As
The Fur Flies
By
Daryll Pung
A Record of the Revolution
Rated:
R
Credits/Disclaimers:
During a recent Canadian fishing trip, my father, Bruce Pung, younger
brother, Travis Pung, and myself began to speculate amidst casts for northern
pike and walleye (yum!) precisely what the chipmunks and squirrels on shore were
making such a racket about. It was
on the second or third day when I initially suggested that perhaps they were
discussing “the attack begins at dawn”… and the whole chipmunk/squirrel
conflict (“revolution”) became a running gag for the rest of the trip, with
much contribution from all three of us as it went along.
I just had to turn it into a story… fiction, of course, and just a little
bit exaggerated…
Nevertheless, much thanks to both for the wealth of ideas; and for the
fun of the trip, despite the ending (walking 18 klicks on lonely, irregular
gravel roads at night through rough terrain with just a few squirt bottles of
lemonade to sustain us in search of a jump for a dead vehicle battery wasn’t a
lot of fun of and in itself… but it sure was memorable!); this one’s for
you.
Oh, and, ‘no animals were harmed in the making of this motion
picture’. It’s all CG, okay?
Just keep telling yourself that. (Except
for maybe some of the background shots… anyway.)
Enjoy, everybody!
The Story: Once upon
a time…
In Ontario, Canada, lies a town, population just shy of eight thousand,
called Dryden. This town sits some one hundred twenty klicks up Highway 502
from Fort Frances, which is right across the border from International Falls,
Minnesota. Dryden is of some
importance, sporting a mill and an airport, amongst other things.
This story, however, is not about Dryden.
Some twenty-odd klicks down the 502 from Dryden, a sign points off the
highway, designating a rough, gravel, non-maintained former logging road
‘Century Road’; though on some maps it is labeled ‘Camp 69 Road’.
Roughly thirty-four klicks down this road (which gets progressively worse
as one proceeds along), and hanging rights where the road branches, one will
travel over a pair of one-lane bridges. One
finally comes to a very muddy ATV track off the right side (don’t blink; you
might miss it) with a slightly cleaner footpath a little better concealed off to
the side of the track. Hope
you’re in the mood for a mosquito-ridden hike, for just over a half a klick or
so up this path/trail lies a typically gorgeous little Canadian lake, with
scenic surroundings and teeming with fish, named Darling Lake.
You can go out if you want; there should be an oar or two lying about
underneath that unsecured, beat-up old leaky boat on shore that anyone is free
to use… just make sure you take some of the plastic containers about for
bailing, too!
This story, however, is also not directly about Darling Lake, nor the
connecting Hartwick Lake, nor the crazy anglers who make the trip and the hike
to that lake.
This story, rather, is about one of the shortest, and bloodiest, if
littlest known, wars to ever occur on the entirety of the North American
continent.
This devastating conflict occurred on the shores of Darling Lake, as
summer was drawing to a close, in the year 2008, A.D.
Nature, specifically the surrounding small mammal population, would never
be the same.
Even as dawn broke the early morning mists off the shores of the water,
Grand Chief Chitawickee frowned at his plotting table.
Held to it, via a pair of restraints, was a tactical map, depicting the
lay of the land. And several of his
assistants were even know explaining what had occurred in the depths of the
night.
He was unhappy. Yet another
cache of winter supplies had been raided; only a few tops of windfall acorns
were left behind as evidence.
“No doubt about it, sir,” scowled the head of his military forces,
General Charnatiki. He ran a paw over his stripes, and rubbed one of his ears
-the scarred one- as his tail twitched in anger.
“It was those blasted squirrels.”
“How could they have known about that cache?” frowned Chitawickee.
“Skunk spies,” snorted his intelligence director, Director Chewasek.
He did look rather odd wearing shades, in here; but by his own admission,
all intelligence agents did, and never took them off.
“Could have been ‘coons, too, I suppose, but we know that the
squirrels have an arrangement with the skunks… and this could be evidence of
it.”
