Socks liked to kid around, even when those around him were in no mood for it.
“Those dogs we found last month,” Tiberius said. “They had lesions in their brains. I wanted to see if this human had the same thing. He doesn’t. Another waste of time.”
The cat folded his arms and leaned against the counter. For months, Tiberius tried to track the causes of the EMSAH Syndrome. When they came across a pack of infected dogs, their bodies huddled under a tree, he begged Culdesac for the chance to examine them. Culdesac gave him free reign. The soldiers found the task of collecting and tagging the bodies a morbid chore, even after months of fighting. They chafed at taking orders from Tiberius, the medic who had once been a pet. But Tiberius performed his task well, and his logbooks and reports became invaluable in the war effort. Officers in the regular army, who typically resented the perks that the Red Sphinx enjoyed, nevertheless requested to meet with Tiberius, to hear his stories from the front. EMSAH was everyone’s concern, and the medic was often the first person to encounter and study the disease in the field. Culdesac considered telling him to give it a rest—after all, the Colony was handling all of this, and Tiberius tended to make those around him anxious. But the neverending search kept Tiberius busy and focused. Fighting him on this issue wasn’t worth the trouble.
“It’s not a waste of time,” Culdesac said. “Every person you examine shows us something.”
“I hope we’re still around to figure out what that something is.”
Culdesac thought for a moment how the cat would react if he told him the truth: there was no cure for EMSAH. There never would be. It was hopeless. Even the Queen knew this, deep in her heart. Perhaps Culdesac would derive some kind of twisted pleasure from revealing this truth to Tiberius. For now, he would keep it to himself, for the good of everyone.
“Are you still speaking to the envoy today?” Tiberius asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you think they’ll have us stay here?”
All the soldiers in the Red Sphinx were exhausted. Mort(e) had already cautioned Culdesac about pushing them too hard. And now Tiberius joined the chorus, begging for a few days leave, with the humans on the run and the area secure.
“It depends on the humans,” Culdesac said. “They tried to take this town for a reason. And now they’re regrouping on the other side of the mountains.”
“Wouldn’t they be better off going south?” Tiberius was referring to the bay, where a human warship could cover the enemy supply line by taking potshots from over a mile out to sea. If the humans lost that, then these tiny towns would not matter. Their forces would wither and die in this terrain.
“They would be better off surrendering,” Culdesac said. “Or driving away in their boats and sitting in the middle of the Atlantic until they starve to death.”
“Maybe they’re trying to spread EMSAH around as much as they can before they retreat,” Tiberius said.
“That makes sense.”
No matter what the humans did, they would leave a trail of misery and death in their wake. Just like before the war. As far as Culdesac could tell, little had changed.
“Well, here’s one less human you’ll have to worry about,” Tiberius said. “Who’s on chow duty this week?”
“Logan.”
“Oh, he’ll screw it up. Get the Texan to cook him. She can turn a pile of dirt into a banquet if she had to.” When Tiberius realized he spoke inappropriately, he cleared his throat. “I mean, please. Sir. I’m only looking out for the well-being of the unit.”
Culdesac smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll cook him up right.”
Outside, someone shouted. Soldiers ran along the side of the building. Something was happening.
“I’ll find the Texan later,” Tiberius said.
Culdesac headed for the double doors that led to an alley. There, the voices and footsteps echoed against the concrete and mortar. Culdesac followed them to Booth Street. To his right, soldiers ran through the town square. Mort(e) stood at the base of the statue, directing the cats to fan out along Main and to take cover behind the parked vehicles. Everyone focused on the church, where a stained glass window reflected the glare of the rising sun. Civilians stuck their heads out of windows and stood on rooftops, hoping to catch a glimpse of the action. Culdesac noticed three cats on the ledge of an office building, their pointy ears silhouetted against the brightening clouds.
In the town square, Mort(e) sent Striker and Hennessey on a flanking maneuver. Dread and Rookie would stake out a position in the rear of the church.
“What’s happening?” Culdesac asked.
