Cat's Cradle

by William W. Johnstone

  Emily pulled Alice off to one side after the meeting. “Have you any idea what is going on at the hospital?”

  “No.” Alice looked blank for a few seconds. “Is there something I need to know about?” Alice was just a little bit of an airhead, too.

  Emily sighed. “The murders, Alice!”

  “Oh. Oh! Well, Sheriff Garrett will take care of that gruesomeness. He is a good sheriff, even if he is a bit disrespectful toward that which is most important.”

  “Huh?” Emily said.

  “Never mind, dear. You weren’t here.”

  Thank God for small favors, Emily thought.

  Alice babbled on. “Ladies should not concern themselves with such matters as murder and all that. It just isn’t proper.”

  Emily looked at the woman strangely and nodded her head. Emily had been an emergency room RN before she married Bill Harrison. If there was anything she hadn’t seen, she didn’t know what in the flippin’ flap it was.

  “Come, dear,” Alice gushed again. “Let’s have a glass of tea and talk about next month’s meeting. We have so much to plan.”

  Emily looked around her. Everyone else had left. Oh, damn! she thought. I’m stuck.

  A thumping came from the back porch. Sort of a slow thump-thump-thumping.

  “Now what in the world is that?” Alice said.

  “One way to find out,” Emily said.

  “Oh?”

  “Go look.”

  “Oh. But I’ve dismissed the help. Oh, well. You know where the glasses are. You pour the tea and I’ll go see what all the commotion is about.”

  The thumping was growing louder.

  Alice walked out of the room, toward the back door. Walking is perhaps the wrong descriptive: gliding would be more like it. Like on a protected pillow of air. It fit her well.

  Emily found the glasses, filled them with ice, and poured the tea. Pre-sweetened. Yukk! She hated sweetened tea. Stuff was so sweet she could feel her teeth turning into sugar cubes.

  She heard some sort of . . . she didn’t know what it was. Sort of a strangled sound. She turned around. Alice was standing in the archway. Her face was chalk-white and she was shaking all over.

  “Alice! What’s wrong?”

  “Uh-uh-uh!” Alice said, pointing toward the back porch. “Gibjubuhdo.”

  “What?”

  “Mum ... mum ... mummy!”

  Shock, Emily thought. The woman’s in shock. She ran to the woman and gave her a good pop across the face. She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

  “Damnit, Alice. Talk to me!”

  Alice cut her eyes to the back. Emily looked and froze to the floor.

  Emily’s first thought was: somebody’s playing a joke on us. She was used to that. ER people will do anything to relieve the tension.

  Emily quickly realized the scene before them was no accident. It was just too hideous. It would have taken a professional Hollywood makeup artist hours to do this. And the smell was sickening.

  And she knew that smell. Decaying flesh. Rot. Maggots working overtime, eating through putrefied flesh.

  The mummy-looking—and that’s exactly what Alice had been trying to say—thing, wrinkled and stinking, took a hesitant step forward, unsure of its surroundings. It opened its mouth and screamed at the women. The air was suddenly fouled.

  Emily moved. She jerked Alice forward and practically slung her into the hall. “Move!” Emily shouted.

  The mummy-man screamed again and lumbered forward, knocking the table to one side.

  The women ran into the den. Emily slammed the door and locked it. She grabbed one end of a heavy sofa.

  “Grab the other end!” she told Alice.

  “Heavens, darlin,’ ” Alice found her voice. No surprise to Emily. “We can’t move that big ol’ thing by ourselves.”

  “Lady,” Emily said, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Move it!”

  Her sharp words were like a slap in the face to Alice. The woman grabbed her appointed end of the sofa and together they moved it against the door. They piled a large chair on top of the sofa. Emily pointed to the phone on the small desk.

  “Call the cops. Move.”

  Emily looked around the den as the inhuman sounds from the godawful looking thing grew louder in the hall. It was beating on the wall, sending small pictures and prints to the floor. She saw Quinn’s gun cabinet and ran to it. Locked. She picked up a poker from the fireplace stand and smashed the glass, jerking out a twelve gauge shotgun. She checked it. Unloaded.

