of something!”

  “We have three options, as I see it,” he said. “One, let him catch up with us at some point, then maybe organize some sort of mouse attack to make sure his truck breaks down.”

  And let him see the cargo? Report it to the police?

  “Two—we can ask the Big Cheese to call a meeting right now,” Trey whispered. “Maybe discuss the situation with the Mouse Council and draw up a plan.”

  Megan looked up at the Big Cheese, still gazing ahead like a stuffed mouse. Hard to imagine any plans coming out of him in the near future.

  “Or?”

  “Or lose him right now. Get away from him. Let’s look at that map.”

  Megan studied it. Yes, there was the bridge they’d just crossed. So a couple of miles farther on, where the map showed a side road…

  She pointed to the road. “You think?”

  “Let’s check it out on Google Maps,” said Trey. “Where’s your Thumbtop?”

  Megan held it out for him, and he quickly found the right part of California and zoomed in on the satellite view of the road.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Look, it’s not far to that grove of trees, then there’s a place to turn off.”

  “Let’s do it,” she said.

  Trey hopped over to Uncle Fred’s shoulder.

  “We’ll be leaving this road soon,” he said. “But first, slow down on the next straight bit. The green guy probably won’t overtake you, but maybe someone will overtake him.”

  And that’s what happened. The stream of traffic behind the RV readjusted itself on the straight bit of road, with cars hustling to get in front of each other so they could overtake the RV. Except for the green truck. It held back, letting a couple of cars pass.

  As they approached the next bend, Trey directed Uncle Fred to speed up—to take the bend as fast as he could, then spin off onto the side road that would open up to their right.

  “Vroom-vroom!” came from the beard as Uncle Fred gunned the massive vehicle forward, then spun the wheel so suddenly that Megan was afraid they might tip over. The Big Cheese rocked hard in his cage and wrapped his paws tight around the bars to keep from falling out. Mice piled up like snowdrifts in the corners of the RV, while Trey grabbed a piece of beard and Julia swung wide on a braid.

  The side road was just as good as it had looked on Google Maps. It kept dividing and dividing so that even if the green truck had managed to do a U-turn and follow them, old Squishy-nose wouldn’t know which way to turn.

  Still going as fast as he dared, Uncle Fred took an unpaved farm road and tucked the RV behind a clump of eucalyptus trees. And then, blessedly, he stopped.

  After he’d turned off the engine, he sat for a while as the silence settled around them, except for the slight squeaking of the old birdcage still rocking as it dangled from the mirror.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and put his head down on the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking. Megan laid a tentative hand on his back. Had it all become too much? Was Uncle Fred actually crying? An uncle his size? But then sounds began to emerge from the beard, first a sort of whimpering that could have gone along with crying, but then the unmistakable sounds of laughter.

  Whether it was the shock of all that lurching, or the relief that it had stopped, something seemed to flip a switch in the Big Cheese and bring him back to life. He turned to the solid mass of mouse that was carpeting the floor of the RV, and gave an order that Trey relayed into Megan’s ear.

  “He’s saying, ‘Everyone—express your interspecies solidarity with Mr. Fred by laughing out loud, even if you have to fake it.’”

  Which the mice did. It’s easy for mice to fake laughter, of course, because it’s just the paw to the mouth with three quick taps on the lips, but as Megan watched 2,243 mice (or at least those who were not upside down) go through the motions in unison, she noticed that gradually real laughter swept through the RV. More and more mice lost it, rolling over on their backs with their paws tapping away at their mouths in a paroxysm of mouse giggles.

  “Know what?” Megan began.

  At Trey’s suggestion, the two humans had left the RV to allow the second most powerful species on earth to sort itself out and retrieve some of its lost dignity. Now the humans were sitting on the dry and crunchy grass of late summer, leaning against a comforting rock in the shade of the eucalyptus grove.

  “I think we just killed two cats with one stone,” she said.

  Uncle Fred laughed. “Cat one, getting away from that guy, right?” he said. “What’s the second cat?”

  “Giving the mice time to sort themselves out.”

