Irregular Creatures

by Chuck Wendig

  “Something stupid like getting rid of the cat? That wasn’t stupid, that was your decision, you said –“

  “Yeah, what? Sorry. Interference.” I hissed into the phone and rubbed it against my shirt. “I just need to know, do I have to sign him out? Isn’t that their new policy? Am I on the sign-out list? Do I need ID? Can I just pick him up without all the formality? Because I don’t really have the –“

  “Joe, he’s already on his way home. Actually, the bus should be dropping him off right about now.”

  My mouth went dry. “What? Why?”

  “It’s a half-day. It’s the start of parent-teacher conferences – ours is Wednesday, remember.” She paused. “Why? Joe, is something wrong?”

  “Why is he home alone? Are you nuts? He’s a little kid!”

  “I’m just about to leave – he’ll be okay at home for a half-hour, he’s a big kid, he’s done it before. I don’t understand why you’re freaking out about this.”

  I told her.

  “Missy, I think those evil flying cats were there for Brian. I think he’s in danger. I found Cat-Bird again, and we’re on the way home. I think you ought to go home, too.”

  “Joe, this is crazy, this is insane –“ I knew how her mind worked, I knew it would take forever to process this, and she would want to ask a billion questions. Even after seeing everything she had seen, she was already starting to forget that it was a miraculous, magical, mad event. Her head was putting it all back together like it was some scientific anomaly, or a dream, or maybe like it never happened in the first place.

  She kept talking, but I tuned her out. Something in the sky drew my attention. For a half-a-second, I figured it to be a flock of geese, traveling like a pointed-arrow, migrating or something. But geese don’t migrate during the summer.

  Geese also do not have four legs.

  Or tails.

  The flock flew in the direction of the house. Off-hand, I counted at least thirty of them. Black cats. Demon cats. I imagined their red eyes. I shivered.

  “Go home,” I said. “Brian is in danger.”

  “Joe –“

  I hung up the phone and stomped the accelerator.

  ***

  I saw Hitchcock’s The Birds when I was about Brian’s age. The scariest parts for me weren’t all those bird attacks. No, what got me most was when the birds were all still and silent. All those gulls and crows sitting silently on the roof of the house and, nesting on the cars and power lines and playground equipment, waiting there like the avian sentinels of Hell itself.

  If Hitchcock were to do a sequel, he could call it The Cats, and he could’ve framed the shot through my eyes.

  Dozens of raven-winged cats, motionless except for the occasional flick of a tail, sat upon our roof, in our gutters, topping our lampposts. The Hellcats all stared at me with those blood-lit eyes. I crept out of the car. They all watched me, heads moving with my every step, as I went to the passenger side and opened it for Cat-Bird.

  They reacted. Upon seeing her, they hissed. Fur bristled. Tails coiled and twitched.

  At the garage window, I saw Brian’s face appear.

  I could tell he’d been crying. I held a finger to my lips, I wanted him to be quiet, to say nothing, to do nothing – but it was too late.

  “Dad!” he cried.

  The hissing stopped, and every cat’s head pivoted simultaneously. Red eyes fell upon the garage. Like a swarm of black grackles lifting off from a tree, the Hellcats took flight together.

  They rose high, and then descended, funneling to a cruel point equal to a single cat. Like the bottom of a cyclone. Like my sculpture, I thought with no lack of grim irony.

  The nadir of that cat tornado pierced the window where Brian’s face was only a few moments before. I heard him screaming as the glass broke. Joeworld had been invaded. The garage was breached, and my son was in danger.

  ***

  I try not to remember the violence of that day.

  I remember that, by the time the demon cats had leapt into the sky with their terrible shrieks, Cat-Bird had already taken flight. The throng of black cats flooded in through that single window and CB dove in among them: like a little plane flying into the heart of a hurricane. She shot forward into their midst, a Garfield-flash of color in a storm cloud of black fur. I watched her tumble as she hit that tumult, her wings bending in ways they perhaps were not meant to – and like that, she was gone, sucked into Joeworld with the shadowy horde.

