Shat

By S. Lawrence Parrish

In a post-plague world where plants have suffered as much as animals, a colony of human survivors has gathered in a fortified former-luxury condominium complex they call “The Park”. These remnants of humanity are inextricably bound to their domestic cats, from which Dose (a temporary plague vaccine) is derived.

A forager army is rumored to be heading toward The Park. The Park people must prepare to defend themselves and all they have worked for, because they have made a discovery: not all cats are created equal; while regular Dose only staves off plague symptoms, the dose derived from Simon, The Park’s only Siamese cat, can be refined into SHAT, a super-dose that rejuvenates the growth of plant life. . . and which also may hold the secret to a permanent plague-cure. Problem: Simon is a neuter. If he should die, so, too, dies humanity’s one hope for survival.

Enter Sasha, a purebred female Balinese of breeding age that also produces SHAT. With the sky-rocketing tensions of increasing militarization, Sasha’s humans want to take their cat and leave The Park. But The Park people will use whatever means necessary to make them stay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Lawrence Parrish
• Release date: Apr 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987921017

S. Lawrence Parrish

S. Lawrence Parrish has been writing weird and twisted tales for many years. He's had many short stories published in small press 'zines (Dread--Tales of the Grotesque and Uncanny, Carpe Noctem, Not One of Us, Sepulchre, Mindmares, Agony in Black, Stigmata, Night Terrors, etc.). He's also written several novels, all of which will soon be available as e-books. For the past two years, he has been busily turning into podcasts many of his novels and stories, available at Podiobooks.com and on iTunes. To date, they include two novels: SHAT (a post-apocalypse tale with a feline twist) and Shape Shifters (a werewolf tale with NO vampires). And also Chicken Pi, an ever-growing collection of short stories. Mr. Parrish lives in the foothills of Alberta, Canada with an amazing wife, three stellar children, one Jack Russell terrier and one schnoodle, two cats, a chameleon named "Gus", a salamander, a tarantula, a frog, many fish, and at least two escaped crickets chirping from the furnace vents.

Book preview

SHAT

by S. Lawrence Parrish

Copyright 2012 S. Lawrence Parrish

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

1

The cat called himself Alex.

Alex was a calico, a feline patchwork of white, gray, and reddish brown, the runt of his litter and still undersized though fully grown. Dark stripes on his face hinted at tabby ancestry, but his tail was snow white at the tip.

A liberal feeding from John (his human) last night had set Alex's bowels to tightening well before the regular time. He darted from shadow to shadow, down silent city streets, searching for a place to relieve himself. Then he spied it, two storeys up, adjacent to an alley and easily accessed by a rusted fire escape—an oasis of loose dirt in a concrete desert: a windowsill flower box. His belly rumbled relief, then cramped with guilt—he really should be saving his scat for John. But Alex was good about his litter habits. John could afford to lose out on one quick, fecal pinch. Just enough to loosen the tummy knot.

The little calico bounded up the fire escape's steel stairs, mounted the second storey railing, then hopped onto the windowsill. He froze in place, his eyes wide and amazed, the gray and red fur rising on his hackles and along his spine. A solitary green sprout clawed out of the flower box's dry soil, spreading one broad leaf at the end of a bent and anemic stalk. When had Alex ever seen anything green and growing in the city?

He inhaled, flaring his nostrils, swirling a most irresistible scent through his nasal passages. He closed his eyes and fluttered open his lips, drawing a phlegming breath into his mouth to be tasted, a gesture for sexually mature cats (and the first time Alex had ever felt the compulsion). A saliva-slippery tongue pressed the scent molecules against the roof of his mouth, into the Jacobsen's organ, stimulating a chemical and hormonal reaction that swelled Alex's heart and zapped a charge into his loins. He raised an eager nose to sniff for more, but there was only the city's stagnant odor: the dusty stench of things dead, past rotten and beginning to crumble in desiccation. Everyday smells, nothing to arouse the senses.

But around this flower box, the scent of another cat, a female—a queen. Nothing territorial, no threat here, nor was she in heat. But there was something both disturbing and enticing in her musk, a tainted-fragrance blend of desperation and promise that awoke deep within Alex strange yearnings.

The little cat scanned the street both ways, the irises of his eyes round and black, his ears up, the white tip of his tail twitching. The glow of imminent dawn reddened what little sky was visible between towering husks of office buildings to the east. To the west, darkness leached color to a lifeless gray, the ocean visible eight blocks distant, its shades of perpetual night blending into brooding cloud cover.

Nothing stirred. Only the barest breezes blew.

Alex stepped into the flower box, pressed a pink nose against the green sprout, purred at the velvet texture of the single oxygen-producing leaf. He was moved to lick the leaf, his eyes easing closed while his mind snapped open to a sudden cascade of waking dreams, genetic memories of lush jungle, of swaying savannah fields, of rushing streams coursing vibrant torrents under skies as fresh and bright as hope. . . .

A low synthetic rumble yanked Alex from sunlit dreams. He blinked through the murky haze to see a gas-powered vehicle—one of few that still prowled desolate streets—resolve itself into detail as it rolled toward him. Alex crouched stock-still in the flower box, the white of his belly concealed, his ears flat, his eyelids squeezed to slits, his tail curled in tight to his lean body. The machine idled to a stop directly below.

