Fighting Like Cats And Dogs
Who: Echo Bishop, Cat-Thing Where: El Rey Motel When: Around five in the morning Rating: High-ish, for language and violence
It was the smell that got her attention.
Echo woke up at around quarter to five because she had to use the bathroom, and she didn't bother turning on a light. The El Rey's rooms were small but clean, one unused bed still made, her duffel bag on the folding stand near the door. She'd eaten at the roadhouse; chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, a bowl of chili. She got a grilled cheese sandwich to go, which was wrapped up in aluminum foil on the cheap dresser next to the TV.
Eyeing the sandwich, Echo sat down on the edge of the bed and yawned. To go back to sleep or eat? She'd called the house before turning in, spoke to her mother. Just to let everyone know she'd gotten in okay. Fifteen minutes of an unfamiliar news program later, she'd shut off the set and the lights.
The courtyard was utterly silent when she opened the door, because she'd gotten a room faced away from the gravel road. Not that it would have made a difference; she was the only person moving when she finally closed the motel room door behind her, but if there had been traffic noise she'd have been insulated from it.
The soda machine flickered under the overhang, and she counted her change as she approached. Nothing to drink, because all the ice had melted in her cooler on the drive. She would have to get a couple of bags later.
She smelled it before she saw it, the stench wafting towards her on a breeze that had cooled as the evening turned into night. It was like unwashed socks and old fish, and the food in the Were's stomach gave her a queasy feeling that she tried to swallow past. Shambling footsteps sounded, small feet stumbling over grayish rocks. A can of Coke clunked into the plastic slot on the soda machine. She removed it absently, set it down on the concrete. Took one step out from under the overhang.
It was a cat.
But it was a really weird fucking cat, because it had two heads and six legs, the back two of which were dragging uselessly behind the animal as it made its slouching way across the silent courtyard. Drag, drag, drag, and both heads were making an unearthly mewling noise.
Mutated.
That was her first thought, because she believed the stories about alien abductions and that Area 51 was sometimes a containment area. Not just for crashed ships, but for the supernatural. She'd never said it aloud, but sometimes she wondered if she could end up on a dissecting table. But Jesus, that smell.
The thing saw her as she stepped further into the light, and eyeless sockets fixed on her as the odor crawled up her nose and decided to hang out for a while. The mewl turned into a hiss, and it wasn't a mutant. It was dead. Beyond dead, she could see bones under the fur in some places. Echo crossed herself. The Bishops were nominally Catholic, though their roots were buried in a belief that might have been even older.
The hiss changed pitch, went lower into a warning sound. R-r-r-r-r-r-r, and the hairs on the back of Echo's neck went up. She didn't like cats for a reason, and dead cats didn't get an exemption. Her eyes flashed from gold and then back to dark, and then she looked around her. No outsiders. Though it was always more exhausting to force the Change, especially right after the full moon. Still. That thing was not normal.
The dead cat opened its mouth - both of its mouths - and let out a yowl, then pushed off with both sets of back legs. Echo dodged to the left, and it smacked against the plastic of the Coke machine. She saw more bones, the cartilage that held them together. One paw swiped out, aiming for her bare shoulder, and she was thinking about blood borne diseases when she backpedaled, under the narrow ledge of the overhang.
Blood borne. Blood magic?
Echo was wearing soft cotton pajama bottoms and a sleeveless T shirt, and that time one of the thing's claws scored her upper arm. A thin line of blood stood out against pale skin, and the Were snarled. Nasty thing wanted to play rough, then?
She was halfway through the shift when the animal attacked again, and empty sockets glowered into her eyes, something unnatural burning within. Another loud yowl, this one answered by a wolfish snapping of teeth as her body changed. She'd been shifting since she was ten years old, a rite of passage everyone in her pack went through. If she had it easier because it was bred into her DNA, she was grateful for it right that second.
The foul stench assaulted sensitive nostrils as the animals fought, and the dead thing was strong, the back legs not as useless as they'd first looked. They were matched as far as size went, almost matched for power. Echo-Wolf's hind feet dug into the sand for traction, raking furrows in the soft-packed dirt, the two of them a snapping, hissing mass of fur and limbs.
Brittle bones crunched as the Were managed to get hold of the dead thing somewhere in the middle, and she gave it a good, hard shake. Then harder, whipping the carcass back and forth until its back broke. The dead cat yowled, and Echo-Wolf dropped it into the sand. All six legs twitched spasmodically, unable to find purchase, and the dual heads glared at her blindly. Or maybe not blindly.
She changed back in slow increments, fur receding as her features turned to something more human. As predicted, she was wrung out, and the shallow wound on her shoulder stung. She sat there in the dirt for several minutes, trying to get enough strength to get to her feet. The dead cat was still meowing.
When she finally got up, there was a significant rip in the back of her pajama pants, and she absently held it shut as she walked dazedly to her truck. There was a taste in her mouth like she'd been eating garbage. Next time, she would be sure to keep ice on hand.
Echo came back and took the thing's heads off with the edge of a shovel, pressing down with one bare foot until the remaining cartilage and tendons were severed. "Shut up. Little asshole."
The effort took the last of her stored up energy, and she watched the cat dissolve into a pile of goo that stank even worse than it had when it was solid. Echo gagged, tried to remember if she'd swallowed any. Could a werewolf get infected, turn into something worse if they got hurt by....whatever that was? Zombie movies were bullshit, maybe, but conjuring was real. She should get her shoulder looked at.
But she would have to put on some real clothes first.</lj>