Chapter 2 - White Cat

www.FrightenedBoy.com

2.  White Cat

 

“What the hell is your problem?” I huffed as we put the building behind us. 

“I’m not usually like this, I promise.  I just…” she said as her voice cracked, eyes watered.  “I don’t know what to do.  I don’t have anything.  I don’t have anywhere to go.  They were going to send me into the Red! I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.  I’ll go. I’m so sorry for what happened.” 

Erika Bronton turned and began to walk away. 

She was a beautiful girl, and I hated to see her cry. Even more, though, I hated the way she’d almost gotten me exiled from the city.  I decided to let her keep walking.

Except, before she was more than ten feet away from me, she stopped and turned back.  This time she was smiling. 

“Wait,” she said.  “Maybe it is a sign.  Maybe this means something, you know? Like fate.”

“There’s no fate,” I said.  “It’s getting dark anyway, and I need to be getting home.” 

Erika walked back over to me and looked directly into my eyes.  We were about the same height.  I diverted my gaze to her full, curvaceous mouth, glistening where her wet, pink tongue rose from her warm depths like a shark fin to lightly caress and moisten her top lip. 

"Tell me about yourself," she said. "Come on, I will walk with you."

I didn't really want her walking with me. First, I didn't know the area very well. Second, she might figure out where I lived.

 Erika turned and pressed her shoulder into mine. She took a step forward, and I did too.

"I am a security guard, sort of.  At Tasumec Tower." I pointed at the skyline of downtown Banlo Bay. "That big grey building."

"The tallest one?"

"That's the one."

"You must be very brave, to be a security guard," she cooed.

I laughed; at first reflexively, then again at the notion I might be brave. "You are the first person ever to think that. I just watch the security cameras all day, I don't even have a gun. What do you do?"

“I’m an artist,” she said, sounding very serious about it.

“I see."

“Some people don’t think it’s important anymore, the way things are,” she lifted her hands and presented Banlo Bay and its tenuous grip on order to me.  “I think it’s even more important.  If we forget about art, what do we have left?” 

Our lives, for one.

She looked at me expectantly, so I asked her for more information. “Alright, so what kind of art do you do?”

“I’m a Situationalist,” she said.  “You know, a performance artist"an actor.  It’s like being in a play except everywhere is the stage and everyone is a performer whether they know it or not." 

“For instance?” I asked.

“For instance, once I covered myself in fake blood and lay in an alleyway for two days straight.  And then another time, I dressed up like Santa Claus and passed out toys straight from the shelves of department stores.”

“Sounds crazy,” I said honestly.

“I was involved in a sort of protest with my art once, and I got arrested for it.  That’s why I had to give them a fake name. They won’t let me live here otherwise.” 

“A protest?” I asked.

“It was noble, I promise. So, where do you live?"

Gulp. "Y'know, over there.  What about you?"

"I'm homeless, since yesterday. Tonight will be my first night on the streets, you know. I hope I survive."

I sighed.  Here it came. I tried to cut her off preemptively - I hadn't survived the collapse of the civilized world by falling for simple cons. "You know, I am barely surviving on my own. Probably going to lose the place soon, I just can't afford it. And it's a bad neighborhood, you know?"

We crossed another street. We were moving away from downtown, which meant things were getting progressively more dangerous. I never strayed; this girl was trouble.

Erika stopped walking, folded her arms. "I guess I'll just sleep here, then."

The brick building to our left was abandoned and boarded closed. Trash strewn the streets, and only bent and huddled figures clad in filthy clothes scurried in and out the alleys surrounding us. A far cry from the gleaming cleanliness of downtown, where I worked.

She turned and stepped over to the building, sitting down and resting her back against it. "This is home now." Her voice cracked.

"Well, good luck," I said.

She scoffed in disbelief. I turned and began walking away.

"You would just let me die out here?" she called. "What kind of man are you?"

"A survivor," I said.

 

I heard the dual click-clack of sandaled feet behind me; I thrust my hands into my pockets and kept walking forward. Not even sure where I was anymore, but I couldn’t go home with her following me.

"You just inspired me," she said, as though that meant something. I felt her shoulder rub mine again. "I have an idea for a Happening."

I sighed. "What's a Happening?"

“A piece of art that I do.  Sometimes they last for months.  I’m going to start a new project, and I need a subject.  The way you saved me in there, the way you asked me to trust you"and then the way you abandoned me…I had this moment of inspiration, this divine spark.  I know what my next piece will be, and you’re going to be it,” she said.

“No way.  The spotlight is really not my thing, trust me.” 

“No, look… just hear me out. I think what I want to do is, I want to pick one person"that's you"and just worship them for like half a year."

"Worship them?" I asked, not quite sure I wanted to understand what she was talking about.

