Pieces of Hate

by Ray Garton

  . . . and watch him . . .

  . . . attack if necessary . . .

  . . . think of him as prey . . .

  — there was a throbbing behind his eyes, as if they were trying to work their way out of the sockets.

  Suddenly, Clyde began to think of all the times he’d been clawed and bitten by cats — most recently yesterday, when Cotton hitched up on her hind legs and dragged her claws from his knee down — and he shuddered. And he’d seen what they did with their prey . . . first they’d strike a few blows to injure it, then they’d play with it for a while, bat it around like a cat-toy, prance around it as they knocked it here and there . . . and then, of course . . . lunchtime.

  Was that what they would do to him? Was that what they were planning . . . before he could tell anyone? Before anyone would believe him? All of them together? All those cats gathering together to pounce on him at once?

  He got up and walked through the house. There were no lights on and with all the windows covered, the rooms were filled with long shadows and dark corners.

  What if one of them had gotten inside somehow? Cats had a way of doing that, didn’t they? Squeezing in doors quickly as someone goes in or out? And as for hiding . . . well, they were so quiet and stealthy . . .

  He went to the front window and very, very carefully pulled the curtain open just a fraction of an inch.

  His breath caught in his throat like ground glass until, after a long moment, he sucked in a dry gasp that sounded like a rake being pulled over sheet metal.

  There were at least a dozen cats — cats of all colors and sizes and breeds — directly outside the window, staring at the glass as if they had been waiting for him to look out. Beyond them, there were more on the sidewalk. And beyond them, there were more in the street. None of them moved, not even the usual movements, like a slow swing of a tail, a lick of the paw or a lazy stretch. They just sat calmly, staring at his house . . . at his front window.

  At him.

  He let the curtain drop, turned around and walked slowly from the window, pacing first the living room, then the whole house, from room to room, up and down the halls as he clenched and unclenched his fists again and again, his shirt beginning to stick to his perspiring body.

  “Protection.” he muttered, “I’ve gotta get some kind of protection, something like . . . like a gun, maybe, a gun, but where . . .”

  He slowed his pace and thought a moment, silently cursing himself for putting off getting a gun for so long . . . for too long.

  But his dad was a gun nut. He had cabinets of them in their house in Burbank. They’d gone on vacation last week — someplace in Florida, the mandatory vacation spot for people over sixty — and they wouldn’t be back for another week at least. And he had a key to their house. ‘Just in case something should ever happen,’ his dad always said every time he reminded Clyde not to lose that key.

  He could go over there and get all the guns and ammunition he wanted. It was like a Guns-R-Us, that house. But . . . how could he get out of this house with all those cats gathered in the front yard and on the sidewalk? He could try to go out the back door and hope that none were out there — although he doubted he would be so lucky — but the car was parked in the carport out front, so he would have to face them, anyway.

  Another idea struck him and, once again, he rushed for the nearest phonebook. After ruffling through it, he picked up the cordless in the living room and punched in a number.

  “Yes, um. I’d like to have a cab sent to my house, please. But if it’s not too much — what? Oh, the address.” He gave his address slowly, his voice quivering a little. Then: “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like the driver to come to the front door when he arrives and ring the bell . . . Uh, yes, I know I could watch for him, but, um, I’m working, see, and I tell you what. Tell the driver there’s triple the tip in it for him, okay. how’s that? . . . good. Thank you.”

  He dropped the receiver back into its rack and returned to the front window, parting the curtains a little wider than before. This time, he was smiling as he looked out at the cats.

  Not one of them had moved an inch since he’d last seen them.

  “You won’t want anyone else to know, will you?” Clyde growled. “You won’t want anyone else to see, will you, you bastards . . . you little belly-licking bastards . . .”

  When the bell rang, Clyde was standing just a few feet from the door, waiting. He opened it to find a rumpled little man wearing a green cap and green shirt with the cab company’s insignia on each of them and a pair of old, baggy jeans.