The cargo bed of the truck—a 4X4 with oversized tires—had been fitted with bucket seats and rack-mounted searchlights. Two men stood from the seats to shine bright beams down the alleyways opening on either side of the street.

Alex knew he should bolt, make a quick escape through a shattered window into a building. But no. . . .

Instinct ruffled the fur along his back, held him immobile, a captive of his heightened senses. The city's silence roared in his ears, muffled only by the engine chug-chug-chug of the 4X4. His nose wafted a sudden, soundless mayhem—the humans below reeked of carbon monoxide and body stink thinly masked by soap and deodorant, of sweat and breath and flatulence, summoning a taste like a worm-glutted after-belch. But there was another smell, a magical musk-fragrance, growing stronger now, fresher.

She was coming. She who had blessed this flower box with her scent and her scat. The she-cat queen of queens.

Alex crouched, bowels forgotten, fur rippling anticipation, sniffing, watching, waiting. . . .

2

Gainer Washington gazed down the searchlight's beam. The skinny young black man with the big Afro played the concentrated light up and down the alleyway, peering into shifting shadows. "Motherfuck. . . we checked all our traps, I'm sure of it. Caught nothin' but dust. Someone says they seen a weed growin' around here, so Rudy says we gotta keep lookin' when there ain't shit to look for. Fuck this. I'd rather be sleepin'!" He switched off his searchlight and slumped into a bucket seat. Walkman headphones blasting Doctor Dre hung around Gainer's neck; he padded his ears with them, reclined his chair, closed his eyes and crossed his hands behind his head to bop to the beat.

Waylon Bukiss manned the other searchlight. Waylon looked down from his six-foot-six height at Gainer, was struck again by the gleaming sable sheen of Gainer's blue-black skin. With eyes adjusted to searchlight-beam brightness, the only facial detail Waylon could make out was Gainer's teeth: big and square as a mule's, chattering away in an oversized mouth mumble-rhyming lyrics that made as much sense to Waylon as any donkey's braying.

Gainer's eyes—yellow in the whites, like his teeth—snapped open to glare directly into Waylon's Aryan blue. Waylon glanced away. Gainer yanked the headphones from his head, reached a finger to poke Waylon in a meaty buttock, saying, "Motherfucker. . . there you go again, always starin' at me. Whassup?"

Nothing. I was just listening to your music.

Bullshit! Now you go ahead and tell me what you find so fascinatin' about me.

Blond-haired and white as a Republican, Waylon said, "I never seen too many. . . too many Afro-American people before, at least none as dark as you."

Gainer chortled disbelief. "Are you serious? You ain't never seen a purebred nigger?"

Uh. . . no. Not up close anyway. . . . I never traveled much.

Gainer pondered this, then asked, So tell me. . . what nigger-free planet did you live on before all the germ shit happened?

Spent all my life working with my father on our turkey farm, second biggest in the state. Took it over when he died four years ago.

Well, gobble-gobble. You showed up with that group come in a few days ago, that right?

Yep.

Gainer called into the 4X4's cab: Hey, Calvin. . . that bunch that just come in, confirmed Shit-eaters, right?

Bald-headed, fiftyish, and Caucasian under layers of dirt, oil, and grease, Calvin Maynard grunted an affirmative from behind the steering wheel, saying just loud enough to be heard through the open rear window, "We're all Shit-eaters."

Gainer shook his head. That ain't what I hear.

Calvin shut off the truck's rumbly engine, then stepped into the suddenly silent street, vice grips and pliers in callused hand, saying, Don't listen to what you hear. Most people are full of crap. He looked at Waylon, rolling eyes Gainer couldn't see from his vantage point. Clutch cable's slipped a bit again. Gonna tighten it quick. Don't leave your lights on for too long or you're gonna kill the battery. He disappeared beneath the vehicle.

Gainer said to Waylon, So you're a Shit-eater. . .?

Waylon weighed his words before replying. There's no shame in a person doing what they got to do to stay alive.

Gainer grinned and slapped his knee. "Ha-ha! Don't you know it ain't good manners to talk about it, let alone openly admit eating it? Ha! You honky shit-eating motherfucker!"

Waylon's cheeks reddened. There's no need to call me names.

Ain't callin' you names! Simply statin' facts!

"Those aren't facts. I'm no. . .'motherfucker'. My mother died when I was just a baby."

"You got sisters? Cousins?"

Only child. Never met any of my cousins.

"Well then, you honky, shit-eating turkey-fucker!"

Waylon whirled the searchlight on its mount, blazing into Gainer's face its super-bright halogen glare. The black man recoiled, cursing and shielding his eyes. Waylon snapped off the light, then reached a long, lean arm hardened by years of farm toil to seize Gainer by the jacket collar, yanking him from his seat and face to face.

With white nose flattened against broad black, Waylon growled, "Despite the hell I've been through. . . despite the hell we've all been through. . . I've never had cause to strike a man before. At least not a man I called 'friend'."

Gainer cringed and swore and pounded mosquito fists against the sides of Waylon's head. The big farmer wrapped his other hand around the back of Gainer's neck and squeezed, spitting, "Stop it! Stop it or I'll snap your scrawny neck!"

