Catopolis

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.

Scamper snapped and bit. He lashed with his claws, seeking for the pattern inside the morass: the hard tie of malice that locked two human beings into mutual hatred. Yet his raking search exposed nothing. No knot existed, to break in release. This mangle of animate thought-stream did not harbor so much as a vicious kink.

Something else was horribly wrong. Claws and teeth sliced only an inchoate emptiness that seared feline instincts with dread. This dark-doing was like no other before. No trained skill, and no trick Scamper knew could unravel the horrible force of it

Now desperate, the cats grappled elusive, black lightning. Neither could see how the other one fared. Exhausted and tumbling, Scamper thrashed as a tendril noosed over his chest. It tightened, driving the breath from his body and throttling him dizzy.

Last sensation, he felt Bouncer’s teeth on his nape, then a tug, before sliding headlong into darkness.

Scamper woke to the scrape of another cat’s tongue rasping across his shut eyelids. He blinked, stirred in protest, shook his aching head. As his bleary vision recovered, he focused on a familiar face.

That worried, green eye, mangled ear, and marmalade nose marked with scars bespoke alley origins and roughneck experience.

“Chief?” Scamper coughed and tried to arise.

The older cat’s paw knocked him prostrate. “You bit off more than one copper could chew!” Chief’s reprimand granted no grace for excuses. “Good thing that Bouncer dragged you to safety!”

Scamper sucked a deep breath. His ribs hurt. His throat stung. He reeked of singed fur and, more faintly, of the sardines the Chief had been munching before being called to the scene. Collapsed in the gutter between two parked cars, Scamper turned his concern back toward the infested alley. “Has the crisis been tamed?”