Hopper's Destiny by Lisa Fiedler
“Doubt it,” said Julius. “We’d either freeze or suffocate before we got very far.”
Outside the wind swept along the sidewalk, causing the metal flap of the mail slot to swing back and forth; the hollow clank it made echoed through the shop as the flap flew open, letting the cold air in before banging shut again.
Hopper’s eyes shot to the mail slot, then moved down the glass door to the sloping drift outside.
“I have an idea,” he said.
At first the rodents looked as if they were afraid he’d lost his mind.
“You want us to jump through that little slot in the door and slide down that snowdrift?” said Julius.
“Yes,” said Hopper.
“I think it could work,” said Valky. “I’ve seen the humans do it. They call it sledding.” He frowned. “Of course, the humans actually have sleds.”
“What if we sink into it?” Dawkins reasoned. “Last night it seemed lighter than air. Fluffy. What if it won’t hold us?”
“It’s iced over now,” Hopper pointed out. “I’m sure it will support our weight if we go one at a time. Besides, we’ll be moving so fast we won’t have time to fall through.”
“That fails to relieve my concerns,” grumbled Julius.
“I like the sliding plan,” said Firren, “but how do you propose we get up to the slot? Climbing a flat glass surface is impossible.”
Hopper grinned; he’d already thought of that. He pointed to the broom propped in the corner. It was the same broom that had facilitated his first exit from Brooklyn Small Pet Supply . . . with a little help from Keep.
“We can drag the broom to the door and stick the wooden end through the slot. Then we can climb up the handle and jump.”
“Jump,” Julius said with a sigh. “Wonderful.”
“It’s our only option,” said Firren. “I say we give it a try.”
Even with all twelve rodents working together, dragging the broom across the shop was difficult. It was heavy and cumbersome, and since the brass flap opened in, they had to time it just so with the gusting wind in order to poke the tip of the handle through.
The rats grunted and heaved, and Hopper’s muscles burned as he used all his strength to push the weighty handle upward. After a few near misses they were able to balance the broom on the rim of the slot. The handle rose up to the center of the door in a gentle incline.
“Now listen,” said Hopper. “If for any reason we get separated, we’ll meet at the subway station. Ace might already be waiting there when we arrive.”
He gave them directions to the Atlantic Avenue Barclays Center stop.
“Who’s going first?” asked Firren.
“I will,” said Valky, positioning himself carefully on the narrow wooden handle. It wobbled, but the chipmunk remained undaunted. He scrambled quickly to the top, then squeezed under the brass flap. “Here goes!”
The others looked up from the floor, holding their breath as Valky pushed off the rim of the mail slot with his hind paws and sailed outward into the atmosphere.
“Woooooo-hoooooo!” cried Valky when his striped bottom landed on the frozen surface of the drift. He was off, sliding and swooshing. The wind whipped his tail and blew his tiny ears back. Seconds later he was spinning to a stop, safe on the snowy sidewalk.
“I’m next,” cried Kidd, scampering up the broom handle. He ducked under the flap and sprang forward, pumping his paws happily above his head as he swooped down the slope.
Julius actually did a front somersault in the air and slid down on his belly.
Hopper watched as rat after rat scrambled up the wooden ramp and launched himself out into the cold. And with each exhilarated leap, with every gleeful ride down the icy drift, Hopper began to feel smaller.
And more afraid.
His stomach churned as he listened to the muffled shouts of joy through the glass door. His friends cheered and celebrated, but he shared none of their excitement.
What had he been thinking? How could he possibly go back to those sinister, unforgiving tunnels? He loved them and hated them, yearned for them even as he loathed the thought of setting one paw back into that gloom. Down there, in the hole in the world where Atlantia lay in ruins, was where Hopper had failed to save Zucker. What in the name of La Rocha could ever have made him think he would have any better luck with Pup?
Now Firren was scrambling onto the straw head of the broom, preparing to climb the handle for her jump. She moved gracefully, with skill and agility, every step bringing her closer to the mail slot.
Closer to the Atlantic Avenue station.
Closer to the tunnels.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“NO!” HOPPER SHRIEKED.
Firren was so startled by this unexpected outburst that she lost her footing and bobbled. Her struggle to hang on set the precariously placed broom bouncing, until finally it slid from its perch on the edge of the opening. The handle clattered to the floor, taking Firren with it.
Hopper gasped.
But Firren had already sprung to her feet and was brushing the dust from her tunic. She gaped at Hopper. “What was that all about?”
“Are you all right?” he asked sheepishly.
“I’m fine. I’ve fallen from much greater heights than that.” Firren cocked her head. “But why did you shout like that? Why didn’t you want me to go?”
Hopper buried his face in his paws. “Because I’m terrified,” he said.
Firren said nothing for a long moment. Then Hopper sensed her making her way to the glass door. He heard her tap on it to get the attention of the rats outside. “Go ahead,” she called loudly. “We’ll catch up.”
“No we won’t,” came Hopper’s voice through his paws as Firren returned to put an arm around him.
“You’re remembering it all, aren’t you?” she whispered.
