Amphetamine
by Solon Plorry
"Droll thing life is -that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose." Conrad's line played in Whistley's head as he ran quickly past the corner and down a cluttered alley. Piles of junk, broken car fenders and bursting mattresses made Whistley's progress difficult, but by straining his pounding chest a little more, he barrelled ahead. Whistley clambered around and through the mess, disturbing a few nasty looking rats when he shoved aside an old frame, which toppled over with a tearing crash. The cop, wheezing from exertion, appeared at the entrance to the alley, and as Whistley ran crouching, he looked back horrified to the cop as he aimed and fired! "Idiot, idiot, what the hell!" Whistley gasped, hardly believing his bulging eyes, but the zinging of the shells high up the brickwork above his head convinced him: this is real! Whistley's mouth was bone dry, and blood leaked from his torn Macy Stylos, where he'd evidently barked a shin. He could not go on! Stopping and pressing the alley wall, he tried to catch his breath. It was one of those moments, actually very numerous in his life, when Whistley decided arbitrarily to just give up. His will to carry on was gone.
Gasping, his heart thumping murderously, Whistley looked back at the gulping cop, who was bent over forward, though looking towards him earnestly. As he tried to compose some sensible statement to stop the madness, Whistley and the shaking cop considered each other for a brief second. Suddenly, the patrolman started choking, his left hand grabbing to his chest. He bobbed up and down, still looking through pained eyes at Whistley, who watched astonished as he gave a strangled cry, turning hot purple, then pitching ahead with a sodden thump. The policeman rolled onto his back, shivered, then froze. The only sound left in the darkening alley was Whistley's tortured breathing. Off in the distance, as night took form, the sound of sirens backdropped 'merciless logic.' Rats, like furry maggots, started gathering around Officer Stokely, who smelled dead. Whistley yelled at them, cautiously making his way past the junk piles to the little gathering, which scattered at his approach, leaving the uniformed body stiffening as it cooled.
A radio strapped to Stokley's belt carried the staccato voices of distant birds, prettily organizing society in crisp anarchy. Whistley could not believe it! The constable was dead, incredibly dead, from a burst heart or brain bone! Whistley nudged the officer, whose urine smelled chlorinated, and spoke to him respectfully. "Sir, are you alright, sir sir?" he inquired of the staring corpse. It groaned loudly in response, and Whistley jumped back, his calming pulse instantly going ballistic. "Goddam!" he cursed, turning to flee, then turning back, hurrying and kicking away the handgun, which looked bluecool, from nearby the body. It scraped the ground as it clattered away. Only seconds ago, Whistley reflected, he wanted to ask the lawman to shoot him dead, as opposed to seriously hurting him, which seemed less tolerable, and now here he was! Sheeeze!
Whistley huffed as he stared at the lifeless form, who lay there wanting only to decompose in peace; evidently the noise it emitted was just oral flatulence brought on by Whistley's inquiring kick. "I'll never do that again" Whistley told himself as he went away, "kick a guy who's down..." The rats waited until he disappeared, then they began to clean up the alleyway.
Wannamaker was its name. It was, in the words of one of its previous owners, a lunatic cat, filthy as a rancid rug, red rimmed yellow veined eyes and a collar still stuck to its long body. A bell, its innocence highlighted by scab-exposed furless skin, hung from the ingrown collar and tinkled merrily whenever Wannamaker moved, which it did in brain-damaged elegance; hungry as only a sixty pounder of a tabby cat can be. It was a living testament against abusing little animals. Wannamaker, who knew his name and cringed everytime he heard it inside of his psychotic pea brain, was a tripper, an LSD casualty from a long time ago. Its owners were then young yuppies who figgered a stoned kitten and two large stoned dogs went with Uriah Heep played at loudest volume on their tin-pot stereo, a real laugh. Wannamaker killed and ate the dogs when the hippy yuppies spent a month partying on Claireway Isle, forgetting the house full of pets.
Wannamaker survived, bad tempered and hard hearted yes, but at least....he learned early not to kill his friends outright. The house was a boarded-up windows hothouse, and food went bad swiftly, though Wannamaker actually developed a taste for it before the end of that month. He'd made hundreds of trips, up to twenty tabs of silver microdot per trip, and that was when he was still a kitten. So when the hippies came home, this was way back when all was young, they turned instantly into right-wing zealot yuppies, all do-gooder sentiments banished forever from their way of thinking, by what they found. The stench and mess was enough to turn them away from the locked door, made them rush gagging off the stairs. Wannamker got out, thank his lucky stars, of the awful hell, through the un-latched door, and kept it up, surviving.
