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The narrow alley ahead enticed with the rich scent of cat-mint. Most of the neighborhood’s swaggering toms had dropped in for a heady nip. The randy chorus at the Cat-ATONIC Bar surrounded a svelte Siamese. Amorous loungers watched rivals, slit-eyed, while the husky Maine Coon named Bouncer licked his claw sheaths, prepared to break up snarling fights. Tempers ran short, in the late summer heat. The scrappier males were on seasonal edge, hot to test their machismo before the fur-ripping brawling of autumn.
Scamper licked his sharp teeth. As eager himself for a rambunctious change, he marched past, primed to impress the slinky pussies who danced at the Cat-Ass-Trophy Club. Yet tonight, the stair with the balustrade loomed empty. No black beauties or coy little calicoes beckoned him on.
Instead, Scamper found himself knocked on his haunches by cats pelting helter-skelter. Fur on end, the whole kit’n caboodle ran in fear for their lives, darting under the sewer grates or streaking for shelter beneath the parked cars on the side street.
Scamper tensed, primed for unca
“Not on my turf!” Scamper snarled, and crouched. He launched into his best fighting leap. Yet his dagger-clawed swipe missed the coiling disturbance. Again, he was caught by surprise as a tendril snaked out of nowhere and clobbered him sideways.
Scamper picked himself up, spitting curses. The dark-doing lurked in the apartments above! No thanks to the rat, for withholding that detail. Such ill-news should have been dispatched in the first place, by way of a reliable messenger. Situations always turned hairball, whenever a rat told the truth!
Already, the invasive clot had grown monstrous. Its creeping shadow obscured half the alley, with Scamper unable to count the number and strength of the entrenched entanglements. He backed, green eyes slitted, dodging as another eruption shot off more strangling threads. The skyline above was choked under the pall. No good news: the least gleam of stars should have made the unca
Scamper hissed, stiff-legged and holding his ground. He was no coward! But what could he do? The entanglement si-phoned off color and life. Deep taproots had sunk into the sewers. Other murky tendrils seeped through open windows, invading the tenements above. Hapless sleepers inside were being snared by the web. The blast of their nightmares was spawning fresh wrack, feeding the unca
Scamper’s nape prickled. “Doesn’t that stink like unburied scat!” He had never seen human beings wreak such an insatiable pall. Though natural fear urged him to turn tail, he flexed his foreclaws and dug in to charge.
“You’re not pla
Scamper hissed, out of sorts with surprise. “Bouncer! Frag your tail, don’t sneak up while I’m on the job!”
The gray Maine Coon cat wrinkled his white nose and strolled abreast, his usual air of muscular unconcern rattled by trepidation. “Do you know what you’re doing, alone in the breach? Whatever that is, no question it’s screwed the prosperity of my establishment.”
“It could do worse than that.” Scamper bared his teeth. “Best scarper, pal. This is copper-cat business and no place for a civilian to be risking his scruff.”
Bouncer stretched, flexing twenty-five pounds of pure feline brawn, sleeked beneath a luxurious coat. “You’re a runt, by yourself,” he pointed out, reasonable.
“Size has nothing to do with superior agility,” Scamper declared, fiercely miffed. The Chief might assign larger toms to the slums. But in a tight scrap, sure as fire singed fur, the little cats often scored first. “Scram, friend. Now! Take the refugees and your kitty bar elsewhere until I’ve unraveled this mess.”
Bouncer curled his tail tip, amused. “I’ve no wish to relocate,” he said, more than tactfully tart, “or lose the ambience of the Cat-Ass-Trophy Club, if this festering trouble ruins the neighborhood. Howl as you like, that cluster hump’s swallowing more real estate for every second we waste in a hissy-fit.”
Scamper conceded that unpleasant point. He dared not risk any further delay, or call on the Chief for a backup squad. Late could become never if this dark-doing bloated past reach of containment. Besides, Bouncer’s moxie was lion-sized. Every thug dog unleashed in the district slunk out of its way to avoid his punitive claws.
“Survive this,” said Scamper, “I’ll owe you a leisurely meal at the Catfish Grill.”
“My treat, for cold shrimp at the Cater Wall.” Bouncer sniffed, still indignant. No copper tabby who defended his digs would be tackling an explosive eruption, alone.
Side by side, the mismatched pair of cats bounded forward, to Scamper’s last minute instructions. “Whatever happens, keep your head down! Duck the large tentacles. If you become hooked, fight back and kick as though the murder itself had sunk fangs in your bollocks! Once I pounce, join the tussle and dig into the entanglement. Snap the binding thread, and bolt for clear air. Don’t be trapped as the mess comes unraveled.”
The pair sprang in step. Then the web closed upon them. A thrill like electricity tingled their hair. The hungry cold of the dark-doing lashed out, insatiable, to overwhelm them. Scamper flattened, while the larger Maine Coon leaped over the obstructive shadow. Wind flicked at their tails, to the rasp of feline claws scrabbling against concrete. Bouncer yowled, then wheeled his bulk across Scamper’s path in avoidance.
“Pussyfoot civilian!” the smaller cat snarled. “Quit trying to protect me.”
“So neuter yourself!” Bouncer swore, his fur singed where a razor-edged ribbon had grazed him. “Dead is no use to anyone, pal. I know what my hide’s worth! Chief would rag me to mince if he should discover I’d hung your cat-sass out to dry.”
Scamper was left too breathless to argue. Fool heroics more likely would see them both killed, with the Chief at the barracks left none the wiser.
Bouncer kept pace, undeterred by good sense, as Scamper streaked onward, sca
How deep did this draining disturbance extend? Fear could not grapple the concept. Scamper sprinted, lungs burning. Dodging past coil upon inky coil, he found no safe chance for engagement. Bouncer wheezed, labored, his heavy coat never bred for exertion in summer heat.
We could die here, Scamper realized, cringing with shame. Should he fail to grapple the blight, it would drag a friend down along with him. The moment was lost, to turn back in escape. The dark-doing’s tumultuous chaos had swallowed them, blinding all sense of direction.
Hesitation would become no less fatal. Scamper bunched his hindquarters and pounced, snagging the nearest tendril. Teeth closed and claws ripped, to no avail. His grip met no resistance, no taut wrack of spiteful entanglement. He yowled, off-balanced and bashed topsy-turvy as the ruinous maelstrom closed over him. A growl, nearby, bespoke Bouncer’s attack. But greater bulk lent no advantage. The dark-doing writhed, its explosive ferocity unfazed by their combined assault.