  I remember running forward, sprinting in a way that my stupid doughy body should not have allowed. I shoulder-crashed through the side door –

  -- and stumbled straight into Hell.

  I remember the chaos. Like falling headfirst through a cloud of crows – shadows streaking, wings flapping, bodies brushing against skin, claws raking clothing.

  I remember how my eyes adjusted to the madness, as they might adjust to swimming underwater or walking in darkness. A black cat pinballed into my chest and I shoved it away, hissing and spitting. That’s when I saw Brian. He had wedged himself inside my sculpture, the metal cats just barely protecting him from the real ones. Cats climbed up the outside, screeching and swiping inward with elongated claws.

  I remember Cat-Bird, too, pirouetting up in the rafters, spitting beams of light and raking black fur with claws flashing. As soon as I made her out, she was gone again, lost in the swarm.

  I remember pitching forward as one of those awful things fell to the ground – sent there by Cat-Bird, I hoped – and I stepped hard on its head, silencing its infernal howls. I clambered up onto my own sculpture, batting away the yowling hell-kitties, and I thrust my hand – somehow bloodied from bites or scratches – toward my son.

  “Dad,” he whimpered.

  “We gotta go, Bri,” I yelled over the din. He grabbed my hand, and I helped him free from the tangle of metal.

  A black cat landed atop his head, digging in its claws. He cried out as blood moistened his forehead. I screamed and reached for the bastard hurting my son—

  But just then, Cat-Bird blasted into the thing like a bowling ball, knocking it off Brian’s head. The two cats tangled on the floor, and Cat-Bird opened his mouth and a bright white beam of light pinned the demon to the floor. I smelled burning fur. I saw black feathers – tips glowing with fiery embers – whirl up into the air before turning to ash.

  “We have to go,” I said to Brian, holding him close and wiping blood of out his eyes. Another hell-kitty swooped in low, and I punched the damn thing in the face, knocking it backward into another searing shaft of Cat-Bird’s light.

  I remember then how Brian shook his head, calling out and reaching for Cat-Bird. I remember telling him how this was her job, this was what she did, why she was sent to us. He struggled in my grip but I wouldn’t let him go.

  I remember us running toward the door, my son held low and tight against me. I remember how my heart sank when a pile of Hellcats dropped in front of us, squirming over one another, blocking our exit. I remember how Cat-Bird darted in front of us, one wing dragging behind her broken, and how every time those black cats made a move toward us, she took it out with a sniper’s precision.

  I remember how she looked at us. Her eyes, clear and focused and living with purpose. Then she turned back toward the writhing wall of black-furred demons and leapt like a tiger into the heart of darkness, sharp spears of light lancing out at every direction, eradicating the shadows that stood in our way – it was enough to carve a pathway to the door, and we ran toward it.

  I remember light, and fresh air, and the door slamming shut behind us.

  And then I remember the destruction of Joeworld.

  ***

  We ran from the garage toward the house, and the cacophony within my one-time sanctuary raised to a diabolical crescendo. Those black cats were making a sound cats did not make. It was a chorus sung in Hell, a warbling pop song as performed by Satan’s concubine.

  And then the garage exploded.

 
There came a vacuum sound, like a great god sucking breath into his great god lungs. Then, a deafening silence as shafts of white light shot out of every window and hole the garage had. It blasted out windows, blew out the vents, and knocked down the door. I dropped to the ground, shielding Brian, but it turns out I didn’t need to. The light felt warm. Peaceful, even.

  When we turned around, the door was laying flat on the asphalt, smoldering. The walls of the garage stood, but at odd-angles leaning against one another. The roof had collapsed.

  The light had gone.

  ***

  Later, when the dust settled and nothing else came for us, I went back inside.

  Cat skeletons littered the ground, each one frozen in an arthritic tangle. The skulls had those pointed teeth – fangs, really – and every carcass sported a crooked pair of bony, fleshless wings.

