Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  “We’re almost there. So this is the big one…” Mr. Carter’s face contorted. “I’ve watched your cheese snacking habit for some time now, and please understand, I don’t judge it.”

  “Wait, with all of this, he eats his cat food now, in the dark, who knows what else is lurking, and you want to switch our conversation back to cheese?”

  “Yep, we need to wait for him to finish anyway.” He put up both palms. “Calm down, we’re okay.”

  “This really isn’t a dream, is it?” I said, feeling the lack of sleep plucking at my eyes and the feel of pretzel twists in my lower back.

  “Nope,” he grinned. “But, I’m right here to help. Okay…so I love cheese too, but you guys never waste any cheese. Never leave me any on the plates or bowls near the sink. Not even melted cheese. You never drop any. Your family is unbelievably thorough when it comes to cheese, but it smells so good to me: the Swiss, the muenster, the sharp cheddar, the pizza cheese, it’s all so tasty, and I truly miss it.”

  “Okay, sorry to hear about that,” I said, overwhelmed and unable to focus.

  “I also miss having cheese because it reminds me of all the dinner parties, art openings, and symphony concerts I attended with my late wife. We used to keep quite a busy dance card.”

  “Nice,” I said, still staring forward. “How long were you two married?”

  He winced, and I thought he might cry. “Kind of a complicated question with time as a human construct, so I’ll just say, not long enough. Not long enough.”

  “I get it,” I said, wishing in that moment to be back with my wife and daughter. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “When I see, hear, and smell you eating cheese at all hours, I can nearly taste it, which makes me want some—something I thought I could get over. But your cheese snacking is relentless, and it’s kind of driving me batty. Considered finding a new place to sleep—not in the dining room, and far from your bright refrigerator rock-star-light-show in the kitchen. A place where you can’t wake me up with the relentless aromas of your cheese addiction.”

  “I wouldn’t say…addiction.”

  “Okay, Peter,” he said as he turned and stared in my face. “What exactly would you call it?” His eyebrows popped up and down as he waited for my answer.

  I could tell from his darting eyes that he was cataloguing my transformation, but was too polite to worry me any further.

  “Okay, I’m addicted.”

  “Good. That’s progress. Then can we please work out a plan for sharing.”

  “I can do that,” I said, nodding. “Done.”

  “Promise?”

  “You get me home—back to full-size whatever—and you can have all the cheese you want.”

  “Okay, but please don’t leave me such a huge slab that I won’t be able to move it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Remember my configuration,” he said with a smile.

  “I will.”

  “And although we just met, I’ve known you for years, Peter. So trust me right now to get you home.”

  “Okay.” My thoughts of him as a spy in my house had evolved a bit. He’s almost like our guardian micro-angel.

  “Good. And believe me when I say that your wife and daughter love you and appreciate you much more than you know. They would be shattered if you never came back.”

  It had been a throw-away line when I said no one would miss me. Of course he was right. My wife was the best and I loved my little girl more than…well, anything. I nodded, afraid to speak. I didn’t want to cry in front of Mr. Carter. Instead I managed a curt, “I believe you.”

  P.J. sniffed and turned to us. He was done eating. He inspected a small area of the carpet and then plopped down, all paws extended.

  “It’s time, let’s move,” Mr. Carter said.

  I shivered, and my breath left my body. I shook from the fear and adrenaline coursing through my rat-morphing form.

  “It's okay.” He urged me forward.

  When I got close to P.J., his face looked enormous, but friendly. He rubbed the edge of his mammoth paw against me and nudged his face close to me.

  “Hey, buddy,” I whispered. “Good to see you!” This was our cat. I scratched the underside of his chin with both my hairy hands like I was rowing a boat, and his rumbling purr quickly followed. “Who's a good kitty-witty-stinky-breath-Hellcat? You are—”

  “While this is sweet, we must now proceed with the plan.” said Mr. Carter, interrupting our reunion. “Tell him what we're doing.”

  Surprised, I turned to Carter. “I thought you could communicate with him?”

