RUFF STUFF

RUFF STUFF

A

Novel

by

smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarity between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 1992 by smcallis

Chapter 15

BLACK DOG IN THE NIGHT

PHOEBE VANISHED INTO THE INKY BLACKNESS; a black dog in the night, the mercurial cat sprinted as if greased lightning, clocking out at over 50 miles per hour. The cat zigzagged amidst the arc of the laser sight. Dodging gunshots, sparks and skips of cement fragments that spattered hot against her heals. Angry voices, mostly in Russian, fell faint, along with the murderous sting of a fusillade of gunfire. This too fell in her wake. The cat clutched the cub by the scruff of the neck and did the one thing she knew led to safety. She climbed.

“Kill her.” Guy ordered, calmly, disaffected, too cowardly to watch. He occupied himself with lighting a cigarette . . . while he regarded murder as a necessary business tool; he could not stomach the act. To watch his men shoot down Lea Swift in cold blood, this was too much. After all, he liked Lea, he really did. For ten years he was mentor, father, paramour; he was like a parent with a naughty child. Lea had defied him, he was very angry with her, it was all her fault, she made him do it!

There it was, the tell, the gunshot. Guy puffed with great satisfaction, at fifty dollars a pack, the hand rolled Turkish cigarettes were a luxury even for him. The deed was done, he spat a bit of tobacco from his lips, he could now relax and contemplate his next move. It was the second gunshot, followed by an uncontrolled burst of machine gun fire that shattered his equilibrium. Guy jerked to attention, dismayed, like a man who missed the winning play at the big game. He witnessed the Russians, his bumbling Cossacks, firing wildly into the darkness. It was over, a done deal, one second Lea Swift stood vulnerable, naked, clutching a child, in the length of time it took him to light a cigarette, Lea was gone. The child was gone. All his money was gone!

Phoebe owned the night. She scaled the building easily, past the third floor, the fifth floor and up to the sixth floor and the roof. By this time, she was well out of reach of the two-legers and their “angry hornets” that tormented her. She laid the cub down gently, and sniffed for blood, there were no wounds. She licked the cub; her tongue was like sand paper. She licked the cub until the child revived, giggled even with laughter. The child was strong enough to make a sign.

K ● I ● T ● T ● Y.

Phoebe loomed over her, a monstrous carnivore, a man killer, with a jaw pressure of 2000 lbs., the strength of a hundred men coursed through her frame. She could kill with a swat of her paw, yet the child was unafraid. The cat purred. Satisfied, the cub was strong enough to leave. Phoebe grabbed the child once more by the scruff of the neck, this time Luka protested at being handled so roughly. The cat ignored her and climbed. To the top of the derelict water tower, the highest point on the building, the old wooden water tower, long a neglected icon of old Detroit, complete with a weather worn advertisement for Papst Blue Ribbon beer. Phoebe searched out the perfect cave, a safe hiding place for her cub. She landed softly, on cat pads and lowered the she-cub into its echoic depths. The half-century old interior was the blackest of black and smelled of damp and mold. The child protested, fearful, terrified, her experience of confinement in the refrigerator incomprehensible to the cat. The beast did not understand the child’s fear of abandonment. The child made desperate signs.

T●A●K●E M●E H●O●M●E.

Phoebe ignored her, purred once, and with a prodigious leap cleared the fifteen-foot hole atop the water tower. The cat was gone, leaving behind a frightened, silent child, trapped in the wooden reservoir high atop the Henry B. Horner building.

Now she would kill. This was the time to defend her territory. Phoebe set herself on the parapet, arched her back like a “Halloween” cat and caterwauled the most blood curdling call. She was lord of this jungle, the cat flexed her dagger claws, her jaw full of sabre sharp teeth. The primordial strength of her ancestors coursed through her body, millions of millennia of killer instinct coalesce in her brain. Her weapons were stealth, speed, and six inch sabre fangs. The hunters thought they were the hunters; they were in fact the hunted.

From her perch, high above, the uppermost parapet of the Henry B. Horner building she watched with keen interest as the two-legers moved cautiously, clumsily into the building interior. They thought themselves superior; they carried great metal things that spat out “angry hornets.” Phoebe knew about the “hornets” She knew of their painful sting, she knew how to avoid them. The two-legers, they cast themselves in the role of the hunter―little did they know they were mere mice.

♫ THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE, THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE ♫

Phoebe’s revenge was to be sudden, violent and absolute. She descended the stairs on silent cat pads so secretive no one could hear. She paused to sniff at a pile of clothes; it was “the other” she passed by without a further thought.

The cat was on the prowl.

