Tad inched his way along the inside of the wagon, careful not to dislodge anything.  A chill breeze swept in from the rear, a harbinger of the coming change of season.
     "Tad, what`re you up to," called out his mother, turning and peering suspiciously into the gloom of the wagon.
     "I feel sick, momma," he whined.  "I want to lie down."
     "What's wrong?"
     "Just a tummy ache.  I'll get over it."
     "Go ahead and take a nap, son," said his father, Josh.  "We won't camp until nightfall."
     Tad gently shoved some boxes away from his hidey hole and reached down under some old wool blankets.  After some fumbling he pulled out a small trunk, put it on the narrow bunk, then propped open the lid an inch or two--too high for the rat to reach, but perfect for Tad to view inside.  He leaned closer and inspected his captive.
     He'd found the rat quite by accident.  Asleep in his makeshift bunk, he'd been awakened by a desperate scratching from somewhere under a pile of goods.  With papa and momma sleeping outside, he'd had the wagon to himself.  Interested, he'd searched around in the rear of the wagon and had found the trunk.  Lighting a candle, he'd carefully opened the lid.  Inside he'd found this female wood rat. They'd probably picked her up on the trail, no doubt in the small town where they'd spent several days waiting for the weather to clear.  It looked as though the creature had slipped into the partially opened trunk, made confetti of papa's papers, then had had the misfortune to become trapped when somebody or something closed the lid.
     Bad luck for the rat, good luck for Tad, who'd been dying for some sort of entertainment to break up the monotony of the trail.
    Once, when momma had caught him torturing a lizard, she'd begged Tad to turn away from such evil, citing bloodcurdling stories of bad boys who'd come to bad ends from visiting cruelty on innocent animals.  Tad had listened respectfully, but had taken no stock in any of her made-up threats of personal retribution.  Life offered a dazzling array of amusements and Tad intended to try as many as possible.
     He spotted the rat crouching in a far corner, her tiny shoe button eyes glistening like obsidian chips of glass.  Her busy whiskers twitched once, then she suddenly leaped upward, falling a desperate several inches short of the lid.  The boy grinned and gleefully watched the rat's next several lunges which all proved futile.  He could see that she had been gnawing at the wood inside the trunk without making much progress.  After a time, the rat   slumped down in exhaustion.  Tad then closed the lid and put the trunk away.
     Next afternoon Tad dripped some water from a canteen into the trunk and the thirsty rat almost went crazy trying to lick it up.  He decided to give her water--but no food.  He wanted to see how long she could last in there without food.  Tad had a scientific, as well as a sadistic bent.  He pulled out his slate and marked the date at the top in yellow chalk.  Then he scribbled some preliminary notes and put the slate away.  Weary at last, he closed the lid.  Later he listened as the rat flung itself in a frenzy against the trunk.  It was a useless effort, of course, for there was no way out.  Now way at all.  The rat would starve.  It was only a matter of how long Tad would prolong her agony.
     Several nights later, Tad dropped in a morsel of salt pork and a cupful of water.  The rat was going downhill too fast, thus threatening to prematurely spoil his fun; the only pleasure he'd had on this whole beastly journey.
     "When will we arrive, Josh," asked his momma one dreary September afternoon.
     "Soon, love.  Soon."
     "But shouldn't we have reached the river by now?"
     "Mebbe.  Don't fret hon, we'll git there."
     "I'm worried about Tad."  Her voice dropped into a whisper, but Tad could still hear her.
     "Oh, why?"
     "It's something he said that day the Barrows ran over their dog."
     "Like what?"
     Tad leaned closer, but his mother's words were lost in a sudden gust of wind and the creaking of the wagon.  He peeked out and saw that she was pressed close to papa and whispering in his ear.
     "I'll talk to the lad, Gwen.  But I'm sure you misread it."
     "Oh, Josh, I hope I did."
     Tad smiled.  His mother was so awfully weak.  Even his father had a soft inner core, like an overripe apple.  Tad was made of sterner stuff.  He was not soft like his parents.  A man needed to be tough in this world.  Tad would be tough.
     Farther down the trail, as the wagon rumbled and rocked on, Tad piled up some blankets one morning so his folks couldn't see him, then, grinning in wolfish anticipation, he got out the little trunk.  In the dim light thrown by the late afternoon sun he studied the rat with a clinical detachment, wondering how much entertainment value was left.  He noted that she had lost her sleekness.  Her fur was rough, her body ribby and emaciated, and covered with sores.  Her dull eyes still evidenced her fear and panic, but she had no energy left.  With sides heaving she lay there in the last stages of starvation.
     Tad had milked the animal's suffering for far longer than he'd thought possible.  He'd teased her with food, drawing the morsel away just as the creature reached it.  He'd given her a small quantity of rotting pork now and then, but then had made her go days without food or water.  He felt omnipotent.  He was totally in control.
     One day the despairing, starving animal ate her own foot.  The next night she ate another.  The following morning Tad watched her weakly stand on her hindquarters and beg.
    He giggled and slammed down the lid.
     After that, Tad tired of the game, closed up the trunk and left it alone for a week.  When he opened it up the rat was dead, already partially decomposed.  With a sigh of regret, Tad tossed her onto the trail, then found himself shivering in the cold autumn air.  He quickly snuggled down in his blankets for warmth.  Good-bye Mrs. rat, you were  great fun while you lasted.
     Next morning a bone chilling rain commenced and soon the trail became mired in mud.  For days it poured, even as the road gently tipped upward and began to climb.
     One bitter cold afternoon the wagon boss rode by and was hailed by Tad's father: "George, stop a moment."
 The man reined-in and trotted his horse over to the wagon.  He nodded a greeting.
      "Isn't it a little late in the year to be startin' up the Pass, George?  I mean it's nearly October."
     "Sure it's late, Josh.  But we'll make it."
     "What if we don't?"
     Tad, who was seated next to his father, felt him quiver.  Was dad frightened?  Was that it?
     "Dammit Josh, I said we'd make it," mumbled George, dropping his glance..
     Tad's father's features tightened and turned a sickly gray caste.  He finally murmured something on the order of an acquiescence.
     Suddenly Tad felt a sharp stab of fear.  What's wrong?
     The wagon boss gathered his reins.  "Don't worry, Josh.  I'll get you folks over the Truckee Pass or my name ain't George Donner."

"No Way Out" first appeared in Plots magazine

Back to Home Page