Silent Heroes: Wildcat

The Perfect Victim

The man leading the pack is tall and lean, his black hood concealing his features. He charges at her with arms outstretched, fingers curled as if prepared to be wrapped around her throat.

Like a bolt of lightning, the woman shoots forward to meet him. In one swift movement, she grabs his left arm and pulls, sending him reeling head-over-heels across the pavement.

Another man comes at her, swinging his arms like a pinwheel. She leaps straight into the air and lands a roundhouse kick to the side of his face. The man drops, blood gushing from his nose and mouth.

Someone grabs her from behind, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. She latches onto his elbow and flips him effortlessly over her left shoulder to land with a loud crunch on his fallen comrade.

A fourth man darts in from the left, attempting to tackle her like a football player. The woman drops to the ground and the man flies straight over her head, groping at thin air. He plows into another man coming at her from the opposite direction. They go down in a pile of cursing and shouting and thrashing limbs.

Still crouched on the ground, toes and finger pressed against the damp pavement, the woman turns to face her next attacker. He's practically on top of her, having taken advantage of her momentary distraction. The woman pivots on her left leg and rams her foot into his shin. a loud crack echoes through the night as his bones splinter. he collapses on the ground, screaming and gripping his broken leg.

The woman smoothly rises to her feet. There's one man left standing and he's approaching her with more caution than the rest. He shifts his feet from one side to the next, as if trying to decide on the best angle of attack. The woman shifts position along with him, mirroring his actions, her lips turned up slightly at the corners.

Suddenly, the man stops. he reaches for something hidden inside his jacket. A second later, he's aiming a pistol at the woman's chest.

"Freeze, bitch."

At the sight of the weapon, the woman goes still. Her eyes zero in on the gun. There's no fear in her expression, but there seems to be a chill rising in the air around her.

"That's it. You just stay there."

He moves in closer, keeping the gun trained in her direction. The men who can still walk are slowly rising to their feet. They circle around her, growling angry threats and cracking their knuckles.

The woman remains still. Her gaze shifts from one man to the next. The chill coming off her is almost palpable. Her clear blue eyes are like shards of ice.

"Cowards."

Then, in a flash, she's running. Sprinting with inhuman speed across the pavement.

Two of the men make a grab for her. She darts easily in between them. Bullets ricochet off the street and the buildings surrounding her, but not one finds its mark.

She takes a running leap and latches onto a nearby streetlamp that's long since gone out. She swings herself around the metal pole, bullets still flying in her wake. She does a full rotation, her feet never touching the ground, before releasing her grip mid-swing.

The woman shoots forward, her body twisting through the air as she falls. Her zebra stripe purse hits the ground several meters away. Her pink heels go skittering in opposite directions. A gust of wind suddenly rakes through the previously stagnant alley. Bits of garbage leap and twirl in the crosswinds. In the nearby harbour, waves ripple across the water and boats rock back and forth, straining against the ropes lashing them to the dock.

One of the men staggers backwards, his eyes showing white all the way around. Another one shouts and babbles incoherently. The man holding the gun allows it to clatter at his feet.

"What the fuck?"

The woman is gone. In her place stands a massive wildcat. She's not of any species that can be easily identified. Her coat is pale, though her exact colouring is obscured by the dim light. Her size is beyond anything the men have ever seen. Standing shoulder to shoulder with an adult male grizzly, she would easily match his height, but her lean body would be twice as long.

A low growl rumbles deep in her throat. Her lips curl back slightly, revealing a hint of long, razor sharp canines.

For one long moment that seems to hang suspended in time, she stares down her would-be attackers while they stare right back, eyes wide, faces pale, mouths gaping open in disbelief.

Then, as if by a non-verbal command, they all turn their backs and run.

The wildcat coils her muscles and springs forward, catching up to them in a few easy strides. With one swipe of her massive paw, she sends two of them somersaulting through the air. The first rams headfirst into a solid brick wall before landing in a heap on the sidewalk. The second crashes into a pile of crates that topple over and collapses on top of him in a cloud of billowing dust and flying chips of wood.

The final two men are still on the move, sprinting for the docks as if the water can somehow offer protection. The wildcat bounds after them, her slender body covering ground at an alarming speed. The men are almost ridiculously slow by comparison.

One of the men stumbles and the wildcat pounces, all four paws landing on his back. He strikes the ground with such force that his head recoils against the pavement like a tennis ball and his ribs break with an audible snap.

While the man shouts and writhes in pain, the wildcat springs from his back, honing in on her final target. He's still racing for the docks, his breathing loud and coarse. He's nearly reached the edge of the water when the wildcat strikes. She latches onto his right leg and sinks her teeth deep into his flesh.

The man howls, but there's no one around to hear except his fallen comrades. The wildcat backs up slowly, dragging the man with her. He kicks and struggles and claws at the pavement, but it's no use. Every move he makes only worsens the pain. Blood pours from his leg, pitch black in the moonlight. Finally, after his struggles have faded and his screams have turned into quiet whimpers, the wild cat releases him with a sharp jerk of her head.

Another gust of wind rakes through the alley and the woman reappears, bare foot and smiling. She trots casually back up the road, picks up her bright pink heels and slides them back onto her feet. She stands in place for a moment, her stance wide, observing the writhing, bleeding and moaning bodies around her.

"Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen."

She calmly scoops up her zebra-stripe purse, slings it once again over her shoulder and continues on her way. Her white-blonde hair is the last thing to vanish into the darkness.

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