Gainer went limp, raised his palms in surrender, squeaking, "Okay. . . okay! This nigger knows when to shut up!"

Waylon dropped him into his seat.

From under the truck, Calvin called, What's going on up there?

Gainer grimaced, massaging his neck. Nothin'! We're fine, just fine! He glared up at Waylon. "Sumbitch. . . strong mother—. . . . So what makes you think I'd wanna be your friend?"

As he settled into his seat across from Gainer, anger lines creasing the corners of Waylon's eyes smoothed somber and thoughtful. Because we can't afford to be enemies.

Gainer shook his head. A honky turkey farmer for a friend. . .?

That's better than a honky turkey farmer for an enemy.

Gainer considered this. I s'pose I can't be too particular about the company I keep. 'Cept for Terrance, I'm the only nigger left that I know of! I guess that makes me and Terrance kind of special, don't it?

Waylon regarded him. "Terrance—he's the other. . . the other negro man, the guy heading the Park Council, right?"

Gainer nodded. Yeah, but he's more brown than black. Not like me. I bleed straight back to Africa, as nigger as a nigger can get!

Waylon frowned. Why do you keep saying that word?

What word?

'Nigger.'

Ain't nothin' wrong with a nigger callin' hisself nigger.

Why not?

Because there ain't. Niggers do it all the time.

Does Terrance?

Well, Terrance ain't exactly a nigger's nigger. More like a quadroon—milk chocolate rather than molasses. You have to understand. . . Terrance was born with a silver spoon stuck so deep up his ass it come out of his mouth filled with peppermint-flavored shit. Before the world up and died he was into politics, worked for a senator or somethin'. If it wasn't for our present circumstances I might have social issues with the man. But now I say hands up for the brother!

The two men regarded each other. Then Waylon held out the biggest, whitest hand Gainer had ever seen.

Gainer looked at it, saying, You expect me to shake that?

We might never be brothers, but we gotta be friends.

Gainer considered this. He held up his own lean, dark hand, spread the fingers and rotated it so Waylon could appreciate it from all angles. Lookee here: this nigger's hand is fine and delicate, made for gentle lovin'—not that that's been happenin' a whole lot. . . don't you go squeezin' too hard now, big boy!

Gainer took Waylon's hand and shook, marveling at a rock-solid grip, then snatched his hand away, saying, Did you get so big from eatin' turkey all your life?

My father was even taller than me.

I ate turkey once. Thanksgiving, down at the Mustard Seed before it closed down. Had mashed potatoes and gravy. . . turnips. . . Brussels sprouts. . . cranberry sauce. . . . Gainer smacked his lips at the memory. "That was fine eatin'! Fine. . . . He regarded Waylon. You ate turkey every day?"

Whenever I wanted it.

"I saw a live turkey once—it was butt ugly, scary ugly, ugliest bird I ever seen. Is a turkey a bird? Chickens are birds, not so ugly as turkeys but turkeys taste better. Did you eat your everyday turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce and all the good stuff?"

Waylon nodded. We even grew our own vegetables. Fresh vegetables every day.

Gainer frowned. Couldn't grow nothing but niggers where I lived. Does Terrance know you're a farmer?

Waylon shrugged. I've never talked to him.

"Are you kidding? Ain't you been down to the Garden, west end of the Park down nearest the ocean? We planted down there and it's growin'!"

Waylon raised an eyebrow. How are you managing to do that? The plague killed the plants right along with all the animals and people.

"Hey, we ain't dead. Maybe what's workin' for us is workin' for the Garden, too. And it's workin'! That's all that matters. Pretty soon we'll have fresh carrots and potatoes, Brussels sprouts. . . Brussels sprouts is nasty, mind you. . . ."

Calvin appeared in the street beside them, wiping his hands on a rag he pulled from a coverall pocket. Clutch cable's done. Let's give this up and head on back to the Park.

Gainer saluted. Sounds fine, boss, sounds just fine.

Calvin clambered in behind the steering wheel. Gainer hunched in his seat, his attention focused on his Walkman. He gave it a shake, saying, Batteries are goin' dead again. Rechargeables ain't worth shit. I remember Duracell with their drum-bangin' bunny: They kept goin' and goin'. . . .

That was Energizer, Waylon said.

Huh?

Energizer batteries, not Duracell.

Oh, yeah—

Like thunder from a near-striking lightning bolt, a plaintive Meow! sounded behind Gainer. He shot to attention, whirled in his seat to look over the side of the pickup, then stared in open-mouthed stupefaction, jabbing a frantic finger groundward.

At that moment, Calvin fired up the big truck's engine. Waylon saw a cream-colored cat sprint away from a misfiring exhaust belch, into the alleyway across the street where it stopped to look over its shoulder at the truckful of men.

Choking for breath and with bugged eyes fixed on the cat, Gainer pounded on the cab's rear window. Calvin turned in his seat, glanced at a gawping Gainer and then looked a question at Waylon.

Waylon was just about to speak when Gainer sucked enough breath to shriek, "A cat! A god-damn Siamese cat!"