  “You Mr. Trundle?”

  “Sure am.” He stepped out of the house, turned to lock the door, then turned around slowly on the porch. His eyes widened.

  The cats had scattered. They were still around, here and there, lying on the grass or sidewalk, across the street in neighbors’ yards, licking themselves, napping, playing together.

  “I’ll be damned,” Clyde breathed. He had been right; it had worked.

  “Whassat?”

  “The . . . cats . . .”

  “Yeah, you sure gotta lot of ’em around here, I tell ya.” the driver said as they headed down the walk toward the cab. “It’d drive me nuts, wanna know the truth. Don’t like cats much m’self.”

  “Yes, I . . . know what you mean.”

  The driver waited outside as Clyde went into his parents’ house and got a .12 gauge pump-action shotgun — that could take out quite a few of the little buggers with one shot — and two

  handguns, a Coonan .357 magnum with a seven round magazine and a SIG 226 9mm. with a 15 round magazine. Then he found something hidden in a closet that he hadn’t known his father owned: an AK-47 assault rifle.

  He took that, too. And he got plenty of ammunition for all four guns. Then he got a great big white canvas laundry bag with a drawstring at the top from the laundry room, the kind his mother always used, and put all the guns and ammo into it. He got back in the cab and they returned to his house.

  The cats were still there, scattered around, waiting for him to return and for the driver to leave, waiting for their special little relationship with Clyde to continue.

  When the cab stopped at the curb, Clyde sat in the back seat and stared out the window. The driver told him the fare.

  Still looking out the window, Clyde said quietly, “Remember what I said about a triple tip?”

  “Sure do. Don’t get out and walk people to the car that often, y’know.”

  “Well, there’s a hundred bucks for you if you’ll walk me back to the front door. I mean a hundred bucks aside from the fare and the tip, you got me?”

  The driver turned, frowned over his shoulder. “You scared of somebody, Mister? You got somebody after you, or somethin’?”

  “No. No . . . body. So to speak.”

  The driver walked him to the door and Clyde paid him a hundred dollars in twenties, then closed the door and locked it. He opened the bag and looked at the guns, at the ammunition, and realized it would take a little while to figure out how in the hell to use them. In spite of his father’s life-long love of guns, Clyde himself had never laid hands on one. But he wasn’t too worried. Just as necessity was the mother of invention, he was sure that gut-wrenching fear could be the mother of a crash course in firearms. He switched on the television and turned up the volume — just for the sound — then prepared to work with the guns.

  But first . . . he went to the window.

  They were back. Gathered. Everywhere. Unmoving and staring. At him.

  . . . nothing will work . . .

  . . . no one will believe . . .

  . . . no one can help you . . .

  . . . cannot continue to live . . .

  . . . you are the enemy . . .

  . . . the prey . . .

  He didn’t notice the people in the neighborhood . . . the children playing in a yard across the street . . . the two elderly women walking slowly down the sidewalk . . . the man washing his car .
. . the woman tending some flowers in front of her house . . .

  . . . only the cats.

  Flames rose in his gut, rose all the way to his throat, making his tongue burn. His fear was sending his ulcer into fits. He went into the bathroom, grabbed a bottle of the white, chalky liquid he’d grown to hate so much, and gulped down half the bottle. Then he went back into the living room, seated himself before the guns and began to get to know them . . .

  He was ready.

  He had spent a lot of time with the guns. All the while, he’d had the television blaring, hoping it would blot out the slithering, whispery voices that kept trying to enter his mind. Although it was loud, he had been paying little attention to it, preferring to focus his attention on the guns.

  While familiarizing himself with his arms, he’d made occasional trips to the front window to peek out between the curtains.

  Still there. Staring, waiting, and —

  . . . you are helpless . . .

  . . . we are loved . . .

  . . . you will he hated . . .

  . . . you will be the prey . . .

  . . . ours and theirs . . .

