“I knew it,” Nox said. “Black is your favorite.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘favorite.’”
“Oh, it will be. Once you drink enough of it.”
“I suppose I could acquire the taste of my own piss if I drank enough of it.”
“Oh, stop. Come on, don’t you feel the dark roast working its magic? The humans who lived on this continent thousands of years ago used coffee to stay alert when they were hunting.”
Culdesac knew this. Thanks to the translator, he knew almost everything, though he tried to pretend he didn’t so as not to scare the civilians. Regardless, Nox made a good point. He did feel more awake. The hot beverage opened his sinuses, at least. He placed the cup on the ledge, and she refilled it.
“Was this illegal once?” he asked. “Like alcohol?”
“No. But I suspect Milton would have been involved in the black market if it had.”
“You said this would predict what kind of person I am.”
“Sugar means you’re friendly, that you love being around people,” Nox said. “Milk is more for introverts. But it also means you’re a nurturer. You put other people ahead of yourself.”
“And black?’
“Black is for psychopaths.”
Culdesac folded his arms.
“Really,” she said, giggling. “The humans did studies on it.”
“Fine,” he said. “What’s your preference?”
“Black.”
They sat together, like two old friends, and talked about their lives before the war. With the laughter rising from the town square, and the smell of food carried in the breeze, this reprieve almost felt natural. As if this was how things were supposed to be. The Queen could have told him about this cat in the last translator session, but she let him discover Nox on his own. For once, Culdesac did not see the immediate future, and waded through the present like anyone else.
Still, as was his nature, Culdesac treated it like any other battle. This house pet wanted something from him, and he owed it to the Queen to find out. As Nox spoke, revealing truths about herself both large and small, he waited and watched, probing for weaknesses, preparing to strike or flee if the situation called for it. The art of war in a mere conversation. He took note of the time that passed, stealing glances at his soldiers on the street below. He took note of his own condition. The caffeine seemed to be working, giving him a surreal alertness similar to the lucid dream of the translator.
But Nox came prepared as well. When he asked her about any potential weapons depots in the town, her whiskers twitched. “If you’re trying to get some kind of tactical information out of me, you can forget it,” she said. “I never even saw a gun until a few months ago.”
She admitted that she kept her slave name. She didn’t see much point in changing it—not with so many in the town knowing who she was.
“And who were you?” Culdesac asked.
There was a nursing home a few blocks from the church. Some rich family donated the property to the town, which included a mansion, a garden, and a small wooded area that the humans believed was haunted with the ghosts of slaves who escaped from the south. The nursing home housed some of Milton’s most prominent senior citizens alongside the destitute. Here, all the humans were finally equal as they waited for death to pay a visit. As a result, the home experienced all sorts of problems, from a high turnover rate among the staff to fistfights among the residents. There even existed a kind of wheelchair gang, a cabal of elders who ran the place under the noses of the administrators, dictating who could watch television in the common area, who had phone privileges, even who fucked who. Then a new administrator took over—a young woman named Chandra who was raised in Milton, studied at some big university, and then returned to her hometown. People resented her at first, but she took on a job that no one wanted, at a salary no one else would accept.
Chandra proposed a brilliant idea that solved almost all of the home’s problems overnight. The home would serve as both a daycare center and animal shelter. That way, the old people would have something useful to do, rather than bickering over noise levels and bathroom time. Some residents even brought their pets with them when they moved in. Twice a day, the animals were let loose so that both the children and the old people could play with them. The pets jumped about, licking faces, snuggling, sitting in people’s laps. After all that, both the children and the residents were so worn out that they all needed naps.
Nox was one of the favorites, thanks to her bushy tail and thick, fluffy coat. A close second was Maynard, the Chihuahua with paralyzed hind legs. His owner—a man named Paulie who became a resident at the home—constructed a harness with two wheels, allowing Maynard to roll around using his front paws while his dead legs dangled behind him. Nox referred to the dog as her brother, and simply ignored Culdesac when he squinted suspiciously at her.
One day, the humans all disappeared, leaving the animals in their cages. Nox was among the first to change. Her newfound strength allowed her to kick the steel gate open and crawl out. The others transformed over the next twenty-four hours. Maynard ditched his harness for a wheelchair, and quickly developed a reputation for his foul language and pushy behavior. His antics grew tiresome, but he was among the smartest as well, having been exposed to the humans the most.
Culdesac caught himself grinning as Nox described that first day of freedom, walking around the town, seeing it for the first time. Even the mundane stories from the house pets filled him with awe at the Queen’s power.
By the time Nox finished, the taste of the lukewarm coffee went bland—perhaps because the first few sips burned the top layer of his tongue. With the flavor rapidly dispersing, he found himself craving that first kick. He held out his cup for more.
“I was a breeder,” Nox said, topping him off. “My owners rented me out.” It made sense for her to get into the same business, more or less. Other towns had trouble dealing with the army regulars when they passed through on their way to the front. But the brothel at the Royal Inn gave the soldiers an outlet. Before the war, Nox was nobody. Lower than a house slave—a womb to be discarded the moment it failed to produce offspring. Now, the people depended on her. Especially the females whom she watched over, and who had nowhere else to go. Nox employed whores of every species. She called them her ladies. Some of them came from the nursing home cages, while the rest filtered in from the streets, and from the wilderness beyond.