Boris, and Ivan armed to the teeth, entered the Henry B. Horner building confident they were hunting nothing more dangerous than a woman, a naked woman, burdened with the weight of a child. She could not have gone far. Their flashlights arched back and forth as they searched the bottom floors. Their radios buzzed . . . “Find her!” Guy’s voice squawked, “I swear, that bitch is dangerous, if she gets to her guns, you are both dead men . . .”
Boris snorted, he wasn't afraid of a naked American bitch. Neither he nor Ivan shared the boss' sense of urgency. They did not see the murderous green eyes that cast down upon them, the deadly tooth and claw that stalked them. The two Russians, confident in the protection offered by their thick Kevlar vest, even the half inch thick ballistic plate offered no defence. Phoebe was by design an ambush killer, the neck, throat, windpipe and carotid artery were her targets of choice. A hundred million years of evolution was against them. Phoebe was the perfect killing machine.

Phoebe hated the two-legers. She hated these two-legers most of all, they smelt of sulfur and alcohol. They tormented her; she paused to lick a sore spot on her leg, where a flying chip of concert had cut her. These two-legers now dared to take her cub, invade her range. The law of the jungle was clear, never come between a she-cat and her cub.

HERE PUSSY, PUSSY.

Boris, the fat one, was un-impressed. How dangerous could one naked woman be? He’d whacked more than a few people in his time. This naked wench, burdened with the weight of a child . . . these Americans, these rich fat American pigs, he regarded Painter with disdain. He would find this naked American bitch, he would kill her. He felt a stir in his loins; maybe he deserved something more, da, he would kill this American bitch, but first he though he would fuck her. Boris chuckled to himself. He un-zipped his fly. He checked the slide on his massive .50 caliber Desert Eagle. His flashlight arched around the desolation. Boris ascended the stairs, gun, flashlight, and a Clydesdale-pecker.

Ivan continued to pick cautiously up the South stairway. Ivan focused on the tracks on the stairs. He had seen something that didn’t look right. It was only a shape. He shot at a woman, his boss; Painter said there was not going to be any trouble. Ivan admitted to himself he was caught unaware. It would not happen again. That woman, this American, she turned and ran the devil. He emptied a mag. He paused to reload, when he looked back up, the woman was gone. There was only a shape, a shaggy shape. This worried him; he dismissed it at first, then tales from the Ukraine, tales from around the fireplace, ghost stories his grandmother told of the Wawkalak, a man who incurred the wrath of the devil, who punished those around him by transforming into a beast. Old folk tales of men who became monsters flooded his memory. Ivan snorted, only old stories to scare small children at bedtime. Yet, he could not shake the image of the feral shape that snarled, and then disappeared into the night.

Boris continued to climb. He puffed from the exertion of six flights of stairs. This was too much, he was sick of this wild-goose-chase, the bitch could be anywhere. He rounded the corner and found himself face to face with a small person. A child actually, a small African-American child, not more than eleven-years-old. A beautiful child, with an oval face and liquid brown eyes. Shaila stared at the Russian. Boris pulled back the hammer on his pistol, he checked his watch, he had time.

Startled, Shaila scrutinized the funny Russian man, a big man pointing an enormous handgun, and an even bigger pecker. Growing up in the ghetto, Shaila had seen her share of big guns, and even at a young age, the fith grader knew about peckers and fucking and stuff. She had to admit that she’d never seen a man with such a big gun and a fat dick all at the same time. None of this was good. If she was going to be raped, there was nothing she could do about it.

Shaila remembered Lea Swift's last words to her, Lea promised. "I’ll come for you when it’s all over . . . I’ll kill him for you baby―He’ll never hurt you again.”

Shaila believed.

Shaila cast her eyes on the floor, the Ruger Redhawk lay lifeless, oiled and blue-black, wrapped in its leather cartridge belt, along side Lea's clothes and a Detroit baseball cap. The weapon still smelled of burnt powder, but without Lea to wield it, the Ruger was inert, it had no power. Lea promised to protect her, now she didn't know how that was going to happen. The Russian kicked at the stray pile of clothes, more intent on his mission of murder and sex.

From the upper most stairwell that led to the roof, it was there Shaila first saw the beast. It descended with out a sound, deftly on cat paws, a horrific blackish cat-like creature with fangs, claws and terrible green eyes.

It was the Kitty. Luka’s Kitty! Shaila was at once dumbfounded and filled with terror. Her remorse was sincere, it came over her like a rushing torrent as if on the road to Damascus. She knew she was wrong. All the days, months, years she spent punching, kicking, teasing and otherwise abusing her deaf white sister, came crashing down around her, a huge cascade of guilt spilled out and crushed her soul. There it was―KITTY; Luka said the Kitty was her friend. Had Luka sent the cat to wreck vengeance? To kill her? To extract revenge? No. Luka was not like that. Shaila knew Luka―Luka was the kindest most forgiving soul. If Luka sent the cat, it was to be her guardian angel. Shaila worked her mouth up and down as if to scream.

