Xiang Lee arrived home from work greeted by his Siamese cat, perched on the kitchen counter. “I’m hungry. Feed me.”
Xiang blinked, looked at the cat, “Did you just speak, Toshiko?”
“I’m hungry,” repeated Toshiko, pacing. “Feed me. I want sardines.” Toshiko then screamed a baby-cry of dissatisfaction.
Wide-eyed and trembling from what Xiang considered witchery, he hurried to the People’s Police station and approached a young officer at the front desk.
“I need to report a suspicious event.”
“Your name, and exactly what is suspicious?”
“I am Xiang Lee. My cat told me to feed him sardines.”
The officer keyboarded, “Xiang Lee. Talking cat.” Without comment, he abruptly stood, and stiff in his deep blue uniform, he escorted Xiang to a room and seated him at a table.
A large man with a scar along his face soon joined him. The other man, stout, his neck thick as a phone pole, stood silent.
“I’m Investigator Chen.” He seated himself, and with the bearing of authority, looked directly at Xiang, “Tell us of this talking cat.”
“I am Xiang Lee, an employee of the People’s Bank of China. I’m afraid an evil spirit or angry ancestor has possessed my cat, Toshiko. When I arrived home from work, Toshiko asked me, well, ordered me, to feed him. He wanted me to open a tin of sardines.”
The shorter man stifled a laugh. “Is there anything else peculiar you can tell us? Anything you left out?”
Xiang thought for a moment. “It may not matter that Toshiko spoke in Cantonese.”
As if he had caught Xiang in a lie, the shorter man hurled, “Cantonese is not the language spoken here.”
“I thought the same,” Xiang agreed, face down, embarrassed. “I questioned Toshiko as to why he spoke Cantonese, not Mandarin. The Siamese replied, ‘I was born in Hong Kong.’”
The detectives gave one another a knowing look and ushered Xiang off to the People’s Psychiatric Hospital for observation. The following morning, Toshiko paraded into the hospital, entered the consultation room, jumped on the table, blue eyes wide, faced the psychiatrist.
“I insist on the immediate release of Xiang Lee as I have not yet been fed.”
The color drained from his face, his heart raced, his throat dried. He sprang from his chair and bolted out the door, shouting, “Demon! Demon!” The staff, unsettled by this proper doctor racing down the hallway, arms flapping, were more unsettled when Toshiko approached the nurse’s station and leaped on the counter.
“Perhaps I have not made myself clear,” Toshiko stated, condescendingly, his voice gravely, claws tapping, ears back. “I have not been fed. Release Xiang Lee at once!”
The staff shrieked, howled, climbed out windows, ran down the stairs, and fell against walls. Such uproar brought the authorities.
Agents from the Ministry of State Security took both Xiang and Toshiko into custody. In exchange for a tin of sardines, Toshiko cooperated. Sitting like a bronze statue, he shared his lineage back to the reign of Thutmose III and insisted that history was wrong regarding cats and gods.
“The claim that gods inhabited the body of cats is in error.” Here, Toshiko paused to bathe himself. Pleased with his grooming, Toshiko returned his attention to the inspectors. “It was cats who inhabited the body of gods and the gods became cats.”
The inspectors found his logic spurious and were soon embroiled in debate. The older man, Chen, gestured to his partner. Outside the room, Chen whispered, “We are having an argument with a cat …” his voice trailed off. “No one must ever know this.” They returned to the room with a final question.
Other than, “I just could,” Toshiko had no idea how or why he could talk, nor did he care. He turned away from them, stretched, and fell asleep. The inspectors determined the cat’s sole interest was being catered to, in fact, worshipped. The cat posed no threat.
Xiang was an innocent bystander. Was this an anomaly, some freakish event without explanation? Some things are better left alone, especially when the reputation of two inspectors would be suspect if others learned they interrogated and argued, with a cat.
What to do with these two. Cats were popular in China, especially Japan. Any harm to the cat would cause bad relations. Xiang dare not speak out for fear of appearing irregular and losing his prominent position at the People’s Bank of China.
“Go home and forget this,” instructed Investigator Chen to Xiang. To the Siamese, whose arrogant attitude, obnoxious ego, and illogic were infuriating, “You silent or part of General Tso’s dish in an American restaurant.” Home, they went, never to be heard from again. No report was filed.
