Jack Strange - Zomcats!

He dressed the body in the lingerie he’d purchased and proudly cast his eye over it, feeling pleased with the result.

At last he was ready.

This would be a new Kaz, he promised himself, and she would be better, stronger, and more powerful than the one that had died in a tragic car accident on Castle Hill Avenue a few days previously.

He went upstairs, had another mug of tea, and prepared himself for what he knew would be the most challenging aspect of his enterprise: the re-animation of the woman he loved.

Pratt held his breath for a moment, and then he operated the computer on the bench at the side of the cellar.

All was silent for a second or two before he heard hum of the machine coming to life.

The metal plate with the body on it slid smoothly into the body of the machine, disappearing from view.

Next, the cellar was bathed in an eerie blue light.

Next door, in number forty-three, Richard Hoyle looked up at the kitchen ceiling.

“T’bloody strip light, it’s playin’ up again,” he said. “It’ll drive me bloody mad if it keeps doing that.”

Darren glanced at the flickering light.

“The sooner we replace it, the better,” he said.

After a minute or two, the flickering stopped as mysteriously as it had started.

“Why does it only happen now and again?” Darren asked. “Why not all the time?”

“I don’t know but I’ve ’ad enough of it. It’s going in t’bloody bin as soon as it does it again. That’ll teach it a lesson it won’t bloody forget.”

Back in 41 Acacia Avenue, the metal plate with the body on it slid slowly from the interior of the machine. With a pounding heart, Pratt stood over it and observed it for signs of life. There were none. As the minutes passed, tears began to well up in his eyes. All he had to show for his hard work and financial sacrifices was a lifeless body which he’d somehow have to dispose of. He couldn’t face doing that, not right away, maybe not ever. This was his perfect woman after all, with the perfect brain.

Thinking sadly of Kaz, the former unrequited, love of his life, Pratt sloped off upstairs, wondering what he should do. He wandered into the kitchen and did what he usually did when he was confused: he made a mug of tea and sat at the kitchen table sipping it in a sort of depressed daze. He finished his tea and went out into the front garden. By then it was evening, and dusk had fallen.

A good-looking man wandered up the drive Pratt shared with number forty-three. He had dark skin and black hair which seemed to have faint highlights in it, and was neatly parted on the left side of his head.

“Evening,” said the man when he saw Pratt. “You must be our new neighbour. I’ve just come out for a breath of fresh air; I don’t get out much during the day. That’s the price I pay for working in a school, I suppose.”

The man walked up to Pratt and extended his hand.

“Are you-are you Richard Hoyle’s..er…partner?”

“That’s right. You met him the other day didn’t you?”

“Yes I did.”

Pratt felt the same sort of confusion he’d felt when Anya had done the same earlier in the day, only more so, because it was apparent to him that his new neighbour was not only racially inferior, he was gay to boot. He wondered if he’d catch something by shaking Darren’s hand, homosexuality perhaps, if it was contagious. For a moment he prevaricated, and then he shook hands out of the polite hypocrisy which is of prime importance in Britain. He broke off the handshake as soon as he could and forced himself to say:

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” even though he wasn’t.

“Thank you,” said Darren. “It’s good to get to know your neighbours, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I must dash.”

He hastened indoors, where he wiped his hand on his pants, and then, to be sure he was free of all possibility of racial or sexual infection, washed them thoroughly in the basin in the downstairs toilet.

“I’ve just met our next door neighbour, whatsisname . He seems a nice chap,” Darren said to Richard.“Yeah he does. Mind you, he could wash his hands more often. Worris ’is name? I’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t ask. Anyway, we must have him round for coffee sometime.”

“You’re right. I’ll ask ’im first chance I get. Or maybe we could pop round there. He’s new round ’ere, same as us. We could take ’im a moving-in present.”

“What a good idea.”

When his hands were properly clean and, he felt, free of all racial and homosexual infection, Pratt ambled through to the kitchen in a state of despair, trying to focus his mind on what to do about the two bodies in the cellar; those of his creation and of the now brainless Kaz.

His thoughts were interrupted by a crashing sound coming from downstairs. He thought at first he’d imagined it, but then he heard it again. With his heart racing, he opened the cellar floor and descended the steep flight of steps.

When he got there he saw that his creature was on her feet staggering around and crashing into things, as if she had little sense of balance. She caught her foot on a cable and went sprawling to the floor with a sickening bump. It didn’t seem to do her any harm. She got to her feet again and started staggering around once more.

Pratt didn’t know what to do. He went back upstairs in a state of confusion.

He wondered if she might be hungry, so he made a hurried meal of microwaved bangers and mash from a packet and took it downstairs. He held the plate out with both hands, offering it to his creature. She looked at it. He raised it towards her face. She sniffed it like an animal, and with the back of her hand she slapped it away. The blow was so powerful that the plate was knocked from Pratt’s grasp and sent flying across the cellar. It smashed against the far wall, leaving a residue of mash sticking to the plaster.

His creature then spoke her first word:

“Meat!”

Pratt hurried back upstairs. He put on his jacket to go out to the butcher, and then he realised that the noise in the cellar had stopped. Wondering what was going on, he returned to the cellar and found her next to one of the chest freezers. It was the one containing Kaz’s body. The lid was open. His creature had something in her hands. It was a brain. She raised it to her mouth, took a bite out of it, and began chewing. She looked at him and grinned happily.

“Meat!” She said. She let go of the brain with one hand and pointed at it. “Meat!”

Pratt turned around and dashed back up the stairs. He rushed into the downstairs toilet and threw up forcefully.

He rinsed his mouth out and brushed his teeth to get rid of the taste.

I ought to look on the bright side, he thought . At least she’s eaten, and I don’t have to worry about making her a meal for a while .

He went to the cellar again and found her still enjoying her meal of raw brain.

Well, he thought. I might as well put the rest of the plan into effect.

He switched on the televisions he’d installed in the cellar. They were connected to computers which he’d programmed with non-stop political footage he’d downloaded from the internet.

She looked up from her meal. Everywhere she turned, there was a television showing the same political footage, which was intended to help her to attain a mastery of politics and oratory.

She seemed happy to watch it while she ate. Pratt couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was taking it in. After a while she stood up and walked to side of the cellar. Pratt noticed that her walking had much improved. She looked in one of the mirrors he’d attached to the wall and. studied her face from a number of angles, and then she looked quizzically at the images on one of the televisions.