The Last Parley

by Claire Engan

The world smelled of death, machinery, and sulfur. The most exciting thing to happen all day was the blazing noise of a car alarm, echoing throughout the dead city. Eventually, it would die on its own, as everything else had.

It was a miracle he had survived. There were probably more like him millions of miles away, the lucky ones that were small enough to encase themselves in protection as the world fell apart around them. He had already lived a day and a night since the world died, living on the lucky mice that had survived. None of them had protested being eaten. They probably questioned why their devourer bothered to keep living. But that was just who he was. He had to keep some of his dignity. If he gave up like the world had, where was his pride? He was small enough to avoid the bigger dangers, but big enough to be the top of the food chain, and a danger himself.

Mice, however, were beginning to become boring to hunt. The birds were all gone. It wasn’t easy for them, the trees were the first to burn with the exception of some redwoods, and anything in the air went down first. In his heart, he knew he wouldn’t last long. Didn’t mean he couldn’t make the best of it. For part of his life, he had thrived in the outdoors. It was that sleuthy life that the tall ones didn’t see at home. Not the cute, cuddly, quirky guy, oh no.

Right now he happened to be sitting next to a can of propane. By the smell of it, an empty one, and that was probably a good thing. Standing up, he gave himself a good shake, watching little clouds of dirt escape from his dark fur. He wore his tuxedo; black with a white chin and belly, and three white paws. Last he knew, he was where his house used to be, but it had been reduced to shingles and wood scrap, with occasional treasures buried in places he couldn’t get to without injury. He could easily step on the crushed crystal chandelier that once hung so magnificently over the varnished wooden dining table. He wasn’t allowed on it.

He took a minute to wander over a few support beams, and under half the stove into what was once the kitchen. His food bowl should have been there. There was no sign of it. There were roots crawling out of what used to be a pale tile, the piping was hidden behind a giant boulder, and the other half of the stove had melted away.

He didn’t need to see this. It reminded him of the loving hands that once patted him, made him feel good, made him feel secure, and loved. That wasn’t going to happen anymore. He didn’t need them. Not for the next few days as he withered away with the world anyway.

If he didn’t need them, he didn’t need the house. But what he did need, was food. Deciding, he left his old home behind, leaving straight out through where the brick fireplace once was, determined not to return. He had to hunt now. He walked down what he thought of as a sidewalk, but still managed to jump trees and hunker under construction vehicles. He didn’t have to worry about cars coming down the road. It was blocked, by all sorts of large objects, like buildings. Even then, there were probably very few running cars, and even fewer people able to drive them. He crawled into a kitty door in a blue and white house. It seemed relatively intact, though the entire top story had collapsed in on itself.

Watching the dust float in the light rays that shone in on the house, he curled down on the floor and waited. It looked like the tall ones in this house had just moved in, or knew what was coming and tried to get away. Little did they know it had hit the whole world. The entire room was dark, except what light the holes in the house let in. The shades were pulled over the windows.

But, he was not discouraged. He could smell the reek of rodent, and it had been there for a while. Hopefully, the mice hadn’t died of starvation before he would. Using his strong muscles, he pushed up just enough to allow his feet to move across the floor. Keeping his belly low, he stopped at the entrance to the dining room, and peeked his head around the corner into the next room.

His muscles strained to hold the position. As a good hunter, he would have to wait. Every part of him tensed, and didn’t want to wait, though it was worth it. After a few minutes of waiting, a grey mouse skittered across the floor into an adjacent room. He didn’t bother chasing. He was patient. He waited, and the mouse came back out. The little creature slowed when it approached the big, empty threshold of the dining room. Sniffing his way through the room, the mouse paused to inspect something on the floor.

In an instant, he pushed away from the wall, and made a wide turn into the dining room to come head on and pounce on the mouse. The creature hardly had time to look up. It uttered a squeak that was cut short as the hunter pinned him to the floor.

“Ah, wait,” stuttered the mouse, feeling the claws start to dig around his soft middle. “I said wait!”

The predator did not want to hesitate-- he could smell the treat, feel the blood pumping in the little scared mouse, just enough to keep him alive.

“I say, would you let off?” the mouse squeaked loudly. Ears twitching, the hunter slowly paused. Did…that mouse say something to him?

He hissed a little. “Why should I? Even if I let you live, you could be gone by tomorrow, maybe even within the next hour. Better to die helping someone else, no?” He was running out of ideas. The adrenaline rush was draining from him. His breathing slowed. This was the first time a mouse had protested in a very long time. Usually he was quicker, though recently they didn’t seem to care. Maybe he was getting lazy, because all of the creatures still living in the world wanted to die. Well, not all of them. He was special, he wanted to live.

“Well, think of it this way,” the mouse instructed, wiggling a bit to try and escape his imprisonment without success. “Wait…never mind.” He sighed. “I was going to try and come up with a convincing argument, something along the lines of, how would you benefit from eating me, but that seems the wrong question to ask,” the mouse chuckled. “Can’t we just talk this over and come to a reasonable understanding?”

His opponent frowned. “What, like, to eat or not to eat?”

“That is the question,” the mouse grinned, nervously.

Sighing, the predator released, sitting on his haunches calmly, and taking the time to groom his right shoulder, keeping keen yellow eyes pinned on his wasted snack. The mouse calmed down, taking time to sit back himself, and examine the being in front of him.

