re-cork the bottle without spilling the spoon's precious contents all over the floor. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, and keeping the spoon as steady as his shaky hands would allow, he lowered the bottle between his knees, and clamped his legs together as tight as he could.
"Frakin' Govment!" he yelled, as his meatless knees pressed against the hard glass, pinching a nerve somewhere, and sending a sharp pain rippling through his leg and back, and on up through his arms. He dropped the spoon as he tried to jump away from the pain, recovering in time to scoop at the sliding bottle as it was falling between his legs. He squeezed his fingers around the bottle, sliding his thumb over the open top and rolled backwards through his effort. He landed on the soft bedding and lay there for several moments, holding the bottle tightly while trying to curse away the lingering agony.
After some careful kneading, the pain subsided and Mishka sat up, breathing deeply and quickly. He shook the bottle and listened intently to the satisfying sloshing sounds. Then he reached down and quickly located the spoon. He put the spoon in his lap and reached up to retrieve the cork from the shelf. Firmly re-closing the bottle, he laid it upright on the hard floor. Scrounging under his bed, he located the torn dusty scarf that he used to pad his bony knees when sleeping on his side. He carefully ripped the rag in two and wound the strips several times around each of his knees. After testing the give of the bumpers, he again poured a few drops of the precious liquid into the spoon. Holding the spoon very still, he gently placed the bottle between his padded knees and slowly, but firmly, wedged it tight.
Mishka reached toward the plate holding the treasure. He traced along the cool surface, trying to locate the bacco stick.
"Aw, Some Bitch!" he moaned, "Now where'd that pinko-lovin sombitch go?"
He strained his eyes in the dim light, but could see no trace of the bacco. "You better not!" he yelled at the darkness. "If one of you better-dead-n-red, food for dogs stole my bacco, I ain't never gonna' fix no broke legs, or give you scraps, no more! You hear?"
He listened intently, but no telltale sounds revealed any animals that he could tell. "Aw, you ain't smart enough to stay still when I yells out like that, are ya? So, more’n likely, you ain't here, are you? In that case, I take back what's said about not fixing you, and all, cause I know you ain't got no one else to do it."
Still holding the spoon level, Mishka started patting the earth around his bed, gingerly feeling for some sign of the missing bacco stick. "That sneaker is still here somewhere. Must have knocked it around when I got the pain. Ah! There you is, you dog-lover."
With the treasure safely back on the plate, Mishka retrieved the lighter and carefully tipped the spoon, letting the liquid flow into the cotton filled well. "Now, fire-starter, you just better work, that's all I got say." He put down the spoon and started to reach for the bottle.
Metal on metal: Click! Click!
Mishka froze. He listened for another sign.
Snap!
Foot on dry twig! Enough signs. Kill-for-nothins!
He placed the lighter on the shelf and slid the plate as far away from the bed as he could reach. Tightening the cork on the bottle, that too went on the shelf. He considered closing the port but was afraid that they would see or hear it. It would be a dead give- away--literally.
He stood up and moved closer to the air-shaft. He placed the side of his head with the fully formed ear, close to opening. He listened carefully and heard muffled words which sounded like they were not more than thirty, maybe forty meters away.
"Sounds getting weaker, though," he whispered. "Could be moving away. Coming from the river side.” Suddenly alarmed, “That's Plebo's little hider over that way!" He stretched his face toward the opening, trying to get a better reading.
Suddenly the light disappeared, followed by frantic scratching and screeching sounds. Sharp missiles stung Mishka's face as his eyes and mouth filled with dust and pebbles. Stunned, he couldn't react in time to duck a warm and sweat-soaked furry ball that struck him square in the face. Sharp needles began stabbing at his neck and shoulders. High squealing screams, only inches from his ear started Mishka toward panic, when he suddenly realized what it was.
"Oh, Weasel," he whispered loudly as he curled his thin arms around the shivering fur ball. "It's OK now. It's OK, weasel, I got you. Stop your chattering and calm down now. You all right. Ain't no kill-for-nothins gonna' get you. But you got to stay quiet. Shush now. OK. That's better. You OK now."
Mishka stroked the shivering weasel but couldn't calm the hard rapid breathing of the creature. He laid the weasel on the warm bed, stroked it a few more times, and began picking the grit from his own eyes and mouth. He then went back to the air-shaft to listen some more. The muffled voices were still there, but had moved even further away.
