The ranch motel is divided into two classes of citizens: those who can leave and those who, by various means and laws, are trapped inside the steel-reinforced concrete structure.
Jacob and Izzy both pack a bag and blankets and step outside the doors of their motel. Izzy tosses her bags in the back of her car and plops down in the front seat, the steering wheel feeling unfamiliar after so long and for the first time in two weeks, She starts her car.
“I hope you have directions,” Jacob says, pulling his phone GPS up.
“I have no idea where I am going. Do you?” Izzy says back.
Izzy’s head bounces off the roof of the car as she jumps from the shock of a hand knocking on the door to the car. She turns and looks and sees Sue standing there with a backpack. “Got room for one more?” she asks.
Izzy unlocks the doors, and Sue climbs into the back seat. “Hey, thanks,” Sue says, leaning between the front seats. “Ready to go? You are going camping right with the others? I love this trip; we only do it after the festival. The ranch often needs time to air out.”
Izzy looks at Jacob. Jacob looks at Izzy; they both look at Sue in the mirror. “You know where we are going then?” Izzy asks Sue.
“Yeah, drive onto the road and turn left,” Sue says. There is a slurping noise, and Sue looks down in the wheel well behind Izzy’s seat and sees a large green puddle of goo.
“Quiet, I am a stowaway; you will ruin it,” the blob says, clutching a slurpy.
Izzy sighs and puts the car into reverse, backs up, and drives down the road. “Are we there yet?” the blob says, climbing up on top of Izzy’s duffel bag.
“No,” Sue says, looking out the window.
“Are we there yet?” the blob asks again, wobbling back and forth impatiently.
“NO!” Sue says, getting annoyed. “Izzy, he is being annoying!”
Jacob takes Izzy’s free hand lightly. “Did you know we had kids? I didn’t…. My parents warned me this would happen; they are finally getting their revenge.”
The cat taps his fingers on the bar. It’s now 3 in the afternoon; usually the bar would be crowded. The sound of laughter and whispered lies. He sighs and wipes the bar for the 5th time in the last 10 minutes. “Bored,” he whispers. He slides into the kitchen and smiles at the chef. “Why don’t you ever go with the others? Nothing keeps you here.”
The chef reaches over with his tan-skinned and creepily jointed arm and grabs a kettle from the intricate shelving system that covers the walls of his kitchen. He whips 4 more arms into action, and they work together to get out a pair of tea steepers; he adds a scoop of orange pico pico tea and bergamot oil.
He fills the kettle with a high-pressure water line and sets it on an insane-looking combination heater. Something straight out of a jet propulsion lab or a video game. Its deep blue flame surrounds and embraces the all-steel kettle. 10 seconds later the boiling hot kettle is removed from the heat, and an arm swings over to turn the burner off.
Simultaneously the chef reaches above his head to the neat row of cups and plates and grabs 2 ornate teacups from Turkey. The aromatic steepers go in the cup, then the hot water. As the magic happens in the cup, the kettle gets put away, and a small bottle of citric oil is taken down and opened, and 3 drops are dropped into each cup.
The chef swivels an eye at the cat and hands the orange cup to his friend. It lifts its own and pours it over its head, the liquid absorbing through its skin.
The cat watches thoughtfully as it lets his own cup cool slightly before taking a sip; it’s impressively well made as always. “You are a good friend. But you need to get out and see the world, take a walk…” the cat says, then looks at the chef and his lack of legs. “I mean, take a stroll?” He looks again at the lack of legs. “OK, fine, a roll.”
The chef takes his empty teacup and washes, dries, and sanitizes it before hanging it back in its place.
“You know I can’t leave here,” the cat answers back.
The chef takes one of its hands and rubs the top of the cat’s head. The fur felt soft as silk under its hard, calloused fingers.
The cat winces and brushes the hand away from his head. “Eeeh, no touch.” he hisses.
The chef pulls down a mixing bowl and begins to make something with flour.
