Amber on the Run

The meerkat girl - dressed in shorts, a vest, and a short-sleeved shirt - wiped her forehead as she stalked through the jungle. 

Amber loved the vest: It had enough pockets for all her various objects - notepads, writing utensils, recorders, and cameras - for an article she was writing about the small tropical island nation of Safilr: a heavily sanctioned country quite hostile to journalists. 

The island was undergoing a historic event. For the first time in decades, an actual election was taking place. For years, the thylacine President - General Theolin - had ruled with an iron fist and all manner of political rivals had been met with ‘accidents’ or locked up never to be seen again. 

Finally, though, someone was able to challenge the old marsupial and live: An old, charming, and wealthy dingo - Dr. Andrew “the Professor” Landis, PhD.

But Amber wasn’t just there to cover an election: she was following a lead.

According to an old contact of Amber’s, a large company had been using the island’s coast as a dumping ground for their chemical waste. Apparently the company made regular payments to the Safilr government, who then bought weapons on the black market to circumnavigate sanctions. 

A nasty triangle of dirty money.

Some choice photos along with a few interviews of locals who were willing to come forward and she had quite the portfolio built up. Her last step was interviewing Landis.

Amber made her way to Landis’ compound on the top of a low, jungle-surrounded hill - her fur had done her no favors in the jungle as she waved to a few guards standing at the gate. As she approached, the taller one - a tiger - checked her credentials and led her to Dr. Landis’ office.

The hopeful future leader of Safilr was at his desk: a graying muzzle in a double-breasted suit and small circular glasses.

“Dr. Landis,” Amber said as she walked in on the cold marble floor. “We spoke on the phone.” 

The old canine nodded. “Ms. Zazuetta, of course: happy to speak with you.”

Amber took a seat across from the Professor. His desk was covered in notes, papers, and articles. She wasted no time getting to the point.

“Theolin is letting foreign companies dump their waste off the coast. Do you know of this, and if you win, would you do anything about that?”   

“I have heard of the waste dumpings in my home country... and the weapon purchases. We do not need such things! We are a chain of islands in the middle of the ocean - who are we going to go to war with?” The dingo flattened his ears. “It’s for use against our own citizens - to keep them in line! Disgusting.”

Amber took some notes as Dr. Landis continued.

“I would certainly put a stop to such practices: I intend to clean up this mess literally and figuratively. I will make Safilr respectable again so the international community removes its sanctions and make sure the waste dumpings cease.”

Amber smiled. The young meerkat had interviewed many people in positions of authority and she had a good grasp on who was a good person and who was trying to fake it... She had a good feeling about him, as though he would actually lead the island well. She kept that good feeling when she left the compound, made her way back through the twists and turns of the jungle, and continued her work. 

Eventually Amber arrived in a small town on the edge of the jungle. The village was a mishmash of modern and archaic: Homestyles from decades past, and shacks that would be more in place with a shanty town. Beyond the village there was just the jungle and a winding dirt road that was now mostly mud and puddles. 

A few hours later, the journalist was just finishing up a visit to a female opossum whose family had all recently become sick, around the same time as the chemical dumps.

Amber put her arm around her. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you. Thank you for coming forward.”

Throughout the town, the inquisitive meerkat was wrapping up her other interviews when there was the roar of an engine on the road. Her ears flattening, Amber looked up to see a jeep with a number of beasts in fatigues speeding into the village.

“That’s not a good sign,” Amber growled. The opossum tugged on her arm.

“This way!” 

Using the various huts for cover, the two stopped at the edge of the town square. The soldiers - about five or so, Amber estimated - jumped out of the jeep, brandishing rifles. 

“Where’s the journalist?!” a kangaroo with a thick accent barked. Amber’s instinct kicked in and she whipped out her pocket cam, trained on the altercation. 

An old armadillo - the village elder - shook his head. “Not quite sure.” 

The kangaroo grabbed the armadillo and snarled in his face. “She killed Landis!” 

“What?” Amber whispered to her new friend, lowering her camera. “He was fine when I left!” 

The armadillo objected, even while being faced with the huge, muscular kangaroo. “Since when does Theolin care about his political opponents dying?”

The kangaroo kneed the armadillo in his soft belly. “You will refer to him as ‘our beloved leader!’ Mouth off again and I will do far worse to you.” 

The kangaroo turned to his men who were cackling at the armadillo’s expense. “Search the village and find that foreigner! Alive is preferable, but... I know accidents happen.” 

The opossum girl once again grabbed Amber’s hand and dragged her away. 

“It’s not true!” Amber hissed under her breath. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“I believe you, but it seems you are being made to take the blame.”

“It's a way to make sure I don’t leave with all the evidence I’ve collected,” Amber grumbled, “and to get rid of a rival at the same time.” 

“Head for the coast: there’s an otter missing an eye: the ‘Old Fisherman.’ He can get you off the island.” 

The two ran through the ramshackle village as the thugs in uniform began to go hut by hut. The sound of crashes and bangs behind them told all Amber needed to know: They were literally tearing the place up to find her. Amber’s eyes went from the road to the jungle. 

“It’s too exposed - they’ll see me!” 

“Not to worry,” the opossum smiled. 

Amber followed her to a chicken coop on the side of the road, and immediately turned her nose up. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Amber said, coughing at the vile smell. 