  “Don’t forget cat three!” said Trey, from Megan’s knee.

  “Huh?” said Megan.

  “Getting the Big Cheese to take charge,” he said.

  And, yes, that was an important cat. Before they’d even left the RV, the Big Cheese had climbed onto the back of the driver’s seat and started ordering his followers to untangle themselves and form up again in their departments. Mouse discipline was restored. Definitely a good cat.

  It was Julia who saw the signal from a lookout mouse, and gave Trey a quick pat to draw his attention to it.

  “We’re being summoned,” he said. “Back to the Mousemobile.”

  “Mousemobile,” said Uncle Fred. “I like that. Do they need help?”

  Certainly not. Mice never ask for help unless they absolutely have to. When the humans climbed back into the Mousemobile, they found that the organization of mice was complete. Each department had been assigned a place to ride on a bed or a bench or a countertop, so it was now possible to walk from one end of the Mousemobile to the other without squashing anyone.

  And getting the Big Cheese to take command? That had happened too, as the humans found when he summoned them for a private talk. At a sign from the Big Cheese, Uncle Fred held the cage down low so none of the other mice could see their leader doing something unheard of: apologizing.

  “Forgive me,” he began, as Trey whispered the translation. “When we took to the road, I thought it best to abdicate my responsibility because we are, after all, on your territory, and in your power. I therefore thought it best to leave all leadership in your hands.”

  “Well, we’re happy to have you take charge again, sir,” said Uncle Fred. “And we would welcome your lead in plotting a route.”

  “Thank you,” said the Big Cheese. “We have indeed drawn up plans for the immediate future. My Director of Geography has plotted a way to reach the city of Tracy unobserved, on side roads that cut through these hills. On the outskirts of that city, using the Nation’s credit card—which is, as you will recall, in your name—we have booked connecting rooms in a motel. We chose it because Google Maps shows that even a vehicle of this size can park at the back, out of sight. Once we are unloaded, and there is no trace of our presence anywhere in this vehicle, you will exchange it for another. My Director of Transportation has already been in touch with the local rental agency, which is expecting you.”

  Uncle Fred’s beard went south as his jaw dropped.

  “Why look so surprised?” asked the Big Cheese. “You will agree that this plan will get us out of our current predicament, and ensure that your pursuer, whoever he is, will lose the trail. And we are, after all…”

  Uncle Fred finished the thought before Trey could get to the end of his translation.

  “You are, after all, mice,” he said with a huge grin. “Let’s roll!”

  And Megan could almost feel his re
lief that mice were taking charge.

  t took all of Uncle Fred’s skill to pilot the Mousemobile along the narrow farm roads that led them between the golden hills of high summer to safety, guided by a geography mouse with Google Maps on his Thumbtop.

  At last they emerged from the hills onto a better road, and from there it was not hard to find the motel where Mr. Barnes had reserved two adjoining rooms, well out of sight at the back. And while Megan and Uncle Fred kept an eye out for hawks and humans, the mice marched into their room, department by department.

  When everything had been cleaned out of the RV, the two humans set off in it to find the rental agency, and answer awkward questions about what was so wrong with this particular vehicle that made them need to change it?

  There were only two things they could say, really. One was to claim that this massive beast was too big for their needs, which would have meant swapping it for a smaller one; and with 2,243 mice to carry, plus Trey and Julia, that wasn’t such a great idea. So they went the other way, saying the RV was too small, because they hoped to pick up four more guys. Which would be true if Joey lost his game, and he and Jake and Larry and Curly flew out to join them, somewhere.

  That made sense to the rental people, but they were still puzzled by the requirement that the new RV be of a different color. Who worries about color in a rental?

  Before they drove back to the motel in the super-gigantic blue Mousemobile (instead of the simply gigantic silver one), Megan and Uncle Fred bought five pizzas: four plain cheese ones for the mice and another for the humans, with almost everything on it.

  As they entered their room, meaning to cut the plain cheese pizzas into more than two thousand pieces, they were surprised to find the Big Cheese sitting on one of the beds waiting for them.