Calvin gaped at him for a moment, followed the trajectory of Gainer's straining pointer finger, then yanked the shifter into reverse and squealed a tight quarter turn backwards. The 4X4's headlights were reflected in startled feline eyes that blinked from the mouth of the alleyway and then sped away down the alley.

Gainer stood and yelled, After him!

Calvin stomped the clutch (the cable slipped again), ground the shifter into first and the 4X4 lurched forward, tumbling Gainer into Waylon's lap. Waylon held tight to the arm-flailing black man, keeping him from bouncing out of his lap and into the street. The alleyway echoed Gainer's hoots and hollers as garbage cans and other city flotsam cut a dirty wake behind the roaring 4X4.

3

Alex had seen her creep out of the alleyway. Despite jutting hipbones and xylophone ribs, she cut the most exquisite profile. Her face was fine and aristocratic, her fur tawny but dark at the tips of her ears and the ends of her long legs and tail. One sniff told Alex it was she who had visited this flower box. She meowed and ears reinforced the royal conclusions of Alex's eyes and nose. Here she was, the queen of queens!—a she-cat to raise the night howl of any tom's undying devotion.

Alex opened his mouth to yowl a greeting, to get her attention. He must peer into her almond-shaped eyes, she into his, to make the feline connection that would allow him to communicate to her the danger she had unwittingly courted. But the humans had sparked to fume-spewing life their big machine, startling her into motion.

Yes, run! She must run!

But she stopped just inside the alleyway, still clutching at flawed-crystal hopes that shattered shards of fear all around her as the humans screamed and hollered and propelled their half ton of mechanical wizardry at her. She scooted away.

Alex leapt onto the fire escape then executed a controlled plummet streetward that had claws and footpads scrape the barest purchase from fire escape steel. He sped like the she-cat's forgotten shadow across the road and into the alleyway, tailing the 4X4. Roiling dirt and dust swallowed him as he kept pace with the humans in their tire-screeching machine. The alley turned a tight corner, and there, just ahead, red tail lights winked bright. The humans jumped from their vehicle to run up concrete stairs to a loading dock.

Alex trotted to a stop behind a garbage dumpster, his eyes wide, bright, and fixed on a slash of darkness beneath a barely open garage-style door on the loading dock. The three humans clustered around this door, hunkered their heads down low to peer inside.

4

Panting with excitement, Gainer called into the warehouse darkness, Here, Kitty! Come on, Kitty, Kitty! He turned to Waylon and Calvin. "Sumnabitch I saw it, I tell you, I saw it up close and personal! A god-damn Siamese cat! A god-damn Siamese! Sweet Jesus we gotta call this in, we can't let this one get away. . . ."

He jumped off the loading dock and ran to the 4X4. A radio salvaged from a Checker cab was mounted under the dash. He reached through the driver's window to seize the handset, fumbling in his haste, dropping it on the seat. He grabbed it and yanked it to the limit of its cord out the window and shouted, "Park Base! Park Base! It's Gainer Washington here. Come on now, motherfuckers! Someone's gotta be there! Come on now, let's hear from you! We got us one motherfuck of a cat, a god-damn Siamese cat! Where the fuck are you? Wake up, motherfuckers!"

Waylon had come over; he said, You press the button to transmit, but then you got to let the button go to receive.

Gainer stared at his gray-knuckled fist squeezing the handset. With his other hand, he pried the handset from his excitement-palsied grip. Once the button was released, static crackled from inside the 4X4's cab: "—copy that? Are you there? Yo, Gainer!"

Gainer paced back and forth, nodding at the handset. "Yes, I am here, I am here, motherfucker!"

The radio crackled. "Did you say you had a Siamese cat?"

Gainer danced on his tiptoes. "You bet your ass! We got ourselves a genuine Siamese, the sweetest little slope-eyed puss you ever seen!"

A stretch of dead air and static while Gainer continued pacing, then a growly sleep-voice came over the radio: "This is Terrance. Gord says you've found a Siamese. Are you sure it's a Siamese?"

Gainer laughed into the handset. "You never seen such a Siamese! She even meowed in Japanese!"

Is this Gainer? Put Calvin on.

Calvin had been leaning against the truck. He took the handset from Gainer, then confirmed that they had seen a cat that was probably a Siamese. Terrance was dubious but asked for their location. Calvin gave him directions.

Terrance said, Hold tight to the cat, but don't make a move! We'll be right out.

Calvin closed with 10-4, then made to toss the handset into the truck.

Gainer said, You better tell him we don't actually got the cat yet.

Calvin offered the handset. You called him. You tell him.

The black man hesitated, frowning, then took the handset and lifted it to his mouth. "Uh. . . Park Base. . . it's not like we actually got the cat. But we know where it is. We got it trapped in this warehouse."

He listened for a response. Radio static crackled.

Gainer frowned a moment longer, then grinned mule-like again; he tossed the handset onto the truck's seat, then shuffled into a Michael Jackson moonwalk, chanting, We got pussy! We got pussy! We got the sweetest slanty-eyed pussy!

He danced up to Waylon, saying, You understand what we got here, don't you?

We got a cat.

Gainer glanced over at Calvin and laughed, sharing a joke with Calvin that only made the grease-stained man frown.

