The Christmas Rat (2 page)

I watched him for a while. Then I said, “Do you like your work?”

“Love it.”

“How come?”

“People always ask me that,” the exterminator said, without stopping his work with a box labeled
TOXIC
!
“See, kid, I was in the military. Special Services. Trained to kill. Guns. Hand-to-hand. Locks. Not a lock in the world I can't open. Booby traps. Mines. Hand bombs. Chemicals. Even bugle blowing—you know, Taps. The works. You name it. That's
all
I knew. I was good at it, too.

“Anyway, I put in my time and then some. I'm not even allowed to tell you what I did. Trust me. I was everywhere.

“But, hey, nothing good lasts forever. Right? It was back to this world for me.

“Didn't take me long to figure out that unless I found a job which would let me kill—legal-like—I'd be in trouble. So I got me a job as an exterminator. It solved everything.”

Though all his talk of killing made me feel uncomfortable, I had to admit, he was interesting.

“Hey, I like killing things,” he went on as if reading my mind. “And you know what?” He poked a long finger in my direction. “The world likes what I'm doing. And another thing. I get money and respect for what I do.”

All I could say was, “Oh.”

He had finished the kitchen. “Show me the other rooms,” he commanded.

I led the way.

“The hardest thing of all is rats,” the exterminator continued. “
The
worst. I can tell you more about rats than you want to know. Filthy creatures. They spread diseases worse than any poison. You wouldn't believe what they steal. Not just small stuff, either.”

I must have looked doubtful, because he said, “Hey, in the army, I once saw a rat roll a hand grenade away. They grab things that glitter. Or glow.

“Yeah, people don't know it, but rats have really influenced the world. Sure, sometimes for good, you know, in medical labs. But mostly for the worst. Trust me. Public Enemy Number One. Got any around here?”

“I don't think so.”

“People think if you live in a nice neighborhood, no rats. Forget it. I used to work in Beverly Hills. You know, fancy Los Angeles? Huge shopping mall out there for rich folks? Well, it was mostly a resort for rats. Don't worry. I got 'em. Hey, if anyone brings on the end of the world it's going to be me, not them.”

He opened one of his boxes and pulled out what I thought was a pistol. Fixed across the barrel at right angles was a miniature bow. It startled me.

“A crossbow,” he explained. “I don't believe in using firearms outside the army. Anyway, knowing me,” he added with a glare, as if I had just accused him of something, “I'm not so sure I could get a license. But, see, I can fit a bolt in here,” he pointed to a slot grooved into the top of the gun barrel, “and shoot. It's pretty silent. Perfect for rats.”

I stared at the weapon.

He quickly put the crossbow away, then whipped a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. The card was red. The letters were printed in black.

“You ever see a rat, kid, ring me. Anytime. Anywhere. Keep my cell phone by my pillow. I'll be there. People call me Anje. You know, An-je. And trust me, I hate rats.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, putting his card in my pocket.

Anje was in the living room now, kneeling on the floor, fiddling with a canister in the middle of the rug.

“Okay, kid,” he went on. “Gas warfare time. I'm setting off this bomb. It'll fog the place with poison, killing the really small vermin. Lethal. Breathe it and it'll make you sick. So get out of here for twenty-five minutes. Or more. Go to a buddy's. Read a comic book in the hall. Anywhere but here. I'll shut the door behind us. Don't come back until time's up. But if you go outside, wrap yourself up tight. It's wicked.”

Grabbing my coat, I watched as he twisted the cap off the fog bomb.

There was a hiss. A stream of fog shot into the air. It had a sour smell which I realized was what I had smelled when Anje first walked in.

“Take cover!” he shouted, and began to back away from the spewing bomb.

I ran for the door. The exterminator, steel cases in hand, followed me into the hallway. He slammed the door behind us. Then he unrolled a long strip of masking tape from his pocket and covered the cracks around the door. “Got a watch?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Remember,” he said. “Nothing less than twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty-five minutes,” I repeated.