  “Oh no!” she groaned.

  She found a broken box of shells and filled the tube. She was just conscious of Alice’s frantic phone conversation.

  “Tell ’em to get the hell over here! ” Emily shouted.

  “Get the hell over here!” Alice repeated automatically, startling the local city dispatcher. Mrs. Ramsey just didn’t talk like that. Alice hung up the phone.

  “What did they say?” Emily asked, clicking the shotgun off safety.

  “They said, ’yes, ma’am’. You know how to shoot that thing, Emily?”

  “Yeah. I know how. I used to rabbit hunt with my brothers down in Alabama.”

  The den door began splintering. A horrible grunting, panting, savage sound filled the hallway. Emily lifted the shutgun.

  “If that big ugly thing comes through that door, I’m gonna fill his ass full of lead.”

  “Emily?” Alice said.

  “Yeah, Alice.”

  “I’m glad it’s you here instead of some of those other helpless biddies.”

  Emily smiled. “Alice, you’re a fraud.”

  The woman returned the smile. “Of course, I am. But isn’t it such fun? And don’t you tell anybody or I’ll tell everybody your great grandfather was a Yankee sympathizer.”

  Emily laughed. “Hell, Alice-he was.”

  The den door smashed open, the force of the blows knocking the chair off the sofa. The mummy-looking creature jumped into the den.

  * * *

  Mickey rummaged around the poorly-lighted basement, inspecting box after box. No luck. A noise spun him around, his heart hammering from sudden fear.

  “Who’s there!” he called into the darkness.

  But the darkness remained silent.

  “Come out here!” Mickey called.

  A hissing greeted his words. The hissing was unlike anything Mickey had ever heard.

  Then he got mad.

  “All right, kids. Now come on out here. You don’t have anywhere to run. Now come on out and face me.”

  Then the thought came to him: What if it isn’t kids? What if it’s those crazy people who killed last night? Oh, God!

  The hissing grew louder, an angry sound to it.

  Mickey looked around him, his eyes finding a length of 2x4 on a crate. He picked it up. He sniffed the closed air as a very foul odor drifted to him. He backed up, the 2x4 in his hand.

  Not kids, he thought. Definitely not kids. But what in the hell is it?

  The hissing changed to a yowling type of sound. Much like what big cat might do. A panther? No, no, that’s silly. No panthers in this area for years.

  And what was that terrible smell? It smelled like... then it came to him. Rotting flesh.

  Mickey gripped the 2x4 and stepped forward. Whatever it was, one good bash on the head should do it.

  Mickey was suddenly jerked to the floor, slamming down hard, knocking the wind from him. White hot pain filled his left leg. Screaming from pain and fear, Mickey kicked out with his other leg. Then he saw what had him. Horror overrode the pain.

  Nothing real looked like that! He screamed in terror.

  He smashed the 2x4 onto the thing’s head, feeling the sharp teeth clamp down harder on his mangled leg before releasing him. The creature jumped back, howling in pain, retreating into the darkness. Mickey crawled toward the stairs. The thrashing and screaming of the beast filled the basement as Mickey panted up the stairs and out into the hall. He slammed the door and
locked it.

  He crawled and then ran/limped a hundred feet down the deserted hallway until the pain in his badly bitten leg caused him to stumble and drop to the coolness of the corridor floor. He crawled to the nurse’s office and found the first aid kit, ripping it open. He poured iodine on the gnawed flesh of the leg. He leaned back against a wall and rested, taking some assurance in the burning healing powers of the iodine.

  Phone! he thought, as pain misted his mind. Got to get to a phone and call the police. Guess Dan was right. Monsters did attack Mrs. Milford and the chief. He was unaware of how curiously uncaring he was becoming. Almost as if some new being was taking control of his mind and body.

  That was correct.

  “I’ll just rest for a minute before I do that,” Mickey said. Rest. Got to have some rest.

