Mike Nelson's Death Rat! by Michael J. Nelson Read Free Book Online Page A

After twenty minutes of thinking and scribbling, he had a small, messy column of titles that included Three Men, Two Guns, . . . Or Give Me Death, To Sleep with Weapons, The Magna Cartel, My War Never Ended, and Over a (Gun) Barrel. He reread them, laughing mirthlessly, before scratching them out, tearing the page from the tablet, ripping it into pieces, and depositing it in Sags’s Chicago Bulls trash can.
    Later, as he sat on a beanbag chair in Beater’s room watching a Twins game, his thoughts strayed back to the book about the man and the moose. There was something compelling about it, something elemental—a man facing death, facing nature without technology to rescue him. And also life from death, theinescapable theme of birth, and, holding it all together, the notion that God’s universe, even in the modern age, still had the ability to surprise. His blessings weren’t always neat and tidy. Now and again it came down to a lone, dying man crawling into the chest cavity of a deceased ruminant.
    Ponty abandoned the game (the Twins were down 16–3 to the Indians anyway) and returned to his desk. He began to ink more titles on the page now, and with more purpose. Killer Caribou, he wrote, just to get his mind working. Combat, he wrote, and quickly added Wombat. Antlers of Horror was followed by White Bison of Death. He was unsatisfied with the direction in which the large mammals were taking him, so he tried a new tack. Lizard!, They Chew Your Flesh, Day of the Kangaroo Mice, and Wrath of the Rodents soon joined the list. He then wrote down Rat Patrol, before quickly realizing that it had already been a TV series with Christopher George. Ponty flipped the page, wet the point of his pencil with his tongue, and wrote the two words that would change his life and shape his future.
    Death Rat, wrote Ponty.
    He was on to the next, Death Pig , before he stopped and lightly circled Death Rat.
    â€œDeath Rat,” he said quietly before circling it again.
    â€œDeath Rat,” he said, with a little more force.
    All through the night Ponty lay still in his bunk, quite awake, staring at the ceiling.
    T HE NEXT AFTERNOON Phil padded downstairs after an especially long night of sleep—somewhere close to thirteen hours spent in bed—to find Ponty stretched out on their living room couch reading a book with color pictures.
    â€œDidn’t know you were into picture books,” he said good-naturedly.
    Ponty started. “Daaa! Don’t do that!” he said sharply.
    â€œSorry, man. So what is that? You looked pretty engrossed,” asked Phil while readjusting his sweatpants.
    â€œIt’s just a book on . . . this . . . stuff, that I have to do,” Ponty said nervously.
    â€œUh-huh,” said Phil. Ponty read some suspicion into his answer.
    â€œA book on capybaras,” said Ponty quietly. Phil said nothing. “They’re a—”
    â€œYeah, I know. They’re kind of like a hutia.”
    â€œA hutia?”
    â€œYeah. Hutia.”
    The word hutia hung in the air, and there was palpable tension between the two roommates. Ponty did not want to discuss capybaras any further, but he did not want to rouse Phil’s suspicions by cutting short their conversation. And he was tantalized by this “hutia,” whatever it might be.
    â€œWhat . . . what is a hutia?” he asked finally.
    â€œCuban rat. Pretty good-sized. Not as big as a capybara.”
    â€œNo? No. No, I guess it wouldn’t be.”
    â€œWhy you readin’ about capybaras?” Phil asked casually, while yawning and running a hand through his wispy tangle of hair.
    â€œBecause,” said Ponty defensively, his ears reddening, “I heard it was a good book.”
    â€œWhat else you got there?” Phil asked, gesturing halfheartedly at the small stack of books on the end table next to Ponty.
    â€œJust some books. A thing on the—what do you call it . . . ?” he