OJUC -- A Challenge via Courtney

So in my last post, I said I'd write some short stories for free if you guys gave me a prompt. Courtney asked me to write about a killer cat.

So here you go! >;)

Ojuc by Nenia Campbell

Mark and Vincent were playing the newest Grand Theft Auto. Mark had just run over a hooker, leaving her blood-smeared remains staining the black-top beneath the wheels of his pilfered pimpmobile. A steady rain drummed against the windows of Mark's parents' mock-Tudor.

Vincent downed the second half of his Mountain Dew. “When are your parents going to be home again?”

“I dunno.” Mark didn't take his eyes from the screen. “Late. Why?”

He jerked his head towards the liquor cabinet. “You think your pops would mind?”

“Fuck.” Mark's character had just been apprehended by the cops. “Fine. Just fill it back up with water in case he checks it.”

Vincent poured some vodka in his empty Mountain Dew bottle, took a quick swig, and then carried the vodka bottle with him to the bathroom, using his thumb to mark the level of the liquid. The rain was still falling, but he thought he heard something—like the crackle of dead air on a staticky TV channel.

“Hey—it's just us here, right?” Vincent said, a little nervously.

He knew the question was stupid as soon as he asked it.

“Yeah, and Ojuc.”

Vincent turned off the faucet. “Ojuc?”

“The cat.”

Something moved in Vincent's periphery but when he looked towards the door there was nothing there.

Vincent had never liked cats. Their eyes looked all wrong, like they'd been stolen from another creature. A snake, maybe. Just ripped right out, and placed in their own skulls instead.

He shuddered, and was glad Mark was not there to see it and call him a pussy.

“You named your cat Ojuc?”

“Not our cat. Mom found him in the woods. Ojuc was the name on his collar.”

“Where are its—his—owners?”

“Dunno. Line was disconnected. Must have come from the wrong side of the tracks. You still playing?”

“No. Got anything good to eat?”

“Check the kitchen.”

“You're a shitty host, dude.”

“Fuck you,” Mark said.

Vincent went into the kitchen. There was a box of pizza on the table from earlier, but when he opened the lid, it was empty. “You dick, you ate it all? There was half a pie left.”

Then he heard it—that soft, scratching sound.

“I didn't eat it, you butt-licker,” Mark said scornfully. “You probably put it somewhere retarded.”

Vincent looked around the kitchen, warily. “You think the cat ate it?”

“Yeah, the fucking cat ate it.” Mark snorted. “Blame the cat.”

Since there wasn't any pizza, Vincent opened the fridge door. Something rolled down, and landed on the tiled floor with a soft thwack. Vincent jumped, and cried out in fright. “Dude, there's a rat!”

Vincent heard the sound of the controller being tossed aside. Mark hurried into the kitchen. “Oh, sick,” he said, the sneer disappearing from his face. “Where's its body?”

The head had been ripped right off, strands of flesh and bone dangling like gory streamers.

“Maybe the cat wanted dessert,” Vincent said weakly.

Mark wrapped a plastic bag around his hand, and his class ring caught the light.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed. “Ratatouille.”

Vincent watched Mark scoop up the severed rat head, turning the bag inside out, and then knotting it closed. He unlocked the front door and set the bag out on the front porch.

In the living room, something smashed. Mark and Vincent exchanged glances before darting back into the other room. The vodka bottle Vincent had opened was now smashed, the liquid soaking into the fibers of the carpet. “You didn't put it back?” Mark said.

“I was sure I did,” Vincent said.

“My dad is gonna kill me.” Mark grabbed the TV guide from the arm of the sofa and began sweeping the broken shards of glass into a gleaming pile. “Get me another plastic bag, you spas.”

Vincent stomped into the kitchen. Mark had probably knocked the bottle off the table with his own big, fat ass. He tore off one of the bags from the roll. But I put it back, he thought. I know I did.

“You want some paper towels, too?”

Silence.

“Mark? You need some paper towels?”

More silence.

“Fuck you,” said Vincent. “I'm bringing you the paper towels.”

But when he stepped back into the room, Mark was gone. The glass was still in its neat little pile, surrounded by a sea of spilled vodka, which was soaking into the pages of the TV guide.

“Mark?”

He heard a skittering sound, like multiple feet hitting the floor in quick succession.

And then he saw it—a tiny red fleck, standing out like a glass button on the white carpet. With a shaking finger, Vincent touched it with his finger, and warm liquid coated the pad of his index finger. Feeling nauseous suddenly, he lifted his finger to his nose and sniffed. Blood.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Mark? Are you okay, man?”

He probably cut his finger on the glass. He's in the bathroom, getting a band-aid or something.

Vincent wandered towards the bathroom. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. He felt … watched. “Mark?” The bathroom door was half-closed—it had definitely been open before. He'd left it open after refilling the vodka bottle. “Mark, are you in there?”

He pushed, but the door wouldn't open.

“Come on,” said Vincent. “This isn't funny. Open the goddamn door!”

He shoved the door hard with his shoulder, and something popped free. It was an arm. Mark was behind the bathroom door, a wet smear where his throat should have been. Both his eyes were gone.

Vincent let out a decidedly girlish scream. “Oh shit! Mark!”

A low growl answered him.

There was a cat in the hall. A huge furry mass with leering green eyes, and blood matting its gaping maw. When it padded towards him, it left red paw prints in its wake. Around its neck was a white collar covered in little pink hearts. The lights caught on the metal disc, highlighting the engraved “OJUC.”

“Shit!” Vincent screamed. “Oh shit!”

Ojuc lunged.

* * *

“I can't believe you've been going out for a year. What are you going to get her?”

“I don't know.” Doug shook his head. “Something special.”

He paused.

“Did you say something?”

“No. So what were you thinking—?”

“It sounds like … meowing.” Doug pushed past some shrubs. “Hello?”

Two green eyes flashed almost maliciously. There was a cat in front of him. It had a white collar covered with pink hearts. A metal disc hung from the collar, but he couldn't make out what it said. Doug could have sworn the cat had something red around its mouth, but when he blinked it was gone.

“Meow,” said the cat.

“It looks like we're getting a cat,” said Doug. “What's your name, dude?”

The name plate was covered with slimy, hairy gunk. Doug made a face as he scooped it away.

“Did you say you found a cat?” his friend said.

“Yeah,” said Doug. “His name's Ojuc.”

The cat coughed up a hairball. Doug picked up the cat and headed home. The hairball gleamed wetly under the sun, which had just broken free from its cloudy prison. A fly landed on the clump, and then a second fly joined it. Their combined weight caused the hairball to shift, revealing a small, glinting ring.

Engraved on the inside of the ring, one could just barely make out the word, “Mark.”