“Someone broke into the church,” Mort(e) said. “Not a human. But we told the civilians to stay in the perimeter.”
Culdesac checked his sidearm. “Let’s go.”
His gun drawn, Culdesac led nine soldiers up the street. Ice water pumped through his veins, angering him, quickening his movements. At the top of the hill, more of his cats waited, their rifles propped on the hoods of abandoned cars. In front of the church, a black sign with white letters spelled out the name st. michael’s episcopal, with service times listed underneath. The building was crafted from stone, with a foundational slab listing the date 1852. A set of steps rose to meet a pair of doors, painted crimson with a giant brass knob. Above, at the base of the steeple, an octagonal piece of stained glass depicted a dove flying through a ring of laurels.
“How many entrances?” Culdesac asked.
“Three.”
Mort(e) looked at Gai Den, a gray cat wielding a rifle with a bayonet duct-taped to the barrel. When Mort(e) twirled his fingers, Gai Den nodded and raised his hand—a signal to Dread and Striker to enter the building at the side and rear doors.
Culdesac gripped the brass knob and pulled the door open. Mort(e) filled the void, sweeping his pistol from left to right to clear the lobby. Culdesac followed, taking in the musty odor of the carpet. Light streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting rainbow-colored rectangles onto the hickory pews. At the other end of the room sat an altar with a white cloth hanging halfway off of it. Above, the chandeliers dangled from chains connected to wooden rafters. One of them wobbled a bit, revealing how a mere influx of guests could shake the foundation of this old building.
Culdesac slid behind the first row of pews, still aiming ahead. Mort(e) stood next to him. At the front of the room, Striker and Hennessey entered through the side door, taking cover behind the stone pulpit. In the corner behind the altar, another door was built into the wall, with only the knob and the thin seams visible.
On the other side, someone shouted.
Gun raised, Culdesac sprinted up the aisle. Mort(e) and the others padded closely behind. By the time he reached the altar, Striker turned the knob and swung the door open. When Culdesac stepped inside, a powerful stench slapped him the face, making him blink. The room was some kind of storage area, with a desk in the corner that the minister used to stash his vestments, candles, oils, and other sacred objects. Nearby, stacks of wooden crates reached to the ceiling. Dread aimed his rifle in between two of the columns. This cat was one of Culdesac’s favorites. Months earlier, a sharp chunk of shrapnel cut into Dread’s shoulder, leaving a rough scar that could no longer grow fur. To conceal the injury, he got a tattoo of an ant’s head, the antennae sticking out, the jaws open. Culdesac got the sense that Dread wanted another wound so he could add more body art.
“I see you,” Dread said. “Come on out.”
A pair of furry ears poked over one of the crates.
“These crates are mine,” a voice said. Definitely a female, though Culdesac could barely smell with the horrible stench covering over everything.
“This town is under the occupation of the Red Sphinx,” Culdesac said. “The crates belong to us.”
“Are you going to kill me for them?” the female asked.
“Pro
bably. But if you surrender, we can at least talk about it before we shoot you.”
A pause. Culdesac’s joke did not go over well.
“Okay, we won’t shoot you,” he said. “But we’re going to secure the area one way or the other.”
The cat shuffled out from her hiding spot. She rose on her hind legs to a height taller than the others, almost as tall as Culdesac. Her irises had a golden tinge. Brown, gray, and black stripes cut across her thick coat. Shaggy hair hung from her cheekbones, and a tuft of fur formed a little patch under her chin. Her bushy tail slid out from behind the crate like a python. Culdesac recognized the breed: a Maine coon cat, no doubt raised by wealthy humans to appear feral while at the same time being affectionate, loyal, docile. Like a goddamn dog, almost.
“I know this one, sir,” Dread said. “She runs the hotel.”
“The Royal Inn,” she corrected.
“It’s not really a hotel, sir,” Dread added, slightly embarrassed.