In the weeks that followed, Eirik Hansen, of Norway, woke up with donkey ears. Dogs with hands made fists, proving an answer to the age-old question, but still licking their balls. Talking cats, humans with tails, feathers, extra balls, birds with arms, whatever was the cause, exposure to monkeys, the End Times, spread like herpes in a nudist colony.
World agencies agreed: we have been invaded by aliens. If word got out, a worldwide panic would ensue. People would start shooting anything and everything. Sort of like they do now.
To avoid anarchy in the streets, the World Health Organization announced the mutations were caused by a deadly virus, declared a state of emergency, and mandated a new vaccine must be taken by everyone. Those without proof—a Blue Card—were hauled off by the National Police until they complied.
The masses marched and carried signs: “Forced shot is a commie plot,” and “Big Pharm wants your arm.” Lawsuits were filed. Buildings burned.
The CIA formed a top-secret Alien Task Force to locate the aliens and neutralize them. They needed a bright and convincing throwaway agent, without fear or conscience; one so desperate that despite the risk, they would agree to this mission.
Their search led them to Riker’s Island, where Sarah Shelton, an unremarkable, twenty-seven-year-old inmate was doing twenty to life for larceny, international bank fraud, bribes, extortion, plus failure to pay taxes on millions of dollars tucked away in offshore accounts. And failure to pay her dentist. Psychiatrists diagnosed her as a “sociopath savant.”
At her sentencing, Sarah stood before the Court, “Your honor, I am a modern businesswoman, a victim of a misogynist system, who has done no more and no less than any businessman or politician. I am innocent. My only guilt is associating with those who are jealous of my success and wish me harm.”
The Court thought otherwise. “Ms. Shelton, I hereby sentence you to twenty years to life in prison for crimes so egregious, so cunning, and with complete lack of remorse, you pose a threat to not only the public, but governments worldwide.”
Sarah turned her cell at Riker’s into a store and sold tampons, soup, chips, and cigarettes, plus drugs, when she had them, to inmates who ran out before next commissary order. You got what you wanted and paid back double. With money transactions, such as “loans” to guards, or sale of drugs, such exchanges were done through her bank under a false name. A lifer named Billy enforced the payment.
Sarah flipped through the channels on her color TV. Her contraband cell phone, courtesy of a guard she “loaned” money for his son’s braces, hummed. “Hi, this is David, reminding you that your car warranty has expired …”
“Go fuck yourself.” Sarah pushed “end call.” “Even here, she muttered, even here.”
The radio reception was static, so she grabbed a Bible from the shelf and removed a joint from the hollowed-out pages. Sitting on her bed, Sarah took a deep hit. She slept and ate well, had respect, sex if she wanted it. But, fuck.
She paced the floor, her heart racing, pacing back and forth, from the wall to the locked cell door, all she could think of was buzzers, loudspeakers blaring “Lock down,” “Library call,” “Count time.” She stopped pacing and looked through the cell door tiny window. Two guards were chatting at the desk. Inmates were in their cells waiting for the doors to open and “Chow time.”
Sarah fumed. When to eat, piss, go to work, the ignorant women, violence, the place smelled, the showers were nasty. Twenty years. I must get out of here. How? Escape was nearly impossible.
At 2 a.m., a guard opened her cell door. Two men in suits invited her. “Come with us Sarah. We have an offer for you.” They escorted her past the gate to a waiting sedan. Sarah, in prison clothes, got in the rear seat, the doors and windows automatically locked, and the driver, separated by plexiglass, drove off.
An hour later, the driver pulled into the parking lot of a run-down diner across from Paller’s Salvage, a “closed” sign on the door. A heavy-set woman in plain clothes met them and took Sarah inside, toward the rear of the diner. A man in a gray suit, no tie, waited in a booth, a laptop on the table, a small light overhead.
“I’m Sam. Join me.” He gestured at the seat across the table. “Make yourself comfortable, Ms. Shelton. Help yourself to coffee, sandwiches, cigarettes. How’s life in prison?”
“Thank you, Sam,” seating herself, head tilted a bit, with puppy dog eyes. “Prison is harsh, but I’m making the best of it. I regret what I’ve done.” She helped herself to coffee, lit a cigarette, and sat like an innocent child, a slight pout.