“Yes.” Hopper stayed hidden behind his paws and nodded. The images of bleeding rodents and burning barracks and exterminators in pounding boots had all come flooding back to him. “I don’t want to go back to the scene of my failure,” he confessed. “I don’t want to fail all over again.”
“You think you failed?”
“Don’t you?” Hopper lifted his face and blinked at her. “You do recall the part about Zucker dying and the city being decimated, right?”
“First of all,” said Firren, “we don’t know for certain that Zucker is dead.”
“He’s dead.” Hopper sighed. “Oh, he’s dead. Dead!”
“Stop that,” said Firren, giving him a shake.
Hopper stopped.
“The answer is yes,” said Firren calmly. “I do recall the downside of our plan. But I also recall the part about you making it possible for all those imprisoned rodents to escape the camps. You were the guiding force that brought down an evil regime.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Hopper. “But I’m talking about the part that came after. The exodus and Pinkie refusing to grant us her protection.”
“None of that was your fault,” Firren assured him.
Hopper scowled. He still wasn’t convinced.
“Did you notice I said ‘our plan’? You were counting on us—Zucker and the soldiers and me—as much as we were counting on you. You can’t shoulder all the blame yourself. I’m a far more seasoned rebel than you are. I should have foreseen that the rodents would panic and run, and the city would get looted and Titus would escape.”
“How could you have foreseen that?”
Firren smiled. “I couldn’t. See? That’s my point. No one could. Not me, not Zucker, not Garfield or Pritchard or Marcy’s brothers. And not you. We acted with pure hearts. And we did achieve some good. We just aren’t finished yet.” She patted his back. “I know this must be scary for you.”
“It’s more than scary,” grumbled Hopper. “It’s sickening. I risked my life, and what did I get? Pinkie hates me, and Pup is a lost cause, and Zucker is probably gone forever.”
“If he is, staying upland won’t bri
“I know,” Hopper muttered. “But why did I have to be the one with a destiny?”
Firren laughed. “Hopper, everyone has a destiny! Yours just happens to be a little more exciting than most. I think you know what you have to do, and I believe if we all work together, it will all be okay in the end.”
“And what if it’s not okay?”
“Then it’s not the end.” Firren clutched his paw in hers. “That’s the thing about destiny, Hopper. There’s no deadline, no expiration date. You just have to keep trying until you make the difference you hope to make . . . until you make things turn out the way you know in your heart they should.”
Hopper closed his eyes and pictured Zucker. He wished he could picture his father beyond the white circle of fur, but all he could manage was the memory of a warm pelt and steady heartbeat.
It was enough.
He took a deep breath. “I’m ready,” he said, his voice clear and confident in the empty shop. “Let’s go.”
“Uh, yeah . . .” Firren wrinkled her nose. “About that . . .”
Hopper followed her smart black eyes to where the broom lay on the floor. He understood that they’d never be able to lift it themselves.
They were stuck.
It was all he could do to keep from screaming. To have come this far—only to see it all end here, back where he started . . . a prisoner in Keep’s shop . . . it was infuriating!
He scanned the shop for something else that might work. Not the housebreaking pad, and certainly not the squeaky toy.
Then his eyes landed on the extension cord and an idea began to form. The cord was plenty long enough to reach the slot. As with the broom handle, if he timed it properly, when the next gust of wind opened the metal flap, he might be able to toss the plug end as high as the slot. If the flap closed on it, it might hold tightly enough for him and Firren to shinny up the wire.
He dragged the cord to the door, cocked his arm, and fixed his gaze on the narrow slot. When the metal flap rattled open, he sent the plug sailing. But the flap banged closed and the plug pinged off it, dropping back to the cement floor.
Hopper grumbled and picked it up, waiting for another gust. It came soon enough, and once again he tossed the plug.
This time the flap bit down on it and held it in place. Hopeful, Hopper reached for the dangling cord and gave it a firm tug. Unfortunately, the cord came away and dropped back to the floor.
“You can do it, Hopper,” said Firren. “Just throw a little bit harder, so the end falls over the outer edge. If it catches right, it’ll anchor itself in place.”
Inspired by her confidence, Hopper again bent his elbow and gripped the plug. He held it poised above his shoulder, listening to the howling of the wind.
When the flap again blew inward, Hopper sent the plug flying. . . . It zoomed up, through, and out the other side! The metal prongs caught on the outer lip of the slot and stuck there.
He tested its hold with a couple of firm pulls on the cord. Sturdy.
“You go first,” he told Firren. What he didn’t mention was that he wanted to be there on the floor to catch her if the prongs gave way.
Firren took hold of the cord to begin her climb. Every time the wind blew, the wire trembled violently, but she held fast and made it to the top. She flung her hind legs over the side and waited.
Hopper took a deep breath and grasped the cord. He made quick work of pulling himself up the length of it, grasping and climbing, jerking and rising. He reached the top just as an enormous, growling monster lumbered up the snow-clogged street. It had a single orange claw where its snout should be, and Hopper realized this was the beast that was responsible for the scraping sound that had awoken him. It had blinking yellow eyes and a logo painted on the side:
BROOKLYN PLOWING
“SNOWBODY” DOES IT BETTER!
