He curled up on the daybed and waited. This was the worst part. He didn't know when the punks would show up, and he didn't know when his own part would begin. He didn't even know how long it would take. Always before, he went to sleep cat and woke up…other. For as many adventures as he'd had as "other," he'd never once anticipated the change or wished for it to happen. He was cat. Cats could always sleep. He closed his eyes and willed himself…
A shriek from the backyard popped his eyes right back open. It was blood-curdling. The sound of many shouting voices rose up and merged into a chant accompanied by a drum beating out a steady rhythm. Someone pounded on the front door just as the back door shuddered as if kicked. A window broke.
And he was still just cat.
He could hear Holly shouting at someone to go away.
He dug claws into the bed cover and closed his eyes tight, desperate for the change to come. Now. Now. Now!
Another window broke and a cat yowled.
Maybe it was too early. It must be. They were too early. All his plans were for nothing. But he was still formidable…the fight in the alley had not been a fluke. But so many voices! Shrieking and chanting. How many?
He had to! Had to now. Now. Now!
Dizziness swept over him and for a moment, it felt as if the bed beneath him had turned to a sludgy liquid. It swelled beneath him and then suddenly shrank, until it was much smaller than it had been before. The whole room had shrunk.
No, he had grown. He lay on the bed, hands fisted into the covers, naked body shivering with the effort.
Another crash and Holly's cry drove him to move, to ignore the sickness rocking his body. He reached under the bed and snatched the pants, sliding them quickly over his legs. Damned, stupid, human bodies.
But already strength was flowing back into him. The body was vulnerable, but it was strong. So strong. He was only about five feet tall, and thin as a whip, but he could move.
He stuffed the knives and lighter into a pocket, ignoring the small cut he gave himself, and tucked the can of hairspray under one arm. The bag of marbles felt much smaller than it had before as he shoved it into the other pocket.
Holly was cornered in the kitchen, holding a frying pan at the ready. Lemon Drop was a black, unmoving blob on the floor, but one of the punks in the hallway was on the floor, wailing, his hands and face covered in blood. The other four cats were nowhere to be seen.
Two men and a woman were menacing Holly. The fourth person was incapacitated on the hallway floor. More voices were still chanting in the backyard.
Mac set the hairspray on a small table in the hall and pulled the knives out of his pocket. He had a natural affinity for knives and just the feel of them made his thin lips peel back in a feral grin.
The first, he sent flying toward the woman that was closest to Holly. It sank deep into her back between spine and right shoulder blade. She screamed and whirled and spun again as she tried uselessly to reach the blade and pull it out.
The two men turned and stared in mute shock at Mac standing there wearing nothing but a pair of old-lady pants and grinning maniacally, a knife held with loose confidence in each hand. He twirled them and began a slow stalk toward them.
Still surprised and confused, they backed away from him, toward Holly. Without hesitation, she whacked the nearest one on the head with her heavy pan. He swore and spun, fist swinging.
Mac dove into the kitchen with inhuman speed, catching the swinging arm with one blade, slicing through shirt and flesh as he yanked it away from Holly's cringing body. His other hand lashed out toward the belly of the second man, but that one danced back with the nimbleness of an experienced fighter, fully over his surprise.
Mac spun to place himself between Holly and the invaders, hissing and snarling at them like the demon they had pretended to summon. He moved so fast with his knives that every attempt to touch him left a bloody streak in its wake. With the reflexes of a cat, he anticipated and turned every blow. The sobbing woman backed out of the kitchen, still trying to reach the knife in her back, and vanished into the hallway toward the back door.
"Get out! Get out! Get out!" Holly screamed at them all.
Stepping forward, Mac forced the men to retreat into the hall and turned them toward the back door where the others had fled. They were losing the will to fight. They hadn't expected to face an armed and skilled warrior. Once he got them all out of Holly's house, he would follow them…
Something slammed into him from behind, strong arms wrapped around him and carried him to the floor with a bone-crushing thud. The knives went skittering across the floor. Mac threw his head back and connected with a painful but satisfying crunch. The arms loosened but did not let go. Mac spun in the grip until he faced the man. It was Older Man, the real leader of the punks. His nose and lip dripped blood onto Mac's face.