The acid clearly did something to his fundamentals though, because disease, thirst, starvation, even getting his entire tail, roots and all, torn off, all contributed to his strength and skill. Virtually nothing survived a planned encounter by him, and this is talking almost 25 years! He was dangerous to know in the purest sense of the phrase. And he knew Jack Whistley! In fact, Jack Dandelion Whistley was the only human being whose aroma, voice and essence still stood tall within the context of Wannamaker's mind, like a sea vividly bubbling with grotesque images asquirm in boiling porridge. After all, Whistley was the only living thing Wannamaker had ever trusted or loved, though these concepts were a long ways remote from the monstrous thing silently padding across the roof of the abandoned hospital. He owed his very life to Whistley.
The possibility that he would ever meet him was too far out even for crazy Wannamaker and what passed for feline hopeful daydreams. Tri-City was a big place, and as big as Wannamaker was, they travelled in very different circles. The fates had historically been very indifferent to Wannamaker. The brute came to the eave riser and looked down on the ruined landscape, hearing the usual sirens of the Gee State Police and watching an overweight man rush across the deserted street from the alleyway beside the old pharmacy and disappear behind a mound of broken plaster. He shared the streets and ruins with a variety of creatures, all who needed to be approached cautiously. He wasn't hungry. A breeze of greasy air chilled him momentarily, and as he turned to settle for a little cat nap in the lee of the riser, something stopped him. What on earth was that?
Chapter Two
When Lisa got out of jail, she was in a career ending mood. Boner was waiting for her, and Lisa's visage was grim as she approached him. Boner held the car's door open for the sultry queen as she got in and made herself as comfortable as she possibly could in the front seat of the cramped Layota. She had spent the weekend in Central, and she'd obviously seen things unfit for a young girl's eyes! She was so pissed off she could hardly spit, but Boner was in his half-asleep mode as usual, which would absorb any energy Lisa spent so all she could do was stew. "What's going on?" she asked suddenly. "Dunno" Boner replied, a smile flickering on and off. He drove to the house amused at the probable fireworks that would occur if and when Dandy got back.
Joe Joe had warned him on Friday not to be anywhere near the place that evening, so he didn't see Lisa and Miss Bitch get hauled away by the undercover unit. Police suspicions were confirmed by pee tests: the two 'girls' were users! Druggies! Lisa's plaintive calls from jail were good for Boner's metabalism; Lisa and Miss Bitch had had contests with each other all week making up insults for him, heaping abuse on him! And now 'she' needed his co-operation to get hold of Dandy, bail her, and save her from the hairy monsters who pinched her hard even as she spoke! Boner savoured his power over the girl, but he truly had no idea what had happened to Dandy. He'd gone to Douglas Road to meet someone early Friday, with instructions for Boner to 'stand by.' Well Boner had 'stood by' all right, until Joe Joe's call.
Boner didn't mess with the cops, and he was initially scared to death when he heard about the police raid; the pantry storeroom was full of stolen demos! And what would Whistley say, his guests dragged out squirming, with Boner conveniently not there? All that was moot now, as Dandy seems to have disappeared, leaving Boner in charge of the empty house after spending a night in his car. Joe Joe Stokely had called Saturday with the news that Lisa's release was arranged for Sunday afternoon, pick her up and, this is important he said: don't tell her nuthin understand! "Yes officer" Boner had replied. Boner was not very bright, but it was clear to him that he was caught up in some kind of menage. Two middle aged goofs, one of them a cop, and both in love with this pretty thing, who wouldn't give either the time of day if she didn't need them.
Boner had watched Dandy fall head over heels in love with Lisa; and he had a ringside seat as Lisa took advantage of the old fool, who ignored all warnings to wise up. There was something about Lisa though, Boner admitted. She had that breathless elegant remoteness that was heightened by her hapless want, a fetching sincerity that made thrilling boring lives. And she was very cute, in her dirty blonde casual way. She'd met Joe Joe when her favorite pub got shook down by the locals, which was fair routine. The police sergeant was thus a White Knight to the beleagured Lisa, whom men loved to manhandle. Whistley never knew about the growing friendship between his Lisa and the law, which Lisa was careful to keep hidden from him. As Dandy Whistley's right hand man, Boner shouldn't have known either, but Lisa needed a servant she delighted in informing about the terrors fate held for him if he ever got on her shit list. Survival transcended loyalty in Boner's view; and besides it was really none of his damn business.
