Harry Goldman, a teenage prodigy thrown into jail for illegal research, is teamed up with a transgenic cat-girl and soon finds himself in love and running for his life.
Harry Goldman, teenage DNA researcher, genius, and total nerd, is thrown into jail for illegal transgenic research. Freed by the FBI on the condition he works under their aegis, Harry is taken to New York where he meets Anastasia, a cat-girl and the product of transgenic engineering. No sooner do they get acquainted then they are attacked by another creature, a bear which is more than a bear, and are forced to flee for their lives. Along the way, they encounter furries, Doug the Dog, find out that they are more into each other emotionally than they’re willing to admit, and end up in the Catskill Mountains where Harry finds out the shocking truth about how Anastasia was created...and what she was created for.
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Catnip
Copyright © 2014 J.S. Frankel
ISBN: 978-1-4874-0009-5
Cover art by Carmen Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Smashwords Edition
Catnip
By
J.S. Frankel
Chapter One
Down in the Dumps
Nick Winter crawled out of his cardboard box in his New York alleyway, scratched himself all over, and rubbed the sleep from his dirt-encrusted eyes. After scanning the area for any immediate danger and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he settled back against the hard stone wall, wiped his grimy face with an equally grimy hand, and took a good look around at his home.
Yeah, this was the place. He thought of the alleyway, a narrow, hemmed-in, broken and filthy concrete case as his turf, as in no one could come around and settle without his permission. No walking or loitering. Follow those rules and you’d live. Disobey them and there’d be hell to pay. He had rules, same as any shop did, and he expected everyone to respect the place where he’d chosen to settle.
Sure, it was a narrow, rat-infested and filthy space populated by thrown away garbage, cockroaches and other denizens of the lesser forms of existence, and yes, it stank to high heaven when he or his alley mate relieved themselves in the corners, but still, a man’s home was his castle, and he defended it by any and all means when necessary.
He gazed up at the sky, noted that the stars were still out and shining their eternal light upon the Earth below, and felt at peace. Why shouldn’t he feel at peace right now? The streets were quiet, with only the occasional passerby, and anyone out on the street at this hour of the night had to either be heading home from the graveyard shift or searching for a place to flop down and sleep it off.
A quick glance at the moon’s position told him it had to be around one in the morning, although he couldn’t be sure, as he hadn’t owned a watch in years. He measured days only in terms of when it was time to sleep, eat, take a dump, and drink. Nothing else mattered. Red wine suited him best, but it wasn’t the season.
Then he laughed, a harsh, wet sound, the result of too many bottles of cheap hooch, bummed cigarettes from the passers-by, and leftovers from the trash cans he scoured during the hours of the day when he wasn’t sleeping off the aftereffects of the previous night’s drinking.
Whether going at it solo or mano a mano, when imbibing, he couldn’t be beat. Booze didn’t know the season and Nick was a drinking man. He hit the bottle whenever and wherever he could. His life had followed the path of alcohol for the longest time, and now, at the age of forty-three, when he reflected on his life during those all too few and rare moments of sobriety, he had nothing else to live for.
He breathed the heavy nighttime air in and out, felt conscious of the heat, and wiped more sweat from his face. It was hot out, unseasonably so. New York always got pretty toasty in June, but by now it had turned into the summer-from-Hell category, even at night. Global warming, he thought abstractedly as he picked at a scab from his right arm. Maybe there was some truth to that rumor. The reporters always said so. He inhaled deeply once more and savored the smells—both good and bad—of the city. A coughing fit suddenly hit him and a wad of phlegm involuntarily made its way out of his mouth and into the nearby sewer grate.
His chest, pale, white, and very hairy, itched fiercely, so he opened his shirt and scratched himself all over, shooed out a few bugs and checked through his worn clothes, which consisted of a pair of found slacks, found shoes, lumberjack shirt—he’d gotten that at a soup kitchen down the block—and leather belt which he’d made himself in his spare moments some years back, to make sure no one took his stash.
It wasn’t much, only about a hundred bucks, old bills along with some pocket change, and he always kept it rolled up in a plastic bag and secreted it in his worn trousers. He called it his emergency stash, either for taking a bus out of this place or buying a cheap bottle of Thunderbird when his other sources dried up.
“Hey man,” someone called out. “Did you see anyone around?”
Nick didn’t answer the other guy, although he knew who it was. Fat George, a lumbering six-foot-six two hundred and eighty-pound giant, hairless and bald like an egg, was the only other regular in this alley located in the Bowery. George called out again, “We got any visitors?”
Winter snorted with derision. George had to be crazy coming up with the idea of visitors coming there and invading his turf. Not likely, not now, and not ever! There had been shambling losers in the past who’d tried just that, the usual hopheads, the punks who carved others up for the sheer fun of it, and of course some of the more zealous men in blue who’d tried to roust them, but Nick wouldn’t have any of it. This was his place and his alone.