“This isn’t a parole hearing, Sarah. Cut the crap.”
She stubbed out the cigarette and helped herself to a sandwich. The pout gone, the voice now inviting, an interested friend. “What do you want?”
“We have a serious problem. Aliens have invaded us and taken on animal forms. They mutate people and animals to blend in with them. We have a deal for you. You’ll go undercover as an anarchist hoping to draw them to you, locate their portal, what form they take, if possible, neutralize them, and report back. In exchange, we give you cash and quash your sentence.”
“Why me?” She helped herself to another sandwich. The food in prison was awful, and street food rare to come by.
“Quite honestly, Sarah, for the very reasons you were in prison. Your skills at manipulating and convincing international banks and government officials, your ability to infiltrate organizations, are exactly what we need. You’re perfect for this assignment.”
“Do I have time to think this over?” she played a card.
“You have until you finish your coffee.” He paused. “And sandwiches,” he chuckled.
Sarah had no intention of looking for talking animals or aliens or whatever the fuck he was going on about. This was her escape. They sat in silence, each knowing the other knew, and yet, what was the choice.
“You expunge my record, I keep my accounts, and you leave me alone when I finish.”
Deal made, in writing, which both knew was worthless and would be shredded. In time, she hoped to have leverage on them. In any case, she would be free in Costa Rica, Spain, Paris, anywhere, and with all the money she socked away.
They gave her a contact, cash, fake ID, and a fake criminal record of attempted arson on a government building and carrying an unregistered gun. They provided her a motel with clothes, a laptop, Wi-Fi, sent her undercover, and surgically placed a tracking chip in the back of her neck which thoroughly pissed her off.
The dark net gave her access to militant groups. The Night of Unity symbol was a snake wrapped around the throat of Uncle Sam choking to death. Their slogan “We Will Stand.” After a week of texts, fake documents, and photos of her burning down a military recruitment center, she was in.
Dressed in black, Sarah marched and demonstrated, hurled profanities, made signs, answered phones, and had one hell of a good time. She mused how this reminded her of the story where Brer Rabbit was thrown in the briar patch by Brer Bear as punishment. When Brer Bear heard him rolling in laughter, and inquired why he was laughing, Brer Rabbit replied, “I was born in a briar patch.”
In addition to real food, sex, baths, and a regular bed, her fellow anarchists provided contacts for hacking, bomb making, obtaining false documents, and a veterinarian who removed chips.
She was working her way out of the crowd to the friendly vet, when the National Police swarmed the area, arresting Sarah and fifteen others without Blue Cards. What anarchist carries a Blue Card? Police herded them into a facility with detainees who had been there days, or longer.
The holding room was secured by a door with a small window, which opened from the outside.
“If you need attention,” the officer addressed the group, “bang on the door. We can see you through the window.”
With that, the officer opened the door. Sarah walked inside, was struck by the smell of urine, sweat, and vomit, and gagged. People sat stuffed together on long benches, passed out, staring at walls, making conversation. In the corner was a half wall marked “Restroom.” A brown, shriveled tampon was on the floor.
She pulled her shirt over her face, breathed through her mouth, and positioned herself at the window. Lines of people waited to get vaccinated. To the rear of the building was a restroom, water fountain, and an exit sign. She counted four guards.
Sarah banged on the door.
“Let me out! I’ll take the vaccine.”
A balding guard whose eyes bulged like a squeeze doll, wheezed her to a vaccination line headed by a female nurse. At the other line, was a male nurse with the neck of a bowling pin. Each person received a Blue Card after being vaccinated.
Sarah switched lines. Minutes later, “Next,” the male nurse called.
Sarah stepped forward. As the nurse reached for her arm, Sarah placed her hand on his, leaned forward a bit, and in a most convincing tone, “My period started! Ladies room. Be right back.”
The man blushed, his head bobbing like those dolls on the rear deck of cars. Sarah hurried around the man, stole a Blue Card from the table, kept pace, and out the back door.