  “Yes—no—sort of the same way you do.”

  Within a few minutes, I was lying across P.J.’s immense paws, with my left hand, nearly a rat paw of its own now, extended into his mouth. I lifted my right arm, shielded my head from…whatever. My forearm brushed my strange ear.

  Mr. Carter stood to the side, stroking the cat's face as he began to slowly guide one of P.J.’s teeth toward my hand-paw.

  “Wait.”

  “Quick, Peter. We really need to hurry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks for helping me. Tonight and all those times before. And thank you for living here.”

  “It's my house,” he said, expressionless.

  “Wait, so how do you know his name is supposed to be Thelonious?”

  “I don't know. Just looks more like a Thelonious than a P.J.” Mr. Carter moved back into position as biting guide, then his face went instantly pale. “Hear that?”

  “No?” I whispered.

  “Down,” he snapped at me, but I didn’t have to move.

  P.J. got tense and popped up, rolling me off to the rug. He ran into the darkness.

  “Couple more SpongeBats…” he snapped. “Over there!” He gestured to the edge of the sofa for cover.

  I could barely see. “He’ll get ‘em, right? Simple simple?”

  “No. These two are big.” He quickly rubbed his mouth and chin, looking very concerned. “And he’s tired already.” Mr. Carter rolled up his sleeves, and I saw a cat silhouette tattoo on his forearm. “We need to help him.”

  “What?”

  “We have to help Thelonious now so you can get back.”

  Carter ran into the darkness. I could barely keep pace with him. We could hear P.J. jumping, snapping, and hissing, but it was ongoing, so there was at least one left. I couldn’t see anything. From the dark doorframe of our dining room, something stocky ran and lunged at Carter, knocking him to the ground. I recoiled, fear taking over.

  “Help me,” he yelled, grunting and flailing his arms and legs at the new threat. “It’s a Mildafoss.” Carter was fighting back.

  I looked around hoping for a weapon of some sort, but there was nothing at hand. I saw the dark outline of P.J. swiping at another swooping SpongeBat. This small world is ridiculous.

  “Hey, over here!” I yelled to distract the creature, but with no plan after that. “Hey, Mildew.” My nerves cracked my voice, so I yelled again. “Leave him alone!”

  It did turn to me for an instant, but it knew Mr. Carter was vulnerable, so I only held its attention for a moment.

  I ran toward the creature’s hairy back legs and dense tail so I could at least help with the kicking. Its feet smelled awful—like rotting leaves—and as I got closer all I could hear were its thick dog-like paws scratching the floor. For a split second, I was proud that my adrenaline helped me choose to fight, not run. Then the fear came right back. But P.J. came rushing in as well and launched both front paws, all claws out, into the creature’s hind quarter. He pulled the animal toward him and bit down on the center of its spine.

  Is that the spot?, I wondered.

  But before I could even finish my thought, it was small and P.J. devoured it. I heard the more disturbing sounds as it went down his throat.

  “Good boy!” I yelled. “Mr. Carter, you okay?” I said, dashing around
P.J. to see if he was hurt.

  “Just a few scratches.” He was adjusting his clothes from the fight.

  “That’s good. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Distracting him before he disemboweled me was a solid choice.” He looked at P.J. with gratitude and concern. “He saved me again. Both of us.” We watched as P.J. flopped onto the dining room floor. “But he’s ready. Let’s do this now. Quick.”

  I rubbed P.J.’s fur and thanked him too. His breathing was elevated, but I was glad to be close to him.

  Before Carter could get into position, P.J. nodded off.

  “No, no. We need you to stay awake, Thelonious,” urged Mr. Carter gently. He rubbed the edge of the cat’s jaw and whispered things in his ear that seemed too personal to question. “There we go,” he said as P.J.’s eyes widened.

  “Ready, Peter?” he wasn’t really asking. “Remember, no matter what it feels like, focus on this: he’s helping you get back.

  “Can’t be worse than all this,” I said, gesturing to my transformation. My rat fur was more pronounced and the shifting pains I felt all over my body were prickly sharp.