Mac sneered in derision and made a move that no human fighter would ever anticipate. Practically folding himself in half, Mac brought his legs up and set his bare feet against Older Man's gut. Sharp, talon-like nails raked flesh beneath his shirt until they got hung up on his belt, then Mac heaved with all his strength, throwing the man off. While the man stared down at his bleeding belly in confusion, Mac scrambled to his feet. The good ol' bunny kick hadn't been debilitating, but it had done its job.
Older Man surprised him by getting over his confusion faster than Mac expected. He had Mac's knives now, and Mac had nothing. The man lunged and slashed. Mac dodged and darted around him in the narrow confines of the hall.
"What the hell are you?" the man asked through a broken nose and bloody lip.
"Your nightmare," Mac answered, his voice a low, smooth rumble somewhere between growl and purr. He scooped up the can of hairspray from the table.
The man took a reflexive step backward, toward the back door. Mac feinted with a mock lunge and the man stuttered back two more steps, still brandishing the knives.
Close enough, Mac decided, wishing he were just a little bit closer to the open door. He lifted the can of hairspray and sprayed him with it. Older Man flinched and flung one arm up to cover his face, but Mac wasn't aiming for the eyes, just his clothes. It only took a second. Less than a second. It was enough. Mac grabbed the lighter from his pocket and flicked it under the stream of spray coming from the can. Flame whooshed out toward the man. Mac stepped closer as the man scrambled backward, but the man was too slow. His shirt caught and the flame spread fast. With a screech, the man dove out of the door and onto the cobbled patio of Holly's backyard where he rolled in agony until a few of his stupefied followers finally thought to help him strip off the flaming shirt and slap out the bits that had caught in his hair. He'd survive.
Mac stood in the doorway and watched with cold blue eyes. "Get out," he said, echoing Holly's shrill plea with quiet, menacing command. "If you so much as look at Ms. Holly or this house again, I will hunt you down. Each and every one of you." His eyes darted across every face, seven men and three women, most not yet out of adolescence. "And I will teach you what the mouse feels like when the cat no longer wants to play."
A handful of marbles rattled idly in his hand as he contemplated who to aim at first. The glass beads would make excellent projectiles.
Older Man scrambled to his feet, clutching his burned arm and glaring at Mac. "I'll kill you!" He shouted.
"You won't," Mac answered. "You will never see me again. And if you do, you'll wish to your gods that you hadn't."
If Mac's words hadn't convinced them to run, a siren wail in the distance did. He was almost disappointed that he didn't get to use any of the marbles.
Lemon Drop had two broken ribs, but she had saved her mama from the first thug that had entered the house. The vet expected a full recovery, so long as Holly could manage to keep her from jumping up onto the fridge. The other cats had come out of hiding only after the police and ambulance had left. They'd wanted to take Holly into the hospital for evaluation, but Holly insisted she was fine and she didn't want to leav
e her frightened kitties.
Mac avoided them all by hiding under the daybed in the back room. It was a tight fit with his human shape, but the cat in him didn't mind that a bit. For twenty-four hours, he stayed under there, having closed the door so none of the other cats could come and find him. When the fullest phase of the moon had finally passed, he woke up as cat once more.
Later, when Holly opened the door to his scratching pleas, she didn't look surprised. Instead, she watched him with wary fascination. "It was you, wasn't it?"
He blinked at her.
"Yeah, I thought so. The eyes of that boy were not human, but as blue as yours. And the face was not quite right. Close, but not quite. I don't suppose you will tell me. Or can tell me?"
He blinked again and she sighed. "Well. Thank you, Mr. MacFluffypants. You're welcome to stay for as long as you like, but I expect a creature like you will be moving on."
