A Feast Not so Fancy

They say that if you die alone, your pets will eventually eat you. But what if you aren’t dead?

Arnold was eating his dinner the first time it happened. His meal was nothing fancy; just standard bachelor fare of franks and beans – an oversized can of baked beans with a dozen boiled hot dogs, chopped up and mixed into the sweet brown mixture. ‘Fart Fuel’, he called it, laughing to himself. It didn’t matter if he let the gas fly, since he lived alone and had nobody to be polite for.

He was alone except for the ‘Slinky Seven’, as he called them – a cluster (or was that a ‘cloiter’? Or a ‘glaring’?) of seven house cats that shared the house with him. They slithered in a continuous, fluid motion around his ankles while he was cooking or quietly sat vigil when he was sitting and eating in his La-Z-Boy chair. Yellow eyes, and a few blue ones fixed him with a placid gaze as he ate. They stared, unblinking, each one confident that eventually a tasty morsel would drop en route from the bowl to the man’s mouth. Arnold was accustomed to the way the Slinky Seven stalked him and their silent stares weren’t unnerving in the least. They were the only company he had, and the only ones whose farts smelled worse than his.

It was during one of these mundane franks-and-beans affairs that the strange thing happened. Arnold reached for his coffee, took a sip, dumped the rest of the contents on his chest and then casually tossed the mug over his shoulder. The mug sailed across the room and bounced off the wall without breaking. The Slinky Seven scattered, hissing their indignation as they sought shelter from what appeared to be a random, unprovoked attack.

“What the fuck?”

Arnold leapt out of his seat in surprise and from the shock of the scalding liquid seeping through his shirt. Luckily, it had cooled below burning-skin temperature but now he had an unsightly stain (another one) on the front of his t-shirt. Still muttering curses, more irritated by the stained shirt than by the involuntary muscle spasm, Arnold found a cleaner shirt to change into and tossed the soiled one into the overflowing hamper.

The shirt was pretty much worn out but stained or not, Arnold didn’t like to throw anything out. The clutter that surrounded him attested to his hoarding of smaller objects. His yard was filled with cars and trucks, all in varying states of repair. In his garage was a speedboat he had only used twice because it was too much trouble launching and reloading it by himself. He didn’t have any friends to go boating with so the boat had been gathering dust for years. Arnold had no intention of selling the boat or any of his other treasures. He had been poor once, but now that he could afford it, he liked to surround himself with all the things he had wished for when he was a teenager, struggling to survive on the streets.

His financial woes had ended with his father’s death. He inherited a shabby but inhabitable house in the country along with a tidy sum of cash from the old man’s life insurance policy. His father also left behind an extensive stock portfolio, which didn’t quite make Arnold a millionaire but close enough that he would never want for anything for the rest of his life. Arnold cashed in the stocks and withdrew the entire wad, except for a small amount needed to keep his bank account active for bill payments and writing an occasional cheque.

He kept the bulk of the cash at home, where he could keep an eye on his money. His king-sized mattress and box spring were stuffed with rows of plastic bags, each containing bundles of cash. Arnold did not believe in banks. He preferred to keep his assets where he could see them instead of in the hands of some greedy corporation where sleazy bankers could get rich embezzling endless amounts of useless fees from his fortune. The concept of earning interest from his own money escaped Arnold. He irrefutably believed that everyone but him would benefit from his funds being kept in a bank.

Keeping the funds liquid and hidden allowed Arnold to feign poverty to prevent his greedy ex-wife from gouging him for more alimony. He could hold out as long as she could. Sooner or later her goody-two-shoes Bible-thumping boyfriend would insist on marrying her and Arnold would be free and clear. Bible Boy wouldn’t be willing to live in sin forever. What would the rest of the congregation think? Pretty soon the bitch would have to give in and marry him or risk losing Meal Ticket #2.

Arnold supposed he could sell the house and buy a nicer one but he was a lazy man who preferred smoking pot and stuffing his face with junk food in front of the big screen TV to housework. A larger, newer house would expect to be cleaned and he didn’t want to deal with the guilt of watching his clutter accumulate on a shiny new floor. Nor did he want to deal with the arduous task of moving or getting rid of the mountains of ‘belongings’ that had been slowly growing in the home since he moved in.

Arnold was satisfied with his surroundings and grudgingly fixed whatever needed to be fixed around the place – when it absolutely needed to be fixed. The roof was one of those things. The house had a flat roof, which sagged in a few places. The gutters only worked well when they were completely free from blockages. The mixture of fir and spruce trees surrounding the house continuously rained debris over the place, blanketing the roof and its drainage system with needles. It was worse when the wind blew. In stormy weather, it didn’t take long for the gutters to clog with needles. Then, the water pooled on top of the roof in all the low spots, forming larger and larger puddles until it reached the one area that actually leaked – right over his bedroom. Every few days or after each major storm, Arnold had to climb the ladder to clean the clogs out of the poorly functioning drainage system and clear the rest of the needles off of the roof.