Waylon asked, So what's the big deal about this particular cat?

Gainer grinned. "You'd love to know that, big boy. Oh yes, you'd love to know that! He bounced up the stairs to the loading dock and lay on his belly to call into the warehouse darkness. Come to papa, little pussy! Meow, meow, meow! You're lookin' pretty lean. We got worms, we got meat, we'll give you anything you want to eat! Meow, meow, meow!"

5

Alex kept to the shadows behind the dumpster. His twitching nose told him there was more to be discovered, more to be known about the queen. She was mystery. And she wasn't alone. But that only made her more vulnerable.

While these humans might not intentionally harm her, Alex knew they posed a viable threat. His fur riffled as he listened to the skinny black man calling to the queen; he was trying to win her confidence. His words were contrived to foster trust, but only the most gullible of felines would have believed them. Human words could not be trusted unless their veracity was confirmed by even the most fleeting glimpse into human eyes, eyes that cannot lie.

These humans were from the Park. They would ply the queen with soft phrases and gentle caresses, but Alex could not be sure of her treatment once they had her securely in their clutches. Terrible things had happened to Park cats.

He cocked an ear behind him. More humans were coming; he could hear their machine. He stole closer to a brick wall, crept between dumpster and building, scanning his near environs, planning his escape route. His heart fluttered a moment of panic when he realized he was boxed in. All the buildings crowding this dead-end alleyway had no open doorways, no windows. The only way out was back the way he had come. And that way was now blocked.

6

Gainer stood on the loading dock and pointed down the alleyway. Here they come!

Headlight beams brightened the alley down at the turn. A military-style Hummer rumbled into view, slowing just enough so that a man dressed in tan army fatigues could jump out, rifle in hand, to take a sentry position. The Hummer sped toward Gainer, Calvin, and Waylon, screeching to a halt behind the 4X4.

Two men stepped from the Hummer, one from either side. The driver wore tan camouflage. He was broad-shouldered and square-jawed, his hair crew cut, a beard and mustache just starting to lay claim to the territory above his neck. His eyes were cold and humorless. He held tight to a vintage Thompson submachine gun while he scowled around.

The Hummer's passenger was a tall man with caramel-toned skin and tightly curled jet-black hair. His eyes were green, his nose aquiline, a face more Roman than African. Lack of sleep hung in loose hammocks below his eyes. He pulled a long overcoat tight against the early morning chill and walked with a nod toward Gainer.

Jumping down from the loading dock, Gainer raised a fist in greeting, Yo, Terrance! His tone rumbled serious when he addressed the Hummer-driving military man: G'mornin', Craig.

Frowning, Craig regarded Gainer, then Calvin, then (for longer than the previous two) Waylon. He turned back to Gainer. So where is it?

Gainer pointed at the loading dock. Right inside, just waitin' for us!

You mean you haven't caught it?

Gainer tossed up his hands. Tried to tell you on the radio!

Craig snorted. "But you're saying it's a Siamese?"

Gainer nodded.

Craig peered into the half-foot crack of darkness under the warehouse door. He glanced at a paint-peeled sign hanging on the wall, then reached inside his jacket to a radio strapped to a shoulder holster. Barry, you and Drake take a post across the street from a red, brick, three-storey warehouse. Name on the front is 'Woodrow' or maybe 'Woodson'. You copy?

The radio crackled. Copy that. Can see it from here. Looks like it's sealed up tight. Drake's scouting the immediate neighborhood; I'll get him to join me when he's done.

Give me a shout if you see anything you don't like.

From inside the Hummer, a dog barked. Craig walked back to the vehicle. He reached inside the still-open passenger door to clatter a cage obscured to view by tinted windows. Canine whines and low growls preceded the appearance of two gloss-black Rottweilers that jumped to the ground to sniff and snort in the dust. Craig held tight to thick leads attached to studded collars around the dogs' necks.

Alex cringed behind the dumpster, his tail frizzing to three times its size, but he could see that the big drooling animals were interested in only the queen's scent. The two dogs whined and one howled, straining the leash toward the loading dock. Craig yanked the leashes hard enough to make the dogs choke. Easy, Otto! Easy, Spike!

Waylon asked, Why do we need dogs?

Craig regarded the big man. You're new, aren't you?

Waylon nodded.

Gainer said to Terrance, "He's a farmer! A real one. Grew everythin' from potatoes to turkeys!"

Terrance gave Waylon a head to foot inspection, nodding approval. A farmer we can definitely use. Have you seen the Garden?

Waylon shook his head. Gainer's told me about it.

Talk to me back at the Park—I might have a job for you.

Craig held tight to his snuffling dogs and jerked his head at the loading dock door. We need that opened.

Calvin turned without a word to mount the steps. Gainer followed, then Waylon. The three men grasped the bottom edge of the door and heaved. It rose with a metallic shriek three feet, then screeched to a halt and refused to open any higher.

Gainer crouched down for a look inside, saying, That'll do it, but we need light.

Calvin hopped down to start the 4X4 while Waylon followed to adjust the searchlights to shine inside the warehouse. Terrance pulled from a pocket inside his long coat a black flashlight. He switched it on, checking to see that it worked. Beside him, Craig cocked his head to his shoulder radio, then reached to it to ask, "Who is it?—Rudy? Damn it. . . anyone else?—Of course, of course. . . ."