He jumped lightly onto her lap—as lightly as a twenty-five-pound cat can manage—and nudged the brush on the table with his nose. She chuckled and began to brush.
He needed to move on, as she said. Eventually he'd go back to where it all began and find out what had happened to him, what he had become.
But for now, she needed him. Moving on could wait…for a little while.
As a mother of three grown kids and the wife of a 28-year Air Force veteran, Judy Clothier feels like she’s lived through a lot of stories. Now is the time to write her own!
Find out more at authorjudyclothier.com.
22
The Bundle
by William Van Winkle
How much pressure can a man take before his suburban life cracks? Adopting one increasingly unusual kitten may be all it takes to find out.
August 16
I had one minute of warning when my wife pushed Tommy's stroller into the driveway. She looked up at my window, smiling, and I saw that she carried a dark bundle in one arm. In retrospect, I should have used that minute better, but I was on a call.
Our roly-poly white Labrador, Sam, red tongue melting from his mouth in the late summer heat, sniffed obsessively up and down Kris's front, drawn to the thing she carried. His tail waved with strange enthusiasm. Kris hip-checked the dog, nudging him away. From my vantage overlooking the driveway, I couldn't make out what she said, but her impatient body language didn’t deter Sam’s interest.
"I would've appreciated knowing you would be unavailable this afternoon," my client said with that slow, condescending tone that made my blood freeze.
I'm a freelancer, which means I work fifty percent more hours than a staff writer with none of the benefits or any illusion of job security. It also means I can be replaced by any of the next few thousand writers waiting behind me, and that would be disastrous. As it is, we had to give up our health insurance six months ago when it hit $1,700 a month, officially eclipsing our mortgage. I have no idea how we’ll survive any serious hospital bills.
That’s why John can act like my boss, because he knows he has me by the balls. Especially today.
"Sorry, John. I should've told you about the appointment."
Kris and gang disappeared from view, followed by the ratcheting grind of the garage door. I felt it vibrate through my feet and chair. Once upon a time, this Lifeform high back cost me $1,200. Turns out, according to my chiropractor, sitting ten to twelve hours a day will still wreck your spine. Who knew?
"I mean, I'm rooting for you. I know you two have been trying."
"Thanks. I appreciate th—"
"But now I have to reschedule the SME call. Again. Anil needs this draft for the presentation on the nineteenth. We agreed it had to be a rush."
I didn't agree to anything. The client sat on the first draft for five months, then all of a sudden, it's a mad priority, right after Kris and I find out we're pregnant again and she finally lands an open time slot with the OB-GYN.
I said nothing. I was so pissed, I could barely breathe, and I didn’t trust myself to breathe, because I knew it would come out as an impatient, exhausted sigh. He’d hear it. And next time there was a paper to write, he’d probably hand it to someone who didn’t sigh and wouldn’t miss edit deadlines because of ultrasound appointments. Whining is a crap strategy for success when you have fat bills and a baby on the way.
So, I folded. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.
“You’re right,” I said. “I need to make this work for you and Anil. It’s only a routine appointment. Kris can handle it. You’ll have the edit this afternoon, no problem.”
After a few pointless niceties, we hung up. I dropped my headset onto my keyboard and pressed cold fingertips against my eyelids.
I took a deep breath. Then another. I couldn’t afford to shut down and tune out. Must manage and prioritize. When you’re going through hell, Churchill once said, keep going.
I would not end up like my dad: repetitively bankrupt, perpetually absent, and always one deal away from a breakthrough that never arrived. That would not be my family. We needed insurance, but we needed to be here together in a stable home even more. No matter what.
“Honey!”
I heard and felt the inside garage door close, followed by the tinkling of Sam’s dog tags and the rhythmic tromping of his legs up the stairs. He bounded into my office and thrust a snout under my arm, throwing my elbow off the armrest. Despite myself, I smiled and did a 180 in my chair, bending over to scratch his fluffy neck.