He could never take a vacation even though he could easily afford one. A stretch of typical rainy West coast weather could hit while he was away. He might come home to a leaking roof and one soggy king-sized bed.

Cleaning the roof was only a short-term solution and Arnold knew he would have no choice but to re-roof the house and replace the gutters. He had the funds to pay for it but it still irked him that he was being forced to spend his money in such a way.

It began to rain again – those giant dime-sized drops blown sideways by an angry March wind. Arnold wished summer would hurry up and arrive so he could get this whole roof business over and done with once and for all.

The next time it happened, Arnold was shaving. He scraped the razor over his cheek as always. Without warning his hand twisted, drawing the double bladed disposable sideways, down over his jaw line toward his neck. Twin lines of red beaded in the razor’s path as he felt the sting of the steel.

“Shit!”

He jumped back several steps, throwing the razor into the sink where it could do no more harm. He tripped over Sneaky Pete, a slim black creature who was forever slithering around his ankles and nearly fell ass-first into the bathtub.

“What the fucking shit?” he shouted at no one in particular.

Jasper, a rotund silver tabby who had been watching from the doorway, mrrowped in agreement.

Arnold looked down at his right hand – the trusted appendage he used for everything from signing cheques to masturbation – in disbelief that it was capable of betraying him in such a way. He flexed his fingers and twisted his wrist. Except for a slight tremor he hadn’t noticed before, the hand seemed fine. It didn’t even cross his mind to consult a doctor. Arnold didn’t believe in doctors any more than he believed in banks. Crooks and shysters, all of them. All they wanted was to separate him from his money.

He shrugged it off. It was probably just a pinched nerve from when dragged the Shop-Vac up the ladder to vacuum the roof. Maybe it was time he splurged on a massage or something. He could go to one of those massage parlors that offered a rubdown with a happy ending. That sounded nice. Better yet, maybe he could get one of those girls to make a house call. He sighed. He’d probably have to shower first and put on some clean clothes and that sounded like too much effort. He rubbed some Ben-Gay on his shoulder and popped a couple of Ibuprofen instead.

Arnold nuked a heaping plate of Pizza Pops in the microwave, along with a couple of frozen beef and bean burritos. Armed with plates of hot food, a few bags of chips and a six-pack of beer, he plopped back into his La-Z-Boy to watch some more TV.

When all else fails, do nothing and smoke another joint.

It was a motto that had served him well all of his life. As he waited for his food to cool below molten-lava temperature, he settled comfortably in his chair. On his lap was the little wooden tray that contained all of his necessities – a pack of rolling papers, a Baggie of sticky green buds and a small pair of resin-coated scissors for cutting the weed.

He found a porno movie just starting on the Hustler channel and slowly puffed the joint, savoring the smooth, skunky flavor. One thing about the West coast – it was rainy and shitty all winter long but they grew some of the world’s best indoor pot. The local growers were masters of hydroponics.

As always, the Slinky Seven assembled to watch him eat, in anticipation of possible dropped morsels. He had already fed them, but the cats were always more interested in what he was eating than the seven open cans of Fancy Feast and dry kibble poured into three large bowls on the kitchen floor.

Vultures, he thought. I bet if I died in my sleep you bastards wouldn’t hesitate to make a meal out of me.

He pulled a piece of pepperoni out of one of his Pizza Pops and tossed it into the cluster of felines, just to tease them. He chuckled at the furry melee that ensued as several cats pounced at once but only one, a quick, wiry calico named Lizzie, managed to snag the prize. He had named her Lizzie Borden for her particularly ruthless hunting prowess. The little tri-colored cat had a penchant for beheading every one of her victims, be it rodent, reptile or bird – before proudly presenting it to her master.

Arnold fell asleep halfway through Diddle Her on the Roof. He woke several hours later with a weight on his chest and two yellow eyes gazing at him from a round gray-furred face.

“Get off, Oscar. You need to lose some weight,” Arnold grunted as he sat up, forcing the plump gray-and-white cat to jump down to the floor with a heavy thud. It was dark outside and still raining, from the sound of it.

Great.

He would have to go up and clean that fucking roof tomorrow, rain or not. He might as well just go to bed.

