The Feeding (Draft #3)
Tags: Flash Fiction, Short Story, Short Fiction, Fiction, Thriller

By the time the date of the feeding rolls around, the ration stash becomes the crumbs of the leftovers, and rowdy pups start to gnaw on each other’s exposed naked tails. All of the mice who arrive have shredded ears and docked tails from overwhelming hunger. Like rain on tree roots, hunger erodes at their bellies until ribcages swell through their fragile skin and thin mangy coats. On the morning of the feeding, the mice are desperate to get into the doors of the rusted vehicle.

The Elders sat atop the crusty leather center console above the back seat and surveyed the growing crowd. Pups separated from their families and congregated on the moldy stained carpet in front of the center console. Behind them in chewed cloth seats, a stadium filled with hundreds of mice rumbled with anticipation.

Mr. Farely, husband and father of thirteen, returned from combat to send his six eligible pups off to the feeding. He, his wife, and the seven other pups rummaged through the crowd to find a good vantage point in the backseat, his other children bumped between skinny bodies while he plowed a walkway through. Once settled on the seat above the growing crowd of pups, Mr. Farely turned to his wife,

“I am starving, do you think this will be quick honey?”

“I sure hope so. This winter has been absurd. Between the stress of having you gone, the size of our rations getting smaller, and having seven pups; I need to eat. Especially if I am going to feed any of the little ones behind us.”

Mrs. Lance, swollen with pregnancy, overheard the Farely’s conversation behind her and piped in, “If they expect us to keep pumping out babies, you’d think they’d try to feed us a little better.“ The two females laughed.

“It’s good to see you guys together again,” Mrs. Lance scratched her tummy, “I feel like I just saw you, I swear these things are becoming more frequent.”

“I’d feel that way if I wasn’t starving Mrs. Lance.”

Mr. Farely popped into the female’s conversation, “I heard some colonies aren’t even participating in the feeding anymore. Can you believe that?”

“How are they even able to eat?”

“Supposedly they have enough food outside the valley,” their small talk and laughter blended with the crowd.

Lester, the Elder with the most time on his hands, emerged from the rim of the center console with the mixing bowl. The horde grew uneasy; laughter muffled across the back seat, pups dug their nails into the fibers of the wet carpet, and the sound of a weanling tearful with hunger replaced the previously excited frenzy. Having had gotten their attention, Lester coughed into his plump fat paw, smoothed out his velvet coat, and announced to the mice perched on the backseat,

“Welcome to the feeding, It seems that we are missing a couple of families, has anyone seen the Miltons, or the Perrys?”

“I heard they might’ve traveled together, they’re both back by the horse pastures, way beyond the valley.”

“It probably took them days to get here,” Mr. Farley said.

Five field mice emerged from a side hole in the door of the vehicle; their coats caked with stone dust and bald patches exposed with inflamed pink skin.

“There’s the Milton family,” Mr. Hadley said.

“Did you bring your sons?” someone else chimed in.

Mr. Milton nudged his eldest eligible son down towards the carpet on the floor, “Sure did, all four of em’. They all have their badges too.”

The boys scurried down to the floor of the carpet where they belonged.

“Apologies for the tardiness. We were traveling with the Perry family and we were ambushed by the barn cat up the hill. My boys and I couldn’t do anything to save them.” Mr. Milton sank his head, “I doubt they will be making it here today.”

Lester nodded his snout and twitched his naked tail down at Mr. Milton,

“As long as the boys have their badges it is not a problem. That matter has been settled, let’s get this over with.”

The colony swayed back and forth, hanging on the end of the chewed cloth seats. Soft squeaking bounced between the rusting doors and between each other. A woman whispered, “I hope it’s not my sons” and the sound of the whisper crept its way through the crowd.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” Old mouse Addington shouted into the moving space, “The Elders are not like how they used to be.”

“I heard the old tradition was a festival,” Mr. Milton offered. From the ledge of the window button, a famished and scarred creature offered up his opposing opinion,

“But that’s no fun, and I bet there wasn’t nearly enough food.”

“That was back when we didn’t have a big enough population,” another voice chimed in.

“None of this talk,” Lester pulled a pawful of leaves from the mixing bowl and passed them to the other Elders sitting behind him,“with what’s going on in the world, the youth population must be trimmed down. We do this for the greater good.”

With that, the fellow Elders joined Lester at the edge of the center console. Underneath the squeamish crowd the pups huddled together; their muscles tensed and they drew their tattered ears back to listen closer to the results of the drawing.

“Because of the state of the war, as you have probably noticed, the rations are smaller than ever. So, for this quarter we have decided to draw all fived of the child elect patterns.”

A wail rippled through the crowd, and then chattering sputtered.

“It’s a miracle, we’ll be fed for weeks! — ”

“All of my boys — ”

“Judy I hoped you packed a basket, we’re going to have leftovers — ”

“Make sure they don’t try to take off — ”

“We’re going to have so many less mouths to feed honey.”

Lester and the other Elders jumped down from their perch and slammed into the wet moldy carpet. In a heartbeat, the crowd erupted.

“Let the feeding begin.”

“This isn’t fair,” a child shrieked, “we can find food-”

It was silenced by teeth snapping its frail neck.