“It would explain much,” agreed the fourth person in the chamber, who
hadn’t said much to this point. She
was head diplomat of the Allied Chipmunk Tribes; Challitawa; and Chitawickee’s
mate. “The tribes are incensed by
this,” she continued, with a sigh. “Not
that I blame them. We have a few
allies, ourselves. Do we alert
them?”
Chitawickee turned away. “Such
an act could provoke the situation further.”
Challitawa placed a paw on Chitawickee’s arm.
“I’m all for talking, when someone will talk.
I’m all for non-violent resolution if it is at all possible.
And as far as provoking…” she paused.
“It doesn’t matter. It
won’t matter. The squirrels are not responding to talk, to diplomacy.
We are being systematically raided and victimized.
It has to stop, Chita.”
Chitawickee scowled. “It
is a bad idea to get into a war one cannot win.”
The other three exchanged glances.
“The only problem there, sir,” began Charnatiki, “is that the war
is already on. And we are already
losing. Fine, they have a big
advantage: the high ground.
However, we are not without tricks or tactics ourselves.
The skunks won’t fight, either; it’s not their way.
The raccoons are opportunists; if we respond, it will be a little to hot
for them; they’ll wait for it to end and see who’s victorious before making
a move. We can do this, sir. We’re
all ready for it.”
“You realize this could permanently alter the balance of power?”
Chitawickee responded. “Yes, perhaps in our favor; but it is potentially
destabilizing.”
“It comes down to this, sir,” Chewasek spoke up.
“How much longer will the chipmunks have to remain the squirrels’
punching bags? Haven’t we taken
enough from them? Have we not
suffered enough? They’ve pushed
us into a tight corner… and unfortunately, there’s only one way out.”
Chitawickee stared at the table for several long moments, finding no
answers. The hell of it was… they
were right. They were all right.
Yes, he wanted to protect his people; and he’d done a fair job of
running ACT to this point, and keeping people happy and fed.
But the squirrels were on the verge of ruining everything… and
jeopardizing his entire nation’s survival during the Cold.
That was unforgivable.
He was, by nature, a non-violent chipmunk; he much preferred diplomacy
and tact. However, for the entirety of the Warm to this point… the
squirrels had made it impossible for such tools to work.
His advisors were all correct. He
had no choice.
He sighed. “So be it,” he frowned, as he looked up.
“General, you know what to do. Challi,
alert our allies.”
“Yes, sir,” Charnatiki replied calmly as Challitawa nodded.
Chitawickee continued, solemnly. “The
revolution begins at dawn, tomorrow.”
“Any word?” yawned Emperor Squikkaz, ruler of the Squirrel Empire,
lazily munching on his lunch. His
ornate crimson robes were somewhat open, revealing a bulging belly.
“Actually, Eminence, there is,” nodded his chief of staff, Squollas.
“The chipmunks have been quiet; some rather frantic activity was
noticed near certain heavily guarded areas, probable weapons depots.
Our conclusion is that they’re arming for war.”
“Nuts,” snorted the robed squirrel, his crown lopsided.
“Are they really.” He
paused. “Increase our readiness;
have our troops take up strategic positions around known chipmunk
fortifications. Oh… and
distribute ample amounts of the new weapons to our troops.”
“Yes, Eminence,” Squollas said, nodding.
“This should be fun,” Squikkaz grinned.
“And when it’s over… we’ll have it all.”
Tightly holding his C-16 rifle against his chest, Private Chellat was
visibly nervous. The rumor mill was
working overtime, not that it needed to; virtually everyone had seen this coming
for some time.
It was time to fight.
He’d never been in battle before, but as he followed his squad to their
position, he consoled himself with the nice view of the soldier in front of him;
his longtime girl, Chessina, who was holding her rifle at the ready position
already, her ears poking through her helmet, sans the ribbons she usually wore;
her body armor vest currently hung open. She
glanced back at him, but instead of her usual cheerful smile, her expression was
neutral, like she was fighting to maintain calm.
No time for smiles anymore.
He shifted his body armor vest, trying to make it rest more comfortably
as he mused on, occupied with his thoughts.
He knew they were headed to a front-line position; they’d be among the
first units to make contact with the squirrels; and it was entirely likely they
would take very heavy casualties.