  “Good luck, my friend.”

  “You too.”

  With that, he again helped lower P.J.’s mouth toward my hand-nearly-rat-paw. Expecting the pain, I closed my eyes, but not before I saw Carter add all of his body weight to the force of the closing jaw.

  The burning in my hand lasted only a fraction of a moment before the entire agony jolted into the rest of my body. It felt like he had ripped a hole in my arm, but when I tried to open my eyes, I only saw the floating kaleidoscope of my pain. My eyes ran with uncontrollable pus and this torment felt like my whole existence.

  My spine convulsed and I thought I had lost consciousness, with a carnival of dizzying images: I saw a scaly rat tail for a split second, quickly replaced by a visceral experience of melting in a bowl of acid. I saw filthy cities, public toilets, dirty alleyways, and felt like my teeth were all loose in my head. I wanted to chew, but I also wanted to empty my mouth of the useless enamel filings. I saw glimpses of wars, unnecessary famines, and all manner of decay and death. After these horrible visions, and cranking, crunching, and stretching pains all across my body, it seemed that I was standing in a massive charred field that smelled of an extinguished fire.

  Before I could even form a thought, I saw cats. Dozens, hundreds, thousands. Hellcats. All hissing, some fighting each other. I saw the piercing sun, very close, and felt I might go blind from it. No longer on the ashes, now planets, moons, stars, nebulae surrounded me. But still I could hear the hissing.

  The flood of images flickered, but the pain was constant. My skin was retracting and my organs pulsing. I could hear more bones cracking, but wasn’t sure if they were mine.

  “Choose,” it said. A voice rumbled from all around. It terrified me. Whatever me was there.

  I couldn’t speak because of my inner and outer contortions – my body twitchy and hot. I heard this question echo, but not in my ears or head, but in the star fields and smoldering forests. I wanted it to stop and panicked that my mind was racing to a crescendo which could only be my death. Am I having a heart attack? Is this what a brain aneurysm feels like? Did I just have a stroke? I saw all manner of ways to die.

  “Choose.”

  I knew what to say, even though I couldn’t speak. The answer was here in me. Simple, simple. My family, I choose them.

  I woke up not far from the same well-worn rug, feeling as if I had been thrown off a comet into a dumpster filled with hammers, never happier to be home.

  Watching the morning light activate the flecks of dust drifting across our living room, I sat in silence on the couch, holding Thelonious in my lap. His purring was labored, but he was calm. We listened to the birds together and those few early commuters motoring down our road.

  He was warm, but his fur was matted and lightly damp with sweat from his struggle to hold on to life. Hellcats are real fighters.

  “Thank you, Peej, for getting me back.” I scratched his head gently. “Never met a Hellcat before. Very cool. Respect,” I whispered. “Thelonious, P.J., we are all going to miss you so much.”

  With little sleep, my head was throbbing, but I was incredibly relieved to be back…to my configuration.

  “I promise that we’ll find a beautiful place for you in the woods. Maybe out near your grandfather’s stone. Would you like that?” I stroked the top of his head lightly with the nail of my index finger.

  P.J. blinked again and then closed his eyes, and I knew the end was coming soon. “I promise to help your friend Elliott like he helped me. I’ll make sure to leave him some mozzarella later—after I sweep out the bathroom. That guy’s intense.” P.J. was still purring, but the gentle vibrations in his chest felt like they were moving miles and miles away from me. “You meant for me to meet him, didn’t you?”

  Like a language I carefully wanted to learn, I purred with him.

  Within the hour, my wife came down the stairs, saw my puffy eyes and muted tears and knew most of what had happened. He was gone.

  “You’re sweet. You stayed up all night with him?” she whispered.

  “We got through it together,” I said.

  A.J. McWain (finally) writes his own sci-fi and post-apocalyptic stories after writing several non-fiction books on music, finance, and more—mostly under pen names. He is a university lecturer in music, trained as a jazz pianist and composer.