“Look at that tongue,” I told him. “You don’t need a leash. Just let someone grab that thing and lead you around.”
Sam’s tail wagging redoubled.
“Honey, we need to talk!” Kris called. Her much slower footsteps started up the stairway.
“Sounds ominous!” I called back.
Sam abandoned me to wait for her at the top of the stairs. Tommy called out “hold on!” from the kitchen, and I heard him patter in pursuit after Kris. He was at a clingy stage now. The good side of that was that we could leave him unsupervised for up to sixty seconds without fear of electrocution or ingesting dog toys. The bad side was that no one could go to the bathroom alone. Ever.
I waited. All three of them rounded the corner into my office together, Kris in the middle with a smile on her face, flanked by the two boys, each of them eyeballing the object still cradled in her arm.
At this range, I saw that the thing was fuzzy. In under two seconds, the rest of the conversation played out with startling prescience in my head. Kris waited, smile unwavering, trying to watch my eyes and read my expression.
“We found her in the blackberries past the barrier,” she said, teeth showing and eyes alight. I adore my wife’s eyes.
Kris shifted her stance and stepped into my office, now cupping the creature in both hands. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight weeks old, with a slow, sleepy stare that reflected the bright rectangles of my windows. Her fine fur seemed to stand on end, as if charged with static electricity, but the color pattern was far more striking. The chest, belly, and front legs were white, if somewhat blotched with mud and grime. Her back, rear legs, and tail were deep black. Her face and head were almost perfectly split down the middle, white on the left and black on the right. I wondered if someone had dyed the kitten this way, but that seemed improbable. This had to be some genetic mutation.
Is the cat black or white? I wondered. The name Yin-Yang sprang to mind, but I discarded it as too obvious.
Don’t give her a name. If she has a name, you might as well start buying Friskies.
“We’ve talked about having a cat for years,” said Kris.
“Pretty sure you talked about having a cat. We talked about having a dog. Which we have. And kids.”
“Look at her,” Kris pleaded, and then she set the kitten in my lap. The animal was warm and languid. Her front legs pushed into a slow stretch, and her mouth yawned wide, exposing tiny white needles. Front claws extended and pressed through my jeans. It wasn’t enough to hurt, only make me win
ce a little.
“Cute!” exclaimed Tommy. “So cute!” He held out a hand toward the kitten and ran one fingertip gingerly from her head down her back. Clearly, he’d been coached, but he was so intent and endearing that I couldn’t keep from chuckling and running my hand across his sandy brown hair.
Sam had not been coached, so he jammed his nose right against the kitten’s anus and started sniffing. Kris grabbed the dog’s collar and forcefully pulled him away. I felt a stab of irritation. This was Sam’s home. He was just doing his job.
“So rude, Sam,” she admonished. “How’d you like it if I did that to you?”
“Quite a bit, I expect,” I said. “Let’s find out.”
My wife wrinkled her nose at me, then corrected my half-hearted attempt to change topics. “Is she not the cutest thing ever?”
“So cute!” echoed Tommy.
Kris talked about what would probably happen if the cat went to the animal shelter, how good it would be for Tommy to have a kitty and a doggie to grow up with. The Allens had already volunteered to donate their cat supplies to Kris, as they had no plans to replace their long-missing tabby, Sturgeon.
That meant Kris had already started sending pictures around to our friends. Great.
I’m not proud of how it ended. I’d like to tell you I did the right thing for the right reasons and took in Mosey—yes, that got decided over dinner, because she was so slow and observant—to help a cat in need and make my family happy. It’s never that simple.
Kris wanted the cat. I needed a get-out-of-jail card for having to miss our ultrasound appointment. I knew my request made us badly needed money while hers cost money, but that repeating rabbit hole led to dark, dangerous places, so I left it alone.
Silently, as married couples will do, we each weighed the other’s request on the imaginary scale between us and decided it balanced out.
Hellcats: Anthology Page 34