No matter. Whatever they faced, he and Chessina would face it together.
“Interesting,” muttered Lieutenant Squitnal, eyeing the chipmunks
moving into position from the lofty height of his spy post between the branches
of a tall pine tree. He unslung his
SQ-47 rifle and laid it next to him, before picking up his radio.
“HQ, Scout 23; I have several units of chipmunks, armored and armed,
moving into defensive positions near my tree.
No signs of heavy weaponry yet.”
“Report noted, 23,” came back the reply.
“Maintain observation. Squads
enroute to reinforce.”
“23 copies,” Squitnal replied; he set the radio down, listening to it
only idly through his earpiece; his bushy tail twitched occasionally as he set
out his helmet and vest.
Things were about to get interesting.
Night was falling earlier and earlier as the Warm ground down; and as
darkness slipped over the land, all was silent.
The loons had stopped making their raucous racket a little over an hour
earlier; even they knew something was happening.
Silent, that is, except for several groups of shadows moving lightly and
quietly from tree to tree, slipping finally down the trunk of a large beech, and
stealthily creeping forwards towards a chipmunk weapons cache.
The leader of the first squad held his paw up, and made a signal; two of
his troops reached into their packs and came out with what looked like acorns,
except these had been hollowed out and modified to very special specifications.
Holding them by the stem, the two troops took half a step back, twisted
the tops just so, and then chucked them in a graceful arc right towards the
front entrance of the depot.
Two thunks were heard as the ‘acorns’ hit the ground and bounced into
the entrance.
Seconds later, a pair of thunderous blasts rent the stillness of the
night, the twin fireballs sending spouts of flame out through the entrance.
As the flames died down, the lead squirrel waved his troops forward, and
charged in, guns at the ready.
Aside from the flickering flames, though, no one was in the guard’s
barracks.
The leader frowned, and rubbed his nose.
A single, heavy door led out of the room, to the storage for the weapons
that were rumored to be stored here; advanced ACT technology.
He motioned his troops forward; as they covered the door, he pointed, and
two of them forced entry, with the rest following behind in short order.
The room was empty save for what looked like a pinecone in the center of
the room.
He motioned to his troops to spread out, and as they ransacked the place,
looking for… well, anything, he approached the pinecone cautiously.
His blood ran cold as he examined it; he realized very quickly that this
was no pinecone. Perhaps it had
been initially, but just like the Squirrel Empire’s acorn bombs, it had been
heavily converted; glints of metal could be seen under the protrusions of the
pine cone.
What it was, he was uncertain; but there was a control panel and blank
display near the stem. That fact,
in and of itself, suggested major trouble.
“Sir!” one of his troops called out, withdrawing a sheaf of paper
from a nearby desk.
He moved to examine it, and got a further chill.
The small pinecone in the center of this room was just that- the smallest
variety of…
“Thermal Core Warheads?” he muttered aloud.
From the looks of it, these things could be used as mines, motars… or,
in the case of the smallest ones, even as a RPG.
There was a soft beep. A
shadow moved away from the doorframe. He
spun; the control panel was suddenly alive.
“Nuts!” he exclaimed. “Get
out of here! Everyone, get the h-“
From outside, the third explosion that erupted from the doorway was
eerily beautiful, with pure white flame bursting forth and gleaming metal
fragments spiraling about; the deep-throated boom
that followed a millisecond later caused the nearby trees to sway slightly.
A few charred fragments of gray fur drifted about after the explosive
effects passed.
And a single chipmunk, wearing shades despite the evening hour, grinned.
Chewasek stowed the remote detonator in his pack, before turning and
quickly fleeing the scene.
A gleam showed in the sky; it was beginning to lighten.
Mists drifted off the water; the increasing light twinkled feebly through
the moisture in the air. A cool
wind began to rise, swirling the dense vapors about.
It was quiet.
Was being the operative word; a massive blast suddenly echoed
through the woods, followed by the whispering of fragments and accompanied by a
ball of flame reaching through the trees.
The rapid rattle of machine gun fire followed next.
The revolution was at hand.