“Well, if you’re not going to entertain me, I will just have to entertain myself,” the Cat says and struts into the bar. He looks around; it’s still empty. He contemplates his existence for a moment, then smiles and picks up the phone.
The phone, as black as midnight and made out of bakelite, he admires its form. An Ericsson DBH 1001. He picks up the receiver and begins dialing.
The door to the bar opens loudly, and the cat, phone in hand, looks up. A face the cat hadn’t expected to see today steps through wearing shimmering black body armor of the United Forces and armed with guns that look like cheap sci-fi movie props from a movie that Josh would watch.
“The place hasn’t changed.” Dirk Gordon says, moving quickly over to the cat and sliding onto the bar stool. He reaches out, and they fist bump over the bar. The shimmering armor crackles with energy as they touch, and for a sharp instant the cat’s hand is covered in mouths filled with sharp teeth. The cat pulls his hand away.
“Ahh shit, sorry, Cat.” He slaps at some button on his chest, and the reality field decays into nothingness.
Behind him a woman walks in the bar. the door shutting with a finality behind her. she is wearing a black shimmering witch hat. A hat that has seen things, scuffed, dented, repaired, and menacing. It sits on top of a head that has the same look. Her heavy body armor is far less military-looking than Dirk Gordon’s; for one, it has a wooden wand in a holster, and two, it has a scabbard for holding a gnarled oak broom with half the bristles looking charred and the other half missing.
With her partner being so chummy and her thirst needing quenched. She reaches over the bar and grabs a glass. Her own reality field crackling as it touches whatever fuckery the cat is doing behind the bar. She sneers at it.
The cat’s tail swishes in annoyance, but he continues talking to Dirk. The witchy woman eyes a bottle of McCall’s 50-year scotch. She resists licking her lips. She looks again at the busy Cat-like monstrosity and then at the alcohol.
She swishes her finger and concentrates. The bottle lifts from the shelf and floats halfway to her.
The cat shows teeth for a moment but pounces on the bottle, snatching it out of the air; he glares at the women.
“You could have just asked,” the Cat says as he opens the bottle and pours a shot into the glass she has stolen from him.
“You looked busy,” the hoarse but feminine voice says as she lifts her hat and pushes her hair out of her face.
This is the first time the Cat can see her ugly burn scars. Quietly the cat watches as she sips the alcohol. He leaves her the bottle. “Jack Harrington called the united forces. I thought you guys were off putting the old ones back to sleep.”
The witchy woman smiles at the Cat. “Most of them, yes,” she says, pouring herself a second glass.
Dirk Gordon watches the exchange and puts a hand between them. “Ok, Fluffy, be nice. The cat is one of the good folk.”
“yeah tell that to alexander” the women we assume is called fluffy grinds her teeth images of the chaos that has been the last 20 years of her life dancing in her mind.
The cat watches her remember and watches her expressions; he frowns.
“Hey Cat, the labyrinth—any idea how to beat it?” Dirk Gordon says, showing his teeth in a smile.
The cat finds it funny and smiles in return, showing him his real teeth. “For an old friend like you, Dirk, and because you have brought such wonderful company. I do have some tips.”
The cat taps a finger on the bartop. “You’re going to need a high-test, high-visibility string. None of this yarn nonsense; think fishing for alligator strength.”
He taps his finger again. “A week of rations—I would plan on walking at least 300 miles.”
He taps his finger one more time, “and a 16-ounce bottle of lube.”
Fluffy laughs. “Yeah, all right, there is no way there are that many miles of tunnels under this facility. Hey Dirk, how about another shot, and then we should get going?”
Dirk Gordon looks disappointed at the Cat. “I came to you in seriousness, and you give me lube?” he says, throwing down a silver coin and standing up. Dirk looks at the Cat, who looks hurt.
“Thanks, Cat. See you in a few hours,” Dirk says and leaves the bar with his partner.
The Cat sits and pours a glass of the scotch for himself. “It’s your anus,” he whispers and excitedly picks up the phone.
