I HATE STUART LITTLE IV:

Stuart Little did Notre-Dame

by Vladicoff

Coast of Bretagne.

A tense silence, punctuated only by the lapping waves and the rumbles of distant thunder.

'Commence le boarding!' the command rang out.

With military precision (despite being French), the armed complement of the 42nd and 69th patrol ships of the République's navy boarded the gently-drifting Disney cruiser. Streams of men in bulletproof armour clambered over the sides of the vessel - automatic weaponry at the ready, bayonets glinting in the faint dawnlight.

Not a shot rang out in response. The entire top deck was empty; even the helm was abandoned. There were no living souls below-deck either, which is not to say the cabins were empty: on the contrary, they were chock-full. Fully hundreds of cadavers, most still in their hawaiian shirts and cargo jorts, filled each compartment and sleeping-cot. Some were quite fresh, others in an advanced state of decomposition. Near-all had bite marks, and some had been nibbled down to the bone.

'Zer is no sign of le mouse, mon Captain,' said Francois.

'Mouse or no mouse, zis house you must douse,' replied the captain, also named Francois, gesturing to the cylinders of rodent-poison behind him. 'Ee could be hiding anywhere, hon hon.'

As the de-mousing was undertaken, Captain Francois made his way to the cruise ship's quartermaster's lodgings, to have a look at the ship's log. The cabin was in perfect order, all items neatly packed and sorted, all furniture precisely where it ought be. The only blemish on the otherwise stellar living quarters was the streak of blood and brain matter splattered across the wall, emanating - presumably - from the still-warm body of the quartermaster himself, in whose lap lay a pistol. The suicide had evidently transpired mere minutes before the French boarding.

In front of him, on the desk, was the ship's log, which had miraculously avoided any specks of gore from the unfortunate quartermaster's untimely end. Captain Francois dumped the defunct officer out of his armchair and sat down to read.

The last week of entries confirmed the Frenchman's worst fears. In the night passengers had gone to bed only never to awaken. At first these mysterious passings had all occurred in the third-class cabins; these areas were promptly boarded up, the inhabitants within left to starve. After a day and night of respite, disappearances began to be reported amongst the second-class passengers, and soon the affliction spread and mounted in intensity. Deaths were piling up by day now.

The quartermaster was the last soul remaining, and had been for nearly two days. He had speculated, on the last page of the log, that his survival was due to something too terrible to contemplate: that whatever had come on board, had left for the mainland. The quartermaster's suicide had been motivated by this chilling conclusions.

'Ouat are your le orders?' asked Louis Bernard.

'Notify le Premier Linguini immédiatement. Stuart Little has slipped through our fingers.'

Paris, Ile de la Cité.

'Aight, m'Laird. Things 'ave been done as the rat bastard - beggin' yer pardon, Detective - as the mouse bastard ordered,' reported McAngus to the two rodent chiefs, gathered about a detailed sketch map of the City of Lights.

Their command centre was a cramped alcove in the highest point of the cathedral spire of Notre Dame de Paris, that monument to Gothic architecture and height of mediaeval culture. In a rare moment of comradery between the two erstwhile foes, both Basil and Ratigan held the old cathedral in highest esteem, and discovered that each had begun his love of art with his first visit to Paris because of it.

'Good,' replied Detective Basil. 'Now, we have barely a day to go before the reckoning. The first cruiser to arrive in Calais should be docking tonight, meaning - given the reduced nighttime traffic now that the Disnians of Rouen and Arras have been so… roughly disposed of - that Stuart Little should arrive here by daybreak at the earliest. That should be enough, God willing.'

'Though of course,' rejoined Ratigan. 'It is possible he took a different cruise, and is arriving later.'

'That is a distinct possibility. However, given the extra time such a contingency affords us, I'd consider it an overall positive development.'

McAngus, who had been standing awkwardly near the door to the garret, piped up.

'Ought we not inform the frenchie? I thought we was 'ere to stop 'im being murdered by that Stuart sod.'

'As a matter of fact,' the Professor turned to Basil, his eyebrow crooked curiously. 'I was wondering the same thing, Basil-dear. I had expected that at some point we would give him word of the existential threat coming his way.'

'My reasons for neglecting to inform him are twofold. First, unlike the rest of you, I have little appetite for innocent blood being spilled. Remy has been known to… overreact, to put things mildly. For evidence, note the ongoing genocide. Second, what could he do if he knew? What little of the French army is in fighting shape has been sent to Amerika, and the navy can't very well develop to fight on land - being ships, not amphibians. Consequently, I believe it's a risk we have to take. Either we stop Stuart Little ourselves before anyone's the wiser, or our struggle will alert Remy and his ire and he'll finish what we started. Pray it doesn't come to that.'

It was then that something thumped against the spire. After a flutter of wings, the incoming pigeon managed to find purchase and stuck its head through a window.

'Ourgent réport pour Monsieur Bazil,' she said.

Basil of Baker Street grew pale. He motioned for her to continue.

