Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  Tommy’s wife Glynnis had woken him up. That cat was wailing again. It sounded like it was coming from inside the walls of the house. His wife didn’t like the cat that much. She had tried to shoo it away, and she had stopped with the nonsense of feeding it, as the children had insisted upon doing. She usually didn’t mind cats, but this one seemed to stare straight through her, with those piercing eyes. A ratty-looking tabby if she had ever seen one. Nothing cute about it. And now it was wailing inside the walls of the house, and Tommy had to deal with it. She was too tired from packing everything up that morning and moving out here. Tommy and she had argued about how much to move. He said that it was just a short spell that they would be out here. But Tommy wasn’t thinking—he was a weak man—she had sensed this lack of character before they had married, but she had ignored the signs, or the signs didn’t seem important at the time. Who thinks of falling in love with someone who has a soft and paunchy edge to them, especially when you are eighteen, when you think that life will be always and forever tulip time? But then time wends on, and you realize that having someone with a hard edge to them would actually be something you could rely upon. Something to lean against, instead of having to depend upon your own scruples all the time. It all seemed so plain to her, this was a mighty fine orchard. Someplace to raise kids, and it was upwind from the packing plant, so it didn’t have to contend with the smell of rotting apples in the late summer—a time of year she had come to dread.

  The place was perfect. She had tried to impress upon Tommy that they should think these things through. Yasukawa must be disloyal to the flag, for God’s sakes. All those Japanese must be...but Tommy said no, that Yasukawa was a good man. Tommy couldn’t or wouldn’t take the hint. She just hoped that this situation lasted a while, so it would seem more natural just to accept staying here on a more permanent basis. If she could only convince him to get rid of that cat. She pushed him awake, and told him to go look for the cat. “Wrap it up in a chicken feed sack, drown it in the Laguna.” That cat had been wailing all night. She was surprised that he had been able to sleep through the racket. “Get up and find that cat!”

  Yasukawa lay back down on the musty cot. His daughters were still breathing heavily, asleep—it had been a difficult day for all of them. But at least he could talk of this relocation as being an adventure, a way to see their neighbors, everyone together. What else were you supposed to tell children? He was certain that a part of them didn’t believe him at all, but what else was he to do? He couldn’t shake off the nightmare—it kept gnawing at him. The shadows above his head, on the corrugated metal, swayed like the tree branches.

  He could still see the dream so clearly: He had stumbled out of bed—he was searching for something in the middle of the night—he source of that horrible wailing—of his cat in distress, hidden somewhere in the house. He ran his fingers along the wallpaper—a flowered green that stood out in the moonlight—he could feel the bumps of plaster covering the lathwork, but he couldn’t find a hole, anywhere that the cat might have wedged itself into the wall, and now was trapped, crying out for help.

  Glynnis watched her husband in the moonlight, fumbling against the wall of the bedroom. His fingers ran along the length of the wall, looking for a space in the darkness. The cat continued to wail. “Get rid of it,” she hissed. “Find it. Kill that damned thing.” But her husband was still half-asleep, trying to get his bearings. The cat wasn’t in the wall, even though the wails reverberated through the house—it was outside, somewhere under the apple trees.

  Tommy lurched into full awareness when the shoe hit him alongside his ear. His wife furiously pointed out into the yard with her finger. He could tell now that the cat’s wailing was coming through the windows. For some reason, he thought that it was there, inside the house, but he had been mistaken. He pulled on his pants, the old ones that smelled of chicken scratch and stiff with the grease of molasses on rolled oats. He wandered out onto the front porch, and grabbed a burlap sack off the railing, near where the pigeons roosted in the evening hours, crap sliding off the siding of the house. Why hadn’t Yasukawa cleaned that off? It glowed in the moonlight, slick excrement rolling down the whitewashed side of the house. Funny, though, he didn’t remember seeing it earlier in the day. He pulled on his boots and headed out into the orchard, following the sound of that cat wailing.

  Yasukawa saw his wife in front of him, through the branches of the orchard. She danced playfully ahead of him, running her fingers through the velvet of the newly fruiting apples, still dusky green under her touch. He wondered where she was leading him, out further into the rows of trees—but they seemed so disordered—these trees, for they once ran down in neat rows toward the laguna, and he had kept the branches well-pruned—he had learned how to prune from his father, how to snap off branches just so that each sprouting fruit had enough sunlight to mature into a bright red apple hanging heavily off the wood. Yasukawa felt the wet dew through his pant legs, as the fog caught and gathered in the folds of clover and Indian Soaproot covering the ground. He could hear his wife in front of him. She was crying, wasn’t she—what sort of wail was coming from her throat? Where could she be leading him?

  Tommy didn’t know which way to turn, under the apple trees. He could see the outline of the cat in front of him, a glossy coat that caught in the moonlight. He didn’t remember these branches being so unruly by the daylight. Damn that Yasukawa. He thought he wouldn’t have to do much more than watch those apples grow this season. The budset had already taken place by the time Yasukawa had been given the word to clear out and head for the fairgrounds. Tommy had heard that was where they would be keeping them for a while. But Yasukawa was a good man—no way he could be a spy, plotting some sabotage, or even a sympathizer. No, the government would come to their senses and let Yasukawa and his family go free and release him soon...maybe in just a few days.