“If the humans come for the Royal Inn,” she said, “they’ll have to kill me for it.”
Nox may have wanted something from Culdesac. She may have been trying to manipulate him somehow. But he admired her defiance, the bitterness that chilled her voice. She pulled herself from the darkness, like he had. She deserved to know the truth.
“We’ve been ordered to evacuate the town,” he said.
“Evacuate? Why? I thought we were winning.”
He tried to explain that holding a town like this offered little reward, and grave risks. There were too many weak points in a town designed for human comforts and little else.
“We sealed up the sewers,” Nox said proudly. “We chased the humans away. We know what we’re doing.”
“There’s a larger strategy to consider here,” Culdesasc said. “The Queen sees things that we can’t.”
“She can predict the future?”
“No. That’s impossible. But she’s been right every time so far.”
“What happens if I say no?”
“You can say no all you want. We’ll drag you. Or gag you. Or shoot you, if you leave us no choice.”
“My ladies and I are not leaving.”
“Do you want your ladies to die?”
“You don’t understand.”
She promised the people of Milton that the town was theirs. The new leaders even formed a council, consisting of Nox, Maynard, a Labrador named Jac
k, and the matriarch of a rat clan named Isabel. They planned to engrave a declaration of sovereignty at the base of the war memorial.
“That will have to wait,” Culdesac said.
“Wait? You know what the humans are doing. They’re burning their cities as they retreat.”
“The Queen may have a surprise for them,” he said. “And besides: Is it worth your life?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. He meant it.
Culdesac stood up. He chugged the rest of the coffee and flattened his palms on the railing and gazed at the town square. Feeling the prickly sense of being watched, Culdesac lifted the rifle and peered into the scope.
“The town council is not going to roll over,” Nox said.
“The town council,” he sneered. Culdesac scanned the crowd gathered at the fountain. A wisp of smoke corkscrewed upward from the barbecue pit.
“Are you listening?” Nox asked.
Culdesac centered the crosshairs on a cat with a tuxedo coat, holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. The lenses glinted in the light. It was Tiberius, the nosy doctor. Upon being spotted, the cat lowered his binoculars. Culdesac thought about squeezing off a round, maybe zipping it over the cat’s ears.
This had gone far enough. His own soldiers laughed while Culdesac wasted time with this brothel keeper. The cats must have sent her so they could place bets on whether he would procure her services right there in the steeple.
“Go to the orange cat,” he said, setting the rifle on the railing. “The choker with the stubby fingers. Tell him to send the next guard to the tower.”
She gaped at this non sequitur. “What about the town?”
“We’re leaving. The decision is final.”
“Fine, leave. We’ll fend for ourselves.”
“We can’t let the humans capture any prisoners. They know too much as it is.”
“We can hide.”
“I don’t care.”
“I heard that this war was about freedom,” she said, puffing out her chest. “I heard that we didn’t have to take orders anymore. That we could live for ourselves.”
“When the war’s over,” he said, throwing her fantasy in her face. If he had his way, the war would never end, not in his lifetime. Peace would only grind him down, turn him into a rusty hulk of his former self. The war kept him sharp. It made him useful and gave him a purpose. Whatever peace was, it would have to fall to some other generation, a people who never saw their brothers torn to pieces, the scraps piled in a heap.
Squinting, Nox set the thermos on the floor. “Enjoy the rest, Captain.” He knew she had more to say, but she did him the courtesy of leaving with no complaint. He took in a deep breath to catch the last hints of her scent. Once again, the oppressive coffee overpowered him. With nothing to do but wait to be relieved, he realized that he needed a little more of the coffee. It wasn’t so bad. And he already felt more alert than he had in days.
Culdesac waited in the sheriff’s office. He tried to sit. Grew too fidgety, needed to stand. He tapped his foot. Tap-tap-tap. Where is that choker, he wondered. His heart shuddered rather than pumped, like an old generator. His breathing quickened. Tried to inhale through his nose. The sound grew too loud. Like waves crashing and never receding. He could not get enough oxygen to match his heart.
The door clicked open. Mort(e) entered.
“What took you so long?” Culdesac said.
“Sorry, sir,” the cat said, saluting. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“We’re leaving,” Culdesac said. His tail danced behind him, seemingly of its own accord.
“Leaving?”
“Tomorrow. Queen’s orders. Get everyone ready.” Culdesac told him to clean out the morgue. To round up the civilians. They would go to the Pharaohs first—the mountains had a cave system. Smash anyone in the face who said no. He slapped his hand on the desk when he said it. The sound made Mort(e) jump. Start at the whorehouse, Culdesac said. Right now—before Nox could tell her employees. No negotiating. No debates. The people will leave with what they could carry. No more.
“Are you all right, sir?” Mort(e) asked.