When Arnold lowered his footrest and tried to stand, he found that his right leg wouldn’t move. It was asleep, from the foot all the way up past the knee. He slapped it to wake it up and found that it wasn’t numb, just immobile for some reason. He lit a cigarette while he waited for the circulation to return. By the time his smoke was finished he was able to wiggle his toes again and managed to push himself to his feet. He was getting old, he supposed. When stuff stopped working – that was the first sign of old age.

Arnold limped to the bathroom for a piss, then hobbled off to bed, which was where an old fart like him belonged.

* * *

The weight was on his chest again.

Probably that damn Oscar. As usual, that particular cat had chosen Arnold’s torso as his favorite nesting place.

Oscar, get off me! He tried to speak the words but for some reason he was mute.

Great, I’m still asleep and dreaming, and that damn cat is weighing down my chest.

Arnold’s eyelids flickered and opened a crack but he couldn’t seem to open his eyes all the way. He glimpsed a bit of gray through his slitted eyelids. Oscar was on his chest, just as he thought. He tried to push the cat away but found that his arm wouldn’t move. It was just like his leg the night before but this time it was his arm. And his other arm too.

Panicked, Arnold tried to move the rest of his body but found that nothing would move. Not an arm, a leg, or any part of his body. He tried to move his head from side to side. Still nothing.

He couldn’t move a muscle.

Arnold, now fully conscious, tried to relax and wait for the paralysis to subside. It was just a pinched nerve or something, he told himself. It would pass. It had to. It would pass, wouldn’t it?

He took stock of his entire body, muscle by muscle. There were muscles he hadn’t even thought about for years and now he was aware of them and trying to make them work. He wasn’t numb by any means; from what he could tell, he could feel everything but simply couldn’t move. Nothing below his neck worked. It seemed that his autonomic system was functional; he continued to breathe, his heart continued to beat and his eyelids blinked. His gag reflex was functional, causing him to swallow from time to time but he had no control over it. His vocal cords were paralyzed and he was unable to make a sound.

If he concentrated really hard, he could open his flickering eyelids enough to see the ceiling above him, where his digital clock projected the time. He knew that it was an hour behind because he hadn’t gotten around to setting his clock ahead yet. It said 8:35, so he knew that it was actually 9:35… 9:36… 9:37. Arnold watched the minutes silently tick by as he waited for his unresponsive muscles to wake up.

He felt the pressure on his chest lift and the brush of fur from Oscar’s tail as the cat left, probably to have some breakfast. There would probably be some cat food left in the bowls, which he had filled to the point of overflowing the previous night. He would need to get up and refill the bowls when the food ran out or they would not be happy cats.

It was 10:38 and Arnold’s body still refused to move.

He was beginning to notice a new sensation. He had to piss. It wasn’t urgent yet but would get to that point soon… and then what? He listened to the sounds of the house – the pitter-patter of paws as various cats moved around, the scratch-scratch of someone in the litter box, the clatter of raindrops against the window and the howl of the wind through the trees.

Shit. The roof.

He had planned to clean that damn roof off today. The gutters were probably already clogging with needles and before long the puddles would spread. He could see the yellowish stain on the ceiling over his bed, where the roof had leaked before he knew about the drainage problem. It was just a matter of time before a fresh water spot would form.

Thinking about rain, puddles and dripping water wasn’t helping the pressure he was feeling in his bladder, either. He focused all his energy on moving something… a finger, a toe… anything. He had to get moving soon or he would not make it to the bathroom in time. A sudden rush of warmth in his groin told him that he no longer needed to worry. Nature had taken care of things and his bladder was no longer full. It made him wonder what would happen if the urge came to have a bowel movement.

By 4:00 pm the rain had not subsided and activity inside the house had increased. The Slinky Seven were restless. The ones who went outdoors on a regular basis were displeased at being imprisoned. Lizzie was particularly disgruntled because hunting was part of her daily routine. She seldom went more than 24 hours without murdering something.

A plaintive “MrowOW!” from the kitchen told him that the food bowls were probably empty. The Seven would eventually figure out that the two large bags in the corner were full of cat food. Arnold wondered which cat would be first to discover the food and claw the bags open. His money was on Frank, the Siamese who had just complained. Frank, named after Sinatra for his blue eyes, was the innovative type and the only one who had figured out how to open cupboard doors. He had gotten in the habit of pulling over the open bag of food when it was hidden in the broom closet, so Arnold had put a latch on that door. Frank didn’t normally touch unopened bags of cat food but it probably wouldn’t take him long to open them if he got hungry.

Arnold felt the bed move as first one, then two furry bodies jumped up beside him. Oscar’s whiskers brushed his cheek as the gray cat rubbed his face against Arnold’s. A velvet paw patted his cheek. He could feel another cat stalking the length of his bed before jumping over his head and settling on the pillow next to him. A flash of black overhead told him it was Sneaky Pete. Rustling sounds near the doorway indicated that the rest of the Seven were assembling in the room, having realized that this was where the Food-Giver was.