“Let’s get to know each other,” he said brightly, still keeping his distance. “What’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know?” the other shot back. He wasn’t about to embarrass himself in front of a mouse. He glanced down at his pelt, reminded horribly of the color his mother gave him.

“Well, by your looks, you were obviously a pet, they must have named you,” the mouse speculated. How smart.

“Yeah…they called me Elvis because I ‘wear a tuxedo like the king,’” The other responded with a grunt. “I’d change it if I could…but it probably doesn’t matter with the time we’ve got left. It’s all I have left of them anyway.”

The mouse smirked at the name, and then the expression quickly died.

“Do you have a name?” Elvis asked, his mood now shifting downwards. A significant difference from what he was feeling before. Damn, he’d been defeated by a mouse.

The mouse shrugged. “Not really. I’d like to call myself Foster.”

Ceasing his grooming, Elvis settled back down. “Why’s that?”

Foster sighed contentedly. “I feel like the world has fostered me. Taken care of me. Technically I’m a wild animal. I take shelter where I want it, houses, sticks, buildings, whatever the world gives me you know?” He turned towards Elvis. “Though, you had folks to watch over you.”

“I guess.” They had taken care of him. Of course, he had an independent streak that had sometimes appeared around the house. With the environment the way it was, he would just have to rely on it.

Foster seemed relaxed, but Elvis was constantly wary that the mouse was trying to pull a fast one and talk his way out of being lunch. Elvis took the time to look at what he should have been digesting. Whiskers. Plenty of them. He wondered why they didn’t tickle when the mice slid down his throat. Foster had beady little black eyes that had a positive shine in them, with a rummage of grey fur and clean pink little feet. Crunchy, but usually rather satisfying.

“What are you looking at?” Foster addressed him sternly, his happy gait gone from his voice.

“Sorry, sorry…nothing. There’s really nothing else to look at…” Elvis apologized, feeling the smallest pang of guilt.

“I see.” Foster’s bright and cheery nature disappeared for a small second, until his smirk returned. “You apologized to me.”

Elvis bristled. “So?”

The rodent felt like he had gained some victory. He stood up, keeping his long pale tail extended as if to give him balance, but it was only naturally poised with confidence. Elvis remained silent, as he acknowledged the mouse had defeated him once again. Slowly, he stood to follow after the mouse towards the door that led to the deserted world outside. Since when did he follow mice? He trailed behind unpleasantly, ears flattened in discomfort.

Foster jumped up to the kitty door, and awkwardly scrambled through it, while Elvis followed behind, going in then out with an easy stride.

“I haven’t really been out here yet. I’m surprised at myself,” Foster commented. He examined the scene, taking in the fallen terrain, crumpled heaps, twisted metal, and broken glass. “I guess I’ve just been too scared. It’s so big – one household is all I need.” He gave a soft smile.

“Hmm, well I’ve got the whole world ahead of me still,” Elvis moved to sit next to his new acquaintance.

“Looks like this house is it for me,” Foster shrugged. “The Hendersons made a grocery run right before the house went up. Though, I don’t know what happened to them, they were out when it happened.” He sighed. “They had been in this house longer than I’ve been around.”

Elvis had been wondering where the bodies might be. But, he decided not to ask; it was too morbid a thought.

“I can only hope,” Foster continued, “that I can eat enough before it goes bad.” He paused a bit, wiggling his nose and licking a paw to wash his whiskers. “Though, we intelligent beings know that cheese never goes bad.”

Elvis couldn’t help but make a sour face. He had a point. Dead mice were not as good as live ones…but, they weren’t too bad if one was hungry.

His stomach growled a warning at him. Foster laughed.

“I’ve been getting soft,” Elvis muttered, standing up to take his leave, “only eating creatures who want to die. What ever happened to the squealing and trying to get away?”

Foster snickered. “Ah well, the world has changed us.”

Elvis gave a heavy sigh. “I guess it has. I’m not eating you.”

The mouse chuckled.

“It’s lonely.”

“Very.”

There was a long bit of silence between the two. Lonely. They both were. Elvis, without their loving hands to share, and Foster, by himself. They were both running on limited food supply.

Elvis’ stomach rumbled again. “Tell you what,” he said to Foster. “I’ll have to take you to hunt food. I’m sure these houses are full of it, you just have to get it quick.” Like a mouse. “Maybe there’s still a cold box or two that is still working to store food,” he suggested.

“I haven’t been out there,” Foster lightly protested.

“I know, that’s why I’ll go with you,” the other offered.

Maybe living a bit longer wouldn’t be so bad. The world had changed, and as Foster said, the world had provided for them. It looked like the world was done providing, but it provided the instinct to survive, the will to work together, and provided for each ==other’s company.

Elvis nodded to himself in silent agreement, taking a last look at the mouse before bounding on all fours down the steps and out onto the mangled road.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” called the predator over his shoulder.

The prey smirked. “Same time,” he chuckled back.

The world is a funny place, the cat speculated. Now, there was time for new things. He admitted he could use someone to talk to every once in a while. At least until he died, which could be sooner than expected. He didn’t mind. He would try and stay alive, as long as the world would let him.