He also realized that Firren was shivering.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Just a little ch-ch-chilly,” she said, forcing a smile. But Hopper knew that she wasn’t used to the winter elements, having lived her whole life in the tunnels. For that matter, neither was he. He was beginning to dread the long, icy walk to the subway station.
Now the clawed creature pulled over to the curb, where it ground to a halt, spitting out dark clouds of smoke from its hindquarters as it idled.
Hopper was suddenly thinking back to the first time he had ridden a speeding subway train. It had been dangerous and terrifying.
And it had been the ride of a lifetime.
Maybe he and Firren could shorten their cold journey by taking a similarly dangerous and terrifying ride . . . on that growling, yellow-eyed monster.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
Firren’s answer was immediate. “Implicitly.”
“Good.” He grasped her trembling paw, sent up a silent prayer to La Rocha, and pushed away from the mail slot. They flew down the snowdrift together, crying out with delight the entire way.
“That was exhilarating!” Firren said breathlessly. “Now what?”
Hopper pointed to the snowplow. “We ride.”
There was a built-in ledge, like a step, beneath the door of the truck. They climbed onto it just as the monster roared to life.
“La Rocha, if you’re watching . . . ,” called Hopper, “protect us on this ride!” He gave Firren a quizzical look. “He does that sort of thing, right?”
“Let’s hope so,” said Firren, grinning, as the plow pulled away from the curb.
They were off!
Hopper and Firren arrived at the Atlantic Avenue station chilled but unharmed. They jumped off their perch just as the slow-moving beast plodded its way past the street-level entrance to the subway terminal.
Dashing across the sidewalk, Hopper was relieved to find there were very few humans about. He was even more relieved to see several familiar faces waiting for them. Valky and the Barclays rats were huddled against the outer wall of the station, looking weary and cold.
“What’s wrong?” asked Hopper when he saw the harried expression on their faces.
Valky explained that although the slide down the snowdrift had been fun, the ensuing trek through the snowy streets had been grueling and fraught with all manner of peril. Frankly, the chipmunk was surprised they’d all arrived in one piece. There had been several moments when he doubted they would.
“And there’s something else . . . ,” Dawkins broached.
It took Hopper only a second to understand the inference. His stomach plummeted. “Where’s Ace?”
Valky replied with a grim shrug.
Hopper gulped, eyes searching, heart thudding. “What happened?”
“We don’t know,” said Kidd. “He was traveling when the storm was at its worst.”
The blood drained from Hopper’s face. “So he could be lost . . . or stuck in a drift or . . .”
Hopper felt instantly sick. Last night the snow and the wind had been brutal. How low had the temperature dropped during the night? Surely, a cat could not endure such a deep freeze! And even if he had made it through the night, this morning there would have been shovels to dodge and towering snowbanks to navigate. Trembling, Hopper thought of his recent snowplow ride, picturing the way that claw had pushed the deep snow into densely packed mountains. If some small animal had accidentally stumbled into its path . . .
He shuddered violently, willing the image out of his head. Then he began to shout. “Ace! Ace, where are you?!”
“It’s no use,” Julius said with a sigh. “We’ve been calling for him since we got here. He isn’t nearby.”
“But we have to find him!”
“I don’t see how,” said Valky, his voice cracking. “It would be madness to venture back out into that snowy mess.”
Hopper’s
He turned to Firren, to see if she might have an idea, and immediately shaded his eyes against the blinding glare of the sun reflecting off her sword handle. The reflection of light threw shimmering, trembling prisms across the white snow.
Hopper had seen colors shimmer like that before.
On Pilot’s feathers.
Surely, Pilot would be more than willing to help their friend. He’d even said as much to Ace: I owe you one.
And Ace had said, You know the signal, right? Three short, three long, three short.
Hopper took a deep breath and began to whistle with every ounce of air in his tiny lungs. He whistled as loud and as hard as he could—three short blasts, three long ones, three short again.
“What’s he doing?” asked Julius. The other rats were looking at Hopper as though he were insane.
But Firren, the warrior, understood. “He’s sending out a call for help,” she explained. “An SOS.”
“To whom?” asked Kidd.
“I have no idea,” said Firren. “But let’s hope it works.”
Once more Hopper filled his chest with oxygen and whistled, pushing the piercing, high-pitched sound out into the world with all the might he could muster. Three short, three long, three short.
This time the effort left him dizzy and light-headed.
Valky noticed and immediately and took up the cause, sending his own powerful whistle slicing into the atmosphere. Fwee, fwee, fwee. Fweeeeee, fweeeeee, fweeeeee. Fwee, fwee, fwee.
Hopper cocked his ear toward the vast blue sky. He heard a ruffling sound, a ragged flapping, a beating of feathers against the wind.
In the next second Pilot swooped down to join them on the sidewalk.
“Your wing!” cried Hopper. “It’s healed.”
Pilot grimaced. “Not completely, but it works. What do you need?”
Hopper quickly explained that Ace had gone missing and they hoped Pilot would be willing to execute an aerial search.