'Zer 'as been no sighting of Stuart Little at ze port of Calais. 'Owever, word on ze dock is zat les sailors de la coast guard 'ad found an abandoned cruise-ship off le coast of Bretagne in ze early morning hours. Zat is all. One of ze rodents at ze customs 'ouse paid me to deliver zis message, and to tell you zat zey are on zer way to Paris. Au revoir.'

She flew off.

Professor Ratigan looked looked confused at first, before understanding creeped over him and he turned from the window to Basil with more fear in his eyes than he had had in years. Detective Basil did not take his eyes off the wall in front of him, as sweat began to bead.

'He's here already. That mouse jumped ship hours ago and has been making his way all day. Blast it, fuck it all to Hell!' he pounded his fists on the table. 'Outwitted. Blast it.'

'Calm yourself, dearest Basil,' Ratigan said, attempting to sound soothing despite his spiking heartbeat. 'We need you at your most serene. Face it, detective, you're no good in a fisticuff - what we need here, presently, is your mind. The only mind that's ever thwarted my own genius intellect. Stay calm! Think!'

Basil took a few steadying breaths. He turned to the map again.

'I was hoping we could have fortified each of the arrondissements by the time he arrived; we've only been able to dig into and lay explosives in the historical district and the Latin Quarter. Alas, it will have to do. McAngus!'

'Aye, detective? What can old Lloy do fer ye?'

'Leave the cathedral and take all but a skeleton crew to guard it. I want a thorough sweep of every city block that isn't yet dug into. Tell everyone of us you find to head to Ile de la Cité and the Latin Quarter and prepare. At the first sign of Stuart Little, let us know.'

'Be off now,' added the Professor. 'We've not a moment to waste.'

The rodent adjutant saluted and left.

'Oy, y'smell summat burning?'

Mia the Mouse looked over, a little annoyed at this interruption. It was her first time out of the country - first time outside of the East End of London-town, in fact - and she could not stop staring at the stained-glass windows towering above her, bathing her with their multitudinous hues. Sighing, she went over to investigate.

'Come to think of it, I do…' she mused, her nose catching a whiff of woodsmoke above the scent of incense. The smell mounted in intensity.

She heard a gasp, coming from where her comrade - the one who had called her over - had been standing just a moment before.

'You all right there, mate?'

She peered around. There was scaffolding all along this side of the building - evidently some sort of restoration work was being done on the old stones - making it a veritable maze. She called out to him again. A muffled squeak in response showed her the way. The closer she came to where the squeaks emanated, the stronger the smell of burning wood became.

Mia, after a few minutes of search, came upon her friend. He was bound and gagged, tied up with dirty rags. Between her and him was low but wide wall of flame, slowly growing in his direction. She darted towards him, attempting to find a gap in the fire, but her efforts were in vain. His muffled shouts grew hoarser, and he seemed to be desperately trying to shake off an odd makeshift item strapped to his chest. A faint boom was heard from somewhere behind the high altar, and the smell of fire increased.

She knew what she had to do. Tearing her eyes away from her friend, she turned and ran with all her speed, shouting for anyone within earshot to go on the alert. As she sped up the cathedral walls towards the central spire, she could feel some sort of presence behind her, following her at a distance. From where her friend had been bound, she heard another explosion. The flames were growing faster now, engulfing the scaffolding and spreading along walls. The heat rose.

'Professor! Professor Rat'gan! Detective!' Mia shouted as she entered the garret. The two leaders paused and looked at her in alarm.

'What is it, you?' asked Basil, his map half-rolled up.

'Don't tell me…' said Ratigan.

'He's 'ere! He's setting the place ablaze!' she paused to catch her breath. 'I think he followed me 'ere. We can't leave what way I came.'

'We're not going to leave,' said Ratigan firmly. Basil looked at him questioningly.

'Grab your gun, Basil-boy,' he continued, drawing his rapier. 'Do you have any weapons, dear?'

'None, m'Lord. Must've dropped it in me panic,' answered Mia apologetically.

'Ah well, at least you can be useful as bait, I suppose. Come now!' his voice turned to a whisper. 'Out the window. If he's been following you, he'll come here, and we can catch him when he arrives. Hasten quickly now!'

They did as he said, Mia peeking an eye through the window into the alcove, the other two lying in wait behind her, weapons drawn. All the while, the smell of fire kept growing, and growing.

Several loud creaks and the spluttering of sparks, followed by a hollow crash and renewed roar of flame, marked the collapse of the oaken roof to the east of the spire, above where the altar had once stood. Both Ratigan and Basil cursed under their breath.

'Can you see him yet?' said Basil.

'No,' said Mia.

'What's taking him so long…' said Ratigan.

'Imagine thinking I'd fall for that,' said Stuart Little.

The erstwhile ambushers recoiled in surprise. Stuart Little gave a malicious grin. The chase was on. This was no cut-and-dry race; pursued and pursuer were blurred. As Stuart Little, knife clenched between his teeth, galloped after them, they desperately tried to get the drop on him. They attempted to catch him without being caught themselves, but to no avail; the white mouse was far nimbler than they, and only their numbers kept them from being overpowered.