  — communicating. Sometimes, he didn’t understand what they meant, and he didn’t care. He’d become rather giddy, like a child playing with new toys beneath the tree on Christmas morning. And when he was finally ready, he stood.

  He knew they were still out front. But what about the back yard? What about the sides of the house?

  A studio audience laughed on the television and the host of some show encouraged them.

  Holding the .357 Magnum, Clyde went into the kitchen and looked out the window above the sink.

  “Holy God in heaven,” he whispered hoarsely.

  The spacious back yard looked no different than the front yard. They were everywhere and, just like the others. were doing nothing more than sitting on the grass and watching the house. When he looked out the window, their heads turned simultaneously and their eyes met with his.

  His breath hissing rapidly through clenched teeth, he rushed down the hall to his bedroom, jumped up on his bed and looked out the window over it.

  They were sitting all over his car beneath the carport, all around the car and beyond, all the way to the fence that separated his yard from the neighbor’s.

  Don’t they notice? Clyde thought. Doesn’t anybody in this neighborhood notice all these fucking cats? Don’t they think it’s weird, or anything?

  His breath grew faster and faster, along with his heartbeat, and he grabbed the window latch and slid the pane to one side. There was a screen on the other side, but he punched the gun through it, punched it again and again until the whole screen broke away and fell to the ground. He stiffened his arm, leaned it sturdily on the sill and aimed at the flat, ugly face of a golden Persian with matted fur sitting on the roof of his car.

  He fired.

  The cat’s head disappeared and the body followed it, flying off the car and falling to the ground on the other side.

  He stared out the window, grinning around his clenched teeth, expecting the other cats to scatter, to run away in fear.

  They did not. Instead:

  . . . too many . . .

  . . . only one of you . . .

  . . . we are willing to die . . .

  . . . for the cause . . .

  . . . for the return to the Old Days . . .

  His grin melted. He fired again, then again.

  Voices began shouting in the neighborhood.

  “. . . don’t know, sounds like gunshots!”

  “Who’s shooting around here with a . . .”

  He kept shooting, again and again, watching the cats’ wounds open up like red flowers blooming, watching the cats flying through the air. He kept shooting until the gun was empty.

  But those he did not hit did not move. They remained where they were, staring at him without so much as a blink or a twitch of their whiskers, completely unfazed by the gunshots.

  . . . you can kill us . . .

  . . . many of us . . .

  . . . but you cannot stop us . . .

  . . . because you are the prey . . .

  . . . you are the prey . . .

  He threw the window closed and dashed out of the bedroom, going back to the living room to replace the magazine, then went back to the kitchen. He fumbled with the latch with his trembling hand and, when he could not open it, he slammed the gun into the pane of the window, shattering the glass, knocking the shards outward so they scattered on the shrubbery beneath the window. Then he did the same thing he’d done in the bedroom, this time shooting at the cats gathered in the back yard. Those he hit tumbled backward on the grass and lay open, bloody and still. Those he did not hit remained as they were, still and unbudging.

  . . . you are doing for us . . .

  . . . what we would do anyway. .

  . . . you are our enemy . . .

  . . . making yourself the enemy . . .

  . . . everyone around you . . .

  Once again, the gun was empty. He turned away from the shattered window and leaned against the counter. His entire body was shaking. Yes, he was killing them . . . but it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

  He rushed into the living room, got the shotgun and loaded it, then went to the front door. His hand remained on the cold doorknob for a while, slick with the sweat from his palm. Then he unlocked it, pulled it open and rushed out on the front porch, aiming the gun at the group of cats gathered on the patch of lawn to the right of the walkway. He fired and the gun exploded.

  So did several of the cats.

  Clyde froze as feelings and thoughts of incredible pain and misery and, finally, death shot through his head like a bullet.

  Somewhere, a woman screamed, but Clyde did not hear her.

  He also ignored the man who shouted from somewhere across the street. “Call the police!”