"Yeah, you know, I'll believe everything they say or do must be absolutely correct, because that person will be God. Because maybe all that's important is devotion, you know? Hundreds of different types of believers across the Earth, and they all feel good about it. Maybe I can prove it doesn't matter who God is.  Then, after it’s over, I'll write about how it worked out"I have to have publishing rights to the whole thing, not you"and bam! Good story, right?” 

I fumbled through her feed.

“I’m trying to prove the act of believing in something is more important than what you believe in,” she offered.

“It’s a cool idea, I guess, but I’m not your guy. I’m not omnipotent - hell, I'm not even potent. Worshipping me is a terrible idea.”

She reached for my hand, squeezed it. I froze.

"You know what I am saying, right? I will do whatever you want. Anything. For months. Please, just don't make me sleep out here."

"Will you leave me alone?"

"Please, Clark. The police are going to find me, they're going to send me out into the Red. You know what happens to girls like me out there? We get raped, we become slaves. Would you do that to me?"

I have watched more terrible things happen to people than I care to remember. The only reason I wasn't one of them, was because of my ability to keep my mouth shut and stay hidden.

I began walking again.

“So, where do you live?” her cheery voice sounded off behind me.

It looked like she was going to Happen all over me whether I liked it or not.

“I’m not telling you,” I said, “because you’re not coming.  I don’t know you.  What am I doing even talking with you?  I must be out of my mind.”

My ears were pricked by the howl of a dog; I turned to see if I could spot the animal.  There was no trash on the streets; people knew it would invite trouble.  The feral dogs were a big problem.

I hated dogs.  People got bitten, torn up, infected, and died because of the beasts.  Meningitis, rabies, bacteria… I’d heard even their ticks would get you killed.

“I’ll protect you,” she offered, noticing my nervous glances.  She walked up close to me and put her arm around mine.  “I’ll do anything for you. Anything."

It wasn’t comforting. Instead, it was another alien act in the day’s abduction that put me off center and made me nervous.

“I don’t understand why you’d want to do this.  Do you just need a place to stay?  I can let you stay with me, maybe for a night.  You don’t have to do all this weird s**t if you’re just desperate,” I said finally. 

Erika stiffened.  “Of course not.  It’s an experiment, like I told you.  I am not a beggar, I am an artist.  What you are doing is the same as standing still so I can paint your portrait,” she reasoned.

So that’s how she kept her pride. Not a prostitute, just an actor playing one.

“Except you’ll be sleeping in my house.  Eating my food.”

“Gods are supposed to provide for their worshippers.”

“For months, though, and you’ll be living with me.”

“It’s gotta be real.  I will be the greatest devotee you’ve ever had, I swear. I'm a performance artist, and you're my next piece."

 

Another howl cracked the silence, this one much closer. I became very aware that Erika and I were alone in an abandoned part of the city.  Two hunched canine figures materialized out of their shadowy surroundings: a lean brown dog with a long torso and a muscular blonde dog with shaggy hair.  Each were indecipherable mutt mixes that were a standing testament to the Darwinian triumph of their ancestors.  They were about thirty feet away, down the street.

The canines trotted down the street directly toward us. Erika and I froze. Many citizens had been mauled by the animals, who along with the cats and rats overtook abandoned portions of the city. 

“Get out of here!” I shouted shakily.

The dogs didn’t understand, or else didn't care. 

Erika moved stiffly to pick up a rock from the curb and threw it.  It clattered harmlessly on the ground in front of them; both dogs sniffed it idly and kept moving toward us. 

“Don’t run,” she said.

I wanted to run. As the dogs approached a low vibration shook the air; the quiet growl of a hunting dog. The two animals separated, so that we were flanked by the two as they closed the gap between us.

“We need to run.”

“They’ll just chase you, don’t run,” Erika hissed.

The dog turned its attention toward me.  It was snarling now, the hair on the back of its mangy neck making an effort to rise from the matted, greasy hide. 

It paused a few feet away.  We made eye contact.  I could see its simple mind coming to a deadly decision.  It crouched down on its haunches, preparing to leap at me.  The muscles wound tightly, compacting into a dangerous dense space.

“Clark!” Erika cried in a sharp warning. 

The dog hunched, snapping its jaws.

“It’s okay, Erika,” I said.  My voice was so shaky like I was speaking into a fan.  I was twelve years old again, hiding in a closet while drifters ripped the walls apart to pilfer our copper wiring.

“It’s okay, Erika,” I repeated. 

If dogs could really sense anxiety, I must have looked like a wounded rabbit to them.  There were fifty flavors of fear peaking through my pores. 

I blinked.  The dog leapt.  I ran.  

 

As I took off down the street, I could sense the dogs shadowing me.  This only fueled the cycle, and my legs struck the ground with frenzied renewal.

