Something Fishy

Chapter 3: Curiousity Killed the Cat...

The first thing that struck me as I entered the factory was that it smelled like fish.

     I mean, obviously I knew it was going to smell like fish. But I still had not prepared myself for the extent to which it would smell like fish. As we stepped inside, I felt as though a raw halibut had been stuffed up each of my nostrils. And one in my mouth.

     “Ackgackurp,” I gagged, pressing both my hands against my face in an effort to block the stench from further assaulting my olfactory system. My eyes were tearing up. Looking over, I saw the blurry figure of Ron was watching me impassively.

     “I think I’m dying,” I informed him.

     “You’ll adjust,” he said.

     I had not realized how heartless Ron was until now. “So,” I choked, “how do we get to where the paw prints were?”

      “Follow me,” said Ron.

     As Ron deftly typed a code into a little keypad next to the door, I asked him, “How come you know this place so well, anyway?”

     “My dad.” The door beeped and Ron turned the handle.

     “What about him?” I followed Ron into another room. This one was filled with stacks of cat food cans, towering above us like cylindrical silver skyscrapers. Man, if I was a cat, I would be having conniptions of joy right now.

    “He owns this.”

     I stopped abruptly. “What?” I squawked. “You mean to say that your family owns this factory?”

     Ron flashed a shy smile at me. “Yup,” he said.

     “Ron, you never cease to amaze me,” I said.

     He shrugged, looking sort of embarrassed, and we continued on.

     We passed through one final door and found ourselves outside. Outside! I took a deep breath of the fresh,only-slightly-fish-scented air and looked around. We were standing at the edge of the overgrown, weed-ridden grass field that surrounds the Cattery property. The grass, yellow-brown and dead, nearly reached my shoulders. Now, granted, I’m fairly short (okay, very short), but as I trudged through the field, I felt like an explorer, on a journey across a vast African savanna. All I was missing is the beige hat and khakis. And the enormous rusted factory buildings ruined the effect a bit. But still.

     Off in the distance, on the other side of the chain-link fence, I could see Uncle Fry’s little, rundown house, silhouetted against the Morgan’s massive mansion. It was a rather sad sight, really.

     All at once I realized that Uncle Fry had absolutely no idea where I was, which was not good. I tried to remember if I had left him a note. Nope, I hadn’t. Oh, dear. In case you don’t know Uncle Fry (I doubt that you would, but you never know), let me sum him up in one word for you: paranoid. The front door to his house has four locks on it, and the backdoor has three. Sometimes I look out the window in the middle of the night to find him pacing the backyard with a baseball bat in hand. And this is the best one – he’s saving up to build an observation tower so that he can see if anyone is sneaking onto his property. That’s right; he’s not saving up for some security cameras or a burglar system, but for an observation tower. He’s very strange. And that’s coming from me!

     Which means that right then a team of police officers was probably in my bedroom, holding up my smelly socks for their bloodhounds to sniff while Uncle Fry runs around like a maniac trying to decide whether I have been abducted by aliens or kidnapped by the government for scientific testing.      

     “If at all possible, it may be a good idea to hurry,” I said to Ron, who was trekking through the grass ahead of me. “My Uncle is probably wondering where I am.” Which was such an understatement it was bordering on being a lie, but I didn’t want to cut short this expedition just yet.

     All at once I tripped and fell on my face.

     “You okay?” Ron’s voice came from somewhere in the distance.

      “Physically, yes,” I said, staring up at the wide blue sky. “However, my ego may be fractured.”

     “Do you need a Band-Aid?” asked Ron.    

     “If there was a store that sold Band-Aids for egos, Ron, its owner would be a millionaire.” I sat up and adjusted my glasses. “Come and help me find what I tripped on.”

     “Okay.” Ron came back to where I was sitting and together we dug through the grass in search of the object that tripped me.

     “Aha,” I bellowed as my hand closed on something hard and metallic. I brushed all the grass out of the way to reveal –

     “A lever?” I stared down at it in bewilderment. “What’s a lever doing in the middle of a field?”

     “Dunno,” said Ron, looking equally puzzled.

     I reached out and grasped it.

     “I don’t think that’s –” began Ron uneasily, stepping backwards.

     “Aw, what’s the worst that can happen?” I snorted. I yanked it hard, and it slid forward with a earsplitting grating sound.

      Nothing happened.

     “See?” I proclaimed triumphantly. “I was –”

     Promptly the ground opened up and I tumbled into darkness.