"You don't think they'd find old Plebo, do you?" he said to the weasel. "No. Don't think so. He's turned out to be a real smart one, he has. Almost smart as me, cept' he ain't been doing it as long. Started late, you know. But he learns quick. Was with his Ma near seven years, you know, before she finally died of the rot. She had to scrounge the City, what done it. Ain't nobody scrounge the City and lives long, they say. Too hot from the radiator, or some such. Anyhow, you don't catch Mishka there, no way.
"Plebo's Man-Ma done went off too, looking for the better place, like most o' the crazy ones. Just like mine, too, I guess. Course, he never came back, neither, just like mine. At least, the kid has some body to learn him things. Meaning me, of course."
He listened to the sounds moving further and further away.
"Naw, they ain't going to find Plebo. No way".
Mishka sat down on the edge of the mattress, and stroked the warm fur of the weasel, trying hard to keep his attention focused on the faint sounds coming through the air-shaft
Boom! Boom!
The two deep, muffled explosions echoed foreboding from the distant hills. Mishka shuddered, and closed his eyes.
"Damn!" he whispered hoarsely.
He continued to stroke the weasel for several moments, pausing occasionally to brush the moist dust from his stinging eyes. "It ain't my fault, Weasel. I told him, and I told him. I did. He had to keep poking his nose in, where it didn't belong."
The weasel jerked slightly, and Mishka relaxed the tight hold he had on the weasel's back. "I did all I could for him. Didn't I Weasel? Guess it weren't enough."
Mishka stopped petting the weasel, and stared at the dark, empty walls. He
moved the sleeping weasel on an edge of the feather mattress and covered it with a small cotton blanket. He paused for a moment, the way he always did when he touched that blanket, although he wasn't sure why. The pale blue cover was the only thing left to him by his Ma, after she had died giving birth to him, almost eighteen years ago. An old lady, she never had a name except ‘Mam’, fed him until he was old enough to scrounge for himself, and was the one who taught him how to roast nuts, and how to make the crush-nut bread patties. Then the kill-for-nuthins got her. But by then though, he knew enough.
"Stupid, nosey kid," he mumbled.
He tucked the blanket tightly around the weasel, and stared at the small nests piled neatly in the corner.
"We probably should of cut off a bit of this over-big sleeper, and moved it over to the corner there. That'd been OK with you, Weasel. Wouldn't it? He weren't very big, and he wouldn't of took up much space, anyhow. Oh, sheet! I ain't got time to be all the time worrying about no body else."
Mishka slapped at the broom leaning against the wall, shook his head, and started to reach for the bacco stick lying on the plate, but turned quickly toward the air-shaft He listened intently to the faint crunching sounds approaching his hider. He jumped as the weasel stirred and then petted him back to calmness.
The noise stopped suddenly, close to the vent opening. He heard a soft `plop' as something landed on the floor, just below the hole in the ceiling. Then, the crunching sounds started again, accompanied
by a low gravely giggle. The sounds quickly faded into the distance.
Mishka crawled over and scooped up the objects lying on the hard floor. He sat there for several moments, staring at his open palm, and letting his relief escape in an unaccustomed flow of tears. Then, he heard the distant rumble of the motorcycles, too far away to fear. He listened carefully anyway, until the sounds finally faded to a low vibrating hum, and then, silence.
He moved back to the bed and cradled the weasel in his lap, trying to stroke away the last of the weasel's shivers, and his own. He broke into a wide grin, teeth and all.
"You see there, Weasel," he said, as he stared at the two chestnuts in his hand. "I told you he were a smart one." He pitched the nuts into the basket, looked down at a small pile of nutshells scattered on the mattress, and smiled again.
"Well, he ain't all that smart. I got pleny more to learn him. First of all, he got to learn to use that mop, if he going to stay with us."
He clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to muffle his sudden laughter, which quickly turned to low, quiet sobs. Wiping his cheeks, Mishka picked up the lighter and whirled the small knurled knob.
After only two tries, the flame jumped merrily from the end of the old Zippo. He retrieved the bacco stick and pierced it with the thin metal spike he saved for just such an occasion. With growing anticipation, he