Arnold slept restlessly throughout the night; restless for one who couldn’t move a muscle. His paralysis hadn’t improved or worsened. From time to time an involuntary muscle spasm would move one of his hands or feet, disturbing whichever cat happened to be curled nearby. Each tiny twitch gave Arnold hope that he might be regaining control of his muscles but control did not return.

He’d lost count of how many times he had pissed himself in the last 24 hours. His bladder had a tendency to relieve itself at will now, without waiting to be full. He felt cold and clammy. He was grateful for the warm bodies of the cats, which were accumulating on the bed.

You faithful buggers, he thought. Here you are, cuddling up to me, trying to comfort me in my time of need. I’m sorry I ever called you vultures. I just wish one of you could call 911… or open the door and go for help.

He wished it wasn’t March. If it had been summer time he surely would have had a window or two open for the cats to go in and out and maybe… just maybe someone out there might notice a few hungry cats and realize that something was wrong.

If only he hadn’t been too damn lazy and cheap to install a cat door for them.

If only he had friends or family that might miss him.

If only… if only…

He had plenty of time to analyze his situation, as he lay immobile on the bed, cold, wet and full of regret. He’d watched enough Discovery Channel to know that the human body was capable of some strange shit. A neurological disorder could be responsible. Maybe something in his brain or nervous system had misfired. Maybe he had suffered a stroke. He wished he had seen a doctor about the strange muscle spasms. Hell, he wished he even had a family doctor. He hadn’t had a checkup in more than twenty years.

Day Three passed much like Day Two had, except that his last meal of Pizza Pops and burritos had finally decided to make an exit. He now lay in a stinking pile of his own filth, still unable to move. On a more positive note, (maybe) his bladder had stopped emptying itself every hour or so, probably because he was becoming so dehydrated that he had no urine left. His mouth was dry and occasional involuntary swallowing didn’t generate any saliva.

The cats had begun to protest more loudly about the fact that the Food-Giver had not refilled their bowls. Their complaints were indignation more than starvation. True to his nature, Frank had figured out that the two large bags in the corner of the kitchen contained food and clawed them open. The prissy bastards who were complaining would just have to suck it up and learn to eat food that had not been placed neatly in bowls for them.

The automatic watering system had a reservoir large enough to last a week for two or three cats. For seven, it was good for about three days. Arnold tried to remember if he had put the lid down on the toilet last time he used it. Probably not. Hopefully he had remembered to flush what would become the only source of water once the reservoir on the water dish was dry.

The storm continued to rage outside all week, but to Arnold’s surprise the roof didn’t start to leak until Day Six. He woke to a tap-tapping sound and for a moment he thought someone was at the door. He tried to shout but as usual, no sound came out. He felt colder than before and noticed that his blanket of cats seemed to have exited the bed. When he looked up at the ceiling he saw the reason. A large water stain half the size of his bed had appeared, directly over his legs and lower body. The tapping was the sound of water dripping onto his quilt. The part covering his legs was already soaked. The cats had vacated the area in favor of drier quarters.

On Day Seven the storm finally stopped and the sun came out, spilling through the window and warming the room. Between the sunlight and the baseboard heater, Arnold stayed warm enough to avoid hypothermia but he was still wet and cold and more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life.

Lying in the exact same position for a week was agony. Every day new aches and pains ravaged his body, particularly on what bed manufacturers refer to as the ‘pressure points’ – each part of the body that bears the most weight when lying down. When lying on one’s back it was the hips and shoulders that absorbed the most pressure. What had begun as small aches had turned into scorching pain. It felt as if his skin was worn raw in every spot that came in contact with the bed.

His groin area stung, from what could only be described as a chronic case of diaper rash – the result of being covered in his own waste for a week. He had stopped pissing a few days ago, much to his relief because the urine burned his skin like acid every time he took a leak. The coolness of the wet quilt offered some relief but its heavy weight added to his discomfort and aggravated the bedsores that were surely forming on the underside of his body.

The cats had found the toilet and were using it as a water supply. Judging from the sounds of paper tearing in the kitchen, the first bag of food was gone and they were working on the second.

Another pungent odor besides his own now permeated the house – ammonia and cat feces from three unchanged litter boxes. With seven cats in the house, Arnold rotated three litter boxes, changing a different one each day so that one was always fresh while the other two were being scooped. He was more diligent with his litter box routine than he was with any other type of housework. Cats could be vengeful creatures. Failure to make their environment pleasing could result in waking up with a pillow full of cat piss. It had now been more than a week since any of the boxes had been changed and Arnold guessed that pretty soon the cats would stop using them altogether if they hadn’t already.

