Killer Kitties From Hell

Beatrix Sanders was eighty-six years old. For over fifty of those years, she had been the owner and proprietor of The Salt Mine, Hualapai's second most popular watering hole after Uncle Hank's place. Though getting on in years and nearly blind, Beatrix remained a firecracker, as full of piss and vinegar as she had been as a young woman of twenty-three, when she'd been an important part of Hualapai's volunteer fire department. Once, years ago, Uncle Hank had drunkenly made a pass at her. Without hesitation she'd viciously slapped his hand away from where it was going and snapped, "I've already got one asshole in my pants, why in the Hell would I want another one?"

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At some point in her late fifties, Beatrix had begun collecting abandoned and feral cats, just a few at first, but as the cats began to breed and her collection grew she quickly and quite unintentionally became Hualapai's official "Crazy Cat Lady." By the time she was eighty-six, there were close to three-hundred cats in the backyard of The Salt Mine at feeding time. The majority of this feline herd were "outside cats" only a dozen or so of her favorites remainded indoors at all times, living in a back room of the bar devoted entirely to her cat companions.

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At times, when emptying the litter boxes escaped her mind, the stench in the bar was palpable. But Beatrix was a beloved local treasure, so her patrons pretended not to notice, though more than one had been forced outdoors for, as they put it, "a little fresh air." She herself had long since grown accustomed to the smell.

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Oftentimes, when business in her little bar was slow or non-existent, and she was feeling especially lonely, Beatrix would open the back door and let her herd of wild kitties into the bar to keep her company. It was on just such a night that Beatrix's story came to an abrupt end. She was listening to the latest episode of Dancing With the Stars. She could no longer clearly see the television but she enjoyed the music, as they often played Swing or Big Band numbers, her personal favorite.

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All of a sudden she felt a sharp pain in her chest and instantly she knew her time had come. Goddamnit, she thought, I ain't ready to go yet. Ever mindful of the animals that had given her so much love and companionship over the years, she tried to make it over to open the door and let them out but she fell down halfway and died right there on the floor of the bar she'd served drinks in nearly every night for five plus decades.

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At the moment of her untimely demise, there were two-hundred and sixty-four cats trapped inside The Salt Mine. The food and water that had been left out for the indoor cats was gone in less that two hours. Try as they might, the cats could not get into the tightly-sealed plastic buckets of cat food, and once the toilets had been emptied there was no water. The cats had begun fighting amongst themselves for the last vestiges of the toilet water, in the process unplugging the bar's neon lights and, attempting to escape, locking the door.

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These were wild, feral animals, whose survival instincts were such that several of the smaller ones were subsequently killed. The others, used to supplementing their diets by devouring birds, mice, and the occassional slow rabbit, had no problem ingesting their fellow felines. For the time being, the body of their master Beatrix was left untouched.

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Meanwhile, The Salt Mine's regular patrons, faced with a dark, locked bar, assumed that Beatrix wasn't feeling well enough to open the bar. It was a rare occurence, but not so uncommon as to cause alarm. Each one made plans to check on Beatrix at her home, but circumstances conspired to prevent it. Shutup Amy had an argument with her husband Lupe and went to visit friends in the Bay Area. Hippie was delivering his second child. Uncle Hank found his bar overrun with cowboys and chukar hunters and couldn't get away. And so on. This went on for several days, everyone thinking that surely someone else had looked in on poor old Beatrix.

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Meanwhile, back at The Salt Mine, the situation was getting desperate. The cat herd had thinned considerably, all of the old and weak had either died and been eaten, or deliberately killed and then eaten. In the melee, several bottles of ninety proof liquor had been knocked over and smashed. Literally dying of thirst, many of the cats had eagerly lapped up the spilled liquid. Those that did became even more violent towards the others.

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Unlike dogs, who mostly remain fiercely loyal and loving to their humans, a cat's loyalty goes only so far, and they love only themselves. Before their kindhearted mother Beatrix's body had even grown completely cold the insane and drunken wildcats were on her, tearing and ripping and greedily chewing her dead flesh like she were no more than Meow Mix, or the contents of a can of Whiskas brand cat food, dead old lady flavor. They feasted on their former master with reckless abandon, picking her bones clean like the coyotes had often done to those of their number that had wandered too far into the desert, all the time continuing to drink hard liquor like street people on welfare check day.

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Iverson pulled his truck into the parking lot of The Salt Mine. He made it a point to stop by and have a couple beers and chat with Beatrix at least once a week, but a wildfire had kept him away for the last two. Unlike everyone else, when faced with a dark and locked bar, he was undeterred. If Beatrix wasn't at the bar, he would go to her house. He knew that, feeling well or not, Beatrix looked forward to the time they spent together almost as much as he did. If she was sick he would make her some tea or heat up some soup for her. When she didn't answer her door he knew something was wrong.

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The people of Hualapai rarely locked their houses, and Beatrix was no exception. A quick search of her place told Iverson that she hadn't been there in days. Back at The Salt Mine, he didn't hesitate. He put his boot to the door and with one solid kick it flew open, revealing a scene of such carnage and horror that Iverson, no stranger to either, was nevertheless unsure whether to scream, shit his pants, or both at once.

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A decimated skeleton, the remains of Beatrix, he could tell by the red hair, lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by broken bottles of booze and red-eyed hellcats that even Tyson's dogs would have hesitated to chase. He had a brief moment to wish he was holding his fireman's axe, and then they were on him.

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He fought hard, stomping as many as could to death, but in the end there were just too many of them. So this is it, he thought, this is how it ends. He, Iverson; Fireman, warrior, tweaker slayer, killed by a bunch of old lady's goddamn cats. This is why I've always been a dog person he thought, then his jugular was ripped open, and he thought no more.

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Some of the cats stayed behind to feast on their fresh kill, but most of the herd, still well over a hundred in number and now pure Evil, raced out the open door and into the night, to quench their insatiable thirst for human blood among the unsuspecting townsfolk of Hualapai.