She took off down the alley toward Waffle House, went inside and seated herself at the counter between two penguins with winged arms. Behind the counter, a lanky man with a ponytail retrieved eggs from little yellow baskets passed through an opening near the grill. He broke them open and fried them next to bacon and potatoes. A scoop of something on the grill created purple smoke. She coughed and waved it away.
It had been one hell of a day. She needed coffee and a vet to get the chip out of her neck.
“What are you having, young lady?” asked the waitress, putting a glass of water and silverware down, folds of skin hanging from her neck.
“Coffee and wattles.” Sarah put down the menu, trying not to stare.
“You mean waffles,” chuckled the waitress, whose hair burst into flames.
Her mouth opened into an O and expanded until the ocean waves were breaking and a guy on a surfboard missing the top of his head caught a ride with a seagull, and everything vanished.
Jesus! She shook her head. Had she caught the mutation from someone in that holding cell? Her limbs were correct, no mutations. It was not the “virus.” Maybe it was the stress of her escape. She needed to eat.
“Cream and sugar?” the waitress asked, pouring a cup of coffee.
She nodded, added a generous portion of both, and sipped. The coffee was good. She took a few deep breaths and calmed down.
“Hi, I’m Jake,” the penguin on her left with a yellow beak greeted her. “I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. The End Times are close. Join us before it’s too late.”
“You sell extended car warranties, too?”
He continued, “Jehovah God is about to crush this whole planet and send the unbelievers to eternal death. Only His followers will have eternal life on Paradise Earth.”
Jake retrieved a folded magazine from his jacket.
“Take this. It’s my last copy of The Watchtower.”
Sarah began to tell him where to put the copy, instead, “Keep it. Someone else will benefit more from it. I’m Jewish and have a different afterlife. I am grateful to you and appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
He looked puzzled and placed the magazine back in his jacket. “Jews have joined us. They know the Truth.”
“I’m resigned to my fate, Jake.” And she turned back to the counter, where her coffee sat unguarded.
#
The lights inside Waffle House flickered. The waitress, sprouting a head of pinfeathers, placed two waffles and a server of syrup in front of her.
Sarah steadied herself, took a few deep breaths, poured maple syrup on the waffles, and ate. She finished her meal, felt better, and was at the door when the cashier stopped her.
“Miss. You can pay your bill here.”
“Oh,” Sarah, turned to her, “The penguin at the counter with the yellow beak is paying for me.” Sarah called out to him. “Hey, Jake!”
As the yellow beak turned, she waved at him. “Thank you.”
He politely waved back. Sarah went on her way, the red beak penguin behind her. Once outside, the penguin darted toward the rear of the building. She followed, but as to exactly why, her memory was cloudy. He walked through the wall.
Fearful she was still hallucinating, Sarah inspected the area for signs of cracks, loose blocks, anything. It was solid. She touched the wall, shoved her body against it, pushed and kicked it. She wondered if she was losing her mind. She needed to report this, but to who? Her memory was blank.
She went inside Waffle House and declared:
“A penguin walked through the side wall of Waffle House. He went right through the wall.”
Customers, the cook, and a rabbi in a corner booth, exchanged looks.
“She sounds daffy,” remarked a woman to the woman gumming a waffle across the booth.
“Something is wrong with her,” proposed a man at the counter.
“Nothing’s wrong! I’ll show you. Follow me.”
A short man with a moustache and furry eyebrows stood. “Let’s follow her before she hurts herself.”
The group from Waffle House, and two poodles conversing in French, followed Sarah down the alley.
“There,” she pointed with certainty. “The red beak penguin entered there.”
They saw a wall. Sarah located a sledgehammer conveniently left behind by a construction crew and began pounding the wall.
“I’ll show you!” Sarah slammed the sledge against the wall, pieces of concrete block flying everywhere. Repeatedly, she beat the wall, until finally, worn out and defeated, she stood in a pile of dusty blocks, staring at wire mesh and rebar. One poodle marked the wall. The other poodle sniffed the first poodle’s asshole, and they trotted off.
The cook and customers returned to Waffle House, except the rabbi. He adjusted his yarmulke, then approached Sarah, sitting on a chunk of concrete, staring into space.
“I’m Rabbi Dan Singer. You had a rough day. Are you okay?”
Sarah startled, looked up. “I know what I saw. I’m not crazy. But I don’t remember why I’m here or what the fuck is going on.”