All heads turned to see a small, white Nissan rounding the corner down the alley. The sentry in position there tried to stop the vehicle with an outstretched hand, but the little car slowed only enough to nudge the gun-toting man who pounded on the hood while leaping aside. Giving Craig a weary glance, Terrance sighed, then stood with hands in pockets to watch the Nissan approach.

Gainer whispered to Waylon, It's god-damn Rudy and Maria. They always got to be a part of everything.

The Nissan edged in beside the Hummer. The doors on either side of the car popped open before it came to a full stop. A lean fortyish man, pillow-rumpled and longish hair receding to the top of his head, stepped from the Nissan's driver's seat. He pulled a down-filled jacket tight around his mid-section and zipped it up to the neck, a frown on his flushed face while he regarded Terrance. A tall brunette with a severe face stood from behind the passenger door. Two inches of gray roots capped her skull.

Terrance nodded a greeting. Rudy. Maria. Nice to see you.

The new arrivals stalked up to Terrance, demanding that he tell them why they had not been alerted. And why had Barry pointed a gun at them out in the street?

Everywhere! Maria said in a voice like pulling a rusty nail. Guns! Guns! Guns!

Rudy shook his sleepy-haired head. I feel like I'm in a war zone; I just can't get used to it.

Maria's eyes were as gray as her roots. Why didn't you wake us, Terrance? Gord said it was a Siamese!

Craig had moved off to the side, Otto and Spike tugging at their tethers toward the insistent couple. Craig eased forward a step, close enough for the slobbery dogs to sniff Maria's hand. She yelped at the wet touch and skipped aside. Craig pulled the two dogs back a fraction of an inch, saying, Oh. . . I'm sorry, Maria.

Maria shot sparks from her eyes and bared her teeth but Otto Whoofed! at her, startling her rebuke down her throat where she choked on it. Rudy patted her on the back, then stepped one tentative shoe between woman and canines, trying to be chivalrous but clearly terrified of the dogs. "G-God d-damn it, Craig! There are so many reasons why you shouldn't have d-done that!"

Maria swallowed, then demanded of Craig, Where's Garret?

Craig patted Otto's head. You were briefed yesterday.

Terrance reminded her, Garret left yesterday morning with a patrol to finish collecting supplies from Gratham Base.

Maria huffed and glared at Craig. "Well, he should take better control of his dogs—all of them."

Craig jerked the leashes, making the two Rottweilers yelp. They retreated back to him, one on each side, sitting and whining and licking his fingertips.

Maria shook her head. "Aaaaahhh. . .! Guns and dogs and so much testosterone I could retch!"

Terrance said, "The rules of the game are changing, Maria. You've got to accept it. We must take measures to protect ourselves, to protect what we've worked so hard to build."

"I can understand why we need some guns, but lately it's been looking like Garret's outfitting us for World War III!"

Terrance said, One day soon we may have to defend what's ours.

Rudy raised open hands. "Alright, alright, we've been hearing too much of this kind of talk—let's save it for Council. The pressing question is where is the Siamese?"

Gainer had been hanging back, watching and listening. Now he danced forward to exclaim, "I found it! Me! Or more like it found me. . . meowed right at me! He pointed into the warehouse. Its inside, waitin' for us!"

"You're sure it's a Siamese?"

Gainer nodded and grinned.

Craig stepped forward. Alright then. . . we've got work to do. You guys got nets in your truck?

Gainer jogged to the 4X4 and pulled from the box two long-handled nets. "Come on, turkey-farmer! Time to round up the cattle! Yee-haw!"

Gainer bounded up the loading dock stairs in two strides. He would have dived under the door except Terrance called to him: "Gainer! Can you stifle the enthusiasm a little bit? Let's make a plan."

Gainer blinked at him. Of course, of course. . . just excited, that's all!

Craig spoke into his radio, then said to the people standing in a half moon around him, We'll send two inside. Barry and Drake have the front covered—they say there's no way out. We'll spread out here in the alley. If they flush the cat, it's coming out this way. He gestured at Terrance. Let's set the big net across the doorway.

Terrance nodded and jogged the ten feet to the Hummer. He reached into the cargo box to pull out a balled-up badminton net, groaning when he realized it was a tangled mess. Calvin walked over to help him untangle it. The two men tugged and pulled, making little progress.

Frowning within his five-day's beard growth, Craig grunted at the delay, then knelt to unclip the leashes from the Rottweilers' collars. Spike and Otto sat quivering on either side of him. Craig clucked his tongue, a barely audible signal that made the two suddenly baying animals rush toward Maria.

She screamed and cringed back into Rudy's arms, both of them tumbling backwards to the ground. The two dogs leapt over them, then made straight for the loading dock to race up the stairs. Gainer shrank back from the snarling animals as they sped past him barking their way into the warehouse.

Maria screamed, Damn it, Craig! What the hell do you think you're doing?

Craig shrugged. Best way I know to flush out a cat.

