“Those bastards took Lefty.” The scruffy voice barely penetrated the cardboard barrier. “They gnawed right through the tape and jerked him out by his good arm.” A cough interrupted the speech. “I tried to save him, but my joints aren’t what they used to be.”
The years hadn’t been kind to Tank. Dry rot had set in causing the rubber to crack. With each movement he felt like a leper playing loose limb roulette. He wasn’t smart, if he were, he would have known leprosy didn’t cause limbs to fall off. But what do you expect out of a plastic doll.
This was the latest wave of attacks on the wily veterans. They weren’t rookies. This wasn’t their first war. Lefty, an astronaut, who lost his right arm in a previous battle with a destructive twelve-year-old boy, was taken prisoner by the squirrels. The furry killers invaded the attic every fall, pillaging through boxes like pirates taking a ship hostage, in hopes of looting enough stuff to make it through the harsh winter.
“Lefty was a good soldier.” The voice bounced off the splintered wooden floor. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Tank. We all have to die. They probably took him for his clothes. His suit will make for good nesting material.”