  50

  Rescue Cat

  by C.J. Lazar

  Brenda needs to get some words on the page before trekking through the snow to her job at the animal hospital. But getting anything done today is proving impossible with a rescue cat named, Jinx. But, his hijinx may actually be fortuitous.

  Sparkling green eyes of malevolent feline mischief stared up at me from the towel sprawled on the bathroom floor.

  “Why?” I whined, dripping wet from my shower and getting colder by the second. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  It was true. All week he had been the perfect guest but last night, about 3 a.m., he changed. It was like a switch had flipped, and from that moment forward it was one interruption after another. Just when I’d fallen back to sleep, he’d jump on my head or scratch at the door. When that stopped he took up playing some type of cat soccer with my phone that required him to knock it off the nightstand multiple times before I had to put him out of the room. After that, it had been nearly impossible to fall asleep and when I did, I wound up sleeping ten minutes late.

  I ran to the bathroom and flicked on the shower. The wee orange hellcat padded after me, claimed my towel as his, and proceeded to knead the soft cotton with his ever-growing mini talons.

  My eyes searched desperately for another towel as I continued to plead my case. “Is it because it’s your last day here that you’re acting up?” I admit that any other time I’d probably find his behavior cute, have a laugh, and take a few photos, but this morning’s schedule was too tight for these delays and so I continued to vent. “I’ve given you a comfy bed, the scratching post is barely used, and you have toys upon toys…”

  The words fell on distracted ears of indifference.

  I accepted reality.

  Unwilling to try and reclaim the now fur-covered towel, I quickly left the bathroom and scooted to the hall closet, double-checking that my blinds were still pulled tight so the neighbors wouldn’t get an early morning surprise.

  Satisfied, I grabbed a green towel with a dragon print and turned on some hip-hop.

  As if sensing he’d lost my attention, he who was yet to be officially named—but whom I’d come to know as Jinx—gave a quiet little mew, dashed after me, and melted my heart. “Awww, sweetheart. Whoever takes you is going to be wrapped around your tiny paws.”

  I had to stop to give him a little pet.

  This was one of the rare times he’d made a sound since being brought to see us at the Mountain View Animal Hospital a week ago. The first time
was when I was sorting out his matted fur. That beautiful sound had resonated with my soul and I knew that, of those brought in from his litter and needing temporary shelter, he’d be the one spending the week at home with me.

  Purring again, he rolled over. One of his claws had snagged in the hall rug, and he rapidly became a half-wrapped burrito with just hips, legs, and tail swishing away uncovered.

  I tiptoed back to the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind me. Just one minute of peace, Jinx, please?

  I showered quickly, brushed my teeth, and wrapped myself in my cat-hair-free towel. Squeezing out my soaking wet hair with both hands made me grateful that I’d recently cut it from waist to bra strap length. It was a move that made life far easier and saved a ton of precious time. Giving a light shake, I carefully stepped out of the shower and onto the bath mat and let it soak up some of the moisture running down my legs to my feet.

  There he was.

  Batting the bathmat and pouncing on my toes.

  I looked at him, then the door, and back again. “You little ninja. Did you sneak in under my feet when I came in?”

  He looked up at me and gave me another heart-melting meow.

  “See, why couldn’t you have just rolled on the bathmat to begin with?” I asked the wriggling towel of purr.

  That was just how my morning was going to go: me, Jinx, and my routines slowed to a snail’s pace as the little cutie did his best to be under my feet at all times.

  “I may have to go into work today but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy my Saturday,” I said to the kettle as it began to boil.

  Dressed and dancing, I went to the living room, flipped open the blinds—and gasped.

  Snow.

  Everywhere.

  There had been no warning. No Weather Watch. No old dude ranting on the corner with a beard down to his knees and a sign high in the sky telling us that Snowmageddon was coming. Despite all that, there it was, whiting out the world and piling higher by the minute. Heck, my snow gear was still bundled in the Closet of Procrastination, sure that it had at least three more weeks before it would be called into action.