He wondered what was going to kill him first – starvation, dehydration or being buried alive in cat shit. Most likely it would be dehydration that got him. He had stopped feeling hunger after the fourth or fifth day and now his gut just felt tight and achy like the rest of his body. The thirst was maddening in the beginning but that too, had faded. Arnold believed his body was shutting down in preparation for death.

The ninth or tenth day – he wasn’t sure because he was starting to lose track – the rain started again. The ceiling had slowly been dripping on him even while the sun shone, because the puddle on the roof hadn’t dried up yet. Now, it took little time for the puddle to fill and the leak began to drip more urgently once again.

The damp quilt once again became a wet one. The mattress beneath him was saturated and cold. The cats no longer cuddled up next to him. Arnold wondered why he wasn’t dead yet. It was probably the rain. He had heard somewhere that the skin was capable of absorbing the equivalent of drinking a glass of water, just from taking a shower. He must have been absorbing the rainwater as it leaked on him. As long as he continued to lie on that soggy mattress covered by the water-soaked quilt he was absorbing water, probably just enough to keep him alive without actually drinking anything. His bladder relieved itself again, as if confirming the theory. It was just a trickle of urine but it felt like sulfuric acid on his thigh. He screamed soundlessly.

Arnold faded in and out of consciousness for the week or so that followed. He had lost count of the days. He managed to keep track until approximately Day Sixteen, then it became a blur of dark, light, cold and pain.

And smell.

Oh, the smell! It was a mix of untended cat box, human waste and another, even more sickening odor that smelled like rotting flesh. He wondered if one of his cats had died. Flies had somehow gotten into the house and kept landing on him. He could feel their disgusting little feet walking on his skin as they disappeared beneath his pyjamas, to the underside of his body.

His back was on fire.

He could feel something writhing and squirming underneath him. It had to be imagination. Arnold screamed and screamed inside his head until the darkness of unconsciousness took him again.

When he woke again, he felt pain in a new location. His hand. Something was chewing on it. He felt the bed move and then a hiss as another cat joined the first one. He felt a tugging sensation as tiny needle-like teeth tore into his flesh and pulled a piece free.

Please God, let me die. Please let me die, he prayed over and over as he faded from consciousness once again.

He woke with the familiar weight on his chest. It was difficult to breathe. He felt the comforting vibration of Oscar’s purr and the light prick of his claws as the grey cat lovingly kneaded Arnold’s chest.

Good old Oscar. At least you still love me. Not like those other fucking vultures.

Suddenly Oscar was on top of his face, smothering him, claws digging into his master’s scalp as he sunk his teeth into Arnold’s cheek. Oscar rumbled a menacing growl as another cat approached. He bit down harder, pulling and tearing until his prize came free. Warmth gushed down Arnold’s cheek. He felt the scratch of another cat’s tongue as it licked the fresh blood from his skin before helping itself to a bite of fresh meat from his face.

“Meerrrowp!” a voice said from the doorway.

“Mrrrrr,” another one agreed. It was answered by a hiss next to the bed. Arnold heard the tha-thump of more paws on the floor as more cats came to investigate. He knew that sound. The Slinky Seven were assembling for a feast.

This time, Arnold was the main course.

* * *

“You sure about this, Leroy?” a voice whispered in the dark.

“Fuckin’ rights,” the other replied. “I’m telling you this dude’s loaded, and he keeps the wad right here in his house. Besides, he owes me money. He didn’t pay for the last bag of weed I sold him. I’ve been waiting for him to get back from vacation or wherever the hell he went.” The man spat on the ground before pulling a full-face ski mask over his head. “I’m sicka fuckin’ waitin’.”

The two dark-clothed figures approached the house cautiously. No lights were visible but Arnold’s car was still parked in the driveway.

“The way I figure it,” Leroy said, “Is that numbnuts here fucked off to Mexico or somewhere and got someone to drive him to the airport. Left his vehicle here to make everyone think he was home. To prevent guys like us from breaking in – right, Chucky?” He gave his friend a playful nudge. “Bet he thinks he’s pretty clever. But I’ve been watching for him, seeing as how he owes me money and I can tell you that he’s been gone for the whole month. I know that for a fact because if he was here I’d have my fuckin’ money by now.”

“If you say so,” Chuck said. He wasn’t nuts about the idea of breaking into a place so close to where he lived but Leroy said it was a sure thing.

They hugged the side of the house, staying in the shadows just to be safe. Leroy was pretty sure that ol’ Arnie didn’t have any security cameras but with these reclusive rich dickheads you could never be sure. Any dude that kept wads of cash in his mattress wasn’t all right in the head to begin with.

