“Evil Cat number eight had done his worst.”
Walking away from its first human kill, Evil Cat number eight was a little disoriented and dizzy. Dying and being reborn must do that to a cat, especially after the electrocution and worse, the water part. But he found shelter from the rain—and if need be—the scent of mice, at least he wouldn’t have to starve to death while planning his next murder. Evil Cat explored his new cave. It smelled of humans, that was good. It smelled of mice, that was good, too; but underneath the water was the odor of more flood water. He found an open door, with the stair things the humans used to climb up and down. Near the bottom of the slope the flood had filled the space beneath his new den. Well, that explained the mice escaping from the ground.
Lacking the imagination to plan ahead, Evil Cat found a dark and quiet corner to sleep in. From there he hunted from time to time and kept watch for an opportune moment to kill a two legs. As it turned out, fortune had smiled on Evil Cat, this was the place the two legs waited for the great iron beast that ran along the ribbons of steel. He waited a morning and an evening and they eventually began to come and go after the flood. Metaphorical gears began to turn in Evil Cats head, wheels spun, ideas churned.
Commuters became annoyed at the feral cat underfoot that had taken up residence at the train station; the city had a flood to clean up and catching a stray cat was at the very bottom of their list of things to do. The station master didn’t mind the cat eating the mice and decided that when the mice were gone, then so too would the cat. All the while, Evil Cat was observing, everyday he learned more and was choosing his victim carefully. His plan was a simple one, something every cat knows how to do, get underfoot at the precise moment to inflict the greatest aggravation possible; murder though, was a whole new level of vexation.
Unbeknownst to the cat, the weekend had come around and there were no victims to be found. He spent his time eating mice and thought soon his larder would be empty. Something had to happen and soon. He waited, he hunted, he picked up a new flea with every mouse he caught. He watched.
Everyday Evil Cat missed a chance to trip one of the people to their death on the steel ribbons; but he noticed a pattern, tomorrow the great iron beast that took the people away and brought them back later, would be preceded by a fast steed that didn’t stop, one that ran like it was chasing its own prey. A few people mistook it for the one they awaited. One more night and Evil Cat would leave his fleas behind.
Low vibrations foretold what was next, it could be felt before it was heard; the steel ribbons sang their song so quiet, only one of them, or a cat could hear. Evil Cat chose his position and swished his tail back and forth to the rhythm of the rails. Yes, there came the man, the one who was always fooled by the approach of the fast horse. The taste of impending doom made the cat excited. It shifted its weight from paw to paw, waiting for the precise moment to strike, to kill, to subvert the plans of the humans and proclaim the superiority of the felines. Beating on everyone’s ears like a klaxon of war, the warning bell rang. Right on cue there strode the fool who had ridden his last iron horse; well he had one more ride left, but this time underneath. Evil Cat purred with delight as he anticipated the coming duel, wit versus fur, fingers versus claws.
With the experienced timing of a predator, Evil Cat burst from his hiding place, unseen by victim and witness alike. Striding up to the tracks, the man gazed down the line. It was the freight train. He turned to walk to his seat when the cat struck. Reeling and turning as some stray cat ran between his legs, again and again, the man lost his orientation. One more lap around his feet and the man fell. At that moment the fast freight ran past the station and Evil Cat took one more life as the rail cars ripped apart flesh. Evil Cat reveled in his victory, besides killing a human he was still alive. He should have waited for celebration though, aware that the man’s acquaintance, his fellow commuter had been tripped to his death by a cat, another one of the cat’s worst enemies struck. A shoe. This one with a foot firmly tied into it hit Evil Cat in the ribs, then followed through with a kick. Then the cat also went under the steel wheels of the train to be minced and crushed, ground down between the wheel trucks and heavy springs rocking back and forth under the strain of the load.
Evil Cat number eight had done his worst.
About The Author
Paul Block lives in a small town about an hour and a half west of Chicago. In 2010, he was a transport driver (gasoline hauler), but lost his job due to chronic glaucoma. By the end of 2011, he admitted he could no longer drive a car. In 2012 he even had to give up his bicycle.
Fortunately, he can still read and see a computer screen, but life became a living nightmare of home imprisonment. As his world shrank, he decided to try writing. Now his world is as vast as time and space itself in books and story telling.