“Trapdoor beneath the coop. We aren’t complete angels. We have chocolate and beer smuggled in on occasion.” 

Amber smirked. “You sly marsupial.” 

Her friend winced while she smiled. “Just uh, don’t publish this part, maybe?” 

“Your secret is safe with me,” Amber nodded.

The opossum girl looked around before squeezing Amber’s shoulder. “Good luck Amber!” 

The opossum waved, leaving Amber in the chicken coop. The birds were clucking away as the nimble meerkat got on her belly and wiggled her way beneath the slit between the structure and the ground. The air reeked of chicken excement as her claws dug. Soon, she found the handle of a trapdoor. Amber started to open the door and it made a hideous squeaking noise. 

The meerkat stopped dead as she heard heavy footfalls, two pairs of boots were by the chicken coop.

“You think she’s under the straw?” One voice asked. 

There were heavy footfalls as one of the goons entered the chicken coop, followed by a lot of disgruntled squawking. 

“Nah - not in there,” the second voice affirmed as they rejoined their companion. 

The two pairs of boots stayed in front of the coop, not moving, not speaking. 

“She’s got to be here,” the first voice said.

“Come on out miss reporter,” the second voice called out. “We just want to talk to you!”

Amber stayed where she was, not moving, not even breathing. Did they know she was there? Amber wanted to lift the trapdoor and leap inside. But she knew it would alert the soldiers. 

The boots suddenly turned away and began walking away from the chicken coop - still Amber didn’t dare act, she expected the boots to turn back towards her hiding spot. Amber drew in her breath and finally lifted the trap door. She lowered herself down as the door shut above her and plunged her into darkness. 

The tunnel was quite low - too low for Amber to stand up fully, she crouched instead. The meerkat fumbled with her many pockets and extracted a lighter she had for emergency purposes. 

The small flame showed the tunnel had been reinforced with wooden planks, reminding her of an old mine, except far shallower. Boxes of chocolate bars lay stacked on one side, cases of beer and wine on the other, along with a lantern that Amber quickly lit. More darkness loomed before her. 

“I’m so glad I’m not claustrophobic,” Amber muttered as she started forward along the tunnel. 

Amber lost track of time as she moved through the shaft. Every inch felt like it took an hour to gain - her only guide was the light of the lantern. It reminded Amber of stories she’d read as a meerkitten of the underworld, teeming with strange creatures and departed souls. 

After a long trek, she found a crude ladder leading up. Setting the lantern down, the meerkat climbed and silently prayed the trapdoor wasn’t locked or blocked. She pushed on the door, and it resisted. She pushed some more and it finally gave with a loud *clunk*. 

The journalist scrambled out. After her eyes adjusted to the light, she found herself in what looked to be a boathouse: She could hear the gulls outside and saw small canoes stored within, bobbing on the gentle waves.

The meerkat crept to the door and peeked outside, now she just had to find an old otter with one eye. Thinking quickly she grabbed a poncho and hat and slipped it on before stepping outside. 

Even in the small fishing village, Theolin made his presence known. 

A large mural of the dictator in full uniform regalia glowered from the side of the largest building while his soldiers were patrolling the streets, no doubt looking for a certain meerkat. 

Amber pulled the poncho closer around her as she fell in with a group of locals walking past.

“You really think that journalist killed Dr. Landis?” One of the locals asked.

“Of course! She’s probably not really a journalist but a foreign assassin sent to destabilize our great country!” Another replied.

“Don’t be daft, Theolin is just doing what he always does whenever someone challenges him.” 

“He’s our beloved leader, Quill - watch your tone!”  

Amber kept her head down: It helped that it was raining once again. She tried not to look at a pair of soldiers standing guard near a cantina while also trying not to look like she was avoiding their gaze entirely.

Through the muddy streets she strode. The meerkat stretched and looked over her shoulder. The soldiers from the cantina - a pair of cheetahs - seemed to be following her. Amber kept her pace acting as if she hadn’t noticed the troops.

Quickly, the meerkat parted from the group she had been walking with and ducked into a pub. The pub was thick with smoke as Amber coughed and made her way to a table towards the back. 

She was too slow though as the two cheetah’s burst into the pub. 

“You!” One growled pointing a claw at Amber, his ears flattened. “Who are you?”  

Amber sighed and turned to face them, defeated. To her surprise she found a supportive arm wrapped around her shoulders. 

“Is there a problem with my niece?” An otter with an eyepatch asked. 

“Your niece?” One of the cheetahs questioned. “She doesn’t look like an otter.” 

“She’s not. What, you object to interspecies marriages?” 

The cheetah growled as he stalked closer. He looked from Amber to the otter. 

“Show me your papers.”    

Amber cringed inwardly. 

“Laris, leave the otter alone, everyone knows he’s the old fisherman.” 

The cheetah growled and turned away. “We will be watching you, otter.” When they had finally left, Amber sat with the otter at his table. 

“That was close, what kind of trouble are you in missy?” 

Amber flashed her dazzling smile. “I was actually looking for you.”  

The otter chuckled. “Well, I’m flattered. Seems this is the start of a new adventure for me.” 

“My adventure has been ongoing for some time now,” Amber replied.

The journalist vowed to make it back: This tiny speck of an island was about to become very well-known.