Wannamaker sense of smell spun circles as he sniffed the air. Something dimly frozen stirred slightly, and Wannamaker cantered sideways, gulping the smog, a snarl forming in his throat as he tried to gather the butterfly. What was it, something buried for years now twitching and confounding the rearing animal. Wannamaker stood on its hind legs, smelling the air, tasting atoms lost beyond recall, yet gripping his senses in a vice! Wannamaker neared an excess of howling insanity, but an icy foci was working, anchoring the old cat in harsh reality, and Wannamaker calmed, lightly balanced its front paws on the eave riser, drinking in the air, tasting the long lost aroma of.... Jack Dandy! Dandelion!
Awareness never even announced itself; Wannamaker just knew, and two and a half plus decades fell away like they never happened. Wannamaker looked down from the three story building, then leaped over the riser, feeling the dusty winds cushion its fall. Slamming into the ground a few feet from the hospital's facade, his gnarled paws scattering broken glass, Wannamaker oriented itself, locking on the trace of smell. The beast's bell tinkled with glee as it raced silently across the street.
Joe Joe's son Kyle Raymond had only a probationary status in the police force, but unless one was a fan club member of law enforcement, that fact wasn't easily noticeable. Kyle's mother dismissed any questions concerning the power of Kyle's badge; to her, the boy had made it, had to all intents won the lottery, when his application to 'charm' school somehow became separated from thousands and got put in the 'sweet pile' where all further hinderance to career just went away. Like most of his fellow trainees, Kyle's daddy was in the business. Joe Joe arranged the magic re-appearance of his son's application file after it disappeared from what law enforcement personnel disdainfully called the 'wannabe mountain.'
Kyle's mom was a headstrong woman, and she'd always treated Joe Joe with, in her phrase, the contempt he deserved. Though they were married, Lulu Raymond refused to use the Stokely name, and Joe Joe angrily maintained that her feminist conduct style threw a monkey wrench into his career opportunities for advancement, but Lulu didn't agree with that. He was Joe Joe the Yo Yo... that was the reason, she explained. Over the years, Kyle became inurred to the words his ma used to express her contempt for his daddy, until by the time he was a teen he also sometimes verbally abused the old joker. But his demonstrations were tempered by the knowledge that daddy's help not only got Kyle in the door, but kept him onside when his scores proved consistently inadequate to the standards of law enforcement. Kyle would've felt worse about that if he didn't know that virtually his entire class had also flunked out. The main thing was, it was said, indeed the only thing was, could they kick ass? And you're goddam right they could do that! Even a coward could kick ass, as older badges sometimes felt incumbent to tell sheepish trainees. Kyle wasn't any coward, but he sure felt scared when Joe Joe gave him what he described as a 'little job'.
According to Joe Joe, the big man was to arrive about midnight. If necessary, Kyle could use force to control him, but he was apparently a wimp despite his size, so it should be easy. Kyle felt naked in his street clothes however, and his heart thumped a drumbeat when the car pulled into the drive. Whistley drove into the double garage after opening the electric door, and Kyle, his legs heavy as lead, barged in while it was still up. Whistley acted like he got busted everyday, saying 'get outta here!' about five times when Kyle confronted him. The garage was dark, and when the folding door closed, the place went pitch black! Kyle nearly panicked; he couldn't even see the guy for a few moments, then the lights came on, to his total relief. Whistley had even commented on the Fort sensor, advising Kyle to stick to Sears Progress if he was ever in the market.
The whole thing went down so surreal; busting and handcuffing the guy, putting him in the trunk and trying to figure out how to open the damn garage door, all while Whistley kept making ridiculous comments from his trunk. He sat there with the engine running for god knows how long searching the dash of Whistley's car before he gave up and yelled how-to questions at him through the back seat. He was glad when that was all over, and he could go home. He had no idea what it was all about, and didn't care beyond preoccuppying himself by trying to dream up a workable explanation for why he was kidnapping this well-to-do stranger with a fake warrant. When he got home, he cowered in the closet until he fell asleep, but woke up, as always, quite refreshed.
