Jack Strange - Zomcats!

“Y’know, I think yer right. We better go ’elp the poor bastard.”

There was a dry-stone wall preventing them from cutting straight across the fields to the farmyard where Hodge was having his life forcibly taken away from him. Neither of them fancied the thought of scrambling over the wall. Mr Beadles pointed.

“Look Margaret, there’s an opening in t’wall further along. We can get through that.”

The two of them hurried along Stonker Lane to the gap in the wall, and went through it onto the path at the other side. It led in a straight line towards the farmhouse.

“We better hurry,” said Mr. Beadles, breaking into a run. Mrs. Beadles did her best to keep up with him.

“Christ,” she shouted as she ran. “It stinks round here.”

“All farms do!” Her husband shouted back.

The stink got worse as they neared the farm. Directly ahead of them, the grass gave way to what looked like a very large patch of bare earth. Mr and Mrs Beadles ran straight onto it. Or rather, into it. For a brief period their cries for help competed with those of Hodge.

They desperately tried to swim for the shore, but there was no getting out of the mess they’d gotten into. It was too deep, too viscous, and far too sticky.

Mr. Beadle’s last thoughts as he disappeared below the surface of the shit were: “Oh fucking hell.”

Hodge, meanwhile, had lost so much blood that he could no longer scream; he couldn’t even stand up. He dropped to the ground, and felt his lips being ripped from his face. It was only the first of many such torments he was obliged to endure that day.

After eating his fill of farmer Hodge, Henderson felt sated. He decided to stay at Stonker Edge Farm for a while because the food there was plentiful. The fields were full of it, walking around and mooing all day long. He found a barn with some hay in it he could lie on, and then he dozed off. As dusk fell, he woke up and took a stroll to stonker Edge and looked at the town of Huddersfield that was sprawled out far below.

It was to be his kingdom now.

He decided to romp down there and have sex until dawn, and possibly a picnic or two, then return to the farm to get himself fed again and have another kip.

It was deathly quiet in Bert Fossett’s back garden, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew that sooner or later, the cat that had been shitting in his vegetable-patch every night for the last week would put in an appearance. This time, he’d be ready for it. He was a keen gardener, and he wasn’t going to have his seasonal autumn crops of carrots, leeks and marrows ruined by a cat. So he sat on his back doorstep and kept watch with an airgun in his right hand.

The lights in his house were out, and there were no streetlights anywhere nearby, so Fossett’s back garden was illuminated by little more than the night sky. It was a cloudy night, which meant that his garden was a very dark place. But that didn’t worry Fossett. He’d bought a pair of night-vision goggles to ensure that he’d be able to see the intruder when it arrived.

He was wearing his outdoor jacket and woolly pullover, but even so he began to shiver. He’d been outside for several hours, and he felt as if the cold night air had begun to penetrate the many layers of clothing he was wearing. He put down his airgun and blew on his hands, and then he picked up his airgun again and rested his hands on his knees. He was getting increasingly uncomfortable, and he could have done with going indoors and warming himself in front of the fire, but he wasn’t going to be beaten. He was determined to see his mission through to the bitter end, and he was convinced that the end would indeed be bitter, at least for the cat that he’d become obsessed with; for him, however it would be sweet, for there was nothing in his world that was sweeter than revenge.

He heard a noise from the privet hedge that bordered his garden. It was subtle, but he was convinced he’d heard a rustling sound. He looked in the direction the sound had come from and he saw a cat’s head poking through the bottom of the hedge. He watched as it eased itself through, holding its belly close to the ground.

Wait for it, he thought. Let it get all the way in so that I’ve got a good big target to aim at.

Slowly, silently, he raised the gun and drew a bead on the cat. It seemed to get itself stuck under the privet for a moment, and then it made an extra effort and popped through into his garden. When it did he lowered his gun and looked more closely at it. The animal was like no other cat he’d ever seen; it was half again as big as the other cats around Birkby that occasionally made the mistake of pestering him, and it had an odd distinguishing feature: The middle of the cat between its forelegs and hind legs was flat, like a pancake; and the top of its arched back had a series of sharp-looking spikes on it, like the blade of a circular saw.

What the fuck? Fossett thought.

The cat raised its tail and sprayed a jet of fluid over Fossett’s privet to mark out its territory. Fossett smelt it, and felt his blood pressure rising. He raised his airgun again, but his hands were shaking with anger and when he pulled the trigger he shot wide of his target, sending the pellet whizzing harmlessly into the privet. The cat turned its head towards the privet to see what had caused the noise. When it had established there was no threat, it strolled languidly into the middle of Fossett’s vegetable patch and dug a small hole. Fossett re-loaded his airgun and pointed it, just as the cat nonchalantly began to drop a very large log into the hole.

This time his hands were shaking so much that he sent the pellet through one of the windows of his own greenhouse.

He rose to his feet in a state of fury.

“Fuckin’ bastard cat,” he said.

The cat was by this time making some cursory attempts to cover up the mess it had made in the middle of Fossett’s crop of baby marrows.

Fossett strode purposefully over to it, and imagined he was playing for Huddersfield Town, the football club he supported through thick and thin, mainly thin. He pictured himself in front of an open goal with the ball at his feet, and he gave the cat the hardest kick he’d ever given anything in his life. He caught it with the toe-end of his boot right under its deformed belly, hoisted it off the ground, and sent it flying through the side of his greenhouse. There was a jangling noise as the cat sailed through a pane of glass, followed by a crashing noise as it fell amongst a pile of ceramic plant pots.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Fossett. “I’ll ’ave to replace those broken panes in me green arse but it’ll ’ave been well worth it.”

The cat landed on its feet and shook itself, sending the splinters of glass that had been embedded in its fur flying in all directions. It then charged straight through the glazed wall of his greenhouse, sending many more splinters of glass flying all directions. When it was through, it stopped, and stood looking at him for a couple of seconds, and then it lowered itself to the ground and wiggled its buttocks.

Fossett had watched cats often, and he knew much about their habits and behaviour, so he knew what that meant. It meant that the cat was going to make a charge, and pounce on its prey. And he realised that he was the prey.

“Why, you cheeky little bastard,” he said.

He opened out his arms and paddled his fingers up and down as if he intended to start a bar-room brawl.

“Come on,” he said. “Fucking bring it on.”

The cat charged at him. Fossett was ready with his boot but the cat jumped up high, and landed on his head, rendering his poised boot useless.

He staggered back, his head a mass of pain and torn flesh.