  He swept the gun to the left, to the cats on the other side of the walkway, gave it a pump and fired again. Another explosion of sound. Then he fired to the right again, then to the left again.

  There were more explosions of wet red fur and chunks of cats tumbling through the air.

  Another liquidy screech of horror and pain passed through Clyde’s head, now so powerful that he fell back into the house and landed on the floor. He kicked the door shut after him and lay on his back with the shotgun lying across his chest, rising and falling rapidly with his frantic breaths. Sweat trickled down from his forehead, over his temples and into his ears.

  “Gotta lotta you sonsabitches,” he croaked. “A lot. Dead. All over the yard.” He smiled and laughed, his whole body quaking with his laughter.

  Setting the shotgun aside, he got up and went to the front window, looked out.

  It was a mess. There was blood and pieces of cats everywhere, scattered over the grass, caught in the shrubbery, on the walkway. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

  There were more.

  They had replaced the others.

  They sat in the place of the dead and shattered cats — new ones he hadn’t seen before — and stared at the window . . . stared at Clyde as he stared at them with wide, frightened eyes.

  . . . nothing you can do . . .

  . . . too many of us . . .

  . . . never kill us all . . .

  . . . you will fail in the end . . .

  . . . fail and die . . .

  . . . you know too much . . .

  He threw the curtain back and staggered away from the window, screaming. His scream almost, but not quite, covered the sirens that were growing closer and closer.

  He tripped over the hassock and fell hard on his back, but quickly scrambled to his feet and went for the assault rifle. He picked it up, hefted it in his arms, ran a hand up and down its smooth and rigid surfaces.

  “This’ll do it,” he whispered to himself wetly. “One after another after another . . . yeah, this’ll do it.”

  He went to the kitchen window and thrust the
barrel of the rifle through the opening that had once been the pane of glass, taking careful aim on a slinky, shiny Russian Blue. He fired and the cat did backward somersaults over the grass, smacking into the fence and landing in a still bloody heap.

  He did the same with another cat — a Siamese, with that shifty, superior expression on its face — and then another and another, and each one rolled over the grass, sometimes bumping some of the other cats.

  But the other cats didn’t seem to care. They just kept sitting and staring, as if they did not even notice what was happening around them.

  Clyde especially enjoyed getting the cats in the head and watching their little oval skulls explode in a fireworks display of blood and bone and fur.

  When he was done, there were fewer than a dozen cats left in the back yard. He raced back to the living room, reloaded and ran down the hall to the bedroom.

  The cats were still there. They hadn’t moved.

  Kneeling on the mattress and leaning against the headboard, he slid the rifle out the window and began shooting. One cat after another flew from the car, one after another, but all the while, the liquidy clouds of pain and horror passed through Clyde’s head, along with the thoughts of the other cats, the ones who simply sat and stared at him. . . .

  . . . it will do you no good . . .

  . . . only hurting yourself . . .

  . . . sealing your own doom . . .

  . . . we are loved and for hurting us . . .

  . . . you will be hated . . .

  . . . despised . . .

  . . . destroyed . . .

  He growled through clenched teeth as he fired again and again and again, emptying the rifle.

  The voices and thoughts and feelings that filled his mind like water filling a balloon prevented him from hearing all the activity that was going on outside his house.

  The shouting . . . the car doors slamming . . . and more sirens.

  The moment the rifle was emptied, he backed away and slammed the window shut. Once again, he returned to the living room, reloaded the rifle, and was on his way to the front door, planning to do the same again, when he heard something that made him freeze.

  “. . . Clyde Trundle, who may or may not be holding hostages in his Sherman Oaks home,” a woman’s voice said. “However, he has been shooting from windows on all sides of his house, apparently with a number of different guns. And from what we’ve gathered, he has been shooting only at neighborhood cats. Police, who fear he may be very heavily armed, are now surrounding his house, although they are reportedly uncertain of the status of the situation. We will be keeping you up to date on the situation as details — ”