  He closed his eyes as a very odd sensation filled him. He slipped into a coma-like sleep as strange dreams-more like visions-filled his mind. His blood was battling, and losing, against ancient invaders, from a time long before the human body was even begun to be understood. His visions were ancient dreams, taking place high above the sands. They were horrible dreams, filled with human sacrifices and orgies. And a small child and a cat.

  Mickey let the dreams take him deeper and deeper.

  * * *

  The shotgun boomed and the butt plate slammed against Emily’s shoulder, the crashing report loud in the room. The shot hit the creature in the shoulder and arm, bringing a scream of pain from the hideous thing. Green slime splattered against the wall. Emily fired again. This time the shot struck the mummy-man in the side. More green slime slopped as the shot tore open the wrinkled, foul-smelling flesh.

  The creature howled and lumbered awkwardly down the hall, back toward the rear of the house.

  Emily was only then conscious of sirens winding down. “Mrs. Ramsey!” a man’s voice called. “Mrs. Ramsey, where are you?”

  “In here!” Alice called. “In the den. Watch out. That . . . monster just ran out the back door.”

  It did indeed.

  The young city patrolman ran around the side of the house just in time to run headlong into the arms of the wounded, painfilled creature. The maddened once human object put both its hands into the cop’s mouth; one hand pulled down, the other hand pulled up. It tore the young man’s head apart, leaving only the lower jaw and tendons attached to the neck. Blood gushed several feet into the air. Holding the severed head in its hands, the creature ran into the back yard and disappeared behind another house.

  Alice ran out onto the back porch, saw the glistening lower teeth and jaw of the cop, who was flopping in near-death on the ground-and promptly lost her brunch. She was leaning against a porch railing about ready to go into screaming hysterics when Emily ran on to the back porch. She took one look at the still-jerking young cop, mentally fought her stomach’s urge to rebel, and ran for the phone, jerking Alice inside with her, slamming and locking the back door.

  Emily snatched up the kitchen phone and dialed the sheriff’s office.

  “This is Emily Harrison. I’m at Doctor Quinn Ramsey’s home. Some sort of creature just attacked us. It just killed a city policeman; tore the man’s head off. Please send someone over here right away. I’m armed with a shotgun and I know how to use it, so sing out when you get here. Now hurry!”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Dan heard the trouble call and was the first to arrive at the Ramsey home. He left his car at a run, shotgun in hand. Captain Taylor and Langway pulled in about ten seconds after Dan.

  “Alice!” Dan called. “Emily! Where are you. Answer me.”

  The front door slowly opened. Dan was conscious of people standing in windows of surrounding homes. Pale, frightened faces looking out. Alice and Emily stepped out onto the porch. Dan lowered his shotgun. Both of the women looked to be badly shaken, but otherwise unhurt. Emily pointed to the rear of the house.

  “You ladies all right? Dan asked.

  “Yes,” Emily said. “That . . . thing ran around that way, Sheriff. The young cop is around back. He’s dead, or very nearly so.”

  “Stay in the house,” Dan told them. “Close the door and lock it.”

  The women stepped back inside. The door closed.

  A deputy squalled up, tires sliding on the surface of the street. Dan called, “Contact the hospital. Tell Docter Ramsey and Harrison their wives are both okay. Advise them as to what’s happening. Move!”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, Sheriff,” the deputy said. “I just got back in late last night from pickin’ up a prisoner in Seattle.”

  Dan shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Radio the hospital. Tell them the escaped mummy is out here.”

  “The escaped what?” the deputy looked dumbfounded.

  Dan ignored that. “Tell Doctor Ramsey and Harrison to get a team together and get over here. They’ll know what you mean.”

  “Yes, sir!” The deputy muttered something else too low for Dan to hear.

  Dan had a pretty good idea what it was.

  And he didn’t blame the young man.

  Susan pulled up. “Rope this area off!” Dan yelled to her.

  Dan, Taylor, and Langway made their way cautiously around the side of the house. They pulled up short at the blood-splattered back yard.

