Odd Prompts: Commence Operation Activate Squirrel!

Eagle-eyed readers will be aware I haven’t been doing much with the Odd Prompts series. I haven’t been feeling it, of late, which is not a judgment on the prompts or people, but rather a reflection of my internalised battles. Having seen a fresh post at MOTE, I thought I’d take a look, and a prompt grabbed my attention. Here we go!

***

“Sarge, it’s not looking good,” the calico cat wore a grim expression on his face as he spoke. Their normally pristine cream and brown fur bore signs of dirt and grime, a mark the sergeant recognised as time spent in the trenches. The big orange tabby looked away from the soldier, and steepled his fingers on the makeshift desk in front of him. Maps, reports, and other documents presented a picture of chaos.

“Just give me the short version, private.”

“Sir, the 7th and 8th Canine Divisions have overrun our eastern flank, they’re going to be here within the next day, we need reinforcements, or we need to, you know…”

“I hope you don’t mean to surrender, private Mittens,” the sergeant snapped as he turned around.

“No sir, never, I meant, perhaps we should deploy our special forces, sir.”

The sergeant narrowed his vivid green eyes. “There’s no undoing that, once we unleash them, that’s it. Besides, I’d have to seek authorisation from above, and that will take time, more time than we have. Report back to your CO that I’ll put the request in, and in the meantime, good luck soldier.” The sergeant received a crisp salute, and returned it, equally as firm. Mittens scampered away, and the sergeant turned to his desk. His fur went up at the mere thought of the special forces. It’s too dangerous, isn’t it?

Yet the idea would not leave him. He knew reinforcements from the regular ranks would not arrive in time to stop his position from falling, and he did not want to be responsible for that particular failure. With a nervous sigh, he picked up the phone, next to the half-finished bowl of lasagne, and made the call.

***

Lieutenant Leo ‘Good Boy’ Rover peered through his binoculars. “It looks quiet out there Colonel, as though the felines are retreating. Perhaps we’ve finally got them on the run.”

Colonel Robert ‘Fetch’ Woofer looked to the golden retriever. He shook off dirt from his own chocolate-coloured fur. “This seems too easy. They never retreat without putting up some sort of fight. We’ll advance, but I want noses in the air every ten minutes, stay sharp.” The dog soldiers hopped over the makeshift barrier, into the vacated town, and moved quickly, virtually bounding down the roads, letting their sense of smell pick up on potential traps and tricks. Every so often, they paused as a pack, sniffing as a pack for any additional signs of danger.

All seemed to be going well, but then a terrier, a private Woofer did not immediately recognise, froze. He looked dead ahead, and without warning, bolted forward. Shouts and yelps followed after him, and then two more soldiers paused, intently tasting the air, and likewise took off, following the terrier.

“Back in formation, back in for-” Woofer paused. He picked up something on the wind, as he crossed by some bombed out shops. A flash of movement, not a canine or a feline, diverted his eyes. A puffy, fluffy red tail snapped him into focus. More of his troops darted forward, and now Woofer understood why. A moment later, he heard them scream, and fall silent. His ears caught a sinister chittering among the rubble of burnt out buildings, and his remaining troops froze alongside him.

“Oh no-” Woofer understood now. He knew why some of his men had rushed off, drawn by instincts too primal to ignore. His resistance, borne of a ferocious will, had saved him from the first assault, but now he clearly saw what the felines had done, and he cursed them, all of them, for they had unleashed something unfathomable.

“Squirrels!” he yelled, but then he realised his next mistake. Half his remaining soldiers took the warning as a signal to excitedly pursue their attackers, not appreciating the incredible danger they were now in. The dogs rushed forward, oblivious to the terror that awaited them. One border collie was dragged down a broken alleyway, howling for help. Another disappeared from sight behind a wall, only to come flying across the road a moment later.

“Defensive positions!” Woofer commanded, and to their credit, his remaining men took up arms, ready for combat. A moment later, their enemy revealed themselves.

The squirrels bounded into view, large, savage and angry, their bloodstained fur and teeth setting the tone before a gun had even been fired. Woofer took the lead, aiming and shooting, and his troops followed suit, but the squirrels were too fast, and the stray bullets to strike them only seemed to make them madder. The enraged squirrels rushed forward, tearing through Woofer’s ranks, and one swiped at him, knocking his rifle from his paws, before sending him hurtling through the air like a ragdoll.

The last thing Woofer saw was a big, furious red squirrel with blazing yellow eyes, and blood-coated incisors stood over him. His last thought was to damn the felines for unleashing these monstrosities, and he wondered if they realised how the genie would never go back in the bottle.

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