At that moment, Alex sprang from behind the dumpster, sped like lack of better judgment up the loading dock stairs, between Gainer's knobby-kneed legs and into the warehouse.

Gainer exclaimed, "Motherfucker! Did you see that! Another one!"

Calvin said, That was no Siamese.

Sure it was!

Calvin shook his head. Calico. Pretty cat, but nothing too special.

Terrance groaned. "Was that the cat you saw, Gainer?"

Gainer gaped. I. . . uh. . . I—

Waylon interjected. I saw the other one, too. Definitely a Siamese.

Gainer grinned at Terrance. "Two cats. . . that's even better, right? Even if that second one is nothin' special. Still shits, I'll bet. 'Gotta love a cat that gives a shit.' That's the honest truth, right?"

Muttering under his breath, Terrance shook his head and then gestured at the net where it lay at his feet. Let's get this thing untangled. Siamese or calico, I guess we'll catch what we can.

7

Alex's searchlight shadow stretched insanely long across the warehouse floor. The reek of the two dogs had his blood boiling fight or flight in his veins. His eyes took the barest moment to adjust to the warehouse's murky confines, then he sprinted along the nearest wall, out of the light and making straight for a stack of wooden pallets. He ascended the ten feet to the top, then stood there panting, eyes and nostrils wide open.

He could see Otto and Spike, big and black and confused, racing around the warehouse floor, sniffing and barking. Alex leapt from one stack to another, gaining altitude as he made his way deeper into the big cubish building. He achieved the highest-most vantage point along the wall farthest from the loading dock and stood there unseen by the two dogs milling about below.

Suddenly, the Rottweilers froze in place near the middle of the huge floor-space, ears up and tuned to below Alex. He peered down to see her—the queen!—trotting floor-level flush to the wall toward him. She held in her mouth a small, squeaking form.

A kit! Her kit!

The queen skittered between two crates as Spike and Otto bounded barking like cannon fire toward her. The snarling beasts slammed into the crates, striving to thrust their heads between, snapping at each other in their savage determination to get at the queen and her young. Otto gave up trying to force his way between unyielding barriers and ran floor-sniffing back the way Alex had come, looking for another entrance into the maze of stacked inventory. Spike twisted and growled his head between two wooden crates at floor level below Alex.

Then the desperate beast began to howl: its thick collar had wedged in place between splintery containers. Spike snarled and jerked but could not pull free.

Alex saw the queen sneak out from between wall and crates, right next to the snared and frantic dog. She sped silently on her toes against the wall to disappear with a leap through a small office's broken window thirty feet away. A head-stuck Spike clawed toenails into wood, shrill yelps peaking to panic as splinters pierced foot pads. Blood spattered the floor.

Otto had found a way into the crate labyrinth. Alex could hear him snuffling and whining against a narrow dead end that forced him to back his way out.

Just then the queen jumped from the office window, another squeaking form in her mouth. She trotted along, stopping for a moment to chew a better grip on her kit.

Alex saw the maze-roaming Rottweiler inch out from between crates and stop to give his big dangling balls a lick. The slurping dog's eyes lit on the queen, shining blood-red as he lunged toward her, his paws pinwheeling for traction against the smooth concrete floor. Alex glanced back at the queen. Sanctuary among crates was mere feet away, but she had again dropped her young.

Alex yowled at her. She glanced up, startled, to lock panicked eyes on his.

Hurry! he screamed at her.

A floor-slipping Otto had gained forward momentum, his jowls drool-flapping a low, deadly growl. Alex realized in a heart-stopping moment that the queen could not see the dog racing toward her; he was obscured behind the struggling form of his head-wedged partner. But she had the kit in her mouth again, was dragging it along the floor.

The speeding Rottweiler roared as he gathered himself to leapfrog over his whining twin. The queen heard and flinched against sudden comprehension of imminent danger, dropping her young and freezing in place against the wall.

Without thinking, Alex dove from his high perch, raw instinct timing his twenty foot plunge so that he landed full on jumping Otto's head. Adrenalin-pumped cat-claws raked the dog, tore into folds of skin behind an ear, shredded a frothing jowl, scratched a lucky foothold against the leather collar. And punctured and yanked from its socket one goo-spurting Rottweiler eyeball.

The queen braced herself for a body-sized bite that never came. The weight and stink of the dog crashed into the wall above and beside her, but Otto spun away, frenziedly snapping and snarling. She saw a bundle of frazzed fur and claw spring from the dog's head, cartwheel yowling to land on its feet beside her.

Alex blinked stunned but gleaming eyes at her. Run!

The queen grabbed her kit, and the two cats disappeared between crate and wall while an Alex-ravaged Otto agonized a popped and dangling eyeball, howls peaking a warehouse-reverb crescendo.

8

Outside, Gainer gaped at the people crowding the loading dock. "Motherfucker! Do you hear that?"

Terrance spat. "Oh, Christ, they're killing them!"

Calvin ran a hand over his smooth head. The question is, who's killing who?

Craig snarled, snatched the flashlight from Terrance, then shoved Gainer aside to crawl under the door, flashlight and Tommy gun probing ahead of him.

Terrance looked at Maria and Rudy. Do we really want him alone in there?

All three council members hesitated only a moment before crawling into the warehouse murk.

