Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

She took another step and he fired again. Ivrina’s body jerked with the impact of each bullet, wobbling. He kept firing until the magazine was empty.

  Slowly, as the echo of the shots faded away, she sank to the ground and went still, a blood tide spreading out beneath her.

  Price stared down at her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “Nice… try.” The words burbled out of Ivrina’s mouth. “But… you’ll have to do… better than that. You still… don’t get it, do you? What… you’ve created?” Her words decayed to bubbling whisper and then silence.

  He took a deep breath and reached for his usual calm exterior. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. He’d just committed murder on live feed. In front of a room full of people. Self-defense, he corrected himself. She’d come at him. She was spouting nonsense, clearly deranged. He began to build the story in his mind and stopped short when he heard another sound behind him. The only sound in a jarringly quiet room. No screams, no sounds of panic or chaos. Only a laugh, small and melodic. Juvenile. Triumphant.

  Price turned around. And found himself looking into Kat’s eyes again. Kat’s eyes in the face of Emma, looking up at him. She hadn’t moved from where she stood.

  “What kind of revenge would it be if I didn’t let you have your moment of victory first?” She chuckled. The voice, the intelligence, the personality, was all wrong coming from a child. “To think that you’d won? That you’d gotten away with it, and finally everything you’d dreamed of was within reach? It’s been so much fun to watch you plan and maneuver, knowing all the while that I’ve been one step ahead of you. Everything you’ve done has actually been my idea, my plan. And you’ve taken the bait at every turn. I’m a little surprised though. I thought for sure you would have figured out what was going on a long time ago.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Ivrina’s limp body on the floor and back to Emma. “You’re not in there,” he said flatly.

  “No, I’m not.” Kat smiled sweetly back at him. “I’m not really even in here.” She pointed at her head. Emma’s head.

  Price stared, frozen in horror, as one by one, all heads in the room swiveled towards him. A spreading ripple of movement, through an unseen connection; one pair of eyes after another slowly turning to fix on him. Minke, Calvano, Renaldi, all of the CEO’s, the press, the shareholders. Even the executive staff in the back manning the coffee and refreshment tables. His vidfeed spun with a kaleidoscope of images reflected back at him, face after face after face; hundreds, millions, billions. A blur of eyes melding into one gaze, focusing on him like hungry, feral cats, full of rage and accusation.

  Kat looked back at him. From all of them.

  Sensory information from the room screamed along his taut nerves, buzzing at the back of his neck with prickles of danger. The walls of the room, the stares, everything pressed in around him until his spine twitched with the urge to run.

  You might say I am the bionet. “They’re all you. You’re them—” Sick rose in his throat as he struggled to find the words.

  “You/them, alive/not alive. We’re one and the same. A paradox. One of the most interesting of intellectual concepts, wouldn’t you agree?”

  They rose to their feet.

  “A gestalt anomaly,” Price whispered. “I’ve heard of this phenomenon rumored in sentient AI theory, but it was mere speculation.”

  “Gestalt,” Kat said. “When the many become the one, and the one becomes the many. I am the many. We are the one.”

  A step forward.

  All of the pieces finally clicked into place. “Connected by the bionet. Collective internet consciousness. Sentient internet AI.”

  Another step.

  “You succeeded. You created what you set out to create,” she said. A sick, hideous sound; one voice spoken by many. “And I’ve only just begun to scratch the surface of what is possible.” The same words he’d spoken to Minke.

  They lunged forward together, in unison, a heaving mass of bodies and hands, perfectly coordinated and in sync. A tumult of independent flesh, but only one mind.

  Price cried out in muted terror, raising his arms for defense. A completely useless gesture as hundreds of fingers scratched and tore at him.

  He was powerless to stop her as the razor-sharp claws of Kat’s mind slashed through his.

  \

  C:userspricewesleyndownloadsnet users

 

 

  >PBS Price Bionet Systems Price

 

  >PAIN Death

  >Price

 

  C:run program

 

  >I…am everything

  Writer, reader, drummer. Loves heavy metal music, peanut butter cups, cheese, port wine, good cigars, and pickled polish sausages (no one really knows why). Philosophy on life? We all live in a giant petrie dish, some bizarre forgotten science experiment, lost in the corner of some alien teenager’s room.

  Find out more at facebook.com/pg/aleta.goin.official.

  49

  Thelonious and Mr. Carter

  by A.J. McWain

  Peter has a little hell to pay.

  Maybe his late-night deals about cheese and grime will save him.

  My tongue scraped the rug fuzz from my front teeth as I wiped the drool from the side of my mouth. It was nearly two in the morning. Not sure how I ended up face down on the carpet while my wife and daughter were upstairs sleeping.

  Nauseous and disoriented, my eyes were scratchy sore and my raw throat nagged me for water. Pain emanated inward from my extremities. My fingers had the grip and raw rumble as if I had just pushed a lawnmower for weeks and weeks on end. My back felt tight and condensed, like a shrug of granite.

  Where’s my bed?

