"I wouldn't mind eating a fly," said Snake with a grin. Turtle punched her playfully in the side of her neck. "Oww," she said. "That hurt." Turtle handed her the binoculars.
Snake looked out across a choppy sea of west-side roofs and water tanks and vent hoods. She focused the lenses on the landmarks of the city center. There was the observation deck of the Argyle Pleat Building. There was the spire of Crepe Cathedral. There were three lanes of outbound traffic being tunneled onto Needle Overpass. There was the domed roof of Angora Stadium. There was the flag of the Stitch Museum. All bathing in a green twilight, as the sun sequin set into the skyline behind Snake's back.
Turtle snatched back the binoculars. "Where are they?" he asked crossly. "I don't see nothing."
Snake looked at the sky again. The faded blue silk of the daytime sky was peeling itself free from the ceiling of the world. It was beginning to creep west, wrinkling a little as it went, drawn toward the western horizon by unseen hands — the hard wrinkled hands of the Washerwoman Who Lives Beneath the Table Land. As the day sky was pulled down for a good scrubbing, the night sky was revealed, its star sequins glittering in all colors. Snake was struck by the strange and arbitrary nature of the world. Especially the parts that were beautiful. What a contrast the starlight made to the dingy yellow light that leaked from the city all night.
Forks of silvery tin lightning stabbed through the charcoal gray bellies of the darkening clouds. Unseen cymbals crashed behind the sky.
"I see them!" shouted Turtle. "I can see the dog and the cat!
Drifting hazes of rainfall blurred the mountain slopes, and cloud shadows moved across the badlands. Two other huge forms were moving across the badlands as well — huge and slow as cloud shadows, but zigging and zagging or sometimes tracing a loop. The larger form was pursuing the smaller.
The pursuer was a stuffed hound done in orange-and-white checks — as long from nose to tail tip as a subway train. He grinned as he ran. His ivory shoe-button teeth gleamed in the green twilight and the drizzle. Silver saliva ribbons drooled from his muzzle, whipping in the wind. His long felt tongue licked strands of red ribbon from his gargantuan gingham-checked chops. His black glass eyes were wild and hungry. He'd been chasing the cat all day. Her blood ribbons tasted delicious. He couldn't wait for dinner.
Driving her out of the mountains was half the battle. Here on the badlands, the dog could outrun her. He'd bring her down easily now. Unless she made it to the cardboard city of the tiny folk. Cities had too many places where a cat could hide, even miniature cities.
The purple cat had put some distance between herself and the dog. Her mother-of-pearl claws gouged puncture wounds into the hardpan as she ran. The stitchings at the rims of her green glass eyes were bloodshot. She threw a glance behind her and sickened at the sight of her ripped hind leg. A triangle of white-dotted calico was detached from its canvas backing, napping free. Another bite like that and she'd be leaking ribbons in piles. She yowled mournfully and ran a little faster. But she was only the size of a freight truck. She couldn't keep up this pace.
She let the dog catch up with her and wheeled on him, hissing. She raked her white claws across his black velvet nose. Goose down leaked from his snout and flurried around him like snow. He yelped and stumbled to a stop. He pawed glumly at the slash on his nose.
"You're such a pussy," said the cat.
The dog perked up. "That's very good."
"I thought you'd enjoy that."
"You're very clever," the dog said admiringly.
"I know it," said the cat.
"Well. shall we?"
"After you."
"But you should have a head start."
"Perhaps I should," said the cat.
Again the mad dash of the two behemoths exploded across the badlands. The cat made for the flatlands, galloping majestically westward. All along the eastern fringe of Plush City's industrial district, plaid watchmen in plaid watchtowers hit their red panic buttons and sounded the monster sirens. The sirens wailed away, soaring and dipping like banshees from another world. Searchlight beams stabbed out from the Argyle Pleat Building and swept the flatlands, casting strange shadows across the sagebrush and the stones. Nurse Pinkbunny scrubbed in and pulled sterile latex gloves onto her paws. She was very adrenalinized. It wasn't every day that she assisted a prominent pediatric surgeon like Dr. Beaver. Besides which, today's procedure was very unusual. The patient was a newborn kangaroo with two heads. Dr. Beaver would attempt to normalize the infant without "sacrificing viability." In other words, he'd try to cut off one of its heads without killing it. Actually it was quite difficult to kill a stuffie, even an infant. Little things like lungs and kidneys grew back in a matter of days.
Edna backed into the O.R. through swinging doors, minding her gloves. She checked the instrument trays to make sure there'd be no surprises. Dr. Beaver was consulting with the anesthesiologist Dr. Grayclam. Though the air conditioner was humming, beads of moisture had already formed on Dr. Beaver's brow. A heavy perspirer. Edna unspooled some extra gauze and cut it into strips.
The newborn arrived on a gurney. Anesthesia was established. Dr. Beaver began the amputation with an incision to the deformed infant's left throat. The oxygen mask hissed at the edge of audibility. The lights were very bright.
"That artery," said Dr. Beaver to Nurse Peahen. "Is that silk or satin, would you say? I want the thread to match."
Nurse Peahen leaned in. "It looks rubberized."
"Radioactivity?" said Dr. Grayclam.
"Who knows," said Dr. Beaver. "People have no business having babies here in the first place. And these idiots were inhaling cleaning fluid."
Edna had to agree. Babies were supposed to arrive in Plush City from the material plane. A few new ones were found each morning, outside the hospital in wicker baskets. But strange medical conditions like pregnancy were growing more common since the giant monsters started battling so close to the city. There was talk that "monster radioactivity" had gotten into the water supply.
The baby was doing fine, but its neck anatomy seemed to have thrown Dr. Beaver. "Suction," he snapped at Nurse Peahen. "Over there by the… the… the. That thing. There. And get that kite string out of my way. And when I ask for suction, give me suction. God damn it!"
"Sorry, doctor." The nurse struggled to comply. But the more the surgeon snipped and sewed, the more tiny red ribbons spilled from the white cotton muscles.
Nurse Pinkbunny dabbed the sweat from Dr. Beaver's forehead. She could imagine the tense frown behind his white mask. "Thank you, Nurse Pinkbunny," he said. He'd remembered her name. Edna wondered whether he was attracted to her. Once in the cafeteria she'd caught him admiring her breasts.
The amputation went sour. The infant was fighting the ether, and if it woke up, it would go into shock. "I told you to have masks for both heads," Dr. Beaver harangued Dr. Grayclam. "But no. You had to do it your way." Meanwhile the nurses were having terrible problems with the jugular hemostats. The infant was losing a lot of ribbons.
Suddenly Nurse Peahen jumped back from the baby with an involuntary cry of disgust.
"What?" said Dr. Beaver. "What now?"
She pointed her index claw at the baby's furry beige belly. "Things are crawling on it."
Now the doctor jumped back. "We have bugs in here? Bugs?"
Edna leaned over the baby, peering down through her wire-rimmed glasses. "Tiny kangaroos," she said.
Dr. Beaver yanked off his mask. "What?"