“The penguins drugged you, Sarah. We tracked you by the chip. You’re in extreme danger. Come with me.” He extended his hand and helped her up.
“Hurry,”
A half block away, a woman in a blue jumpsuit waited outside the open cargo door of a dark green van.
“Get in. I’m Hannah, Alien Unit.” The cargo door automatically closed and locked. She checked her weapon and got in the front seat. “You’re safe. The pentagon spent a fortune on this van. It is bulletproof, has bullet-proof tires, glass, and will float.”
Sarah looked around. The van contained a large GPS screen, radar, and tinted glass windows. Several automatic weapons and ammo were on the floor, including a .45 semi-automatic and two 9 mm.
“Where are we going?” Sarah picked up the .45 and checked the clip. She was tempted to blow them all away and run, but where to, and she still had that damned chip.
“To the boathouse,” Hannah replied. “now that you found the portal, we return to the base across the lake and report it.”
As they sped away, two penguins on motorcycles came behind them.
“Red Beaks.” Hannah leaned out the window, aimed a 9 mm, and fired.
The motorcycles veered and weaved. One penguin returned fire and accelerated.
A Red Beak darted out from behind a billboard, his motorcycle screaming. The side window shattered. Hannah returned fire. The motorcycle wobbled, then crashed, the penguin under the wheels.
“Looks like you got them,” the driver observed in her mirror. “All clear behind us.”
Sarah tucked the .45 behind her. “I have no idea what’s going on. My memory is shot.”
Hannah lit a cigarette and offered Sarah one. “You remember being recruited by the CIA to find the aliens?”
Sarah nodded. Inhaled.
“You found them. They are penguins. Their portal is Waffle House. They were on the verge of mutating everyone when you blew their cover.”
Motorcycles behind them neared, guns blazing. The rear window of the van exploded. Sarah picked up an AK-47 from the floor and opened fire. One motorcycle went sideways, the penguin splattered against the guard rail.
Then all was quiet. Rabbi stared out the window. The van sped on.
Hannah continued. “The yellow beak is one of them who go door to door peddling religion. When they spot the right girl, the most fertile ages, they infect her and return when she is mutated, luring her to their portal under the pretense of having the cure. Or kidnap her. People are so used to the religious door knockers they never question them.”
“Now what?” Sarah lowered her window and flicked her cigarette.
“We are the only ones at the moment who know who they are. They jammed all our devices and will anything to stop us from getting this information to headquarters.”
A Red Beak attacked from a side road. Rabbi Dan ducked to the floor. More motorcycles. “Bang. Bang.” A rear tire blew off the wheel. Sarah fired.
The van swayed, the metal rim throwing an array of sparks. Shots were exchanged.
“Brace yourselves!” called the driver. “Almost at the lake. The van is built to float. Let’s hope this works.”
Sarah mocked her. “Like the bulletproof glass and tires?” She was in a van full of idiots. They were attacked and outnumbered, all she could do was sit back and wait. The shooting stopped; the van raced forward. Sarah noticed an awful stench.
The rabbi smelled funky, like old fish. Why did he duck during the shooting and not fire? Something was not right about him. Before she figured out what it was, the van gained speed and hit the lake doing 130 mph, went 400 yards, and sputtered out.
Fifteen Red Beaks on bikes opened fire from the shore. The van cushion punctured.
Hannah jumped into the lake, Sarah and Rabbi Dan joined her.
“Tread water ‘till I get the raft. Stay away from shore.”
Hannah and the driver boarded the raft as the van gurgled and sank. Sarah and the rabbi, nearby, tread water when the penguins attacked the raft.
The two on board smashed the penguin’s heads with oars, but more kept coming. A penguin knocked Sarah underwater. Sarah surfaced, gasping for air. A large, red beak dove down to pull Sarah under, when he was distracted by a colony of seals that surrounded them.
It was a trap.
A seal grabbed his foot. He kicked it in the nose, swam for his life, reached shore, and rode off on a motorcycle.
Sarah boarded the raft then turned to the rabbi, in the water, holding on to the raft’s edge. Sarah reached over and yanked off his yarmulke, exposing a penguin. He bit her, tried to pull her into the water. Hannah held Sarah by the waist, the penguin tugging her by the neck, the raft tilting precariously. An oar drove his beak into his brain. As he sank below the water, the driver replaced the oar, and the raft headed to shore.