“What’s that smell?” Chuck asked, covering his nose and mouth with his arm.

“Cats. Lots of cats. I told you, this dude’s one of those crazy cat guys.”

“What kind of cats? Dead ones? Fuck!”

“Shh. Just shut up. Don’t be a pussy. Get out of my way. I’m going in.”

Leroy pried the window open with his crowbar and slid it open. “Boost me in and I’ll unlock the door,” he ordered.

Chuck’s boost nearly launched Leroy into the window head first and he groped in the darkness to catch his balance. He opted to slide in hands-first, then stand and get his bearings. He knew he was in the living room, but that was about it. When he hit the floor, he felt something wet and squishy under his hand.

“Aw, fuck! Fucking cat shit! Gross!” he cursed under his breath. Chuck was right; the smell was gawd-awful. Much worse than he’d ever remembered from his many visits to Arnold’s house.

Leroy got to his feet and groped for his flashlight, looking for somewhere to wipe the cat feces from his hand. He shone the light around the room. It didn’t look right. It had to be the shadows playing tricks on his eyes.

Small dark lumps covered the floor and furniture. It appeared as if the cats had been using the entire house as a litter box for a long time. Each time he took a step his shoe squished another turd. It was too disgusting for words.

This had better not be a wasted trip, not now.

Arnold had obviously gone on vacation without arranging for someone to care for the cats, or the person he had gotten was an irresponsible asshole. Leroy suspected the latter, given the number of friends Arnold had. He wasn’t the most popular guy. In fact, as the reclusive man’s dope dealer, Leroy was pretty sure that he was Arnold’s best friend. He cursed and squished his way to the front door, where an apprehensive Chuck waited on the step.

“It’s disgusting in here,” Leroy whispered. “Watch your step, there’s cat shit everywhere.”

“Eww!” Chuck whined, “I don’t wanna go in there.”

“Just shut up and get in here!” Leroy ordered, grabbing Chuck by the jacket and yanking him inside so he could shut the door. He used the cat-shit hand. Leroy grinned in the darkness. He’d found a place to wipe the shit off his hand after all.

Leroy closed the blinds to prevent nosy neighbors from seeing anything and the two made their way to the bedroom. The smell got worse as they approached the bedroom door. Leroy used his clean hand to stretch his mask over his mouth to filter the stink. For the first time he began to suspect that maybe, just maybe Arnold hadn’t gone on vacation after all.

Oh well, fuck it, he thought. It don’t matter, as long as the money’s there.

 “Geez, what is that smell?” Chuck asked again, pulling the neck of his t-shirt up over his face.

Leroy shone his flashlight through the doorway, then groped for the light switch to confirm what he thought he’d seen.

He wished he hadn’t chosen to cover his entire face because when he puked, it stayed mostly inside the ski mask, filling it right up to the eyeholes with vomit.

The pair ran from the room, each shoving the other out of the way and trying not to slip on the layer of cat shit that covered almost every inch of the floor. They burst out the front door onto the porch, where Chuck spewed his guts over the railing. Leroy peeled the disgusting ski mask from his face. This was not turning out to be his night at all. Both men gulped in the fresh night air to quell the nausea they felt.

Finally Chuck broke the silence with one of his usual dumb questions. “Did you see that?”

“Yes, you dumb fuck. I saw that. Looks like Arnie-boy has gone on a permanent vacation.” Leroy spat into the shrubbery, trying to cleanse the taste of puke from his palette.

“But did you see that?” Chuck repeated, “It looked like they… they…”

“Were eating him,” Leroy finished. “Yeah, I saw it, all right.” He spat again and wiped his face with his sleeve one more time. “The question is,” he continued, “Are you ready to go back in and get the money?”

“What?” Chuck spun around to face his friend. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Leroy said coolly. It was true; he had been diagnosed with schizophrenia in his late teens. Leroy did not take prescription medication for his condition, opting instead for ‘natural’ treatment, AKA smoking copious amounts of marijuana. He financed his pot habit by growing and selling some of the best weed in town, hence his relationship with Arnold.

“I’m not going back in there,” Chuck said, shaking his head. “Nope, no way.”

Leroy grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “Yes, you are. You have already committed a break-and-enter. Leaving without the money when it’s sitting there for the taking is just fucking stupid.”

“But he’s in there!” Chuck whined.

“So? Does he look like he’s going to be needing it? He’s fucking dead! That means he isn’t going to report it missing. It’s free fucking money, dipshit!”

“I can’t,” Chuck protested.