Culdesac knew the place. A stone’s throw away. Some of the soldiers drank there while Culdesac tracked the human in the woods. They even solicited some company for the evening, a transaction no doubt arranged by this cat. Perhaps she had been the owner’s pet, reclining on the concierge desk while people waited to check in. She was one of many animals who carved out a comfortable life from the war.
“Who’s with you?” Culdesac asked.
“No one,” she said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you. These crates are mine.”
She wore a yellow band on her wrist, indicating that she tested negative for EMSAH. With all the itchy trigger fingers in the room, the band probably saved her life.
Culdesac motioned for someone to open one of the boxes. Striker used his field knife to pry open the top. The smell grew thicker. The Maine coon cat reached her hand inside.
“Back away from it!” Culdesac said. Startled, the cat stepped away.
A layer of dry straw lined the interior of the crates. Striker’s hand disappeared up to his forearm as he sifted through it. He pulled a burlap sack from the box, sniffed it, and then grimaced, trying to hold in a sneeze. Culdesac walked over and took it. Spinning the bag around, he saw a logo for Darby Coffee, Ltd. The name appeared stenciled into a circular map of the world.
“Check the others,” he said. “Dread, keep an eye on her.”
The Maine coon didn’t like it, but since she was still alive, she should be grateful.
“Nothing, sir,” Striker said.
“Nothing over here,” Hennessey said.
Culdesac dropped the bag into its crate. The Maine coon cat watched him.
“I’m Nox,” she said.
“What did you expect to do with all of this?”
“Sell it.”
“To whom? Only the humans drink this dirt.”
“I beg to differ. Our people love this stuff.”
Nox explained that the humans attacked soon after the animals in Milton changed. They packed supplies in the church, the most solid structure in the neighborhood. A three-day siege forced the survivors to make a run for it, and leave their rations behind. As one of the leaders of the siege, Nox claimed the spoils. The animals in town had no interest in the smelly brown beans—until she brewed them on her own. And then they couldn’t get enough.
“Did the humans attack this town so they could get the coffee?” Culdesac asked.
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” she said. “Some of them are so addicted to it they can’t even wake up without it. I’ll bet they wanted to take it to their boat. If that ship in the bay has run out coffee, the humans on board are done for.”
It made for a funny image in his mind: drowsy humans accidentally steering their mighty warship into a lighthouse.
“So, you were going to turn your brothel into a café?” he asked. The other cats laughed.
“It’ll be both,” she said. “When the war’s over.”
When the war’s over. So many of these civilians thought that the war was already over simply because their masters were gone, and their worlds expanded beyond their houses or their yards or their farmlands. But there were years of bloodshed to come. No one would be the same when it was over.
“Take her to the perimeter,” Culdesac said. “Don’t let anyone else out.”
Everyone in the room relaxed. Culdesac holstered his gun. Mort(e) took it from there, ordering the cats to file out and return to their base of operations. Dread gripped Nox’s arm to pull her along. The Maine coon snapped her elbow out of his hands.
“I have to stay here,” she said.
“We’re not taking your coffee,” Culdesac said.
“They will,” she said. “The humans. They’re coming back, aren’t they?”
Culdesac felt several pairs of eyes turn to him.
“I hope so,” he said, grinning.
Nox did not smile back.
As the tension eased, the cats filed out through the rear exit. The smell of the coffee followed them outside, billowing through the doorway and pooling in the small courtyard. Surrounded by soldiers, Nox looked at him, her tail standing straight up like a squirrel’s.
“Come talk to my soldiers if you need to go outside the perimeter,” Culdesac said.
“Thank you.”
“Culdesac,” he said.
“Culdesac.”
“Captain Culdesac,” Mort(e) chimed in.
“I’ll bring you some coffee, Captain,” she said.
He had allowed this minor flirtation to drag on long enough. “Don’t bother. Just stay in the perimeter so you don’t get shot.”
Dread snorted, as if to say, Real smooth, Cap.
Nox bowed her head, then followed Dread and Hennessey as they escorted her to the town square. Her tail swished with each step. While Mort(e) said something about keeping the civilians inside the perimeter, Culdesac waited for her to look back at him. But she never did.