  It didn’t take me long to find Cat-Bird.

  She was draped over the middle rafter. Her wings were turned askew. Her front paws drooped over the one side of the beam, back paws over the other. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were closed. I pulled the poor creature down and cradled her in my arms, finding no heartbeat or breath of which to speak. I stroked her fur and hoped like hell she wasn’t really dead, that this was just like before, that she’d suddenly cough and gurgle and meow.

  Outside, I heard a car engine, and Missy’s voice. I heard some neighbors, too. Later, when they asked just what had happened to our garage, I told them it was a gas leak. All the cat skeletons I kept. Someday – though I didn’t know it then – they would make a delightfully wicked sculpture.

  ***

  We buried Cat-Bird the next morning.

  We had a funeral with just us family out in our backyard, behind the swing set. We all said words. We all cried.

  I didn’t sleep the night before, spending all my waking hours fashioning an effigy of CB out of tin. It looked like her – just enough, anyway -- and I felt oddly proud.

  On the statue’s chest, I etched:

  Cat-Bird, “CB.”

  From then until now.

  Pet, savior and pal.

  Missy put her hand against the small of my back, and whispered in my ear: “I can’t wait to see the art you make of all this.”

  I put my arm around her, kissed her cheek, and said, “I love you.”

  ***

  Epilogue to all of this:

  Two weeks later, at midnight, I raced into Brian’s room, and shook him awake. I did the same to Missy. They both protested, but I hushed them and told them that it was worth it.

  I brought them to the back window, and we looked out over the lawn. At first they couldn’t see, but soon their eyes adjusted. It helped that the moon was full and bright.

  A cat with wings sat by Cat-Bird’s grave. It was not orange, like she was. This creature was calico, with a mottled tortoiseshell face.

  It yowled low and deep, a dirge for a fallen comrade.

  We went to bed, not sure what we had seen.

  ***

  I have long been a dog man. I still am. We have a dog now. He is a mutt, a patchwork quilt of a dozen breeds. He has a slobbery tongue like sandpaper and he really digs pooping on the driveway.

  But we also have a cat. A regular cat, no wings as yet to be found.

  Her name is Ladybird. We love her very much.

  Welcome to the family, guys.

  A RADIOACTIVE MONKEY

  “Just drink it,” she said.

  Slow night. Snow and sleet came down like slushy piss. The bar was empty but for him and her. But this is where Jonny Stoops found himself, night after night, no matter the weather.

  It wasn’t for the drinks. It was for her.

  “It’s on the house,” Miranda said.

  She slid a highball glass toward him. The liquid within was brown, but not the amber-brown of a good scotch. This was mud brown. Grossly turbid. Like stirred-up pondwater.

  Though, it did smell sweet.

  “That doesn’t look so good,” he said.

  She giggled. “Jon –“

  “Jonny.”

  “Jonny, listen, you come in here every night, all by your little lonesome, and you sit across the bar and you talk to me. If I’m off pouring drinks, you watch me. I’ve been here for three months, and I’ve seen you here every night. You like me. I know you like me.”

  “No, c’mon, I’m just a drunk –“

  “You’re not a drunk. You barely touch your drinks.”

  She was right, but what was he supposed to say? He couldn’t tell her that he was just passing by outside, saw her inside pouring beer from the tap, when something clicked inside of him. His heart thumped like jungle drums, his blood shrieked in his ears, a wild sound. He had to come inside, had to talk to her, had to be near her.

  “You’re a sweet guy,” she said. “I like sweet guys. There’s something between us. Something animal.”

  “I do like you.”

  “So drink the drink, do me that favor. Maybe if you drink it, I’ll give you a little kiss.”

  “A little one?”

  “Just drink it.”

  He narrowed his eyes to slits, imagined kissing her.

  His mouth was wet. His pulse stuttered.

  “What’s in it?” he asked. It smelled like bananas and something else.

  “Not telling. I call it a Radioactive Monkey.”

  “Cute.”