“You can, and you will. You know what they do to pretty boys like you in jail, my friend? Yeah, you heard me. You’re either in all the way or you’re going down for it.” Leroy wasn’t kidding. Framing Chuck for a break-in would be easy. They were roommates and there was plenty of evidence he could spread around.

“Look,” Leroy said, “Sooner or later they’re gonna find this sorry bastard. Nobody’s going to know his cash is missing because nobody knows about it, not even his ex-wife. He thought I didn’t know about it either. If we don’t take it, then what’s gonna happen to it? Either his ex gets it or it’ll wind up in some cop’s fucking pocket. Do you really think Arnie would want that? Or would he want it to go to his favorite dope dealer and his best friend, to improve their quality of life?”

“We don’t have to touch him, do we?”

“Only enough to get him off the bed because the money’s underneath. But we can roll him in the blanket. No touching the corpse.”

 They took a moment to draw a few more breaths of untainted air before venturing back inside the house.

Even though they were ready for the smell this time, it was still brutal. They navigated the cat-shit minefield through the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom. The light was still on and the horror that they had seen before still waited in the bed. The odor of decomposition that emanated from Arnold was overpowering, making the smell of cat excrement seem tame by comparison. The cats had been chowing down on him, for sure. Both of his hands were nibbled down to the bone and chunks were missing out of his forearms. His face was the worst. His cheeks had been chewed away to the point where his teeth were visible through the sides of his face.

Leroy gingerly lifted the quilt; curious to see just how far the cats had eaten him and nearly puked again, from the sight and smell of what lay underneath. The sheet beneath the body was covered with a blackish stain. The underside of Arnold’s pyjamas moved as if alive. A multitude of maggots squirmed in and out of Arnold’s decomposing body, spilling out of the space between his pants and shirt.

“Aw! Gross!” Leroy jumped back, dropping the quilt before Chuck had a chance to get a good look. He didn’t want him turning pussy and running out of the house again.

“What?” Chuck stepped forward nervously.

“You don’t wanna know,” Leroy said quietly, “Let’s get this poor dead fuck off the bed. He leaned forward to pull the sheet from under the mattress where it was tucked.

That was when Arnold’s eyelids flickered.

* * *

Arnold woke to a blinding light and the sound of voices.

I’ve been found!

The paramedics had finally arrived. Maybe he was going to make it after all.

“Motherfucker! He’s alive!” a familiar voice said.

“Geez Louise!” a second voice said.

“Arnie? Can you hear me?” Leroy said, as a blurred image of the dope dealer leaned over Arnold’s ruined face.

Kill me. Fucking kill me. Please kill me. Arnold begged soundlessly, the words coming out as nothing but air.

“How the fuck is he alive?” the other man said.

“I dunno,” Leroy replied. He hesitated for a moment, studying Arnold’s face for signs of recognition. “Well, Arn,” he said, “I hate to do this to ya, but you still owe me for a bag. Turns out it was primo shit. REALLY primo shit, so this one’s gonna cost a little more.”

“You thieving bastard!” Arnold screamed, but it only came out as a whistle of air from his dried-up throat.

Leroy finished pulling the sheet from the edges of the bed and flung it over Arnold’s body.

“Help me out here, Chuck,” he said, “Grab that end and we’ll just roll him over the edge.”

“Oh, gross!” Chuck said, “What the fuck is that under him?”

“Nothing,” Leroy said, “Try not to look at that, it’s nasty. Now lift.”

* * *

Arnold’s body came alive in a firestorm of agony when they moved him. Using the sheet, they rolled him off the edge of the bed, where he thudded to the floor, the soiled quilt breaking his fall.

Something else happened when they moved him.

The sheet covered part of his face and he moved his head slightly in reflex, trying to free it.

Wait a minute.

His head had moved. Just a little, but it had moved. He tried moving his legs and the muscles responded but they were too weak to create any movement. His eyelids were fully open now, being the only muscles that had had any exercise during his ordeal.

One of his arms had lifted up when they moved him and his hand was now resting near his face. The hand wouldn’t move but he could see it if he rolled his eyes. He struggled to focus and saw something straight out of a horror movie. It was a skeleton’s hand, devoid of meat except for some rotted tissue between the bones.

Arnold screamed but it came out sounding like a wheeze.

He could hear rustling sounds as Chuck and Leroy cleaned out the secret stash of money that he kept inside the box spring of his bed. He wondered how Leroy had known about the money then guessed that the drug dealer must have followed him one of the times when he went to get money to pay for his weekly bag of pot. That’s what he got for letting his guard down.

You can’t trust anyone, not even drug dealers.

Now he had no money left; nothing to live for.

Oh well, at least that greedy bitch won’t get any of it.

Maybe it was better this way.

Let me die now. Please God let me die now.

