Shelf Life ❄️ Pokémon Short Story

3 ❄️ The Savage Steppe

7:11 AM

"Nine times six," Troy said. "Fifty-four. Twelve times six, seventy-two. Nine times seven, sixty-three. Twelve times seven... Eight-five. No, eighty-four. Right, Merrick?"

The Mamoswine only grunted in response — he was busy working with a fallen tree, lifting it slowly with his tusks. They'd descended fully into the Lower Shelf now, and were traversing a small forest that lay in their path.

Calling it a "forest" was a little generous, though — it was a stretch of sloping tundra sprinkled with trees, all of them black, stunted, and growing low to the ground. The one lying in their path was a relatively bigger one, and Troy felt a little sorry for it.

See, that's what you get, a tree trying to grow tall on the side of Mount Coronet, he thought. The wind'll knock you over right quick!

Speaking of, it was a little more brisk than it was most mornings — Troy had hoped that the weatherman had been wrong about his prediction of strong gales today, but he could hear it whistling down across the rock and threading through the small trees, making their branches rattle together like bones. And it was whipping snow into small dervishes that drove cold grit into Troy's face. He patted Merrick's giant skull.

"Are you done yet?" he asked. "C'mon, it's just a tree — that should be nothing for you!"

Growling, Merrick finally got the tree aside, upending it into a deep snowdrift off the side of the path. It startled free several dark shapes — flying-type Pokémon, but he couldn't see what kind in the gloom. They took wing, disappearing into the black morning, all but one — instead, it came down on a tree a few yards away, close enough that Troy could make out the feathered plume on its skull. A Staravia. It spread its wings and screeched at him.

"Morning," Troy responded. "Sorry if we scared you. There was a tree in the way." As Merrick thudded past, he waved at the flying-type. "Good hunting!"

He thought they left the flying-type behind, but a moment later it reappeared, landing in a scraggly tree a ways ahead and flashing the underside of its wings at them. It screeched again. Troy smiled.

"Want to come with us?" he asked. He pointed into the dark. "Village is that way. You might find some better prey there. I see Ratatta near the garbage bins sometimes."

The Staravia went up and landed on the frozen ground this time, in front of Merrick. Another shrill cry, this one directed at the Mamoswine. Merrick peered down at the smaller Pokémon, letting out a puzzled grunt. Troy leaned over, banding the reins around one wrist.

"What's he saying?" he asked.

Merrick and the flying-type had a short conversation, and then the Staravia winged away, vanishing in the dark. Merrick started forward again, but when the path curved, he kept straight, pushing right into the snowdrift. Troy tugged on the reins, but the Mamoswine didn't stop.

"What are you doing?" Troy demanded. "C'mon, back on the path—we don't want to be late." Tardiness was a cardinal sin at school — if he showed up even thirty seconds past the bell, he would get an extra homework packet as punishment, probably one with fractions. Troy hated fractions possibly more than the nines and twelves on the times table.

But the Mamoswine still wasn't listening. Into the snow they went, and up ahead a tangled mass of tree limbs appeared out of the gloom. Another fallen tree, but smaller than the last. As they drew close, the Staravia appeared once again, landing on one of the thicker limbs and squawking urgently. Merrick grunted and stooped, fitting his tusks inside the branches.

What's happening? Troy watched silently as Merrick expertly raised the tree, and then gasped. There was something underneath, curled up in a cold nest of snow and hard-packed earth: a teenaged-boy, and in his arms a Growlithe. Are they okay? Troy's stomach dropped at the sight of them — both looked deathly cold, and so still that they had to be—

The boy twitched suddenly, and Troy's dread boomeranged into relief. After Merrick heaved aside the tree, he quickly swung over the saddle and scrambled down the ladder. His knees shook a little when he hit the ground.

"Hey, are you okay?" He waded through the snow towards the half-frozen pair. The Staravia had come to ground and was poking at the boy frantically — he must've been the flying-type's Trainer. Troy got down on his knees beside the Pokémon and inspected the boy. He couldn't see much in the dark, but he could hear the frost crackling on his jacket as he shook him. Jacket! Where's his coat? And gloves, and scarf, and hood? The boy had none of these things: far as Troy could tell, he was in sweat pants, sneakers, and a sports jacket. What the heck? Did somebody teleport him straight from Jubilife City?

A groan — the boy's eyes fluttered open. He blinked rapidly, and struggled to focus in on Troy's face. But they were glassy, delirious from the cold. Troy tried to get him to concentrate.

"Hi, I'm Troy. Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," the boy said groggily. More rapid blinking, a rasping cough, and then, "Why do I... What's—"

"Your..." Troy looked over at the Staravia. "Your Pokémon came to my Mamoswine for help. We followed him here, and found you under a fallen tree."

"Fallen tree..." The boy sucked in a breath, which caused another bout of coughing. "Yes, tree. Shelter — from the..." Blink. "Something was chasing us... Terry got hurt. No houses, no Pokémon Center... So..."

Troy understood. Mostly. He peered down at the Growlithe, and just barely made out a stripe of frozen blood on its side. Unlike the boy, the Pokémon still wasn't moving — Troy put his hand in front of its jaw and felt shallow breath, though.

"Pokémon Center," the boy rasped, more urgently.

Troy considered what to do. Should I take him back to the camp? That seemed like the best idea — Pap would know how to handle this sudden development, and he had a satellite phone. If someone needed to be called, he would know who.

But then I'll be late for class! The thought was very selfish, but he couldn't shake it. His teachers wouldn't care if being a good Samaritan had made him late — they would give him those extra exercises with all those fractions anyway, and they would certainly give him a zero if he took so long as to miss his test.  

"Can you stand?" Troy asked the boy. He frowned.

"Yes," he said, and made to, Growlithe cradled under one arm, only to stumble to one knee. Troy offered him his hand, and he took it gratefully, rising to his full height. He was a good two heads taller than Troy, and he really was wearing a sports jacket, a red one turned orange in the strengthening dawn. Troy tried to keep his derision off his face.

"There's a village a few miles away," he told the boy. "They don't have a Pokémon Center, but my Pap's friend lives there. He used to be a surgeon, and he's worked on Pokémon before."

Hope glowed in the boy's eyes. "Can you take me there?" he asked around chattering teeth.

"Yeah. That's where school is." He pointed to Merrick, who stood a ways away, watching silently. "My saddle seats two. Climb on, and we'll ride together."

He headed over and grabbed the rope ladder, and the boy followed, looking a little uneasy at being made to mount the eight-foot-tall Pokémon. It took him a while to reach the top, and as he struggled, Troy watched the horizon, and how it turned from blue to red to a burning orange. He was still losing time on this detour — would he be able to make it before the opening bell?

Look on the bright side: you've got more time to practice the twelves!

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