Chapter 3
Whistley was paranoid. With good reason. In a few weeks, his life as a respected, successful member of society had completely fallen to pieces, ending up with his being taken somewhere to be shot like a dog! He trudged along in the lengthening shadows of the rubble strewn street. He had no idea where he was, though it was one of those abandoned neighborhoods was obvious. If he went in a straight line, he would eventually come to a boarded chain link fence topped by barbed wire. He was apparently in one of the re-development zones still being fought over by the corporations. These areas were difficult to get into, with 'private property' and 'no trespassing' hand painted on the twelve foot high plywood-covered barriers. He'd heard the graffiti style signage was intentional; good, law-abiding folk were frightened off by the sloppy brutishness implied by that style, while the criminal element recognized it's own worst instincts.
On the freeways south out of downtown, these re-developments sometimes went on for miles, on both sides of the highways, and Whistley had been involved in them on the high finance end. Only a few short weeks ago, he'd been taking part in a team that was examined prospectuses for an area once known as Creek River. Whistley stopped and shuddered involuntarily; wouldn't it be creepy if this was that same goddam Creek River! He and his cohorts had positively gloated over the 'easy pickings' ten thousand people left behind when they were forced out of a neighborhood their representatives had sold, or been forced to sell ha ha! What really amused everybody was this notion that the vicious thugs who populated places like Creek River and made them 'no-go' areas for decent people actually thought they were tough! Whistley listened to the night time shadows, and felt haunted by the ghosts of all the innocence that those people left behind.
He noticed an open doorway and slipped inside, cautiously surveying the shattered interior. A couple of feral cats snarled and fled out a window. He was hungry, tired and dirty, and in no mood for any more excitement. He needed a place to hunker down until daytime, and made his way to the back of the building. It was an old office building, or maybe a school. A dark hall led out from the exposed front room, and a short distance down the hall, a half opened door beckoned. Whistley stuck his head in, carefully making sure it was safe. Sucking in his gut, he squeezed into what appeared to be a wrecked classroom. It was reasonably intact, with a paneled window letting in enough light to see. Whistley leaned against the door, pushing it shut. For the first time in a long time he felt safe. He reflected on the whirlwind that he'd been caught up in as he fashioned a space for himself amid the ruin. He'd been let down, that was for sure, big time!
Using his Stanley Perrin sport coat as a blanket, he huddled on some cardboard he'd found and bitterly resented being victimized by society and the dirty bastards who populated it! Jesus Liftoff; he'd been forced to drink water out of a puddle he'd been so thirsty, imagine that! JD Whistley, up-wardly-mobile professional, drinking oily water from a goddam pissy puddle! Cold anger dispelled the exhausted tiredness he'd felt, and he decided he needed a list of all the assholes he was gonna kill asap bigtime! Starting with goddam Ruby.
His wife. Short dumpy and miserable. He'd married her when she had an ass he could not get enough of, but all good things...! She took his house in Wilsonburg, along with everything goddam else! When he needed her, she was there alright, like a vulture picking and choosing! Whistley snorted angrily as the memories piled up; but it had all happened so goddam fast! Joan looking over her reading glasses, handing him a letter with the words "read it and weep" tossed in his face! 'Let go' for 'reasons of fiscal economy' the note said, and best wishes! Bile rose in Whistley's throat as he remembered Joan summoning a pair of chuckling security men to 'assist' Mister Whistley from the building! Then driving home with his carefully contrived version of the bad news for Ruby, who was waiting there with his one-time best pal and co-worker Alec. The scene that unfolded was a goddam nightmare! His rage stormed uselessly. Ruby hid behind Sanchez, who stared coldly at Whistley as he threatened to lunge at her, the goddammed... ! And he'd planned to break the news to her gently, to reassure her!
Whistley kicked at a tattered notebook lying dog eared just out of reach. Pale, shivering with frustration, he relived the horror. Somewhere in there, as he battled the need to cry while his wife and ex-friend watched, a new emotion crept in, compounding his sense of helplessness. Fear! He'd been so goddam effing stupid, he trusted that crazy bitch big time! Whistley knocked his bowed head with closed fists, and tears of shame and sorrow welled up. It was almost impossible to calculate the damage she'd done to their marriage! She'd emptied their joint accounts, optioned off his stock portfolios, including his precious RHS, which he'd carefully built up over ten effing years! Jesus Jesus H...! She mortgaged their house, cashed in on his freedom fifty-fives, and had sold the Claireway Isle cottage months ago he found out! She'd run up all his credit cards, hiding the notices until he was absolutely ruined! Then the stories she helped spread...if Rill, Hamburg and Scott needed a little extra excuse to get rid of him, 'with cause' after eleven years backbreaking service, she had supplied it! The goddam bitch! And Alec Sanchez, boyhood friend from hell! Living in his house, screwing his goddam wife, driving his Gran Torina, spending his money; then stabbing-in-the-back, getting, taking, his job...Oh god!