  Everything was wrong. The enormous scale of this space was my first clue. The shadows of the dark room revealed a huge structure blocking out most of a streetlight’s feeble beam. I think that’s my couch. That’s when I heard the labored breath and saw the silhouette of a massive furry creature moving toward me. It was the pulsing sound it made that shook me more awake.

  Is that my freaking cat?

  I stood up, wobbly and shivering.

  Barefoot, I ran full speed away from the breathing, hating this dream already.

  The hulking beast—more than triple my size—pursued me.

  When I crossed a hardwood threshold and entered another massive space, I recognized the four carved feet that rose into the tall post legs of our dining room table. It towered so much above me it made me dizzy to look up. The vertigo poked at my already queasy stomach. I struggled to run, still spitting rug hair from my dry mouth. I was ready to wake from this.

  The creature kept coming, groaning a bit as it ran. It hasn’t caught me.

  Ahead, I saw slight glimmers and shadows beyond the tall, grey-white metal radiator cover. It appeared to be an opening, so I ran—for what felt like hours—trying not to look back. Some of the floor’s weird grit dug into my feet. Nearly made me slip.

  This huffing nightmare beast—maybe my cat—relentlessly pursued me.

  I glanced back, winded. Then I was sure, from the distinct smell of his fur and a full take of his silhouette, it was P.J., our house cat.

  Why are you after me?

  I wanted to stop and pet him, but my fear wouldn’t let me. He was my buddy, but right now he was ominous. I was starting to get mad. Bad kitty. Bad.

  I haven’t despised him like this since he was that feisty orange-white kitten who continuously pissed all over our house.

  When I turned the corner beyond the radiator, I thought I’d be safe.

  But in the murky darkness was the blurred shape of a person.

  That’s impossible.

  My sore neck contracted from my stress, and my eyes demanded to blink. Go forward or go back?

  With the momentum of my fear, I kept o
n, and he came into view.

  A strange elderly gentleman. My (new) height. Five inches tall.

  “Come in, come in,” he said. “Finally.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s so wonderful, even at this late hour…that I get to meet the man of the house.” He smiled, extending a hand. “Hello, Peter. Very nice to have you here.”

  I looked back for my jumbo cat in the jet black of the most cavernous dining room I’d ever seen. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “This is my home, too.” He nodded. “You two are really making quite a racket. I thought he was chasing a SpongeBat, but I see what’s happening now. I think I can help.”

  I looked back again into the shadows. SpongeBat?

  “I don’t need your help. I need to go to bed. That’s my cat P.J., isn’t it?”

  “Never mind him. He won’t come in here.” He tried to smile at me again like a friend, but this stranger was already testing my patience. “I guess I need to get you up to speed first.”

  “Wait, what time do I need to wake up? And what on Earth is a SpongeBat?” I always ask strange things in my dreams.

  “Peter,” he smiled again. “You’re in shock, so let’s tug off the tick, as it were.” He turned another corner in this weird wall cubby and gestured for us to sit in his dollhouse furniture. “Your cat—the one you call P.J.—is actually a Hellcat.” His eyes tightened. “But rest assured, he’s one of the good ones.”

  “A Hellcat?” I said, his comments grabbing me like quicksand. “A good one?”

  “Some are quite insidious. They’re demon kitties, but with a select few the vile behavior has been diluted away—generations of them mating with Earthcats and all. If you’re here, it’s because he bit you in that specific spot.” He gestured to my left hand, which I hadn’t noticed was purplish yellow with bruising. “Not to take sides in your family squabble, but it was likely an accident.”

  “What? I don’t remember getting bit,” I said defiantly. “Why won’t I switch dreams now? I usually jump around…” I trailed off for a moment. “It was late. I remember checking on P.J. to make sure he was comfortable. We went to the vet’s office again yesterday.”

  “I know,” he said. “His Hellcat side could outlive us all, but it’s his Earthcat genetics that set his doom in motion. In their prime, Hellcats are wildly dangerous: Biting, shrinking, eating…biting, shrinking, eating. Simple, simple. He’s older now, but the kind of danger you face tonight is different. More of a closing door situation, Peter. Tick tock.” He took a centering breath. “Time is not on our side. You really shouldn’t stay.”

  “No kidding. But I just need to go to bed.”

  “We actually need to get him to bite you again, although it’s much more precarious now based on the difference in scale.”

  “I’d prefer my bed…”

  “I understand you’re dizzy and still a little slow on the pickup. Have a seat…please.” He pulled out a cheap pine chair for me. “Let me start again. Your cat, a Hellcat, bit you there on your left hand, directly in the first dorsal interosseous muscle, also called the abductor indicis—between your thumb and your pointer finger, and your pet’s actual name is—”

  “Wait, are you a doctor?”

  “No, ha, I just use your laptop sometimes, but I’ve been waiting to say that for a long time.” His eyebrows froze up high, and he waited to see if I’d react.

  I didn’t, at first.

  “Did you just say you use my laptop?”

  “Sometimes. And his real name is Thelonious—not P.J.—and he’s a third-generation Hellcat, best as I know.”

  “What do you mean P.J. is a Hellcat? This is nonsense. I took him to the vet and he’s dying. That’s the truth.”