Gainer tossed down his net and scrambled in right behind them, saying, We'll get 'em! Don't worry none, guys! We'll get 'em!

A moment later, Gainer's wide, blinking eyes peeped out at Waylon. Come on, farmer! You'll miss out on all the fun!

Wondering (and not for the last time) what he had gotten himself into, Waylon crawled after Gainer.

Inside the warehouse, Terrance, Rudy, Maria, and Gainer stood side by side, eyes blinking against the searchlight-slashed blackout while Rottweiler yelps reverberated from who knows where. Waylon got to his feet beside Gainer. Craig had jogged deep into the warehouse, his flashlight bouncing a light-ball along a wall fifty yards distant and off to the right, into some corner darkness untouched by searchlights. The flashlight beam lit upon two furious, snarling shadows. Craig ran toward them.

Terrance yelled, Don't you shoot anything, Craig!

He, Rudy, and Maria set off at a run. Waylon and Gainer followed.

When Craig reached his dogs, he trained his flashlight on Otto's ooze-streaming face. The pain-frenzied dog with the bouncing eyeball turned to snap at him. Craig lurched back with a curse. Then he shone his light on the tail end of the other Rottweiler. Spike was head-lodged and thrashing; the animal's thick torso pumped and whined.

Terrance, Rudy, and Maria ran up, Waylon and Gainer close behind. Craig shoved the flashlight into Terrance's hand, then pressed his shoulder against one of the crates trapping his dog. "God-damn it, Gainer! Give me a hand here. . . ."

The skinny black man ran over to wrap his fingers around the crate's edge and pull. It did not budge. Gainer called to Waylon. The big farmer fastened a grip on the wooden box, and three men strained together to no result.

Terrance said, Don't bother. There's a half-dozen full pallets stacked on top of that one. He shone the flashlight around. Over there!"

He'd found a pallet jack. Craig hastened to it, wrapped unfamiliar hands around the handle, pulled and swore venomously when the leading wheels turned an abrupt ninety degrees, grinding against the floor.

Gainer grabbed the jack's handle. Let me! I worked with these lots'a times!

He expertly maneuvered the jack into position, the pushed it under the skid hosting one of the offending crates. He pumped on the handle, hydraulics raising the skid and those stacked on top. Spike screeched as wood shards pierced his neck.

"Fuck!" screamed Craig.

Gainer tugged the stack to the side and the Rottweiler shot free, stumbling back with a yelp onto its haunches. The humans gaped when the dog launched with no hesitation at all at the now wider space between crates. This time Spike got head and shoulders wedged in place. Craig snatched the pallet jack's handle from Gainer's hands and heaved the stack of crates to one side. The six-crate tower swayed.

Terrance yelled, Look out! pushing aside Rudy and Maria.

The crate stack toppled. A second later a splinter-shrapnel Ka-Boom! erupted Styrofoam and heavy machine parts clanging across the floor.

Now Spike had an open path to his goal. The big dog lunged, his throaty triumph-growl alerting his half-blind partner. Otto had been sitting back on his haunches, licking his penis to soothe the agony of his eye. Suddenly oblivious to personal injury, Otto charged after his brother, howling and disappearing among pallets and crates, ignoring Terrance's command to "Heel! Heel! Heel!"

9

Alex huddled shivering in the darkness next to the queen. Three mewling kits lay on the floor's concrete-cold beneath the mother cat. She mewed distress and purred reassurance, the resulting tones the voice of chaos—and it was chaos that hungered for the kittens, massive and black, growl-yelping so close by that the head-stuck Rottweiler's fetid breath sickened the dusty atmosphere.

Alex forced himself to calm down. He nipped at the queen's shoulder, was given the barest eye-blink from her. It was enough—in the moment when eyes met, feline minds touched, and Alex revealed the grim facts: they would die if they stayed here, she and he and the kits, torn to pieces by the two dogs. Her slanting eyes flashed her response: if she had to die to protect her kits, she would; he did not have to stay, but she would never leave her young to the slavering jaws of bloodthirsty beasts.

Alex inched as close as he dared to the furious, head-wedged dog. He even clawed a swipe at Spike's frothing face, thrilling to a power rush when blood welled on the dog's shiny nose. Then Alex heard the humans. He scampered upward to see them assembling below. He watched them manipulate a machine into place directly below him and just beside the trapped and wailing dog. The crate stack Alex stood on lurched up. He realized in a horrific second that these humans would clear the way to the queen for their blood-lusting dogs. He sped down to floor level as the crates jerked to the side, landing in a panicked stagger next to the queen, who hissed at him.

Alex screamed of imminent peril. But the queen was beyond caring—she had resigned herself to death. The Rottweiler's devil-dog face was barking and snapping closer now, spraying the cats in hot spittle. Barely holding the canine at bay, the crate stack cantered to one side, then fell with a crash. Alex leapt up and out of the way when Spike dove with a snarl into the narrow space. The little cat landed atop a cardboard box to see the queen claw-dancing on the back of a frenzied, chawing Spike.

Then Otto forced his way into the narrow confines, under the scrotum and belly of his brother, single eye and dripping snout finding the tiny, mewling balls of fur on the floor. In the time it takes