  Although his wife, Glynnis, thought it could be longer, actually she was hoping that it would be longer. He knew that she said, “She never trusted those Japs, even the ones who were friendly with you. Especially the ones that were friendly to you. There was something shifty in the way they tried to get close to you. Why didn’t they just stick to their own kind, like the Chinamen did in their Chinatown?” No, she was convinced that there was something wrong with, “that Yasukawa.” And maybe there was, something faint that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, from the pigeon shit sliding off the side of the house to the way Yasukawa had let this orchard go. It hadn’t been pruned since last season, at the very least. Maybe he wasn’t such a straight shooter. Hard to tell. Glynnis was smarter about these things.

  In the gloom of the stables, there were few lights. Yasukawa was grateful that he didn’t have one of those bare lightbulbs hanging above him amidst the cobwebs on the rafters, the glare was too much. Besides he liked the gloom in this moment—he could see her more clearly through the shadows...

  She was walking through the orchard, quite plainly—but why did he sense fear in her, as she neared the willow stand marking the end of the orchard and the beginning of the laguna, which even at this date in early summer was still full of puddled water, murky and dank—polio water—that’s what it was—he had to warn his kids out of it time and again—but more than polio, it was just plain dangerous. Something about it frightened him. And now he wondered what his wife must be frightened of right now—poor, dear Mitsue—he knew that she was dead, but, in this moment—eyes locked into the shadows of the stable—she seemed so alive—present in this darkened half-light.

  Tommy stopped for a moment in the tangle of apple tree branches. The cat was right in front of him. She was lingering there, just at the edge of the orchard. He had her right there. She had stopped wailing. And it seemed to him that this wailing had been purposeful. It had been meant for him. Why would that Yasukawa have such a cat? The cat cocked her head just so, the edges of her mouth upturned. It was as if she was making a decision, whether or not to leap into the willows and to be lost
in the darkness or to make her way back to him, to circle around his legs, and in that moment Tommy didn’t want to drown the poor thing. But he knew that he had to. Tommy called to her, a nice soft coo under his breath, “here kitty” hummed through the tiny apples in the trees between them.

  Yasukawa reached out to his wife. She seemed to make certain that he would follow her, that he would walk right with her into the water and disappear in a dark pool. Tiny ripples would catch in the moonlight, and then all would be silent. Something so inviting about it, this little dive into the water. Nothing would be lovelier, he thought to himself.

  The cat crossed one foot in front of the other. She was being a coquette, that’s the word that came to Tommy as he watched her, and he liked the sound of it. He didn’t know where he had heard that word before, definitely not at the feed store. They were, well, a lot cruder down there. He couldn’t bear the thought of killing her but another wail tomorrow morning and Glynnis would know he hadn’t carried it out, and she would be mad as hell. Yes, there would be hell to pay.

  Yasukawa took another step forward. He couldn’t imagine why she wanted him to find his way to her, and to leave their daughters forever. Why was she ushering him into this no-man’s land, at the edge of the orchard? Maybe this was a warning instead. To look around. To figure out just how he might be leading himself to an unwitting death. Could that be the case? He wondered. Should he have resisted? Should he have refused? Or should he have taken the offer to move back east, where they still allowed the Japanese relative freedom? The government decided that it was only sensitive or dangerous for the Japanese to live on the West Coast. The reasoning was flawed, but that didn’t matter. Besides, he knew no one back east. He wouldn’t know where to go. And—he was certain of it—this whole terrible ordeal will be over in a matter of weeks, and they will return to the orchard, and harvest time will roll around, and then they will all be working shoulder to shoulder with everyone else at the packing plant, sixteen-hour days. This will be over soon...another couple of weeks, right?

  Yasukawa looked more closely at his wife, searching her face for answers but she was impossible to read. But then it dawned on him that she wasn’t looking at him at all. Her eyes flickered over him, to be sure, but they didn’t settle on him. He looked back over his shoulder, and in the dim shadow light, he saw his friend Tommy standing there, wet in the damp fog. What was he doing out there, hand outstretched like that? And what was in his other hand? He could see folds of rough fabric. He knew that burlap well. What was he doing, trying to entice his wife toward him? And why would his wife be leading Tommy to the water’s edge? Was she calling him to the laguna? What was Tommy doing out in the orchard so late at night? He knew the stories about the laguna, and all the tales they told about Indians disappearing into the mist that hung over the smooth, algae-laced pools of water. Yasukawa let out a scream.

  The wind rocked the apple tree branches for a furious moment. Tommy looked up into the air, trying to catch something. The cat caught sight of the burlap sack, and let out a hiss, back arched, teeth unsheathed, and ran straight at Tommy. He had been distracted. He had taken his eye off of her. She ran straight between his legs. Tommy spun around. His foot caught in one of the unearthed roots of the apple trees. He threw his arms up in the air, and the burlap sack caught in one of the branches, and his hand too was snatched. He couldn’t pull it out of the encircling branches. He watched the cat spin into the darkness, tail flashing behind it. And then the branch released his hand, he dropped heavily onto the ground, his head hitting a rock on the way down. It happened in an instant.