Whistley groaned aloud, pretending he was experiencing heart failure, his face drenched in hot tears, though he was his only witness. The bad news just never ended. He fled to Tri-City partially because some of his assets there survived those scavengers, and he needed Lisa. Lisa! In a way, she had earned her keep just by existing; had Whistley not tried to hide her, and had he not shuffled some of his assets so he could take care of her out of range of Ruby's prying eyes, setting up secret companies to do so, hed be lost! He therefore retained the Tri-City house, though mortgaged, unfortunately, and a few dollars which those bastards Ruby and Alec would have right now had he not done so. He'd be living, with Boner, in Boner's dirty car, for sheet sake! And now this, kidnapped and nearly murdered. The outrages tripped over one another in Whistley's bummed-out brain, but it was too much. Suddenly, he was incredibly tired, bone weary exhausted, and he fled into the last refuge of the unhappy; he fell into profound sleep.
Chapter 4
Lulu shook with pleasure. She earned it by putting up with shit for most of her screwed-up life! She was over forty, and by god she felt she deserved some enjoyment for sacrificing herself for others for so long, for so little, in return. Joe Joe hadn't turned up yet; but as far as Lulu was concerned 'so?' She was still a fairly nice looking woman, she believed, and she wanted so much more from life then what it had offered thus far. She came from 'trailer trash' she proudly called it, as did most of her circle, and like them she married into either the police or fire departments. Over the years, her schemes had been pretty simple; affairs with Joe Joe's partners, Lews, and an occassional suspect thrown in just to put the girls all in a twitter. They all did it; the departments were regular 'Peyton places!' Something to talk about. The real action though, Lulu understood, was upstairs. That's where everything moved at a higher level, where policy was determined, where budgets, salaries, and positions were divided up; where street cops like Joe Joe were minor, not very important, pieces in somebody's game plan.
Though it was called a brotherhood, in reality the police force was a game of winners and losers, just like life itself. Lulu sort of came to understand this, with the passage of time. It was kind of schizoid, her pride in her roots at the same time as she felt shame, resentful for being looked down on, especially by the expensively dressed wives of the brass. Joe Joe's only saving grace was that he was a cop. When she was a young girl, that was actually enough, but it grated on her self respect! He was such a big belly flop! She had had enough! So she came up with a scheme that invigorated her like nothing else had ever done! And it looked like she'd pulled it off!
When she found out about her better half's young lover, she nearly flipped. Joe Joe was not adventurous in any way, and for him to have taken up with another threw a bit of a scare into her. She began a bit of private investigating on her own, and very quickly knew the outlines of what was going on. It was hard to believe that Joe Joe was a police officer! On one occassion, while following him a little too closely in her sister's car, she touched bumpers! Joe Joe had a sour look on his face when he looked back, but he didn't recognize her behind her shades! He was such a dizzy she disguised her voice to leave messages for him, and he accepted them without a murmur! Then there was Dandelion, of all people. Another dope, whom she knew from her younger days. Big shot in one of them financial firms, apparently lotsa money! Joe Joe's love interest was part of Dandelion's household in Tri-City, though the man was married and had a full time home in Wilsonburg! And here was Joe Joe sniffing around them like an old dog; oh god it was too precious! She found out by listening in on phone calls between Joe Joe and the girl, Lisa, that Joe Joe was very jealous of Dandelion, jealous enough to risk everything! The fool would come home, see Lulu 'sleeping' on the couch, then rush upstairs to use the phone.
