Rain pounded on the rock-like ground, drenching them. Rye ran as fast as he could down the dark alleyway, trying to ignore the thundering pawsteps behind him. Most dogs would be able to outrun him easily, but this dog, Freda, was overweight and the rain was slowing her down. Rye knew that she believed that if she caught him and returned him to her Masters that she would be helping him. Freda was a Pet, just like all the others. Even creatures like deer and badgers—he knew of them only from his mother's stories—had become forced into Enclosures. That was, unless they lived in the Last Resort, the only place Twolegs hadn't taken over.
"Please, Apple!" Freda yelped behind him, frantic. Rye had lied about his name so that if Freda told her friends about a stray cat named Apple and then if Rye came across them. He had invented so many stories over his lifetime. First he acted just a neglected Pet, looking for food. But that turned sour when the other Pet wanted to give him a new home. Then, he changed his story, saying that his housemate was gorging all the food. That worked for a while, until word got around and the Pets started realizing that he never went to a home at night. By now, he was sticking to the closest thing to the truth: he was hungry and didn't have a home yet. It was that yet that drove the Pets mad. Freda was one of those Pets.
Rye saw his chance in the dim light ahead: there was a hole under the chain-link fence, just big enough for him to squeeze through, but it was much too small for Freda. He knew there was a fat chance that there would be more danger from the other side, but Freda was relentless, despite her weight. There was something special in certain Pets' food that could make them stronger than normal. It tasted better, too, Rye knew. He had come across it a few times. The tiny pellets gave him the speed and strength to escape those special Pets.
Hearing Freda's nervous barks behind him almost made him forget why he was running. She was so sweet, so unknowing about the outlook from his point of view. To be tamed, to be made a Pet, would be worse than death itself. It was like surrendering. The Twolegs had taken over most of the wilderness, but not the Last Resort. The Pets didn't understand what it was like to be free, with no one to answer to, to do whatever you want and when you want to. Well, for the most part. Being untamed was a hazardous lifestyle.
Rye dove under the chain link fence, feeling the slick mud coat his underbelly. He sat down in the rain, catching his breath. He knew he should keep running, to avoid Freda and any new dangers on this side of the fence. But he had to tell her. He had to tell this Pet why he was running.
"Apple!" Freda barked, stopping in her tracks as she approached the fence. "Apple, please, just let me help you." Her golden fur glistened with the wetness under the dim light. Her big brown eyes were full of sadness. "I don't want to hurt you, Apple," she panted. "Just come with me and we can find you a nice new home. You won't have to keep asking for food, you'll be safe, and you won't have to worry about finding a mate..."
Rye then knew why she looked overweight: she was expecting pups. He had never seen a dog who was expecting that wasn't under urgent care. Rye came to the dawning realization of what the special food was for, now. Yet still, he said nothing. Freda needed to ask first.
Freda put her nose to the chain-link fence. "You would make a great housecat. The young Twoleg-pups would love you. My pups would love you. So why won't you let me help you, Apple?"
There it was. The question he was waiting for. "I may be the last one, Freda. I might be the last cat who is actually free. If I surrender now, that would be the end. I can't give up now—I have to find the Last Resort." He'd let that last thing slip. Freda perked her ears curiously. That was Rye's cue. He leapt away from the fence, running away. He heard Freda's frustrated howling. Surprisingly, he felt better now that someone knew—even if it was just a Pet. It was like telling himself that it wasn't just a thought. It was a belief.
Because of the Twoleg nest's outside light, he could see where he had stumbled upon. If it weren't for the rain, he would've been able to smell it already. He was at a place the Pets called a farm. These places were huge—and full of Pets. But Rye wasn't bothered by that fact. The hens, cows, and whatever other creatures lived here didn't mind him. It was mostly the domesticated dogs and cats he had to worry about.
Rye trekked through the mud toward what looked like a henhouse, not worrying about his tracks. The rain would wash them away and in the morning it would be like he'd never been here.
He crept under the henhouse, long ready to get out of the rain. The ground was still muddy and wet, but he'd slept in worse conditions before. For as long as he could remember, he'd always been on the run. He'd been alone since the day his mother and sister were caught, back when he was hardly five moons. Also, since then, he hadn't kept track of his age. It was pointless. He only had one main goal in his life and that was to reach the Last Resort. He didn't care how old he was.
Rye lied down in the mud, trying to get comfortable. He closed his eyes, remembering his mother. Her name was Rainstorm. She had light gray tabby fur and bright green eyes. She had told Rye that he looked more like his father, with his dusty brown fur and long legs. But he did have his mother's green eyes. But Rye could never picture his sister. She was just a blurry figure in his memory.
Eventually, as he was thinking about Freda and the events of that day, he fell asleep, dreaming about the Last Resort.
~.~
When Rye woke, he could see the farm more clearly from under the henhouse. The rain was gone and in its place, the sun was beaming down, trying to dry up the wetness. Rye rose from the still-soft ground, arching his back in a stretch. His belly grumbled in hunger. Running from Freda had taken more energy from him than he'd thought.
Still in the shadows, Rye was grateful for his dust-colored coat. He scanned the open yard, his eyes peeled for Pets and any Twolegs. Chickens were clucking about, pecking at some seed. There were a few chicks that Rye would have loved, but he didn't dare in open daylight.
Slowly, he crept out from underneath the henhouse. Now, he could see some long grass in the distance, looking out-of-place with the clipped grass. Rye made a run for the cover, even if there was no one but a few chickens to notice. When he reached the long grass, he realized it bordered a pond. He knew that with a pond came frogs, minnows, tadpoles, and maybe a few small fish. He flicked his tail in excitement. It has been forever since he hadn't had to scavenge!
He dropped into a crouch, hearing Rainstorm's instructions clearly in his mind as if she were teaching him. You want to be slow, steady, and patient. Even a little jerk is all it takes to startle your prey. He stalked forward, his jaws parted to scent prey—or Pets. He quickly scented a frog down by the water. Frog hunting was tricky business. They were fast on both land and water. Rye crept forward even more slowly. Keep yourself upwind so it won't smell you, the memory of Rainstorm's voice whispered in his ear. This time, there was no wind.
He spotted the small frog resting on a lily pad. It was croaking obnoxiously loud, as if sending a signal to predators. I'm here! I'm here! I'm here! He could only imagine what it was speaking in frog language. It was official: he wouldn't be eating that frog this morning. Frustrated at his prey that was far out of reach, he let out a hiss.
Try again, Rye, he could almost hear his mother saying. She was right. There was more prey around than one silly frog. He headed to the edge of the pond, looking for moving shadows in the water. At his nearness, the frog on the lily pad leapt into the pond. He sighed, wishing he could simply disappear from his problems.
Right now would be a good time, he thought as a loud yowl came from behind him.