Pulphouse Fiction Magazine: Issue #6: Pulphouse, #6

By Annie Reed, Brenda Carre, J. Steven York and 11 more

The Cutting Edge of Modern Short Fiction

A three-time Hugo Award nominated magazine, this issue of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine offers up fifteen fantastic stories by some of the best writers working in modern short fiction. No genre limitations, no topic limitations, just great stories. Attitude, feel, and high quality fiction equals Pulphouse.

"This is definitely a strong start. All the stories have a lot of life to them, and are worthwhile reading."—Tangent Online on Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Issue #1

Includes

"The Fur Tsunami" by Kent Patterson

"Unnatural Law" by J. Steven York

"A Cherub by Any Other Name" by Annie Reed

"PMS and a Hand Grenade" by Brenda Carre

"The Disappearing Neighborhood" by Robert J. McCarter

"Hello Brain, It's Me" by Ray Vukcevich

"Eye of Newt: A Dan Shamble Zombie P.I. Adventure" by Kevin J. Anderson

"Knock on Wood" by Rob Vagle

"Featuring Martin and Lewis" by O'Neil De Noux

"Double Date" by William Oday

"Sleeping with the Devil" by Kelly Washington

"Upgrade? Up Yours" by Jerry Oltion

"Between" by M. L. Buchman

"The Thousandth Atlas" by Robert Jeschonek

"The Injustice Collector" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"Minions at Work: Burn Noticed" by J Steven York

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Apr 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386587736

Annie Reed

Award-winning author and editor Kristine Kathryn Rusch calls Annie Reed “one of the best writers I’ve come across in years.”Annie’s won recognition for her stellar writing across multiple genres. Her story “The Color of Guilt” originally published in Fiction River: Hidden in Crime, was selected as one of The Best Crime and Mystery Stories 2016. Her story “One Sun, No Waiting” was one of the first science fiction stories honored with a literary fellowship award by the Nevada Arts Foundation, and her novel PRETTY LITTLE HORSES was among the finalists in the Best First Private Eye Novel sponsored by St. Martin’s Press and the Private Eye Writers of America.A frequent contributor to the Fiction River anthologies and Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Annie’s recent work includes the superhero origin novel FASTER, the near-future science fiction short novel IN DREAMS, and UNBROKEN FAMILIAR, a gritty urban fantasy mystery short novel. Annie’s also one of the founding members of the innovative Uncollected Anthology, a quarterly series of themed urban fantasy stories written by some of the best writers working today.Annie’s mystery novels include the Abby Maxon private investigator novels PRETTY LITTLE HORSES and PAPER BULLETS, the Jill Jordan mystery A DEATH IN CUMBERLAND, and the suspense novel SHADOW LIFE, written under the name Kris Sparks, as well as numerous other projects she can’t wait to get to. For more information about Annie, including news about upcoming bundles and publications, go to www.annie-reed.com.

Book preview

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Issue Six, Spring 2019

Edited by

Dean Wesley Smith

WMG Publishing Inc.

Contents

From the Editor’s Desk: Pulphouse Books Are Back…

Kent Patterson

The Fur Tsunami

J. Steven York

Unnatural Law

Annie Reed

A Cherub by Any Other Name

Brenda Carre

PMS and a Hand Grenade

Robert J. McCarter

The Disappearing Neighborhood

Ray Vukcevich

Hello Brain, It’s Me

Kevin J. Anderson

Eye of Newt

Rob Vagle

Knock on Wood

O’Neil De Noux

Featuring Martin and Lewis

William Oday

Double Date

Kelly Washington

Sleeping With the Devil

Jerry Oltion

Upgrade? Up Yours

M. L. Buchman

Between

Robert Jeschonek

The Thousandth Atlas

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

The Injustice Collector

J. Steven York

Minions at Work: Burn Noticed

Subscriptions

From the Editor’s Desk: Pulphouse Books Are Back…

Well, sort of. Actually they are WMG Publishing Inc. books, but two of them are made up of stories from the first issues of this magazine. And the third anthology I am buying new stories for at the moment.

If you followed the first Pulphouse Fiction Magazine Kickstarter from two years ago, you will have already gotten a copy of the first of these new books, You Really Liked That?

You Really Liked That?

Basically, that book is full of some of the strangest, wildest, and flat head-shaking stories from the first five issues. They are the stories that readers made a comment to me about, or that a reviewer liked, or that was mentioned in a good way somewhere else.

In other words, a reader’s choice book.

And wow does it have some fun stories in it. I got to put it together and I had to start off with the story that got the absolute most attention. Kent Patterson’s Spud Wrangler, a story about a spud cowboy having to stop a stampede of Idaho bakers.

The book would be a fantastic gift for anyone who loves to read and loves great, off-center fiction.

A second book to come out later this spring that will be full of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine stories is No Way! Totally Twisted Tales.