She just listened in on a cell phone which she had twinned by getting a replacement for Joe Joe's, which he'd supposedly lost. Lisa led him around by the nose. Dandy was planning to break up with his wife (Lisa told Joe Joe) and had changed his will, with Lisa, whose real name was Larry, the only one mentioned! Besides this, Whistley had supposedly named her the beneficiary of his life insurance policies, all this to show how much he loved her! Listening in, Lulu could hear the gears grinding in Joe Joe's head as he questioned her about the dimensions of their affairs, and she listened fascinated as Lisa expressed affection for her sugar-daddy, who was going to 'put things right' as soon as he dumped his wife and arranged everything! And stupid Joe Joe believed her, grinding his teeth in jealous anger at Whistley when she explained that she 'loved' poor Joe Joe but needed rich Dandy and so on etcetera!! Then there was this character named Bone, who appeared to be some kind of handyman gofer for Jack Whistley, and who Joe Joe talked to in this silly gruff tough guy voice! On one occasion, something Joe Joe said was so foolish Lulu laughed aloud, stopping their conversation flat! Each one apparently thought the other one laughed at him, because after a moment's silence, the conversation was tersely wound up without the usual good byes! Lulu nearly pissed herself laughing at that one!
She loved her boy, but didn't have much hope for him. The important thing was that he got in the department, and went along with everyone else. He would do at least as well as Joe Joe, who was rabbi'd into the force by his father before him. Like father, like son. Kyle was too weak willed to be of much use in her scheme, but he at least kept her informed. Joe Joe had arranged to have the 'girls' out of the way when Dandelion was arrested on suspicion that he was involved in drug trafficking! Joe Joe had him stashed in an undercover safe house for a while until Lisa's alibi was prepared, then he apparently planned to get rid of him in the old Creek River section of town. That's where Lulu planned to jump in, steal all the marbles and depart for much greener pastures. She had carefully documented the case against her husband, taping enough evidence to destroy him if he didn't move in lockstep as instructed. When that Lisa Larry reaped the benefits from Dandelion's robbery and murder, Lulu would have Joe Joe force her to steer the proceeds her way, using Lisa's criminal drug addiction for leverage. Kyle would just have to put Joe Joe and his 'bitch' up after mother cleaned them out! Lulu savoured the tic-tac-toe details of her scheme, especially the final image of her riding off into a sunset of monied freedom! As night deepened, she imagined the looks on Joe Joe's face when she, finally, told him off for good!
Wannamaker tracked the memory of Jack Dandy. A leaking main had formed a wet spot just off a curb, and the scent and image of a longhaired goateed youth hung there heavily, stirring embers barely alive. Wannamaker prowled around, licking scented moisture, prowling, turning its three foot long mangled body, again and again. Its bell rung quietly as it went all around the puddle then moved in, licking up water from the very same place as Jack Dandy did only a short while before. Wannamaker crouched, its cold eyes scanning the surroundings, the very picture of ghastly, and woe be to anything that tried to share! The brutalized creature dropped its head, and the torn remnants of its tongue emerged from the fanged skull, slopping at the water. It drank, legs spread on either side, raising its head while water leaked from between the sinews of its exposed jaw, then dropping its head, drinking some more. A short distance away, Whistley dreamed.
He was an older guy, in his late twenties, and he had a hard-on for Ruby, though Jack wasn't concerned, because he knew what Ruby really thought. Sitting in someone's front room, and this guy tells Jack his eyes are too close together, just like a devil. Jack looked at him, then jumped up to look close, saying "what's wrong with yer ear?" jumping back and telling him to look at this, for christ sake, you've got a growth, cancer. No kidding! "Better you than me, fella" Jack said while the guy touched his ear, a worried look growing on his face, and Jack said "poor asshole, even you don't deserve to die like this ..!" the guy protesting there's nothing wrong; but Jack and a buddy laying it on. "Three months, six at the outside, he's got to live" telling someone who came in the room "dig this, skin cancer, this guy's got cancer, he's a goner, doomed!" and "glad you're not me, poor bastard!" while their friends gather, looking curious, concerned, shaking their heads at the frightened face. The guy fled into the night, convinced he was dying, and Jack Whistley and company were laughing at him while they stole all his stuff from him, since he wasn't gonna need it, dying.