Every possible invader passed through, and if they dallied they were met either with silence or with rage. Nick preferred the latter, as it stated his case once and for all, and at six-two and around two-thirty, he knew how to fight. He’d whacked out a few other guys armed with knives, and even the toughest of the tough didn’t bother to disturb his sanctuary.
“Hey, it’s too hot to sleep, ain’t it?”
Yeah, no kidding it was. “It’s hot enough,” Nick answered him in his thick voice and then decided to be nice about it all. George was a decent enough fellow, shared his wine freely, and often did guard duty. In return, Nick protected his alley-mate’s space along with his most precious possession, a radio.
He scratched his head, felt more scabs on his scalp, and ran his fingers over his stubbly chin. What day was it today? Oh, yeah, it was Thursday, which meant he’d be able to shower up at the car wash later on when it opened. He liked to shave when he could—beards weren’t for him—and unlike the other bums, he also liked to keep clean. Phil down at the local car wash always let him use the spray guns. He was an okay guy, Nick mused, a
nd after checking his clothes once more for bugs and finding nothing save the usual grit, he turned his attention back to the larger man.
“You gonna listen to music,” he asked George.
“I’m outta juice,” the answer came amidst the sounds of digging in a nearby bin. “I gotta scrounge me up some power if I wanna listen to the Golden Oldies.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” Nick watched as his friend tossed aside the various odds and ends all over the alley, searched for the elusive battery, and came up with nothing. Finally, his alley-mate gave a sigh of disgust and sat down, scratched his chest and fished up his nose for some heretofore unfound gold.
George didn’t have the best of manners, so Nick turned away, figured he’d walk around a bit, check the backs of the restaurants for leftovers, see if he could find some batteries for George’s radio, and then catch some shut-eye. Yeah, do all of those things in order? He’d get the job done. He always had.
Nick was about to move off when he heard the sound of someone landing right behind him. It was a faint, almost imperceptible sound, and it startled him. He stood stock-still. The impossible had just happened! No one could just up and land without him hearing it first!
He was no commando, but the years he’d spent in alleys like this one in as well as the others around New York had taught him to be wary of anything and had sharpened his senses. He whirled around and whipped out a rusty knife from his pants that he’d picked up in his travels. His feet automatically settled into a fighting stance.
“You’re tryin’ to steal from me? Mister, you just bought yourself a can of beatdown. Whoever you are, come and get some!”
A figure emerged from the shadows at lightning speed and slapped the knife out of his hands. It clattered to the pavement and Nick stared at the creature in front of him. In the glow of the moonlight, he saw the thin coat of fur, the tail whipping back and forth, and the eyes, yellow and bright. He’d never been afraid of much, but this…this…whatever it was…suddenly put the fear of God in him, and immediately he experienced the overwhelming urge to urinate. He strained to keep everything in and couldn’t. His bowels partially loosened and then a hot stream of pee poured down his leg. “Who are you?”
The creature didn’t make a sound. It took a step closer and Nick backed up in fear against the brick wall. He smelled matted fur, excrement and urine, his own as well as the more pungent smell that came from his attacker. It was a strong smell—strong, penetrating, and dangerous—like a predator’s. And he was the prey. This he knew for a fact, and in the back of his mind, he also knew his time to die had come up.
“You mess with my bud?” George growled. “That is the wrong thing to do, man!”
Oh Lord Jesus, Nick thought with relief, the cavalry’s just come in. Good old George, there to watch his back.
The behemoth clamped his huge arms around the thing. The creature struggled briefly and then hung its head as if in defeat. Nick thought it looked like a cat, but he couldn’t be sure. It had a tail, yeah, fur, spots, but the features…and the …it had breasts…it was a woman! His buddy yelled out in triumph, “I got him, man, I got him…”
Abruptly, George’s voice rose into a high-pitched scream as the creature casually raked its claws, long and very, very sharp, up and down his forearms. The big man let go and staggered back. Blood ran from his wounds and he howled in pain. “Damn it, you cut me!”
To Nick, it seemed that everything happened in slow-mo, and then the cat-lady—there was no other word he could think of—whipped her tail around and smacked George in the face. The impact sent him spinning twenty feet down the alleyway. He hit the cement hard, stirred, and stopped moving.
Beyond terror now, Nick’s mouth opened and closed spasmodically. “What are you, man?”
The creature pivoted gracefully to face him and grabbed his shirt with one hand. He got a better look at the thing now. Yes, it looked like a cat—and didn’t. About five-eight, it had high ears, long, straight hair and the fur of the typical house pet, but the features—the nose and mouth and eyes—were human. The hands, while also human, were covered in a light coat of fur and had claws instead of fingernails. The claws extended out almost two inches in length, and yes, he’d seen how sharp they were. When it spoke, though, its voice sounded totally feminine…and totally pissed off. “First off, I’m not a man—man—and second, do you have any food?”