  Yasukawa saw it all. Even in the dim moonlight. The hiss of the cat—and what was the cat doing there? Where had his wife vanished to? Her shadow had disappeared into the laguna. Was she gone once more? Would he see her again, even in such visions? For that was what this was—a vision. He saw Tommy fall onto the ground hard, his head split open on a sharp rock. Yasukawa felt immediately struck by his own actions. What did that scream do? What did it change? Would Tommy not be down on the grass under the orchard trees, if not for that scream? And what was that burlap sack doing in Tommy’s hand?

  The song faded on the radio. It was over in an instant, only a few short minutes, and then the trumpet finished with a flourish. Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me. He wondered about those words, and he wondered if he would ever be marching home again.

  Glynnis woke up to the sound of the cat wailing at the far edge of the field. Tommy wasn’t in bed with her, he must have had an early start to the feed store. But that wasn’t like him, to have an early start. She put on her housedress and headed out to the sound of that wail. She found Tommy right there, under the apple tree, blood caked around his eyes. The cat’s wail sounded deafening, like it was right there, between them—but she couldn’t find its source. The cat was nowhere to be found, maybe off in the willow stand, or down further into the depths of the laguna.

  Yasukawa waited for the next song to start. His wife had somehow saved him. But from what, or how, he still couldn’t fathom. How could Tommy try to kill the cat, and how had that cat narrowly escaped? He pushed the whole vision out of his head. He had other worries, like how to care for his two daughters here, behind fencing that they could scale, but which they didn’t dare.

  David John Dowd is a writer and studio still life photographer who lives in Sonoma County, California. He otherwise spends much of the year in Brazil, supporting indigenous communities with cultural preservation.

  15

  Hellcat Invasion

  By AM Scott

  Hellcats? No problem.

  Incompetent boss? Big problem.

  “Why? Why would you do this?” Gia tried to dial the despair and anger down, but her words were just short of a wail.

  Matias looked up from his DNA sequencer. “Why? It is the perfect solution. The invasive Old Earth starflockers won’t stand a chance against my BatKats!” He raised his chin, expression mulish. “I am filing a patent and trademarking the name.” He bounced happily in his chair, completely oblivious to the issues, as usual for the brilliant man-child.

  Gia stopped her eye roll and stared at the hellish creation currently inhabiting their largest specimen container, a meter-square clear plas box with waldo gloves and an airlock. Evidently, Matias had taken Harley Three’s native Kit—fuzzy, bright-colored kitten-like fur balls with a side of deadly venom in retractable teeth—and melded it with Harley Four’s Constrictor Bat, which looked like one of Old Earth’s large fruit bats, but in a shocking hot-pink. Oh, with wings so powerful and flexible it preferred to squeeze its prey to death, rather than use its razor-sharp teeth to kill its preferred prey of flying snakes. Which also flew around in a variety of bright colors.

  Both worlds were like living in a box of toddler crayons. Gia sighed. Well, in their assortment of kid-friendly, just short of neon colors, the BatKats were easy to spot inside the box. Suns forbid they ever get out on Harley Three or Four—they’d blend right in. Gia frowned at the BatKats. These must all be babies because the biggest was only ten centimeters long. Both the Kits and the Constrictor Bats were much larger, especially as adults.

  “Oh! Watch this!”

  The lights flicked out and the BatKats disappeared.

  Matias flicked a penlight on. The colorful fur appeared in the beam of light, but there was no eyeshine. The one advantage humans had in the dark, the ability to spot those glowing eyes, and Matias got rid of it.

  Gia took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching for calm and patience. Matias was exceptional, gifted, a true genius, but needed careful handling, or he went off on tangents—or melted down. But this? This was madness. Why didn’t her deputy stop this? What was Chip thinking? “Matias, you do remember the starflockers are a created species, too, right? Created from starlings by brilliant but misguided scientists for low-oxygen environments to kill off invasive Old Earth insects? But now the stupid starflockers are an invasive species of the
ir own. They escaped the control of their creators and ended up on Harley Five. You were asked to create an Earth-only virus with a short lifespan, effective on the starflocker eggs, not a new species.”

  Matias looked up at her again, incredulously. “You know viruses escape, morph, and change. We would create a human pandemic.” He spoke faster, his stilted speech patterns making him difficult to understand. “An egg-attacking virus would be worse. You know the most effective human vaccines grow in egg matrixes. You know this! Why would you think I would do anything that stupid?!” He flopped back in his chair, throwing his arms up dramatically.

  Gia clamped her lips together momentarily. “Then please explain to me how creating a new species, from two different worlds, with,” she held up fingers as she talked, “one, the ability to fly, two, deadly-to-humans-venom, three, the strength to squeeze a human head and shatter it, four, removal of the only way humans can spot these things in the dark, and then, in an amazing finale of ridiculous proportions, releasing it on a third world would be a good idea?!” Despite her intentions, she was shouting by the end.