It stood in the shattered hallway, its eyes glowing in the stiff silence, its thirst slaked. The door formed no barrier to it, but it detected the disturbed breathing of someone inside, and Wannamaker hesitated. Rearing up in the darkness, it settled its weight against the door, feeling it resist. The huge cat pressed, and the door gave, opening with a shudder. Wannamaker reached through the yaw, twisted hard, driving the door back. In the corner, Whistley jumped, the noise and stench of the hideous creature jarring him out of deep sleep, in the peaceful silence, waking him. Whistley dragged himself from the fog, the presence of that thing filling the room, and he was instantly wide awake, eyes blinking, to an incredible nightmare. The carrion stench appalled him, but his whole being recoiled at the sight of the improbable, greasy demon pulling itself through the door, way off the floor, inch long claws gouging the wall, its yellow eyes focused right on Whistley. Whistley sat up, fear like ice water filling his veins and a thousand cold wet fingers snapping at his spinal column; his mind staggered with the sight of the monstrous. As usual, he gave up.
He went into shock, but the sight of the terrible cat anchored halfway up the wall immediately pulled him alert again, and Whistley moaned in horror, grey unconsciousness tempting him even as his survival instincts fire-crackered in his bones, because Whistley knew and loved life for the very first time in his entire history! The animal watched Whistley as he pulled his knees to his chest and jammed himself back against the wall, staring wildly and crying in terror. Wannamaker had killed grown men before, plenty of times, and he flicked himself off the wall, landing lightly on its paws a few feet away from Jack Dandy. Whistley stared, unaware of his fractured scream and the strange sound of a bell, but otherwise stone conscious. Thick swaths of cloud reflected sterile city light on the dead streets of Creek River and re-cast enough light in the room for Whistley to see Wannamaker clearly.
The animal looked nothing like a cat; its head was similar to a pale bowling ball, strips of furred leather wrapped around like bandages, and its lidless eyes glowing from above a huge set of gleaming fangs seemingly imposed on where the mouth should be. Gasping, Whistley stared horrified at it, as it unexpectedly lowered itself to rest on its paws. Whistley was startled as the bell tinkled softly, and he held his breath, at least in part because of the putrid stink the cat gave off, but also to hear it. In the thick silence that gathered, chords atrophied by twenty five years of neglect rattled dryly, similar to the sound of broken bone. Whistley's mouth gaped as the cat crept forward on its belly to within a foot of him, its dagger-like claws splayed businesslike beside it. The animal trembled from effort, as the dull grinding noise continued, and Whistley was struck unbelievably! It was purring!
Wannamaker looked at Jack Dandy, the rough choking noise he made was hardly recognizable as purring, but Whistley's newfound love for life grabbed on to the sound as he would a life ring; maybe he wasn't doomed after all!
Wannamaker stared into Jack's face, the insanity in its yellowed eyes slowly fading, and he shivered with fear that Jack would kick him away. The bell, which Jack Dandy had put on a tumbling kitten a lifetime ago, tinkled with the joy inherent in bells, kittens and angels. The purring gained in richness as Wannamaker remembered how, but as its insanity was sated, the searing agony of its tortured physique began to overwhelm him; he stopped purring and approached Jack Dandy, pressing to him, seeking comfort. The ringing of his bell filled the room, and Whistley froze, as the bell, remembered, became a symphony, the loudest, clearest, most astonishing thing he had ever heard! He looked down at the cat, tentatively touching its head, ignoring the horror. Wannamaker tried to mew, but it sounded like a hiss, though its trembling nearness made clear it wasn't any danger. Jack Dandy patted it, catching sight of a blackened tuft of blue fabric buried in the folds of its neck, a collar. Whistley dizzied, his eyes popping, and swore softly to himself. It could not be! He recalled dimly a kitten, freaked on acid, running up a wall and across a ceiling, hanging there like nature's gravity had broken down, a lunatic cat! Laughter as someone swept the crazy critter off the ceiling with a broom! But he knew! he knew! My God, he knew!
He took the creature in his arms as the cat shivered violently from the agony of its heightening awareness, rocking it rhythmically, whispering to it, feeling the pain and lonely madness that had kept Wannamaker going so long giving way to peace. For hours, Whistley held the dying cat, whispering his name softly, keeping him warm. Anguish. Whistley held desperately to the pretty little kitten, transformed into this obscenity, and intense pain tore away the covers, exposing him and his life, and the world he created, to scrutiny for once. There is no God! There is no law, beyond the brute force necessary to serve and protect us from fucking kittens! Whistley raged, hating himself and everything he stood for, hating the greed and self-justification that needed the conviction, fortified by innocence punished and shameless greed rewarded, that there wasn't a God. Just carrion and vultures feeding and eating. When Wannamaker died, he was sleeping.
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