Chellat ducked as a fountain of earth rose nearby; the rumble of the
explosion assaulted his ears. He
grimaced, and glanced back up over the edge of his chipmunk-hole.
Squirrels could be seen racing down the trunks, covered by still more
squirrels spreading out cover fire from the tree branches overhead.
He positioned his rifle, sighted, and pulled the trigger, unleashing a
burst overhead; a squeal could be heard, before bullets began thudding into the
dirt around him.
Chessina was at his side, and she aimed her rifle next, silencing the
fire from overhead; as she drew back, he popped back out, and sprayed at those
squirrels now charging their position from the ground in front of them. He
heard screams as he ducked back down; at least one seemed to fall, but it was
hard to be certain in the flurry of activity all around.
The machine gun nest buried nearby abruptly opened up; and even as more
explosions echoed around, from acorns literally raining from the squirrels
overhead, the lead ranks of squirrels collapsed in bloody heaps, bits of fur,
flesh, and blood flying about.
The nest took four acorn-bombs, right in the openings; the resulting
explosions sent yet another fountain of dirt skyward; debris began raining down:
bits of metal, dirt… and chipmunk.
Chellat gasped at the crater from where the machine gun nest had been.
Chessina scowled, and reached back into the small alcove dug out behind
them; she produced a pine cone, and armed it the way they’d been shown.
After sharing a look and a nod, Chellat opened fire, covering Chessina as
she set up the launcher and dropped the TCW into the tube; the mortar barked,
sending the cone flying… straight up.
Seconds later, a massive explosion overhead silenced the hail of lead
coming down; and even as several acorn bombs went up by sympathetic detonation,
the shockwave pounded through both chipmunks.
Bits of squirrels and splinters of wood began splattering and thudding
into the dirt around them.
As they recovered, the sky grew dark.
They looked up.
A massive tree branch was falling right towards them, still on fire.
It hit the ground with a mighty crash.
“Fire ranging shot!” ordered the chipmunk artillery commander, many
hours later, some distance from where the battle had been raging since dawn…
and it was spreading. It had,
unfortunately, taken the better part of the day to set up even the one-third of
his artillery battalions currently established in a position where they’d be
relatively sheltered and could still provide adequate support to the now three
fronts of fighting. Still, he hoped
they were about to make up for it.
The massive gun tube on the far right roared with a blast of flame as the
first of the new TCW pine cone shells flew into the darkening sky.
He carefully examined where it landed, some distance behind the combat on
the squirrel’s side, off the south flank.
They had to move quickly. They’d
only get off a few salvoes before darkness fell; and even with recent advances
it was dangerous engaging in nighttime artillery operations.
“Drop two hundred! Battery,
compute!” he ordered into his headset next, knowing that the other guns would
adjust their firing arcs to match the first gun’s position to place the fire
where it was supposed to go.
“Ready, sir!” the reports began coming in.
When all guns had acknowledged, he grinned.
“All guns, fire mission!” he called out.
Their little patch of forest abruptly became yellow and white from the
flame erupting from the battery.
And shortly after that, the first salvo landed right in the midst of the
squirrel grenadiers charging the chipmunk front lines.
Explosions obscured the area, and tore the heart out of the attacking
force. Small hunks of charred gray
fluff drifted about on the superheated air.
As night fell, the fighting slowed… but it did not stop completely.
Several small firefights erupted all across the lines; they died down
minutes later, only to burst forth again a short while later and in different
locations as various squirrel and chipmunk squads attempted to find a weakness
in the other’s lines.
While this was happening, General Charnatiki scowled at his charts; he
had evacuated the initial positions his forces had held.
The chipmunks had, indeed, lost ground that day… and a lot of it.
The entirety of the chipmunk force was slowly being enveloped.
Still, it was easier to reinforce or medivac with the troops in tighter
proximity to one another.
But with those damned acorn bombs, it was easier to take large amounts of
casualties as well. And casualties
to this point were rather heavy.
He couldn’t deny that things were getting desperate already, and he
needed some way to break things open for his troops.
But how?
Little did he know the pattern of skirmishes had just been set, and would
dictate the fighting for the next four days.
Unfortunately, the squirrels still held the advantage.