“No, no…I don’t,” he managed to stammer out. Once more, he tried to control his bowels and failed, and this time the stink came from his back end. He stood there soaked in his own urine and excrement, and felt ashamed.
The cat-lady sniffed the air. “You need a shower. And if you don’t have any food, where can I find some?”
He stared at the cracks in the cement. His voice came out small and he felt even smaller. “Didja check the trashcans in the far corner, man…uh, lady?”
“I’ll do that.”
She let him go and he sagged against the wall. Frantically, he looked around for something—anything—to use as a weapon. The cat-lady sprinted gracefully over to the large containers. She easily tipped them over, emptied their contents on the ground and then sniffed each and every crumpled piece of paper, opened can, and half-eaten sandwich in turn, as if riffling through the pages of a new book or sampling a tasty canapé at a fancy ball. A few sounds of what Nick took to be either pleasure or disgust came from her, and after a couple more minutes of searching she seemed to find something appropriate.
Nick collected his wits and lifted his eyes off the ground to stare at the cat-lady, scarcely able to believe all of this crap was happening. His would-be and maybe-still attacker didn’t eat like an animal would. She ate standing up and fed quietly upon a half-opened pack of sushi and a hamburger still in its wrapper. No sounds came out of her mouth save for an occasional purr of satisfaction.
This is demented, Nick thought. At first, he feared he’d slipped into some kind of DT, but then remembered he hadn’t had a drink for at least five hours. Not clean, but definitely sober, he figured this had to be some kind of trick.
The cat-lady continued to eat. In desperation, he looked around wildly and spotted a slat of wood on the ground a few feet away. After summoning up his courage, he sidled over to the makeshift weapon and grabbed it. The coarse feel of the wood in his hands jumpstarted his courage, and what was the plan, man?
Hit it, knock it out, and then drag it to jail. His heart knocked against his chest wall a mile a minute, but this—this mutant, yeah, that was the word, she was some kind of mutant or else she had to be an alien—this alien had to know who was boss around this alley.
However, plans often went bad, as once he got to within a couple of feet of his target her ears pricked up and she pivoted on the ball of her foot, spun around at high speed and lashed out with a closed fist. He felt the impact as her hand-paw connected with the side of his face and the force of the blow smashed him against the brick wall.
This is it, I’m going to be her dinner, he thought. His vision blurred and his mind half out of his body from the impact of her punch, he thought about all the things he’d left undone in his life. He’d been born into a poor family, hit the streets at the age of sixteen, and without any direction or will to do anything about moving up in the world, he ended up sinking lower and lower on the food chain.
Now, he was here, abruptly aware of his status as the lowest of the low on the food chain and about to become a meal from a much higher order of predator. “Okay,” he managed to burble out of his semi-shattered jaw, “If you wanna eat me, then go ahead. I got nothing except a hundred bucks.”
The cat-lady simply stood rooted to the same spot, watching him. He expected her to hiss and spit, but she did neither. “I don’t need anything from you,” she answered softly. “I just need to eat.”
The moonlight glittered off her claws. She hesitated a moment, and then she slowly retracted them and sniffed the air. Nick tried to stay on his feet. Seconds ticked by, the predator c
ontinued to look at him, and then a shout from the entrance to the alley caused her to jerk her head around.
Fatigue overcame muscle, and Nick slid down the wall and toppled over on his side. Through his rapidly closing eyes, he saw the creature try to escape. The bright lights and the sound of police sirens filled the air, followed by animal-like screeches from his attacker and howls of pain from the police. The cat-lady slashed and spat, and then jumped impossibly high into the air in order to evade capture.
“Get her, get her!” someone yelled. In the moonlight, someone tossed a net and she leapt straight into it. The mesh trapped her limbs and she returned to Earth in a messy tangle of limbs. Though she fought and clawed and kicked, there was no way for her to get out. Two policemen and then two more piled on, and only then did they manage to subdue her.
To escape the utter insanity of the situation, Nick’s mind started to drift away, and then he fell into a well of darkness. With his last conscious thought he wondered if anyone would bother coming around to take his statement.
Chapter Two
Here’s Lookin’ At…?
Harry Goldman slept in his bunk and dreamed of the day when he’d get parole. At the age of eighteen, he had around seven hundred days to go. Maybe he’d be out of here on his twentieth anniversary of life, just in time to vote. So far, he’d served two months, and with good behavior he might be out in half the time. The call of freedom never sounded as loud as when the cell doors closed for the night.
When the lights went out at nine sharp, he dreamed of his research, and the memory of that one little mistake that had cost him his freedom came back to haunt him. Quest for knowledge…solved.
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