I’m fine, Culdesac thought. Of course I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you? Can’t you take my orders and salute? Just do that. Just say yes. And then Culdesac realized that he said those words along with thinking them. The connection between his brain and his mouth had short-circuited somehow.
“I’ll get started,” Mort(e) said.
“Yes, get started.” Culdesac tried to say it slowly, to make sure he didn’t jump the gun, but the words toppled out end over end.
Mort(e) left. Culdesac could hear him shouting orders outside. His heart wobbled in his chest, sending waves of blood to his limbs, into his stomach, into his brain. That whoremonger must have put something in his drink. Who did she think she was? Just showing up like that. He could have killed her. Right there. A beautiful cat, dead. They wouldn’t even clean it up either—just leave it for the town council to find. The town council. What kind of town council has a mistress and a cripple and a rat? What do they even do? I don’t know. They think they can say no to the Queen? Do they know there’s a war going on? We’re in a war here. These civilians don’t even understand. No wonder. Most of them were pets. They have no idea what it’s like. They never needed to forage or hunt. They stood near a bowl and whined. Or they stuck out a paw, or obeyed some cheap command. What did they know?
His mind still spinning, Culdesac imagined a shouting match with Nox in which he asked her, over and over, if she ever saw someone get butchered by humans. Skinned and shredded and left in the mud for the flies and the vermin. You think you’re so smart, he caught himself saying again and again, each time with an inflection on a different word.
He needed to burn this energy somehow. Like a housecat, he hooked his claws onto the side of the sheriff’s desk and scratched it furiously, until he could feel his shoulder blades straining, until he could smell the exposed wood. A pile of shavings gathered at the corner of the desk, and still he kept going. His mind emptied. The noises outside dissolved, drowned out by the incessant scratching.
And then, it stopped. He simply did not need to do it anymore. The room stayed in place. The buzzing in his head died out. He suddenly felt very sleepy, which annoyed him given how much work needed to be done. His next thought annoyed him even more: if only he could have another cup of that horrible coffee, he’d feel awake again.
Chapter Five
Bird of Prey
The preparations carried on into the evening, well ahead of schedule. The Red Sphinx went door-to-door to warn of the looming evacuation. The people of Milton would have to take what they could carry and meet by the statue at first light the next day. Meanwhile, Mort(e) assembled a team to sweep the houses outside the perimeter, to find any squatters who recently latched on to the settlement. So far, they discovered a family of squirrels and two old dogs, brother and sister, who fled from a farmhouse several miles away. From the sheriff’s office, Culdesac could hear some of the civilians arguing, demanding that they be given more time. Rumors spread quickly about the humans marching on the town, most likely to burn it. Or infect it with EMSAH, in which case the Colony would have to burn it anyway. Maybe one day, far in the future, they could continue building their settlement. But not yet. It was too soon to celebrate victory over the humans. They would join all the other refugees, herded into safe zones or conscripted into the army.
Tiberius needed two volunteers to help him clean the morgue. It was vital to the war effort that the humans not find out about his experiments. If the enemy discovered that the animals were actively searching for a cure for EMSAH, they could refashion the virus into a new strain, forcing the animals to start all over again. Tiberius initially recruited Riker to help with scrubbing the floors, burning the bioha
zard materials, and burying the human bones. When Culdesac passed by the facility, he saw Riker vomiting into a row of overgrown bushes. Tiberius finished the rest by himself, leaving the morgue spotless and stinking of bleach.
The situation at the Royal Inn required some diplomacy. Mort(e) interpreted Culdesac’s orders as a license to storm the place with three soldiers, waving guns around and telling the patrons that the party was over. When Culdesac heard the commotion all the way in the town square, he rushed to the scene. The saloon section of the Royal Inn had once been an Irish pub, with its front doors and window awnings painted Kelly green, and a faded four-leaf clover on the wall. Located inside the perimeter, only a block from the church, the bar probably served as a nuisance to the human clerics on their holy days. Inside, Mort(e) and his subordinates stood in a row, rifles in hand. With the curtains drawn, oil lamps provided an eerie light in the room. Nox stood behind the bar, holding a double-barreled shotgun. Behind her, a greasy mirror hung from the wall, with a row of ancient liquor bottles lining the counter in front of it.
Patrons of various species stared at the unwelcome guests. Someone had overturned a table. A dog sat on a barstool, his tail to the action, still nursing a glass of bourbon. Next to him, one of the prostitutes stood with her arms draped around the shoulders of an old cat with a gray muzzle. The female wore a fedora—she probably snatched it playfully from the cat’s head and wore it while she flirted with him.
Above the bar, several of Nox’s ladies rested their elbows on the railing of the balcony to get a view of the show. Each wore oil in her fur to make it shinier, thicker. A female French poodle twisted a gold ring on her middle finger. Two of the cats wore jangling necklaces and bracelets. Of all the smells in the place—wood, booze, cigar smoke—the scent of felines in heat cut through and found its way to Culdesac’s nose, taking him back to his days in the wild.
Culdesac Page 5