Chessina slowly opened her eyes, and looked around.
She sat up, wincing; her entire midsection was bandaged, and she was in a
medical tent, as evidenced by the chip-medics scampering about, and the numerous
IV trees and bandaged troops.
But where was…? She turned
her head to see Chellat sitting on the floor next to her bed.
“Hi,” Chellat said weakly. His
head and left foreleg were both bandaged… and his head was strangely
misshapen.
“How bad is it?” she all but whispered.
He sighed. “Mild concussion, broken foreleg… and I’m down to one
ear.”
“No,” she gasped in horror… before wincing as that gasp shot spikes
of pain through her.
“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” he nodded.
“I’m now ‘ear’-ing impaired.”
She couldn’t help it; she giggled, and only stopped as the agony of
laughter abruptly took her breath away. Finally,
her breath recovered, she frowned. “What’s
wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “Couple of
fractured ribs; deep laceration on your foreleg.
Nothing life threatening, but…”
“We’re done, aren’t we,” she murmured.
It wasn’t a question.
A distant explosion echoed, momentarily silencing everything.
As the activity picked back up, Chellat snarled.
“Hell, no. Those gray-fluffed bastards are gonna get theirs.”
Chessina simply nodded her agreement, her expression devoid of emotion.
By the time the fifth morn came around, it dawned amidst a gentle rain.
For the past few hours, things had fallen silent as both sides took
advantage of the dark just prior to the dawn to relax for a few minutes and
catch their breath. The rest of the
wildlife in the area remained quiet as well… with the exception of a rather
large snapping turtle, easily the size of a hubcap, that made off with a minnow-
and the hook it was on- under the astonished gaze of three carelessly oblivious
fishermen in a beat-up old boat drifting on the lake, trying to catch their
lunch for the day. Damned
finicky, tasty walleyes…
And the loons were, of course, up to their usual noisy antics, no longer
caring about the ongoing war, since they could simply dive away from anything
that annoyed them too much… or they were simply loony.
It was hard to say which.
The almost silence was abruptly shattered as the first bouts of
gunfire were exchanged between the armies even now picking up the fight where it
had left off. It was quickly
obvious that today was going to be another long day.
The chipmunks holding the line on the north front were barely holding off
the determined squirrels. This area
was somewhat to the chipmunks’ advantage; they were located in the middle of a
clearing, and the squirrels had to come to ground to fight.
Or so they thought.
“Now!” shouted Lieutenant Squitnal.
Trails of fire suddenly burst from several of the squirrel-held trees,
each a slender, finned tube with an acorn at its head.
The rocket-propelled acorn grenades smashed hard into the chipmunk
positions, which were sitting ducks- not that the actual ducks now flying in the
opposite direction appreciated that comparison- since they were in the open.
Soon after, the initial squirrel wave met sporadic resistance as they
charged into the clouds of smoke and flame, machine gun fire bursts erupting
from weapons on both sides.
On the south front, things were going much better for the chipmunks; the terrain was extremely favorable here, and the machine-gun nests expertly placed… and now interlaced with nests of chipmunks armed with the new TCW pine cone RPGs. So far this morning, the chipmunk lines had remained resolute, blunting the assaults upon them.
Then, one of the chipmunks saw a new shape after firing a burst and
watching his target drop as the launched bullets shredded its flesh in a spray
of red; a shape colored black and white and far larger than a squirrel.
His heart caught in his throat; and even as RPGs were launched towards
the shape, an immense cloud of yellowish vapors was released from it, moving
with the increasing wind right into them.
“Skunks!” someone screamed, before gagging.
“They’re using chemical warfare!” shouted another, before she, too,
succumbed.
In one of the machine gun nests, a chipmunk soldier dived for the radio.
Panicked, he keyed it. “Nest
Eighteen! Skunks sighted!
GAS GAS GAS!”
“Evacuate! Everybody out! Chemical
attack in progress!” yelled a chipmunk soldier, running panicked through the
med tent. “Get the hell out now!
The clouds will drift this way!”
The place was suddenly a riot of sound; screams and shouts; and frantic
activity, as nurses and doctors began grabbing injured chipmunks, medical
supplies, stretchers, and virtually everything in sight.