* * *

Leroy shouldered his garbage bag full of money. As usual, Chuck was dragging his ass.

“You coming or what?” he asked. He was running out of patience, tired of constantly having to babysit Chuck.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chuck grunted, hefting his bulging bag to see if it would hold the weight.

As the pair moved toward the door a sound from the floor beside the bed made them pause. It sounded like a wheeze, followed by a croak. They listened. Another croak, this time forming the faint sound of words.

“Kill ne.”

Chuck bolted for the door, making an involuntary, “Eeeewwww” sound.

“Whoa,” Leroy said, “Hold up.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Chuck whispered. “We got the money, now let’s get the fuck outta here!”

Leroy didn’t answer. He had placed his bag of money by the bedroom door and was slowly making his way to where Arnold lay, between the bed and the wall.

“You say something, Arn?” Leroy said.

Arnold struggled to pronounce the words through what was left of his lips.

“Kill me.” The words were little more than a whisper but unmistakable.

“You sure about that?”

“Yesss.”

“If you say so. Leroy always aims to please.” There was a snick sound – a switchblade knife, which Leroy never went anywhere without.

“What’re you doing, Leroy?” Chuck whined, “Can we just go, please?”

“Shh!”

“No. Oh, no. I did not sign up for this shit! I’m outta here.”

“You take one step and I’ll do you next. Now shut the fuck up.” Leroy growled. He edged closer to Arnold, staying as close to the wall as possible to avoid touching the horror that lay on the floor before him.

“Now, Arnie, I promise I’ll make this quick. And remember: You asked for it. I’m just doing what I’m told, right?”

Arnold’s lips moved in reply but he was too weak to form any more words.

Leroy brought the blade down lightning-fast and stabbed Arnold in the throat, severing his jugular on the side farthest from him. He jumped backward to avoid the arterial spray that he knew would follow but it was unnecessary; there was very little spray at all. Arnold’s blood pressure was so low that the blood spilled out of the wound in a slow trickle, which increased only slightly with each beat of his failing heart.

Leroy grabbed his bag of money and let Chuck lead the way to the front door.

Before he left the house, he called,

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! Din-dins!”

* * *

It was late November.

Gord Mackie, the local wildlife conservation officer was responding to a complaint about bear sightings in the neighborhood. Usually the bears were hibernating by this time but sometimes they stayed awake to forage if they didn’t get enough to eat. A hungry bear in a residential area was a dangerous one, and it was Gord’s job to eliminate the danger, either by trapping and relocating the bear or by shooting it. He hoped that with the recent snowfall he would be able to spot some tracks near where the bear was last seen to get an idea of how large the animal was.

The place where the neighbor had reported seeing the bear was a deserted house set back in a grove of trees. Apparently the owner had vacated the place sometime during the summer. Now, a bear was hanging around the house, probably attracted by unpicked fruit trees.

As Gord neared the house, he realized that this wasn’t any ordinary bear sighting. The well-worn trail encircling the house and multiple sets of paw prints in the snow told him that this was a bear highway. There was something inside the house that was attracting bears – a lot of them. When he got within spitting distance of the front door the smell hit him.

Death.

Death and… sewage? Maybe a sewage pipe had ruptured under the house. That would explain the smell.

Gord called his head office first, then the police.

* * *

“Good God!” Constable Martin rushed out the door, gloved hand over his face. Corporal Andrews had sent the rookie in first to break him in. Andrews had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be a pretty scene, if the smell was any indication but even the seasoned veteran cop wasn’t prepared for what waited within.

“What you think happened to him?” Martin’s voice sounded hollow and muffled from behind the gas mask, an item both partners had donned before entering following Martin’s initial dash in and out.

“I’m no coroner, but from what I can see, this poor sap must have died in his sleep and his cats made a meal of him.”

The skeleton in the bedroom was picked clean and some of the extremities had been pulled away from the body. The corpse lay in a jumbled heap beside the bed, looking like it had been the object of several tug-of-war competitions. Judging from the cat skeletons that littered the house, the animals had turned on each other once they ran out of meat from the human carcass.

A rustling noise behind them made both officers jump. A grey streak dashed past the bedroom door and exited through the open front door. A cat. Further investigation revealed that the lone surviving cat had been munching on the freshly killed carcass of another cat – a small calico. There were five other cat carcasses in the house, but this one was the freshest.

Wild-eyed and skittish, with ribs showing on his sides, Oscar was no longer a fat, lazy house cat. He was a lethal predator who had learned how to survive… by whatever means necessary.

Copyright © 2012 Mandy White

Available on Amazon.com as a stand-alone short story. Soon to be featured in WPaD’s upcoming pet anthology.