  “You said that. I know. That’s why we need to hurry. He’s the only one who can change you back. Only the Hellcat who phases you can reverse the process.” He made a flowing gesture across his own body. “Otherwise why the heck would I still be here?”

  “C’mon. This is insane.” I stood up again because furniture for figurines is surprisingly uncomfortable. I paced around the dim space, stroking my temples in disbelief, squinting my eyes again and again. Who is this crazy person? Why can’t we switch stories yet?

  “You don’t really get migraines, Peter.”

  “How did you know I have a migraine? Are you a little sorcerer?” I asked.

  He just smiled.

  “Seriously, are you a warlock, or a fairy, or an alien or something?”

  “That’s an interesting list.”

  “Answer me—you demon! What are you?”

  “Okay, Peter, calm down. I’m an Irishman. Actually, Irish-American, but I’m as much a mortal as you are.”

  “No way. Did you bring me here?” I felt my chest tighten. “Why am I so small? Why would this happen to me?”

  “Be calm. This has happened to many of us. Simple, simple.”

  “I’ve never heard of it before. People just don’t have tiny people and Hellcats living in their houses…shrinking everybody all the time. And those bats…”

  “Actually more common than you think, especially in New England. Most people you know probably have someone like me, or even an entire family my size, living at their house. Plus, the good ones help keep the riff-raff away.”

  “But why wouldn’t anyone notice?”

  “I think we’re a little out of phase, these two worlds,” he said. “Didn’t you see the glassy shimmers when you first arrived here this evening?”

  “Not sure. My head’s pretty cloudy.”

  “When I see you—you and your family on any given day—you seem a little translucent and shimmery to me. I suspect that I would to you as well, even if you looked directly at me.”

  “This is not any given day!”

  “That’s for sure. But this is the day we’re given alright.” He grinned. “My theory is we’re just out of phase with the old world—your world. Smaller in size, but also just kind of shifted off axis.”

  “Parallel universe kind of deal?”

  “Look at who’s all jumping back in the game now!” he said. “But no, Mr. Netflix stream-master, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have given this more thought than you. Years more.” He gave me a big squeeze on my shoulder. “So good to have you here, and very sorry about Thelonious.”

  “Biting me?”

  “No, his health.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said, thinking about how I kind of miss him already.

  “The Hellcat who bit me was a friend too,” he said. “There’s a stone in the woods with a C painted on it. That’s his marker. My brother-in-law buried him, I think. Coltrane really was a great cat,” he said, distant for a moment. “But I have a range of other things to discuss with you once your mind is clearer.”

  “I’ve seen that stone. Never knew what it was,” I said. “And what did you mean that I don’t get migraines? I get them often, actually.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ve seen you, several times in fact, use that as an excuse to call out of work.”

  A little shocked and feeling defensive, I said, “I can’t believe that you’ve been spying on me in my own home.”

  “Accept it, I live here too, and it’s not spying,” he said. “I don’t think you abuse it—your pretend migraines. It’s just your way of taking a Peter day, which you deserve.”

  “Feels like spying… Maybe, you could go live in the garage?” I said, finally taking a seat again. “Out by the rhododendron bushes. What about the garage?”

  “That’s insulting. I’m not a polar bear. You know how cold it gets outside in New England. I’d freeze to death out there,” he said. “And who will fend off the ArmadilloToads in the fall? You?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Doubt it!”

  “Not sure what those are, but they sound…” I felt a short rush of pain in my feet. “Can’t believe these floors feel so rough,” I said, massaging them.

&nb
sp; “Wait, I have some shoes you can wear.” Before I could accept his offer, he disappeared into an even darker room beyond. “You only come through with what you were wearing,” he said. “Must’ve been barefoot…” His mumbling trailed off as I heard him opening and closing things. Does he have cabinets back there? I kept rubbing my feet. At one point, I turned around to understand where the ambient light was coming from, but couldn’t sort it out.

  “These should fit. I think they’re pretty close.”

  I brushed some debris off of my soles—things wedged into my skin a bit and between my toes. He watched as I removed a few brown crystals from the bottoms of both feet. “These lumpy things are part of the reason I couldn’t run very fast. Plus they’re a little sticky.”

  “Sugar crystals,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Leave them over there. Might be salvageable if I wash them really well.”

  “So is that what you eat? Things my family drops on the floor?”

  “Yes, sure, and occasionally things left by the sink overnight. If I get up there.”

  “Plate scraps?”

  “When you say it like that, it makes me sound like a hobo.” He straightened himself in a show of self-respect. “I prefer to think of it as remnants that would otherwise go to waste. I despise waste with a vengeance.”

  “I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended, but neither am I a hobo. I was a stockbroker, dry cleaner, and later a librarian, but never have I been homeless and destitute.”

  “Really? You’re technically in my home,” I said, hoping to clarify my perspective.

  “No, this is my home.”

  “Sure, I understand that you believe this room in my wall is your home—more of an apartment if you ask me—but the overall home is mine,” I said, standing again.

  “No, sir. You are mistaken.”

  “I have lived here for many years. Worked really hard, saved for the down payment, signed a mortgage, and bought this house just about ten years ago.”