The chase raced up and down the towering point, and back up again, as plumes of smoke and tongues of flame wrapped themselves around the spire's base. With a deafening rumble, made all the more odious by the crackingly of wood and stone, the spire's fundament tore asunder and it collapsed into the burning wreckage of the cathedral. The four rodents leapt for their lives, tossing themselves from the crumbling spire and landing on what remained of the cathedral roof.

Ratigan was the first to rise, stumbling, back to his feet. He had lost his sword in the confusion. He helped Basil, who had fallen close by and still clutched his gun tightly against his chest, to stand. Mia had landed a bit to their right.

Stuart Little, meanwhile - blade firmly in hand - had landed on a little peninsula of roof, surrounded on three sides by the open fires and smoke where the spire had once stood.

'I've g-got you cornered, fiend,' said Basil shakily. Taking a steadying breath, he aimed his firearm straight at Stuart Little's heart. Summoning his courage, he shouted: 'Time to end this!'

Just as he pulled the trigger, the oak beneath Stuart Little cracked and gave way, surrounding the other mice in a cloud of smoke and flame. Basil's shot could be barely heard above the crack and crumble.

'Did you get him, Basil?' Ratigan whispered hoarsely, huddling closer to his archnemesis and peering into the smoke.

Mia looked around as well. She nervously took a step back, but stopped in her tracks as she bumped into something soft and evil behind her. As the smoke began to clear, a terrified Mia turned to look at the presence behind her, and saw its malicious grin.

'Omae wa mou shindeiru,' said Stuart Little.

'But I-I don't speak French…' squeaked Mia. Suddenly her voice stopped short, as Stuart Little's blade pierced her sternum. The white mouse tossed her aside to bleed out, and advanced menacingly. Basil retreated a few steps, attempting to hurriedly reload his gun, but it was of no use: Stuart Little's knife flew through the air and tore the gun in two, embedding itself in Basil's shoulder. Stuart Little looked from Ratigan to Basil, and uttered a single word:

'Run.'

They ran. The roof was collapsing faster now; their only hope of escaping the inferno below lay in reaching the towers above the western entrance, where the stone yet stood firm. They'd nearly reached the southern tower when Basil slipped on the blood dripping down from his wound and fell flat on his face. Ratigan, who was slightly ahead of his fellow Londoner, turned and tried to help him up.

Before Basil of Baker Street could fully rise to his feet, Stuart Little was upon him. He took a wide swipe at the detective's face, tearing off a chunk of flesh and sending him tumbling down through the collapsing roof. Ratigan recoiled in horror; thinking fast, he leapt between the columns of the southern tower and hid behind one. Hopefully the smell of smoke and burning stone would befuddle his pursuer's notoriously keen sense of smell.

Professor Ratigan crept from column to column, making his way to the stairwell, heaving ragged breaths. Just a little ways more to go…

'You should've run.'

Stuart Little appeared from behind a column, deftly stepping between Ratigan and the stairway entrance. He had a hungry look in his beady eyes. Blood stained his white fur, and dripped steadily off his paws. He advanced slowly, eyes fixed on the professor, mouth salivating.

Stuart Little was almost upon him when he fell to the floor and writhed in pain. On top of him was mass of wizened grey fur and gnashing teeth.

'McAngus!' shouted Ratigan in disbelief.

'No time t' lose, m'Laird!' rejoined the old mouse. 'The stairs're nearly done fer!'

Ratigan hesitated for a moment longer, then took off, sprinting past the melee to the entranceway. He looked back over his shoulder one more time before rushing down the stairs. The scene he saw was not pleasant: McAngus had lost control and was pinned to the ground, spurts of blood gushing out from a gaping hole in his chest. Stuart Little, now missing an ear, was savaging his opponent mercilessly, tearing off flesh with his teeth and swallowing it raw.

Ratigan held back tears as he ran, galloping down the stairs on all fours. He was determined to not let his old servant's sacrifice be in vain. As the steps began to crumble and give way, he leapt onto the interior facade of the church and sprinted down along the walls. The heat was nearly unbearable, as was the sight of the ancient cathedral's spire laying in ruin amidst the burning pews.

The smell of burning rodent pervaded the air as he reached the marble floor; corpses in various stages of roast littered the ground. One in particular was still mostly intact, its green jacket having just recently been caught ablaze.

'B-Basil…' choked out Ratigan.

There was nothing he could do; within moments a cascade of masonry buried his enemy-turned-friend's body, and nearly crushed him as well in the process. Coughing through the ash and smoke, he gathered his strength for one last exertion and pushed his way through the flames and charring wood, slipping between a gap in the stonework to the left of the collapsed gateway.

Ratigan did not stop until he had cleared the plaza, the sound of burns and screams still echoing in his ears. He collapsed onto the ground. He was safe.

'Stuart Little really is back, then,' said a familiar voice from above him.

He looked up, his eyes still hazy from the smoke and dust. Towering above him was Prime Minister Linguini, with Remy perched on his shoulder.

'Should have left this to the experts, professor.'

To be continued.