They sat quietly until the raft shored and the three entered the boathouse. Inside, while the crew readied the get-away boat, Sarah paled.
“I don’t feel well, Hannah.” Sarah doubled up, trembled, then fell to the floor.
Hannah retrieved the egg under her, led her to the first aid station, placed a pillow under her head, and covered her with a blanket.
“We’ll be taking off soon. A plane is waiting for us across the lake.”
“Did you know about the seals?” Sarah asked. “And what the hell’s wrong with me?”
“Penguins are seals favorite food. This lake began as a rescue for seals caught in fishing nets. By mistake, the lake had too low a salt content. The seals adapted, had babies and they’re thriving.
“Aliens came here to load up on minerals and farm humans. And get women to lay eggs. She paused and looked at Sarah.
Sarah nodded. “Go on.”
“The waitress, cook, the customers in Waffle House are aliens. The smoke from the waitress’s hair caused you to hallucinate. Then, they dosed your coffee which clouded your memory and mutated you. They planned to take you into their portal, remove our chip, and harvest your eggs. But you ruined their plan by drawing a crowd. It gave us time to find you.”
“Why eggs?” Sarah paled.
Hannah retrieved a syringe from a drawer.
“They eat the eggs. The dose dulled your memory and altered your body. I have the antidote.”
Before Hannah could inject her, automatic weapons blazed, “ratatatatatatatattatata!” The door blew off, the Red Beak Brigade stormed the boathouse. In the lead, the large, red beak penguin yelled out, “Remember me?” and fired. The driver went down. Hannah, behind a wall, returned fire. The crew went for their weapons.
Sarah edged to the door of the first aid area. A half-dozen Red Beaks and the leader faced the front, one dead, his weapon next to him. She crept forward, grabbed the gun, and crouched.
“Remember me?” she taunted.
The leader spun around; Sarah fired. His red beak and head blew off. She fired again. “Ratatattat.” A penguin in the corner dropped. “Ratatatat!” went another. Once more, aim, “Click” Empty. “Damn.”
Three Red Beaks rushed her, dragged her outside and into a truck. The last thing she remembered was an explosion and seeing the boathouse in flames.
#
“Sarah. Sarah,” a voice called. “Open your eyes.”
Sarah blinked at the penguin standing next to her holding a syringe. The air smelled like hay and ammonia, with a subdued odor of bacon. She struggled to sit up.
“Where am I? Where is Hannah? Why am I restrained? Who are you?”
“Welcome back, Sarah,” the penguin chirped through an orange beak, and placed the syringe on the tray. “I’m a nurse. You’re in our collection room. The medicine I gave will calm you. We had to restrain you so you wouldn’t harm yourself. I’ll loosen them to make you more comfortable.”
Sarah sat up. She was in a narrow room with rows of straw beds, one person in each bed. Penguins with orange beaks walked from bed to bed and placed eggs from the beds into their yellow baskets. With her feet chained to the bed, escape was unlikely. Her only hope was the agency would track her. She reached back and felt a bandage.
“Looking for this?” The penguin chuckled, holding a small, foil packet.
Sarah sank, her hopes collapsed like a tire losing air. Her memories were a kaleidoscope of unrelated events scattered like popcorn in a fog. Hannah, London Bank, money, prison, Cuban rum, eighth grade, juvenile hall. The injection was taking effect. She tugged at the restraints.
“Where is Hannah?” her voice shook.
“Hannah is feeding the fish,” she brayed.
Sarah didn’t hear her. She was six years old, playing in her backyard. A kitten. A pink bicycle with streamers from the handlebars. A boy kissed her … She floated away on clouds until the vision of red beaks jarred her. She made a valiant effort, struggle against the euphoria, beat it back. Back.
She opened her eyes. A young penguin with an orange beak gathered eggs at her bedside. “When … my production … stops?” she managed.
“We turn you into dinner.”
Marty B. Rivers retired from his profession as a clinical therapist to live in the foothills of Tennessee with his cat. He has published on AOL and Yahoo, and the former Los Angeles Free Press.
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Heavy Feather Review 