  All three stood in disbelief for a full thirty seconds, shocked silent at the gory sight before them. Then a foul odor assailed their nostrils.

  “Whew!’ Langway said. “What is that smell?”

  Dan saw the long, trailing smear of stinking green slime. “And what is that stuff?”

  A camera clicked behind them. All turned to look at Mille Smith. She smiled at the men, mockingly, tauntingly.

  “Yes, Sheriff,” she said. “What is that crap? I’d be so interested in hearing your explanation.”

  11

  Mickey looked at his watch. But he couldn’t quite make out the numbers on the dial. They kept changing before his eyes, the modern numbers fading into a system Mickey’s mind could not comprehend. Yet.

  He thought perhaps he’d been out for at least half an hour. But he didn’t really care.

  Mickey struggled to recall what he was doing on the floor in the nurse’s office. Then he remembered. He checked his leg. The leg, from the knee down, was blackened and withered.

  A heady feeling of indifference that Mickey had never experienced in his life overcame him. His mind was reeling, attempting to understand the strange language that filled his brain. He know who he was, but also knew that he was that person only in part. He was also another person.

  But he didn’t know who.

  “Why, hell,” he said aloud, his voice much deeper and hollow-sounding than ever before. Then he laughed for a moment, and crawled to his hands and knees. He stood up. His bad leg supported his weight. Strangely, he experienced no pain from the horrible bites. He did not find that odd. He tried to remember what he was doing here, why the school was so deserted?

  He could not.

  Mickey had no memory of the creature in the basement. No memory of the events that forced the closing of the schools. He was not sure of his own name. The names of his kids. His wife.

  His wife. Oh, yeah. Her face came into his fevered mind. God, he hated her. And those whiny kids. Why did he ever mate with that woman?

  Mate? Yeah. Mate.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, as he stumbled along the hall toward his sanctuary.

  His sanctuary?

  “ ’Cause that damn Dan Garrett stole the other female from me.” What was her name? “Evonne. Lovely Evonne. Vonne.”

  Feeling confused, Mickey paused on his way to his refuge as the sounds of someone hammering on the front doors reverberated down the empty halls.

  He lurched and stumbled toward the front door. At a corner, he paused, gathering his strength. For some reason, he knew he must not let anyone see him limping. He didn’t know why he should do that. He just knew he must.

  He peeked around the corner. H
is eyes were savage as his mind fought to stay in the present time frame. There she was. Pretty, petite, dainty little Denise. Standing by the locked doors all by herself. Mickey licked his lips as ancient, past-life memories flooded his mind. Denise, daughter of the richest man in the county. Pouty brat drove a Cadillac to school. Thought she was better than everybody else. All her daddy had to do was drop a word here and there and little Denise got whatever she wanted. For God help the person who didn’t see things her way. Daddy would fix it.

  Mickey still smarted under the tongue-lashing he had received from Paul Moore. In public. And there was nothing Mickey could do except stand there and take it.

  Mickey smiled. He walked to the front door and unlocked it, swinging it open. “Yes, Miss Moore?”

  “I have to get something, Mister Reynolds.” She breezed past him with a toss of her head.

  No ’How do you do, sir.’ No ’Please’ or ’Thank you’ or ’I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.’ Just walk right in like she owned the goddamn place.

  Mickey’s eyes clouded over. He felt as though he was being propelled backward in time. Bloody scenes of torture and deprivation filled his mind as infected blood coursed through his veins. He could see himself standing by an altar with a curved knife in his hand. He brought the knife down into a naked body lashed to a rectangular flat-topped stone. The stone had likenesses of cats carved into it.

  Mickey smiled. He laughed aloud. Power filled him. Raw, wild, ancient power. He looked at the blue jean clad rear end of Denise.

  “Hey, whore!” he called.

  She stopped as if hit between the shoulder blades. She turned and looked at the man. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mickey started toward her.

  * * *

  “You’re violating a restricted area, Ms. Smith,” Dan told the woman. “How did you get past my deputy and don’t tell me you didn’t see the crime scene tape.”