Cat's Out - Book 2

Chapter 9 - maker of the dead

One would think that a black cat would have no trouble slipping through the Detroit suburbs during the wee hours of the morning.

One would be wrong.

Don't people ever sleep? I spend most of my time ducking behind trees, bushes, trash cans. I even had to hide in a Fisher Price castle in someone's  back yard when a man stepped out onto his deck for a cigarette. It was a tight fit. Even tighter when I tried to get out. Sorry, kid. Bill me for the damages.

I recalculate my ETA to the warehouse where Jack was nearly given her final farewell. Two hours at best. The only way to improve on that would be to break into a full run. And then I'd probably get to enjoy watching myself on a couple hundred YouTube videos tomorrow. No. Best to take it slow and stick to the shadows.

Once I hit the Detroit city limits near my favorite White Castle, the creepiness factor explodes. I stick to the alleys and side streets, but it's near impossible to stay completely out of sight. And it may not be necessary. My druggie friends mill about again, their eyes vacant and steps wobbly. They really are like zombies. I could probably rub on their legs and purr and they wouldn't notice me.

By the time I reach the warehouse, it's easily two or three in the morning. Cats don't wear watches and a sense of time apparently doesn't come with the shapeshifter package. I pad around to the back of the warehouse and sniff the perimeter. Nothing but rotting garbage, old oil, and the droppings of a million vermin.

I stalk around the base of the building, looking for an entrance. Ironically, the ladder I'd used to get in the last time is not an option. I can jump that high, but paws are not very good for gripping ladder rungs. And there is no way on this greenish-brown Earth that I'm shifting back to my naked glory. That would be about the time the police made their rounds.

Then I remembered the door that the cop kicked in. I slip around to the front, keeping one ear on the street. Sure enough, the door is boarded up, but nailed in from the outside. My huge paws and strong arms make quick work of the plywood. Inside, I test the air again. The smell of sulfur is there. Faint, but there. I crisscross the floor, looking for a stronger odor, but if there were smelly demons in this building, they've been gone for a while.

I curse, which comes out as a growl.

That's when I hear voices outside. I run to the door and listen.

"He say to meet him here," one man says, his speech muffled.

"They musta had to split," a woman says. "Maybe the police find 'em."

Another man grunts. "Well call. He gave you the number, right?"

After a few moments, the woman talks again. "Hey. It's Sheria. We at...oh....okay."

"Well?" the first man says.

"He say he at the old Green's store."

"I know where that is. Let's go."

They shuffle off and I peek my head out of the door. The three figures shamble off deeper into the city. With a quick check of the wind, I slip off after them.

***

I don't have to be too stealthy. These three are like the other drug-zombies I've encountered. Though that's the most I've hear any of them talking.

They don't travel far. This building is smaller than the warehouse. Based on the many large front windows, now boarded up, and tattered awning, my guess is that it was once a supermarket. My three zombies slip around the side of the building. No need to follow now. I hear a knock, then a door opening and closing.

This must be the place. I test the air. Still no sulphur odor, but plenty of human activity. At least a dozen fresh scents hang in the air.

It doesn't take me long to find a broken window on the opposite side of the building from where my friends entered. I wait, listen, and smell before taking the leap. I reach the window and hang from the sill long enough to see that the room on the other side is empty. I pull myself through and drop to the floor of what had once been an office. Now barren except for newspapers and bottles, it offers me a perfect spot from which to plan my next move.

I listen at the door opening, the door itself long-since removed. Voices drift back to me. Far away enough that I can poke my head out the door for a look around. At first, all I see are the old checkout counters and a few remaining display shelves. When my eyes adjust, I nearly release another growl.

Bodies. At least twenty of them lined up on the dirty tile floor. I tune in to them. Of the people that I can see, only six or seven heartbeats filter back to me. The others are dead. I crouch. Who killed these people? If you could still call them people. Their bodies are thin and withered.

Voices again. I crouch lower as my three friends are ushered in by two large men.

"Just chill here and we'll hook you up," one of them says.

My friends find empty spots and lie down on their backs. Can't they even see the dead people around them? Somehow, I think they're way past caring. One of my friends wears a yellow Sponge Bob t-shirt. That sickens me even more. Was he once a cute little boy watching cartoons? And now look at him. Nothing more than a shell. Already dead and he doesn't even know it.

My muscles tense. I need to stop them. But something in the back of my mind says it's more important to see what's going on.

It doesn't take long. The two men return with a black leather pouch. They pull out needles and kneel next to each of my new friends, plunging the needle into their arms. Each lets out a little moan of pleasure.

My stomach churns, threatening to send what little I'd eaten today back the way it came. I listen. Heartbeats fade out and stop completely until only my three friends are left. It takes another ten minutes or so until theirs stop as well.

Guilt rips through me. I could have saved them. But how many others have been victimized? If I don't figure out what's going on, it will only continue.

The sulfur smell hits me like a wave. So strong my eyes water. Dark shadows, invisible to me in my human form, flow out of the floor and through the room. There must be dozens of them. They look like black clouds, but with appendages reaching, clawing. Screams fill the air, but way more than a dozen. Thousands. Maybe millions of voices cry out. One by one, the shadows sink into the bodies lined up on the floor.

And then nothing. Silence. The two men don't return. The bodies remain where they fell. I want to stay and watch, but morning is nearing.

Time to get home.