Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder by Jo Nesbø, mike lowery Page A

long, loud gurgling sound, the paper disappeared, and then the toilet bowl filled back up with water. Nilly stood there thoughtfully watching the ripples in the bowl where the paper had just been, and scratching his scalp through his red hair. And what he was thinking about was how the letter was being carried down through the pipes by the water. Down and down. Until it splashed down into a bigger sewer pipe somewhere way down below them. A sewer pipe that must surely stink and be teeming with …
    â€œYou know what?” Nilly said. “I think I just figured out where our rat friend went.”
    â€œReally?” the professor said.
    Nilly pointed down into the toilet.
    â€œIt swam up here through the pipes from the sewer. And went back out the same way.”
    â€œPyew!” the professor said, holding his nose.
    â€œMaybe,” Nilly said. “But from the sewer pipe, the water keeps going. And going. All the way until it gets to the ocean. Or maybe to a treatment plant. And along the way there are ladders up to the street above, to manhole covers that lead right out onto the streets of Oslo. Do you get where I’m going with this, Professor?”
    The professor, who clearly got where Nilly was going, stared at him in disbelief. “You must be crazy!” he exclaimed.
    â€œNot crazy,” Nilly laughed. “Just very smart. Andvery, very small. We can only hope that I’m small enough.”
    â€œYou can’t!” Doctor Proctor said. “You mustn’t!”
    â€œI can, I must, and I will,” Nilly said.
    â€œThe guards look in here all the time—they’ll notice that you’re gone.”
    â€œWe’ll wait until early evening,” Nilly said. “Then we act like we’re going to bed early and turn off the light. And then in the dead of night …”
    THE SUN DRIFTED across the sky, and its rays fell on an Oslo that had started preparing for Independence Day, which was only two days away. People were cleaning up their houses and planting flowers in window boxes, ironing flags and the aprons that went with their national costumes, reviewing traditional eggnog recipes, and humming the national anthem. And as the sun began to descend toward UllernRidge at the western edge of the city, the men at the wharf carried the last of the crates off the ship from Shanghai.
    The rays that penetrated between the planks of the wharf reflected off some seashells. And not just the kinds of shells that are attached to wharf pilings and the rocks that are only visible at low tide. But shells that were moving. Shells that were black and attached to the back of something slithering out of the dark opening of a sewer pipe. Shells on the back of something that hadn’t eaten anything since the leathery meat on that thirty-five-year-old Mongolian water vole a few days ago.
    The creature slides through the water. It hears the wharf planks creaking. Sees the soles of a pair of boots. Food. It’s a man carrying a wooden crate. The creature quickly twists its way up around one of the wharf pilings, up into the blinding sunlight, rises, swaying above the poor guy, and it hears thefootsteps on the wharf stop. The creature opens its jaw, the sun shines on its gruesome fangs, and it hears a scream. Yes, yes, this is how food sounds… .
    The creature gets ready for a bulky mouthful. But the afternoon sun is so low and still so glaring, and the creature hasn’t seen any light in days. It strikes blindly. Grabs hold of something, seizes it, and swiftly vanishes into the water. And then into the sewer pipe. Food! The creature can already feel its digestive juices starting to flow from glands throughout its body as it swims its way back into the Oslo sewer system. And then, deep in the sewers, in a strip of light that falls from a little hole for runoff water on a manhole cover in a street way up above, it stops to really enjoy its meal. But … what is this?