In the confusion, Chellat helped Chessina out of the tent… and they
slipped away unnoticed, still fleeing the oncoming cloud of vapors, but in a
different direction than the rest.
They paused only long enough to gather a few magazines and a pair of
rifles, from the neatly-stacked piles of equipment removed from those brought to
the medical tent to recover.
On the west front, things weren’t going well at all.
The squirrels had plenty of troops, good positions, and no problem with
liberally dispensing death upon the beleaguered chipmunks.
Even though the squirrel positions were against the water, there were
some singularly impressive trees providing excellent cover.
“We need help here, right now!” screamed a chipmunk element leader
into her comm set. “Anyone who can help!”
“Stand by,” came back a calm voice.
“Suppression in ten seconds.”
“Assuming we live that long,” she muttered, leveling her rifle yet
again and firing off another burst through the acrid smoke, amidst the screams,
gunfire, and explosions.
“Batteries one, two, and three, fire ranging shots at your respective
targeting areas!” snarled the chipmunk artillery commander; he sported a
foreleg in a sling from an acorn RPG barrage at his batteries the previous day.
They’d weathered all attacks made upon them to this point rather well;
only a handful of tubes of the now completely set up battery had been put out of
commission.
Three tubes suddenly belched fire and sound, one from each element.
He watched their progress carefully.
“North! Drop three hundred thirty!
South! Down eighty!
West…”
Battery three’s ranging shot was off. Way off. It sailed clean through the trees on the shoreline of the western battle area.
And promptly caused the only ‘civilian’ casualty of the whole war.
A bright white seagull, alone, sailing low over the lake, was making
another circle. The three oblivious humans had eaten shore lunch (mmmm….
Walleye….) and had thoughtfully deposited the offal on the smaller
of the two islands present in the lake for the two bald eagles who had been
winging about, waiting for it, all morning; it had become something of a routine
over the past days. The eagles weren’t around at the moment, so the gull was
about to take advantage of that fact when a pinecone, trailing fire, burst from
the nearest strand of trees lining the shore.
It hit the gull a half-second later, and exploded.
A massive blast, with raging, white-hot flame billowing out, and a small
shockwave following, echoed over the water.
All that was left of the gull after the last vestiges of the blast passed
and the smoke drifted upwards was a few rather over-coaked chunks of bird meat
and charred white feathers raining and fluttering down.
“West, large deviation! Drop
azimuth by three, fire another range shot!
Hurry! Other batteries, compute… and when ready, fire mission by
element!” the artillery commander shook his head as he lowered his binoculars;
he’d seen the explosion that had left naught but burning feathers out of a
bird. He shrugged; and even as two
of his three elements spouted their lethal payloads into the sky, he trained his
glasses on the western lines…
And was delighted to see the shell impact precisely where he wanted.
“West! Battery compute… and fire mission when ready!”
The sky went bright with the next barrage.
The explosions blossomed directly in the center of the squirrel attacks;
and the thunder was deafening. Dirt
was mixed with blood, shrapnel, and fur.
And those on the western front took full advantage of the barrage to
level the last of their rockets at the squirrel strongholds in the trees.
The air was suddenly alive with smoke trails in addition to the hammering
of artillery shells; fountains of dirt and fire rose high as the smoke trails,
each with a pinecone-tipped projectile, slammed home.
Many missed, simply striking branches, or sailing past over the water and
exploding when falling to the water’s surface.
Even those that hit branches still had the effect of dropping the
squirrels with the branches as they fell.
However, more hit home.
The trees themselves were suddenly filled with explosions, and one even
went up with a massive blast that flattened everything to the ground just from
the compression wave; a massive, mushroom-shaped cloud rose above that area; and
as the last rumbles of the detonation passed away, chipmunks shrilly cheering
could be heard.
“Nuts!” snarled Squikkaz, as he raised his head; he shrugged off his
bodyguard. “Don’t tell me-“
“Yes, eminence,” sighed Squollas.
“They just took out the acorn cache.