“And if you see a rat, call me. You've got my number. You and me, we'll kill him, okay? Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” I replied.

For a second I watched as Anje went to the next apartment, where our neighbor, old Miss Cromwell, lived. He rapped on the door. As he stood there he glanced over and flashed a thumbs-up sign at me.

I shifted away, and only then did I realize I was stuck in the hallway with nothing to do. I had left the apartment so fast I forgot to bring anything like a book or my Game Boy. I even turned back around, thinking maybe I could help the exterminator, but he had gone.

I wandered over to the window at the end of the hall. As always, it was locked shut. I stared down at the street but there was nothing interesting to watch.

Checking my wristwatch to see when the twenty-five minutes would be up, I decided I'd go down to the lobby and wait. At least I could sit in one of the soft chairs.

I took the elevator down. It clanked and groaned the way it always does. I can tell which way it's going—up or down—by the noise it makes.

Our lobby has mirrored walls and these long tables where deliveries are left. I checked them out. Some were marked
DON'T OPEN TILL CHRISTMAS!
A few tinsel decorations had been strung up on the walls. My dad says they're just reminders to tip the building staff.

There were foil icicles on the double lobby doors and a couple of plastic wreaths on the doors to the street. A tin angel blowing a horn had been stuck on the door at the rear of the lobby. That door led to a stairwell you can use to go up (to the apartments) or down (to the basement) if you don't want to take the elevator.

My parents always take the elevator and I like to race them using the steps. Sometimes I push the buttons on each floor so the elevator keeps stopping. That way I always beat them. Once—before they got on—I flipped the
OFF
switch. The elevator didn't go at all. That made them mad.

Anyway, I sat in one of the lobby chairs, checking my watch a lot. Mostly I kept thinking about the exterminator, what he had said. The more I thought about him, the weirder he seemed. But, you know, interesting. I mean, I sort of liked him.

I guessed it was a good thing he was doing. But were all the vermin so bad that it had to be—like he said—a
war?
I wondered if the vermin felt the way he did.

Before five minutes were up I was so restless I decided to go outside. Not that I had any particular place to go. I hadn't brought any money. But hitting the street seemed better than sitting in the lobby doing nothing. I told myself the fresh air would be good for me. But when I stepped out through the front doors the cold hit me so hard, I gasped. My lungs actually stung. Like, the cold was totally worse than I'd expected. Still, I buttoned up my coat and set out to walk around the block.

I plunged my hands deep into my pockets and felt the key my mother had given me for our storage bay. Moving into the wind, I kept my head bent, eyes down, listening to the crunch my feet made as I walked in the snow. Some places where people had shoveled were okay, but narrow. Other places were bumpy with ice.

I walked as fast as I could. There was no one else on our block. The further I went, the more I thought how great it was going to be to get inside again. I promised myself another hot chocolate and a thick comforter. I'd be glad to be home. I mean, in a way, I wasn't sorry I'd come out because now I knew how good it would be to stay in.

I was just about back to our building when I remembered the Christmas decorations. I figured I could kill some more time by getting them from the basement.

Rubbing my icy hands I pushed through the back lobby door and headed down.

In the public places of our building, which is called The Eden Apartments, there's all this soft lighting on walls painted light green, pink, and blue. In the basement there's no color at all. Just cement, plus a couple of places with dirt. They must have poured the cement wrong or something. The light comes from weak, bare bulbs that dangle from black wires. The air feels chilly and dank and there's this white, chalky dust all over. Anytime I'd been there it made me think of a place where people are buried. A crypt. I mean, if our building was named after the Garden of Eden, what was this place?

Actually, I had been in the basement only a few times since we moved into the apartment three years ago. That was when we were in and out of our storage bin. To tell the truth, I felt a little nervous being down there. It's pretty depressing.

The thing is, the whole area is mazelike. Corridors lead every which way and the ceilings are low, crisscrossed with white pipes and electrical wires. Along one wall is a row of big metal cans full of incinerated garbage.