Again, the stories in that book will be from the first five issues and the book was also a reward if you supported the first Kickstarter campaign for the magazine.

No Way!

And the last Pulphouse book this year I am putting together now as I write this introduction. It will be full of all original stories written for the anthology and then I will reverse the process of the first two books after the book is published and put the stories from the book over the next year or so in the pages of the magazine.

So if you want to read quickly an entire volume of new Pulphouse stories, you will need to get the book.

The title of that book is Snot-Nosed Aliens and it will come out right before the second Pulphouse Kickstarter in August. Of course, if you supported the first Kickstarter campaign, you will automatically get the book.

Snot-Nosed Aliens

During the second Kickstarter campaign this coming August, we will announce some new books to come out in the coming two years.

But this spring and summer we have three fun, really crazy anthologies full of Pulphouse stories. Thanks everyone, for the support way back when in that first Kickstarter campaign. And I hope you enjoy the books.

I am sure having fun putting them together.

---

—Dean Wesley Smith

Las Vegas, Nevada

The Fur Tsunami

Kent Patterson

The Fur Tsunami

I published many of Kent Patterson’s stories in the original Pulphouse Magazine and it is again my pleasure to bring his strange and wonderful stories back to a new and modern audience.

But this story leading off this issue is something very, very special. Not only is it a crazy and wild typical Kent story, but it is the last original Kent story. That’s right, it has never before been published. He wrote it right before his untimely death and it has never seen the light of day until now. (Thanks go to Jerry Oltion for saving this wonderful story over all the years.)

During Kent’s short stint writing fiction before his untimely death, he had sold to F&SF, Analog, Pulphouse, and many other magazines. I hope over the next few years to keeping bringing back most of those stories, if not all, for modern readers. But sadly, this fantastic story will be the only actual original story. Enjoy!

Contrary to everything Madeline Cavil had learned in twenty-two years attending the Women in Transition seminar, cats weren’t more reliable than men. Madeline was reminded of that the moment she stepped into her house, the sack of canned cat food riding painfully against her hip, and closed the door behind her.

No concerned meows. No patter of little paws. No warm furry bodies rubbing her ankles.

Only the stench of unchanged kitty litter and the claw marks on her replica Chesterfield sofa proved she even had cats. They couldn’t be bothered to greet her, but they had time to knock all her framed photos off her corner display case. They hadn’t missed her favorite, herself in a long blue dress fluffed up with crinolines. The bell skirt made her waist look tiny. She’d nearly won runner-up to Miss Central High Homecoming Queen of 1956 with that dress.

The cans in the grocery sack hurt her hip, so she went into the kitchen and set the sack on the table.

No cats.

Elvis, she shouted. Everly. Here, Eartha Kitty. Here kitty, kitty.

She listened. Only the refrigerator purred.

Madeline hated coming home to an empty house. It reminded her of Ansel and That Awful Night.

Here kitty, kitty. Madeline’s voice echoed from the Formica counters and tiled floor.

No cats. Not even Elvis, an elderly gentleman cat who never went far.

As usual, she would have to offer a bribe. She took a can of Kitty Sahmon, the new artificial salmon her cats loved, and dropped it into the electric can opener.

The can opener whined and whined. Madeline strained her ears.

Still no cats.

A cool finger of fear flicked her backbone. Something was wrong.

The phone rang.

It was Nancy Hatter. Oh, Maddy, have you seen Miss Kitty? I thought she might be with Elvis. Nancy liked to pretend there was something going on between Elvis and Miss Kitty. Fat chance. Elvis could see through that tramp in a second.

She’s been gone for ages, Nancy said. And Carol called. She hasn’t seen Fluffy or Thomasina since lunch.

The cool finger of fear became a skeleton hand. I haven’t seen any of them, Madeline said. She rang off before Nancy could say anything more, and went outside.

The sun was setting, the air cool, with summer here but fall on its way. Madeline glanced down the street at the long row of houses, every fifth one with a two-car garage and a bay window exactly like hers.

Madeline gasped. In front of nearly every house, her friends and neighbors stood on the sidewalk, calling their cats.

Here, kitty, kitty.

Hey, cat, cat, cat.

Miss Mar-r-r-ple.

More people came out, bellowing, shouting, screaming cat names until they all blended together in one demonic symphony of cat calls. Even Tracy next door, a totally insensitive girl practically naked in French-cut short shorts and halter top, went from shrub to shrub, poking each one with a broomstick.

No cats.

How could this be? Dogs? Madeline could hear a distant yapping, but she knew that was only Pierre, a half-blind poodle less dangerous than a mouse. Cat nappers, then. Poor, poor Elvis and Everly and Eartha Kitty. But who could nap a whole neighborhood of cats? And why? Madeline’s lips turned thin. She’d heard things about some recent immigrants to this country she just didn’t want to believe.