Again, I heard that soft baying moan, the guttural growl. I pushed even harder until the only feeling in my body was the dull pain of my feet pounding the concrete.  I didn’t have to look behind me to know they were keeping pace with me; their hungry, rhythmic panting was a sick chorus in my ears.  I flitted in and out of alleyways, looking for anything to dart up or into.

At last I spotted a fire escape ladder hanging from one of the buildings and I clambered up it, weightless in my fear.  All I could think about was the approaching onslaught of fang and claw; of the dull pressure of a dog bite jerking my body; the sensation of being torn apart drowned out by the shock of losing limbs.

I was only a few feet off the ground when the dogs slowly turned the corner into the alleyway.  Two more canines had joined in the hunt.  I watched them slink slyly up to where I hid, and in a moment I was surrounded.  

All four resumed barking in unison.  I was possessed by the bulging eyes and wet fangs of the grotesque quartet.

Erika turned the corner and shouted my name.  I saw fright wash over her as she spotted the four dogs that kept me trapped up on the ladder.  One by one, the dogs’ eyes turned from me to her. 

A shrill whistle shattered the tension and left all parties looking about nervously.

The dogs, myself, and Erika all stared down the alleyway at an approaching figure.  A woman with spectacularly thick, dark hair and olive skin, wrapped in a flowing trench coat and charcoal-colored scarf, and crowned by a towering gray hat - cone-shaped with a wide brim. She walked regally down the opposite end of the alley, moving toward us. 

The newcomer was trailed by a cavalry of cats.  They slithered like sea snakes through the trashcans and boxes that littered the alley.  Dozens of pairs of glowing yellow eyes would appear from under some refuse in the alley and then dip into the veil of darkness, only to reappear alongside her a few feet ahead.  It was impossible to gauge how many animals followed her. Their eyes twinkled like a swarm of fireflies, giving her all the impression of some luminous faerie creature.

She was undoubtedly and very obviously a Stranger"the most dangerous entity to run across outside, particularly at night.  They walked the untamed darkness with no regard for their own safety, a part of some deeper plot that should not involve average citizens.  It seemed to me that they were somehow in cahoots with the dangers of the night; they were on the same team as the beasts and poisons. 

The woman walked into the alleyway corner where our drama was unfolding.  One of her pure, white cats leapt up to me, rubbing against me affectionately.  I was too afraid to push it away.

Beneath her bundled cloak was a tight black dress that clung to her.  It was visible only for a moment through the many veils of thick fabric; I was half-afraid to admire her, because she seemed so confident and dangerous. The Grapes of Wrath pressed into a shapely wineglass.

The woman whistled again, this burst even louder and more shrill than the first.  All attention was directed at her long coat sleeve, which was slowly rising.  Cats, dogs, and the frightened children that we were all trained our vision to it. 

A long, delicate finger extended from the depths of her sleeve and pointed away from the alley.

The dogs followed the path of her finger, retreating and disbanding into the darkness.

“It’s okay,” the woman said, her voice smooth and even. “You can come down.  Are you alright?”

I was still paralyzed.

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” she reassured me.  “Those dogs looked mean.  You shouldn’t be afraid of them though.  They act however the people around them act.”

 “Thank you,” Erika stuttered.  “Thanks for saving us.”

The Stranger laughed a tinkling laugh. 

“It was nothing,” she said.  “I always appreciate a little excitement at night, don’t you?”

I tittered nervously as I climbed down the fire escape, feeling exposed as my legs dangled, seeking purchase on anything below me.  At last, I let myself fall to the cement.

“What’s your name?” she asked.  “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. The dogs are gone.  And you, girl"what’s your name?”

“Erika Bronton. Pleased to meet you,” she said, breathless. 

“I’m… I’m Clark,” I said as the Stranger flitted her eyes toward me.  “We have to go.  Thank you for saving us.”

“I’m Whisper,” the Stranger said.  “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the cloaked figure called again. She extended her hand as though in a peace offering; Erika took it nervously, and they shared a long handshake in which Whisper brought her other hand over Erika’s and held it there, holding the moment hostage.  I was afraid the Stranger would never let go.

But then she did, and she took a step toward me. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have to go,” I said, feet moving without my consent once more.

As our feet struck the pavement in unison, I turned to look at Erika.  She was the first woman in my life since the Collapse, and I’d just ousted myself as a total weakling in front of her.

“You can stay, but you probably want to go pick another God,” I said to her between desperate gulps of air.  “I already almost got you killed.”

“My God is no average god,” she said, smiling.

Reviews

[Willard Schlesinger]

I wasn't sure if it was believable that dogs could be such a vile and frightening thing, but I realized later that, that was the hole point-- that they weren't.
I think Whispers character is a unique and very original, at least I've never seen or read anything of her ability to crush people with the truth -- whatever that may be.

[Katseye]

Still going strong. Keep it up. Good story.