Chapter Three
The Envoy
The envoy arrived later that afternoon, right on schedule. A steady rain moved in, pattering on the grass, dirt, and asphalt like thousands of kittens’ paws. Culdesac met the Alpha outside the perimeter, on a small concrete bridge wide enough for a single car to pass. He went alone. The ants seemed to prefer it that way. Culdesac certainly did. The translator that he used to communicate with the ants often left him disoriented. It would take him years to master it. Until then, he did not need his subordinates to see him like that.
The Alpha lumbered down the street, straddling the faded yellow highway stripes. Crawling on all six legs, she was about the size of an average human automobile—if it included a massive head with a jaw like a garbage compactor on the front. The antennae alternated, one flipping up while the other dropped down. Smaller ants swarmed about her skin, forming a symbiotic relationship that kept the Alpha connected to the Colony. For all her weight, her claws padded the concrete without a sound, even stealthier than a cat.
Culdesac readied the translator. The ants made the device out of some unnamable biomaterial that only they could master. In his hands, it resembled the headgear that a radio operator would wear. He fit the earpiece into place, and positioned the speaker in front of his mouth. He extended the antenna as far as it could go.
The Alpha rose up on her hind legs, like a walking tree. She paused there, every limb and joint remaining perfectly still. Her smaller sisters continued flowing over her body, undeterred by the cold rain. Soon, all the ants traveled clockwise around the Alpha’s skin, like a contained cyclone.
They were ready to speak to Culdesac.
The Alpha lowered her head. Her antenna dangled over the translator, the two appendages shaking as they reached for each other. To stay focused—to stay sane, really—Culdesac thought of the hunt. Oh, Culdesac missed the hunt. He trie
d to conjure the forest floor moving underneath his body, the warm smells of mud, urine, and fur. The sounds of chirping and buzzing and wind rustling the leaves.
Before his mind wandered too deep, back to the dark day when he found his brother’s mangled corpse, Culdesac lifted his head. The antennae touched, sending a spark into the earpiece that made him open his mouth in a silent scream of madness and ecstasy.
Culdesac opened his eyes to a wall of gray fur. An old memory. He was getting better at recognizing that, at distinguishing the real world from the jumbled images of the translator.
He remembered the cat in front of him—a female whose mate strayed into the territory that Culdesac and his brother had claimed. Earlier that day, Murmur and Culdesac cornered the male near the entrance to a cave. The intruder’s ragged coat and bony limbs gave him away as one of the desperate ones, someone driven from the hills in search of new hunting grounds. He needed to die. Murmur did most of the work, breaking the cat’s scrawny neck with his jaws. When the female came looking for him, Murmur claimed her. She pawed him away at first. But she must have smelled her lover on him, and realized that things had changed. So Murmur took her. Culdesac watched from the bushes. He growled at Murmur, the way his mother did. Murmur grunted at him, telling him to keep quiet, his body contorting over the prone female. When he was finished, Murmur left the bobcat and continued to pick at the bones of her mate. When the female spotted Culdesac in the shrubs, she stared at him with dead eyes, like two raindrops on a leaf. She waited there as he found the courage to creep toward her, to mount her, to dig his claws into her protruding ribs while he did it. Though burned in his memory, the moment lasted mere seconds. He collapsed onto her after finishing, and sunk his teeth into her ear. When he bit too hard, she spun around, dislodging him from inside her. She slashed him hard on his flank, leaving three hot lines, each oozing blood. He lay on his belly, exhausted and content even with his wounds. The female wandered off. The last thing he saw was her tail slinking along a boulder before disappearing.
An unnatural darkness passed over the forest, like a shade drawn over a window. Though still out of breath and covered in the bobcat’s scent, Culdesac remembered where he was. He recalled who he was, a warrior in the Queen’s army, using a device that few other animals could master. This memory replaying in his mind was merely the first level. The Queen pulled him deeper, past this membrane and into her inner chamber, where everything that anyone had ever known would be revealed.
Culdesac Page 3