Madeline joined the others and searched until dark. Incredible how many cat-sized hiding places lurked in a respectable neighborhood. Even more incredible how many involved climbing or crawling, not easy for a lady of Madeline’s age and mature figure. She cut her knee on a piece of glass and ripped her blouse on a rusty nail. And men do stare if a woman bends over. Every woman resents that.

Except Tracy.

It was not until after dark and she had given up the search and gone inside that Madeline realized, finally, that she might never see her cats again. She nuked a mug of water in the microwave and made some tea, then went straight to the TV. She didn’t have heart enough to eat. Her favorite game show failed to cheer her up. Even when a woman guessed the secret word and won a genuine oak veneer combination hope chest and vanity table, and she squealed and jumped up and down like a proper game show contestant, Madeline sat like a lump, as if it didn’t matter.

All the time she listened for a hint of a paw fall, a tiny mew, the flap of the cat door. Nothing. It was as bad as That Awful Night.

She’d been waiting for The Johnny Carson Show on That Awful Night.

Let’s not watch TV tonight. It’s so boring, Ansel had said, coming in the door from who knew where. Madeline could smell beer on his breath. She was sure of it.

Boring? How can you call Johnny Carson boring? she’d said, turning back to the set. She’d watched Johnny for years, seen him grow and change. She liked to think of herself as part of the Carson family. Johnny wasn’t a husband or brother, not exactly; more like a kind old uncle, and very clever.

Ansel said nothing for the entire monologue. Then, still in that same quiet voice, he’d plunged a knife into her heart.

You’re right. It’s not Carson I’m bored with. It’s you.

He’d packed and gone right in the middle of Johnny’s guest, not even waiting for a commercial break so Madeline could say goodbye. Next week he’d moved in with a cheerleader.

A cheerleader, mind you.

The house creaked. Instantly Madeline sat up straight, but it wasn’t a cat. A dozen times in the next hour she started to attention, but always it was the wind, or a car on the street, or the house settling.

Madeline seldom drank. Well, hardly ever. But tonight was just too depressing. She poured a glass of sherry, then another and another.

Next morning her head felt like someone had driven a nail into it. For a second, she reached out to pet Elvis, then remembered.

No cats. No damp nose pressing against her cheek. No furry faces urging her to get up and open the Kitty Sahmon. Madeline could even move her toes under the sheets without being attacked.

She was utterly alone.

Feeling miserable, she dialed Linda Sunbright, her Women in Transition counselor, but the line was busy.

Feeling more lost than ever, she went into the living room and turned on the TV.

Cats. In a picture taken from high overhead, the TV screen showed thousands of cats marching through a grassy field, thousands more trotting along a river bank somewhere else, and yet more thousands in some mountain valley. Then the screen shifted to a newsroom. A man and a woman sat behind a desk with the huge image of a cat behind them with the words Cat Exodus underneath. Alternating sentences TV anchor style, the couple announced that sometime the day before, nearly every cat in the nation not actually locked up had run away, and now vast armies of cats were tramping across the country, destination unknown.

Then they switched to on-the-spot reporters who described what Madeline could see on the screen, then switched again to five-second sound bites from a cat owner, two cat scientists, three cat psychics, and Rush Limbaugh, who blamed the Democrats. None of it made any sense.

Madeline ran and dialed Linda Sunbright again, but the line was still busy.

Then she made tea, nuked a TV breakfast, and ran back to the living room to watch the cat exodus unfold.

The news got worse. Cat exodus fever had hit the United States hardest of all, but even in Europe, millions of cats were making their way to London, Marseilles, Barcelona. In fact, because of the much shorter distances involved, it had become obvious in England that the cats were all headed for seaports in the south. In the United States, they headed for the Eastern Seaboard.

At last Madeline broke through to Linda Sunbright. She told Linda about losing her cats, and how this reminded her of That Awful Night, which she thought was a Personal Insight, and…

Please, Maddy. Couldn’t we cut this short? said Linda. I’ve been getting these calls since three this morning. I haven’t had time to brush my teeth, much less get breakfast. I’ve heard the Awful Night story before. Many times. Many, many times. I’m glad you had a Personal Insight. You’re overdue for one. Now please let me get dressed.

Linda hung up. The phone hummed like a kitten purring. For a long time, Madeline stared at the wall with the phone to her ear. In twenty-two years, she had never known Linda to be so rude. Flushing red, she hung up the phone.

She’d lost her cats, she’d lost her counselor. Could anything be worse?

She had a good cry, going with her feelings and expressing her emotions like Linda Sunbright recommended.

It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Finally she dried her eyes and turned to the TV.

The Cat Exodus dominated every channel. Huge droves of cats clogged roads and bridges. The police and National Guard blocked off entire areas. They set out stacks of Kitty Sahmon. Using recordings of can openers blasted from loud speakers, they tried to lure cats into cages.