We’re down to whatever our troops are carrying for the acorn bombs;
we’ve been rather generous with our usage of them… and now we don’t have
them anymore. Of more importance, sir, is that it is now too dangerous to
be inspecting this area; we must leave. We
can withdraw along the shoreline; that’s still safe. We’d be in a bad way if we lost you.”
“Let’s move it, then,” grunted Squikkaz.
He paused. “Are we…
losing?”
Squollas hesitated. “Well,
sir…”
His voice was cut off abruptly by a rather bone-chilling sound.
Chainsaws.
“No,” gasped Squollas. “They
didn’t!”
The chipmunk’s cheering grew louder as a tree suddenly gave a loud
crack… and then came tumbling down, crushing hundreds of squirrels and several
of their skunk allies into a bloody pulp as it slammed to the ground.
“They’re here!” exclaimed a chipmunk as he emptied his magazine at
a skunk.
“Reinforcements!” called another, before ducking away as her mortar
roared, propelling a high-explosive pinecone skyward.
A squad of larger shapes abruptly hove into view from behind the tree
that had just fallen; wearing helmets, body armor, and carrying massive B-60
guns with chainsaw blades mounted where a bayonet would ordinarily be; they were
imposing sights indeed. From the
overlarge central front two teeth, to the large, flat, black paddle-like tails,
squirrels and skunks alike fled before them.
And largely got cut down by chainsaw, or machine-gun fire in the process.
“THE BEAVERS ARE HERE!” the shout went up.
Challitawa and Chitawickee stood side by side next to the beaver commander, Beavington. All three wore smiles at the general rout that was developing.
Chitawickee shook his head. “And
here I thought your people used your teeth for that purpose,” he grinned as
yet another tree crashed to the ground.
“We can,” snorted Beavington. “But
we are ever looking for better ways… and the chainsaw design, copied from humans
of all places, certainly helps with that!”
“I do believe this is almost over,” Challitawa said softly.
Chitawickee became solemn. “Only
if we can capture the Emperor and force a surrender,” he began.
“They still have enough troops and weaponry to drag this out for a
while yet.”
“Working on that, sir,” General Charnatiki put in from the chart
table behind the three. “We’re
looking for him. We’ll get him,
one way or another.”
The party of three squirrels moved slowly and stealthily down towards the
water, careful to avoid notice. They
had to pause frequently as explosions thundered around them, and to duck often
under streams of bullets.
Gradually, though, things quieted down around them, as they worked away
from the heat of the action. They
paused near an overturned white hulk, a human boat, which was chained to the
shore.
“Squirrels are the superior ones!
We are not losing now; we will never lose.
We will never surrender.” Squikkaz
snarled his words amidst struggling to catch his breath.
“We will never go down. We
will always-“
The sudden, abrupt chatter of bullets cut him off; he dived to the
ground.
Moisture splattered down upon him, a red rain.
He looked up in just enough time to see his bodyguard and Squollas hit
the ground, smoking, with much of their features shredded away by bullets.
He stared, openmouthed, at the fresh, bloody corpse of his longtime
advisor.
He looked up as two heavily bandaged chipmunks, both carrying machine
guns, approached.
“’Squirrels are the superior ones’, eh?” mocked the girl, who had
most of her midsection wrapped in bloodstained gauze.
The male, whose head and foreleg were wrapped, scowled.
His one good foreleg was quite steady as his weapon trained upon the
Emperor.
“Nuts to that,” he growled as he pulled the trigger.
The last thing the Emperor saw was a bright flash from the muzzle of the
weapon.
He didn’t even hear the thundering chatter of the bullets flying forth.
All went red, and then
dark.
Two days later, the war ended officially as the squirrels unconditionally
surrendered to the chipmunks, after a forty-hour cease-fire.
The skunks had sanctions
brought against them, enforced by the beavers, and surprisingly, the raccoons...
opportunists, to be sure.
The fishermen had had their fun, and departed- or tried to- in the late
afternoon. The eagles were a little
down about their departure, for now they’d have to really get back to working
at their meals.
The loons were still noisy and loony.
And at the last, nobody mourned the damned flying rat… er… seagull.
C’est la vie.
THE END…