  “I know.”

  Hand curled around the glass, he pictured her naked. Feeding him the drink. Licking his ear. Hot breath. Rough tongue.

  He shuddered, then slugged back the drink.

  It tasted like cold, runny dogshit mixed with a mouthful of blood.

  With a hint of banana.

  She reached in and kissed him on his forehead (the lips, the lips! some small part of him shrieked), and then–

  ***

  He awoke, tied to a bed that was not his own. He was naked, a tangle of sheets cast haphazardly across his thighs.

  His erection stood strong and sore. It throbbed; a hammer-struck thumb.

  He couldn’t remember a thing.

  In the half-darkness, he saw Miranda sitting in the corner on a rocking chair. He heard something move off to his right, but his neck and head hurt. What felt like a hangover hung from his brain like a swaying boat anchor.

  Miranda was stroking her belly.

  “Your seed took,” she said. She sounded… satisfied.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice groggy and slurred. He tried to concentrate, tried to remember, but things just weren’t coming together.

  “I’m going to have your baby.”

  “I’m not ready to be a father,” was the only thing he could think to say. Did her arms look different? Darker? Her breasts, too, seemed cast in the same shadow. A shadow with lines, with texture.

  “No worries, I don’t need you. They don’t need you.”

  “Good.” His head was swimming.

  “But my other babies do.”

  Babies?

  Something shuffled, off to his left.

  She cooed: “My little monkey babies.”

  Shapes began moving, converging at the foot of the bed. At first he saw only two, but more moved out of the periphery and into sight.

  Children.

  No—his mind railed. Chimpanzees. Or something like them. Chimpanzees weren’t monkeys, were they?

  He couldn’t believe he was thinking about this.

  Primates, he thought. They’re all primates.

  They came into the meager light.

  One’s eye hung from the socket on a glistening tendon.

  Another had a long tongue, forked; it flicked the air beneath a piggish, thuggish nose and a pair of human eyes.

  One climbed onto the bed, using the rope around his foot as a hand-hold. He saw its teeth, sharp and pointed. Lips curled back over yellow fangs.

  “They’re hungry,” she said, just as the toothy one clamped its mouth on the inside of Jonny’s thigh. He felt little p
ain, only numbness, but could feel the warm splash of blood running down and wetting the sheets.

  More clambered atop him. Broken monkeys: wild eyes and many limbs.

  One bit off his ear.

  Then some fingers.

  A third–or fifth, or seventh–took a mouthful of his pectoral, sucking the man-breast into its mouth like a whole scoop of ice-cream, the nipple as the cherry.

  “Feed, my little radioactive monkeys,” Miranda hissed from across the room. “Feed.”

  And as she moved closer, he saw her chest and arms were covered with a dense hair. She grunted something, and in her eyes he saw something wild, something primitive. Something animal.

  Then they ate his eyes, and that was the end of that.

  PRODUCT PLACEMENT

  The glass of the vending machine was cool against Donnie’s head. He stood like that for a few minutes, eyes half-shut. He considered going to sleep. Dumb, given that his motel room was about ten feet to his right. But the glass of the machine was about as comfortable as the bed in there, so it was give-or-take.

  “Breakfast,” he reminded himself, and focused his eyes on the treats inside the box.

  His bleary gaze scanned over the options. Captain’s Wafer crackers? Probably a good idea given the pulsing hangover that lived in his brain and gut, but the idea of dry carbs just wasn’t doing it for him. Pretzels? Meh. He’d rather eat a handful of sand.

  Wait. Oh yeah, there it was. Chocolate.

  Damn yeah.

  A yellow wrapper caught his attention. Top right corner of the machine.

  Flix Bar.

  He’d never had one. Never heard of one, actually.

  Blinking, he popped his quarters into the slot, and punched the code. The metal coil uncoiled, sending the bar plummeting to the bottom with a bang.

  ***

  Donnie watched the farm report – well, the farm report was on, but who really watches the farm report? – and examined the Flix Bar.