Nothing worked.

For hours, Madeline watched the desperate efforts to save the cats. She wished the helicopters would fly lower so that she could pick out Elvis, Everly, and Eartha Kitty. Reporters told story after story of cats hungry, footsore, yet pushing on and on without reason.

Finally something snapped. The worry, the loneliness, the blatting of the TV, the purr, purr, purr of the refrigerator, all drove Madeline beyond endurance. She could bear the waiting no longer. She must do something.

But what could she do? In a flash, she realized that this was, in a nutshell, the story of her life. Always waiting for someone to do something. This time, she’d do it herself.

Starting with her best nightgown, Madeline packed two suitcases, an airline carry-on bag, and a crate of Kitty Sahmon into her station wagon. Enough to stay overnight, if she had to.

Next morning early, she drove to the head of the nearest cat throng. It wasn’t easy. She wasn’t the only cat lover to get the same idea. As she got near, cars ran bumper to bumper, stopping, creeping forward a few feet, then stopping again. The idiot behind her honked and honked, though he could see perfectly well there was nothing she could do. Helicopters whirred overhead, and police sirens howled in the distance.

At last she reached an exit ahead of the cat horde, only to find it blocked off by police cars. Madeline used an expression which, in her girlhood days, she would have denied knowing. A few miles farther, she found a rest stop and managed to squeeze the station wagon into the No Parking area between a semi truck and a motor home.

No one would keep her away from her own cats.

Outside, it began to drizzle. Wouldn’t you know it, Little Miss Practical had packed mascara, deodorant, and a hair dryer, but had forgotten a raincoat or a decent pair of walking shoes. She giggled at her own stupidity, then laughed aloud. Full speed ahead and damn the black pumps. She stepped out of the car into the rain, heading toward the amplified sounds of the can openers.

For more than an hour she squished along, her shoes sogging into mush like wet cardboard. Showers came from a sky that looked like a solid wall of gray tabbys. Rain seeped through Madeline’s clothes. Now she knew how Elvis felt the day he fell into the bathwater. She wondered how he felt now. He wasn’t a kitten anymore; he must be suffering. The thought spurred her on.

At last she came to a low hill. Men in army uniforms unloaded boxes of Kitty Sahmon from trucks while others set out pans of milk and water. Under the noise of the trucks and the amplified can opener sounds Madeline could hear something else, something strange and electric she couldn’t identify.

Hoping to rest for a second, she leaned against one of the trucks.

Hey, lady, a soldier shouted. Get back. No civilians allowed. Go back. Amazed, Madeline noted he was a woman. Not that she seemed all that sisterly. Madeline ignored her.

The soldier jumped down from the truck, determined to be a pest. Just then a man’s voice roared over the loudspeakers, Prepare to abandon base. Madeline glanced up at the rim of the hill and saw why.

Cats. Cats yellow and gray and every cat color there ever was, short-tailed cats, long-tailed and no-tailed cats, pedigree cats and alley cats, spike-tailed kittens and graying old toms. A carpet of millions of marching cats moved down the hill, rippling over the ground like a wave, a sea, a fur tsunami.

Madeline tried to call her cats, but her cheerful Here, kitty, kitty died in her throat. How could she distinguish one little droplet of Elvis or Eartha Kitty in a raging sea of cats? Obsessed cats. She could see their inhuman eyes glowing in the truck headlights.

Now the fur tsunami pounced down the hill, moving with feline grace and speed. Abandon base on the double! the bullhorns bellowed. Strong hands seized Madeline from behind, lifting her up and dumping her into the truck. Engine roaring, the truck backed, turned, and sped away.

Madeline made it back home about midnight. She flung her wet clothes into the dryer, poured herself a glass of sherry, and soaked herself in the tub with the water as hot as she could stand. She felt too depressed to cry. For once in her life she had really done something on her own, and failed utterly. If it weren’t for that snotty girl in the soldier suit, she would have been drowned in a sea of cats. She’d been so naïve, so dumb, dumb, dumb. She could never have recognized her cats among all those millions of others. Even if she did, so what? She couldn’t swoop down like a chicken hawk and pick them up. Nothing she could do. She wished Ansel…

After all those years, she wished Ansel would dump little Miss Sis Boom Bah and come back to take care of her? Was that what she wanted? She’d always been taken care of. Daddy had left her money—a trust fund that paid quarterly, a no-trust fund really, since he didn’t trust her with the principal. Ansel had left her the house.

Ansel had left her, too, and now she got a glimmer why and didn’t like it. That loud-mouthed girl soldier had a million times Madeline’s gumption. Even Tracy, the exhibitionist naked girl next door, worked downtown, paid her own way, and had roaring great battles with her lunk of a boyfriend.

It was a Personal Insight, sort of, though not nearly as nice as the ones she got from