Jack Strange - Zomcats!

Claws emerged from the ends of Slawit’s fingers. He shrunk, and became more muscular. His ears moved up towards the top of his head and grew points on them.

He wriggled free of his clothes, and pawed at the white stick as if it was a plaything. Nipper Davies made the mistake of prodding him in the face with it. That was when he pounced.

Within seconds, Davies was on his back.

“Gerrofferme!” He shouted, as Slawit tore his face off.

“Let’s get outa here lads!” said Bigfucka.

Owen considered this to be sound advice, and fled to what he thought was a safe distance. He watched the rest of the goings on from the corner at the end of the road. He took out his mobile and tried to film the incident, but his hands were shaking so much that he didn’t get any clear images.

Nipper stopped protesting, and then he stopped moving, and Slawit lost interest in him. He looked up to see Bigfucka trying to make his getaway.

Perhaps there was some vestige of human memory left in Slawit; or possibly he remembered the torments that Bigfucka had put him through; or possibly he was driven simply by bloodlust. Whatever the reason, he pounced on Bigfucka and pulled him to the ground.

Bigfucka’s last pleading words were: “I’m sorry, Bob, honest. I was only playing’, I didn’t mean to hurt you, or anything. Please let me go, will you? Please?”

The words were still leaving his mouth when Slawit ripped off his lips.

The last thing he said wasn’t a word; indeed, it fell short of being even a syllable.

“WWWWwwwwwww…”

This was followed by a series of low groans interspersed with high pitched screams.

When Slawit had finished with Bigfucka’s face, it looked like it’d gone through the electric mincing machine in the butcher’s shop on the village high street. It was a new model, the BVR 600 De Luxe, and it could mince an entire cow in under two minutes. The way that Bob Slawit was shaping up, he was almost a match for it.

Having minced up most of Bigfucka, he went after the remaining three members of the gang, and did for them all in short order. By the time he was done, the high street was awash with their blood. The villagers, who’d all stayed indoors because of the threat of the gang, locked and bolted their doors when it became evident that Bob Slawit, or the thing that Slawit had become, was a bigger threat than the gang had ever been.

Marjory called the police.

“Send someone out here quick,” she said. “It’s a cat, or a man-cat, and it’s killing people.”

“I’m sorry, what’s happening, madam?”

There’s something out there and it’s attacking people.”

“Very good, madam, what’s the address?”

“The village high street, Nobblethwaite.”

Marjory heard muttered words in the background.

“A car is on its way Madam. Please tell me again the nature of the emergency.”

“There’s a big cat and it’s attacking folk. Send an ambulance and men with guns.”

“How big is the cat?”

“About the size of the ginger tom that lives next door but one, Frederick he’s called. He’s a right little bugger, he keeps shitting on my geraniums.”

“So, about the size of a domestic cat?”

“Yes, but a very big cat.”

“And it’s attacking people. What’s it doing to them?”

“So far it’s ripped some throats out, minced a man’s face and torn another man’s lips off.”

“And a cat has done all this, you say?”

“That’s’ right, a bloody cat.”

“Thank you, madam. I’ll pass the information on to the constables who’re heading your way.”

During the two-hour wait for the emergency services to arrive, Slawit stripped Bigfucka’s corpse bare of flesh, and then he set off exploring. An instinct took him in the direction of Nodger Hill. He came to the street corner that Owen Blackhead had been hiding behind — more cowering than hiding, if truth be known — and he stopped for a moment when he saw Owen.

Owen looked at the cat and felt himself shrinking with fear. He would have tried to run in spite of his bad knees, but his legs felt incapable of carrying his weight.

The ginger cat that Slawit had become looked at him with an unflinching gaze and then, for reasons that can only be guessed at, it ignored Owen and continued its journey up Nodger Hill.

Owen was so relieved that he collapsed to the ground. When he’d recovered his wits, he got to his feet and went back to the Ne’er do well.

“I’ll have a triple whiskey please,” He said to the landlady.

The man next to him had also ordered a triple whiskey. He turned to Owen.

“Did you see that? I’ve never seen the like. What the hell was it?” He asked.

Owen shook his head.

“I dunno. I still can’t believe what I saw. It could have been a were-cat if there is such a thing.”

“I don’t know what the hell it was either, but I’m staying in here till the police arrive.”

The police car pulled up outside the Ne’er do well and two uniformed constables climbed out, Keith Foster and Jenny Blackshaw. The streets were deserted. They walked along the high street until they came to the body of Nipper Davies. He was lying face up, or at least, what was left of his face was directed at the sky, with unseeing pits for eyes. Nearby there were four other bodies, all equally mutilated.

“Oh my God,” said foster. “It’s like last night, only worse, much worse.”

He walked around the perimeter of the death zone, trying to work out what manner of a man or beast could be responsible for such carnage. He didn’t bother to check whether any of the victims were still alive. It was obvious they couldn’t be, especially Bigfucka Briggs, who was far and away the deadest of the lot of them.

“Jenny, you better make sure you’ve got a weapon in your hand. Whatever did this might still be on the loose.”

“I’m way ahead of you, Keith,” she said. “The report said it was a domestic cat that did this; some cat.”

“It couldn’t have been just an ordinary domestic cat. I bet yer some rich nutter got a panther or something like that as a pet, and then let it go when it grew up and got to be too much of a handful. That’s what a lot of these rich nutters do. I’ll radio for back-up, and I’ll ask for forensics as well.”

“We ought to get in the car till the back-up gets here. We’re not equipped to take out a big cat.”

“You’re right.”

An hour later the back-up arrived, equipped with tracker dogs, rifles and tranquiliser darts, and headed up by an Inspector.

“Let me remind you of the procedure,” he said when they got out of their cars. “Keep everyone indoors until we’ve made sure the thing isn’t in the village. Remember, it’s a killer, so we’re not risking tranquiliser darts, we’re using live ammunition. Have you got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure you stay together in your teams of two while you’re on patrol, and look out for each other. Don’t take any risks. No-one is to go anywhere on his own.”

“Got that, sir.”

The CSI began his examination of the crime scene, while the tracker team fanned out in their groups, checking the few roads and gardens in the small village, and established that the threat was no longer present.

The Inspector told his team to advise all the villagers that Nobblethwaite was free from the threat of big cat attacks for the time being, but they should stay indoors as much as possible until the animal was known to have been eliminated, and should only venture outdoors when absolutely necessary.

After that, witnesses were found and interviewed.

It soon became evident that only two of the witnesses had seen the whole episode from beginning to end, Marjory Jones, the proprietor of the Village Bakery, and Owen Blackhead, the walker.