“Я собираюсь трахать Вас маленькая черная американская сука . . .” The Russian gangster leered, his words were cruel, his face full of hate. What he said was incomprehensible―but his meaning was clear. Shaila took two steps back, her plucky indomitable spirit crushed by terror. She didn’t know which fate was worse, to be raped by this evil man or to be eaten alive by a tiger. Boris never heard the cat creep forward, so intent was he on his vile intentions. Phoebe’s green eyes glowed in the shadows, her hackles raises, six inch fangs a gape, her body a coiled spring, poised to strike. There was no sound.

Shaila screamed.

The Russian died.

* * *

LEA SWIFT LAY A LONG TIME, unconscious on the cold hard unforgiving floor of the Henry B. Horner building. What must have seemed an eternity to the little girl who sat beside her.

Lea groaned. She started to set up, her right arm collapsed under her weight. Her arm, dislocated in the most grotesque way, was useless. The cat, injured herself in the struggle, Lea found herself alone, injured, naked on the sixth floor of "The Hornets."

The Russian was dead.

Lea spat and then puked. The fucking Russian was dead. The cat had done its work, the Russian was dead, half his head lay torn from his body. In the process, in the struggle, Lea had dislocated her shoulder. It was the predator’s price. This was how great cats died, they slunk away into the jungle, victorious but too injured to kill again―they starved to death.

It was only then that Lea realized there was a small person next to her. A young girl, the very same young girl Lea had come with in a sixteenth of a trigger pull of killing. Shaila looked faithfully down on her.

“I knew you would come―.”

Lea smiled weakly, almost in too much pain to care.

“Shaila? You’ve got to do something for me baby. You've got to be brave. Brace your feet against the door jam, now take a hold of my arm and pull. Pull harder than you’ve ever pulled in your life. Pull across my body. One, two, three, PULL!”

The arm popped. The arm popped back in its socket with a sound like a rifle crack. Lea nearly passed out from the pain. The pain was so excruciating that at first Shaila thought she’d done something wrong. Lea reassured her, it was Okay.

"Get my shoes, get my clothes, you've got to help me get dressed . . . there was something else, a memory, a flash of “The Other” of Luka, the smell of old oak and damp.

“Shaila, what’s the highest point on the building?”

“The roof.”

“No, higher, higher than that; what if I wanted to climb higher than the roof? Where would I go?”

Shaila looked puzzled, “The old water tower, I suppose . . .”

“Shaila, my flashlight,” The scent of old oak and musk filled her consciousness. “I want you to go on the roof, and climb up to the old water tower. I want you to get your sister, find Luka.”

“What about you? . . . Your arm is broke. Lea, what can you do?”

“Get me the Ruger baby; I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill them all.”

* * *

LEA STUMBLED TO HER FEET. She was shaky and weak, her right arm, her shooting arm, was broken, useless. Her grandfather, he could shoot with equal facility with either hand. Lea wasn't so talented. She grimaced, even the simple act of flipping open the cylinder, to check the load was painful. Three copper heads, three bullets, three bullets would be enough. She snapped the cylinder shut, and drew back the hammer.


Now eagles hunted eagles.

Lea crept painfully towards the stairwell; she didn't have a second to loose. She confronted Ivan on the next floor down in his black trench coat and Ushanka fur hat. The laser sight arced in the corridor, searching for Lea. Well, he found her. Lea did not announce her presence, this time there was no gunfighter's code, this was murder, up close and personal.

The Ruger recoiled twice, from thirty feet. Ivan staggered back, fell dead. Then as if a zombie risen from the grave, the Russian stood up, dusted himself off, the half-inch thick ceramic plate stopped even the tungsten cores of the Ruger.

For the next half second time seemed to stand still. The red dot of the laser sight danced across Lea’s white camisole. The Russian curled his lip in a terrible sneer, he yanked back the bolt on his machine gun. What he said, probably translated to “Die you American bitch!”
Lea didn’t hear him, her face showed no fear, a tremendous sense of calm came over her as her cognizance flooded with the memories of that cold January day, when as a young girl, not yet eleven-years-old, her Grandfather took her out behind the barn, a day when she witnessed six milk jugs fall at seventy-five yards. In any gunfight some men draught a breath, some men blink an eye. Lea squeezed the trigger. Even with a broken arm―Ivan fell dead. Shot through the eye.

Lea slumped to the floor; she let the Ruger slip from her grasp