Ship Rat

"Huzzah!" Wendel hoots in triumph as he holds the meat closer to his eyes, trying to see it better. "This is gonna feed us for days!"

"I dunno about that." Darby titters, sniffing around the oversized piece of fried cod. "It won't keep long. It'll go bad real quick and stink up the whole nest."

And everyone knows what kind of predators are on the prowl for a nest of rats.

Only the worst kind.

Wendel shrugs his shoulders, deciding to sample their prize for himself. He rips off a hunk of meat and crispy crust, holding it as close to his beady red eyes as he can. Albino rats have notoriously poor eyesight, and Wendel's glasses don't help much.

He gives the sample a deep whiff and chitters his pleasure. "Oh. My. Lands. It's fried fish for certain. But there's vinegar on the outer bits."

Darby grooms the grease off his paws, knowing that the fishy smell tends to linger if he lets it soak into his fur. "I'm gonna pass on this, try to find something smaller. I don't wanna take any chances. Not with Maggie and Jewel falling sick now, too"

Darby takes off his newsboy cap and uses the bill to scratch at the fur behind his ears.

What rotten luck.

The nest is in dire need of some good, solid food. Saltines and stale bread is all they'd come across this winter. It might fill a little rat belly for a time, keeping away the pain of hunger, but the calories are empty and devoid of actual nutrition. And the growing pups desperately need it.

Winters can be brutal in England, but in 1912 Southampton, it had been particularly harsh. The White Star Line dock yard had been no exception, the surrounding areas are bitterly cold.The weather and Darby's inability to move quickly through snow had taken a toll on the nest's stockpile. His family was down to the bare basics, and even that was in short supply.

Far too often, Darby skipped meals, going without so his mother and siblings could have more. His own body had grown quite emaciated, his brown-grey fur having lost its glossy sheen.The toll had been worse on his poor mother. Everyday her whiskers drooped a little more and her spirits sank even lower. Many of his fifteen younger siblings still retained their puppy fat from nursing and fared better, but not by much.

It wouldn't be so damn hard if Papa hadn't died.

Darby nibbled on a claw as he pondered what to do about the situation. Leave the gigantic piece of fish that may make them all sick from vinegar, which is toxic to rats, or take the chance and lug it back home anyway?

So many lives depend on me.

He has lost too many family members already to risk it. His mum is counting on him to scavage enough food to feed the family; feed them and keep them alive. And at this moment, that's his only perogative.

The fish's rightful owner is still seated at the table, passed out in a puddle of his own drool, an empty whiskey bottle beside him. The fish will not be missed, the human probably didn't even know it was missing.

It's a shame the drunkard didn't drop chips instead.

Now those he can easily carry, and chips tends to last awhile before going rotten.

"Come on, Wendel." Darby sighs, grabbing his friend by his tweed pullover. He snicks a few bites of tender white fish meat for a snack. "We'll take our chances on something else."

Wendel follows suit, shoving a few handfuls of fish into his pockets for later. "Are you sure we can't take it-"

A voice cuts in from the shadows of tables and stools. "And where might you lovely morsels be scurrying off to?"

Only a singular yellow eye is visible, and it's focused squarely on the rats. "Oh, please, tell me. Are you heading home to a nest, perhaps? Full of other tasty morsels?"

Wendel recoils from the voice, gripping his tail in fright, while Darby gets down on all fours, preparing to run. He knows that voice intimately, would know it in his sleep.

And his nightmares.

And it's never followed by anything pleasant.

"You can have the fish, Cormac." Darby says, his tone braver than he feels. "All of it. Just take it and go."

A chuckle comes from the gloom and a fluffy black tail swishes, sending dust bunnies rolling like tumbleweeds. The one yellow eye goes back and forth between the rats, unblinking.

"Now, why would I want something dead, when I can have something much fresher?"

The drunk human above them mumbles in his stupor and shifts his legs a bit under the table. The action goes unnoticed by the three animals.

"Haven't you done enough, Cormac?" Darby narrows his gaze. "Leave us alone. Or you'll lose the other eye."

The feline hisses and unfurls himself from his resting place in the dark, like a slithering black mass. His fur is a wild mane that could blot out the sun, at least, that's what Darby's younger brothers said when they saw him gobble up their father.

A painful scar runs from the top of Cormac's head, over his gnarled orbital socket, and down to his lips. The wound had not healed well, leaving it puckered and mishapened.

Wendel breathed in deep, giving off a slight wheeze. "When did Cormac lose an eye? No one ever tells me anything, I swear."

"Hush." Darby says over his shoulder.

"Your dear old pops had it coming." Cormac snarls. His fangs are pointy and white, contrasting vividly against his ink-colored fur. "For what he done to my eye, I made sure I chewed him up real good before I swallowed. He felt every one of my teeth."

"Well, good luck to you." Darby answers, trying not to be bothered by the details of his father's gruesome death. "I'm sure it'll grow back. I'm told humans can concoct all sorts of miracle serums these days..."

The cat's tail swooshes right over Darby's head, knocking his newsboy cap right off. "It. Won't. Grow. Back."