There are a few solid doors. I think they're made of steel. One is labeled
ELECTRICAL.
Another is
TELEPHONE.
A third says
FURNACE.

There are all these storage bays built into a wall. When you move into the apartment you can ask for a bay. That's what we did. They each have steel screen doors with locks. Makes 'em look like cages. You can see through these doors, but you can't get in without a key. Or out, I guess. Most of them were full. There were cardboard boxes in one, trunks in another, lawn chairs in another. I even saw a cool kayak.

Feeling slightly nervous about being there, I walked slowly and softly to our own bin, #13. My steps sounded pretty loud on the concrete.

I used the key in the lock on the mesh door. It swung open stiffly and I stepped inside. The place wasn't much more than a big closet. There were stacked and numbered cardboard boxes. That was my dad's neat way. There was also a baby's high chair and a folding bed. Mine, I guessed.

As for the cardboard boxes, the problem was you had to know what the numbers meant to know what was inside.

I pulled open one box. I found a lot of baby clothes inside. Another box had what I think were old checks and papers. A third had nothing but photographs. I kept looking.

I think it was the ninth box. When I opened it I saw our Christmas decorations—bulbs, electric lights, decorations, other stuff. And right in the middle of it all was this huge rat.

The rat was about a foot long and totally scrawny. He was gray-brown in color, with a long, thin, naked-looking tail. I could see his bristling whiskers. His eyes were bright and black. As I looked at him, he looked right back at me, his snout sniffing the air. Like, checking me out.

Right beside him was this old-fashioned pasteboard angel we always put on the top of the tree. Something my mother had saved since she was a little girl.

The rat had been eating it.

When I opened the box I almost died. Seriously. See, I remembered what the exterminator had said, that rats were “the absolute worst. Human enemy number one.” I felt really freaked.

As I jerked away from him, the rat ran up against my side of the box, one little paw on the box edge. Facing me, he stood up on his hind legs, clawing the air as if in a rage. He suddenly jumped up and out. I staggered back while he scrambled down the side of the box and took a flying leap to the floor. Then he raced for the open bay door, and whipped down the corridor.

I ran out after him, just catching a glimpse as he disappeared around a turn. I didn't follow. Couldn't. I was too scared. I just stood there, heart pounding like crazy.

After a bit I went back to the bay, nervous that maybe there were more rats. I jiggled the decoration box, waited, looked. Nothing. Finally, I picked up the box, shut the bay door, locked it, and took the elevator up to the fifth floor. When I got there I checked my wristwatch. The twenty-five minutes weren't up, so I put the box down and sat up against the wall, glad for the moment to calm my jitters. But I kept thinking about that rat. I mean, how did he even get into our stuff?

Hearing a sound, I looked around fast. It was the exterminator. He was staring down at me.

“Hey, kid,” he boomed, “it's okay now. You can go back inside. You'll be fine.”

“Mr. Anje . . .”

“What's up, kid?”

“I . . . I saw a rat.”

His face turned red. His eyes narrowed. His mustache ends seemed to stiffen. It was as if I had just insulted him. “You telling the truth?” he demanded.

“Yeah,” I said.

“In
this
building?”

“I just saw it. In the basement. In our Christmas box.”

To prove it, I stood up, opened the box, and held up the angel the rat had been chewing.

Anje took it from my hand, gazed at it, examining it on all sides as if he were checking out what had been eaten away. He didn't look too happy.

“We need to talk,” he said, handing back the angel and peeling the masking tape off our door with a sharp ripping sound.

I led the exterminator back inside. The apartment air stank of the poisonous fog. He marched right down to the living room and opened a window. “Might be cold for a bit,” he said. “But that stuff can kill you.”

I left the box of decorations in the living room, and the two of us sat down at the kitchen table.

“Now the thing with rats is,” he began, flipping back his long hair away from his face, “you have to know where they live. Their nest. No point in getting just one. They breed like bandits.”