Then it turned toward us.
“Why, hello there, Draaaaags… fancy meeting you here…”
The Persian sniffed. “It’s just a dog.”
“Sure it is,” I said. “Strut on out there and rake his nose. Maybe he’ll run away.”
“Don’t do it,” the Coon said. “That’s not just a dog. That beast has killed more cats than a bucket of rat poison.”
“Hey, hey, hey, Drags.” Bullets sauntered on into the cul-de-sac and sat down, his vast mottled tongue lolling sideways, trailing a stretching loop of drool. “Is that you under the burning garbage? Getting a little warm, are we, Drags?”
“Why don’t you come on over and find out, Bullets? You’ve still got one good eye. Bring it within reach.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he drawled. “Think I’ll just sit here and enjoy the smell of cooking cat.”
“Bullets?” the Persian said. “That’s the dog’s name?”
“It’s because he’s been shot so many times,” I said. “I mean, look at him.”
In the clearer light from the garbage above us, all the white scar patches showed clearly against his buff coat; he even had a pair on either side of his blackish dewlap. Bullets was bigger than any human I’ve ever seen, and probably tougher, too. “They say bullets can’t kill him. Maybe it’s true.”
“What’s a bullets?”
I stared at her. “Damn, sister, how sheltered are you?”
“Don’t snarl at me,” she sniffled. “I just-I don’t seem to quite understand how things work on the Outside…”
“Sniffed it out yet, Drags?” Bullets was laughing now. “Sniffed out what I already know?”
“You’d be surprised what I know.” I turned to the others. “All right. Get ready to move. I’ll go first and draw him off; I’m the one he wants, anyway. When he starts for me, run like hell for the hole in Knifewall.”
“We’ll all go at once. Every cat for himself,” Hacky said. “Maybe he only gets one of us, and maybe we all get away.”
“My tail how it is, I can’t leap very well any more. No balance. And I’d be clumsy enough scrambling over the rubble that he’ll probably take me anyway.” I sucked in a deep breath. “And he’s not the only one out there. You gotta look out for her, Hacky. You too, Coon. There’s other toms out there. You can all pitch in. It’s the only way.”
The Coon gave me a sidelong look. “Only way to what?”
“To survive, Coon. No more every cat for himself. We have to be more like humans.” More like dogs, I was thinking, but knew better than to say so. You have to walk before you can spring. “Make what I’m about to do count for something.”
“You’d-you’re doing this for me?” The Persian goggled at me. She sounded awed. “You’re so brave-! If only I could be brave!”
“There’s brave cats, and there’s live cats. Stick with the live ones,” I said, and went.
Bullets was so surprised to see me burst out from under the garbage box that I was past him before he even got his tail-stub off the ground. But he was fast, incredibly fast for a big dog, and I could feel the asphalt shake in time with the clatter of his toenails as he galloped after me. I zigged and sprang sideways, spinning in the air for a quick reverse, but he was right on top of me, so close I could smell the rotten meat on his breath, and I broke left, rolled, and jigged right, searching desperately for a tree I could go up or a wheeler I could duck under, but that was just instinct-
And if you can only follow your instincts, you might as well be a dog.
Because ahead, only a couple dozen strides away, was a Calico, big as life, and he had one of the long slim guns of theirs already in his hands and all I needed in this life or any of my next was to reach the Calico’s legs-but jaws closed on my tail and I let out a screech and I was yanked off the ground and flying through the air and I tried to spin my crippled tail but of course it only made it worse and I crashed into a corner of the Bleach & Ammonia House flank first so hard that I hit the ground on my back and could only lay there, gasping, while Bullets pounced on me, both his huge paws coming down on my ribs, which made a crackling sound like the fake skins humans put food in, and I tasted blood.
And I looked up at him and smiled.
Bullets’ jaws opened wider than the whole rest of my life. “What’s so funny, dead cat?”
Which was when the Calico’s gun made that brdddow! noise, and an invisible boot slammed Bullets in the chest and knocked him past me and down.
“Told you…” I gasped. “… you’d be surprised.”
“How did you…” Bullets tried to rise, but blood burst from his mouth and he sagged back down on his side, panting. “How…?”
“Calicoes hate dogs,” I said. “Don’t you know anything?”
I managed to get to my feet. It hurt. “Their long-time-ago breed sire belonged to cats. The humans still tell the story of how he cut off part of his cloth-skin so he could go pray without waking up his master, who was asleep on his sleeve.”
“So smart…” Bullets’ panting was going ragged now. “So smart… but you don’t know… don’t know about your fluffy bitch…”
“Of course I know, you stupid pooch.”
“You knew…?”
“That’s she’s a neuter? Hell, so am I. I was a house cat, idiot. You think full toms would cooperate? But they will now. They’ll stick together, waiting for her to go into heat. I wouldn’t give a marking squirt for the chances of your pack ever taking another one of those cats. Not that it’s your problem any more.”
“You wait,” Bullets panted. “I’ll live through this. I’ll be back.”
“Don’t think so.”
The Calico walked over, angling his gun down toward Bullets’ head.
“Don’t-don’t do it-” Bullets panted up at him. “Don’t-can’t you see I love you-?”
The Calico answered him with a burst of gun shots.
Bullets, as it turned out, wasn’t as gun-proof as his reputation suggested.
The Calico reached down with an empty hand, and I let him pet me. I even purred and rubbed along his legs a little. Sure, the Calicoes had killed my people, but I’m no bigot. They’re only humans, after all. It’s not like they can help themselves.
When the Calico wandered off, I went and sampled some of Bullets’ blood.
It tasted like victory.
FATHER MAIMS BEST by Ed Greenwood
The ghost was a pale blue, which meant that it was angry about something. Or someone. Quite possibly whoever had cut its head off, leaving the wraith floating along after its severed part, forever reaching vainly for that grisly, spectral-gore-dripping ball with both hands. It drifted past us almost blindly, heading for a blank wall that it would no doubt vanish through.
Interesting, but I hadn’t time to find out more, just now; it wasn’t our ghost. That is, one we were being paid to get rid of.
Myself, I’m not sure why living humans so fervently want dead humans-restless humans, or ghosts, in particular-to be somewhere else. After all, they gobble down dead things on their plates all the time, silently gibbering little phantoms and all, and think nothing of it. Unless the beef is tough or the turkey overdone.
But I digress. Not surprising, that; it’s what I do. “Sam & Abernathy/Paranormal Investigations and Digressions,” say the sign and all the business cards Steve is forever handing out. People always handle them gingerly, for some reason, or even with open, nostril-flaring distaste.
Almost as often as they examine me with pained expressions and start to explain some sort of “no pets” policy. Steve doesn’t bother interrupting anymore. He just lets them finish and then explains that we’re partners, a team. He’s the “Abernathy” part, and I’m “Sam.” Samiris-Sekhmet, in full, though that was a long time ago. Royal blood, of course, though that meant nothing back then. I picked up “Samratharella” several owners ago, and I prefer it.