Carried Away, Chapter 12

“This is too weird,” I said. “Why are we so afraid of these cats?”

“It’s weird and that’s why we are afraid. Do you have any food in your satchel?”

“Nope. Just a bottle of water.”

“Cats wouldn’t be following us for water. There’s plenty of water in the river that we crossed.”

“What do you have in your backpack?”

“Some canned food. I have sardines and tuna in there, but those cans are sealed, and there’s no way the cats could know about them.”

“So why are the cats following us?”

“If they aren’t interested in our food, that means they are interested in us.”

Cruz bit his lip before continuing. “They consider us food. And right now, they are playing with their food.”

I snorted and continued walking. “Your imagination is getting the better of you. Cats don’t eat people.”

Cruz caught up to me easily. We walked for a while in silence; I focused on the street signs and the directions to the hostel, while Cruz continued scanning the balconies and alleyways for stray cats.

“The number one reason why dogs make better pets than cats,” he finally said, “is that dogs are omnivorous, and cats are carnivorous.”

“What difference does that make?” I asked.

“It’s not uncommon for pet owners, especially elderly pet owners, to outlive their animal companions,” he explained. “If the owner lived alone, sometimes the deceased goes undiscovered for several days, and the pet is forced to take care of itself during that time.”

I didn’t like where this was going. I wanted to stop him, but couldn’t bring myself to interrupt him.

“A dog will break into your pantry, and tear open packages of grains and root vegetables, when he’s hungry enough. But we don’t often keep beef, fish, or poultry in our pantry, do we? Meat spoils too quickly.

“So what’s a cat to eat in that situation?” I didn’t answer him. Unwittingly, I started watching for cats who might be preparing to ambush us.

Cruz, to his credit, didn’t feel the need to spell it out for me, either. Instead, a few moments later, he began singing:

I gatti mangiano i turisti,

E pappano i giornalisti.

I played it over in my head, translating it piece-by-piece: The cats eat the tourists, and feast on the journalists.

How witty.

*****

The street we were on soon opened up into a small square, with a plot of overgrown grass and a large tree in the median.

Cruz consulted the map on his phone. “The street to our hostel continues from the opposite end of this square,” he pointed.

I aimed my flashlight in the direction he indicated. The beam swept across another overfilled public dumpster positioned near the tree, and caught the movement of a flicking tail hiding behind it. The cat whom it belonged to had stuffed itself headfirst into some small sack of feline nourishment, and hadn’t noticed us yet.

Cruz put a finger to his lips and began to try to sneak past the dumpster. I followed him as stealthily as I could (which is pretty damn stealthy, even versus cats), but when he stopped suddenly in his tracks, I bumped into his back.

Suddenly the beam of my flashlight reflected off of hundreds of tiny golden eyes; some up in the tree, some within the dumpster, and some hiding in the unkempt grass.

The first cat, still flicking its tail, pulled its head free. I realized with horror that what I had thought was a small sack was in fact a sleeve. A grimy, tattered jacket sleeve.

This cat dropped a human finger that it was holding in its mouth and let out a low, keening howl that broke the silence of the night. One by one, the other cats joined in, combining their voices in a ghastly, mournful chorus.

The sound spread far and wide, echoing from buildings and rolling through the streets. Soon we heard responses, as cats all over the city took up the call. The noise was painfully discordant, and I expected to see lights in the windows as the residents of Vicenza were roused from their sleep, but the apartments remained dark and lifeless.

The horde of cats before us began advancing. Cruz threw his glass bottle, but that didn’t deter them. They just kept creeping toward us. “Well, I’m out of ideas,” he said.

“I’ve got one left.” I looked Cruz in the eyes. “Run!”

*****

Cats can sprint at speeds up to 50 kilometers per hour. I wish I had known that earlier. I can only sprint about 20 kph because of my short legs. Even Cruz probably doesn’t spring much faster than 25 kph. But it’s not like we had any alternative other than to try.

We also learned that night that cats are instinctive hunters. Perhaps if we had exercised more self-control, and made ourselves into more intimidating targets, we could have escaped unscathed. Now, we’ll never truly know.

The worst surprise, however, was discovering that feral cats are also pack hunters. We were fully unprepared for the level of cooperative behavior they exhibited in trying to bring us down.

Sometimes I look back on that night, and wonder exactly what advantages our species has over the common cat.

*****

Cruz took off immediately, racing across the square and toward the street that we hoped would lead to our hostel. I didn’t stop to think whether I still expected the hostel to provide any kind of safe shelter from the cats, I just chased after Cruz.

And a starving horde of feral cats chased after me.

The street ahead of us narrowed considerably, and I was immediately concerned about cats ambushing us from the balcony ledges above our heads. Sure enough, frenzied furballs began raining down upon our heads.

Because of my typical attire, I was fairly well-protected from these attacks. Cats leapt at my back, only to find that their claws could not penetrate the stiff leather of my duster. Cats fell upon my head, only to slide off the brim of my hat. By wildly brandishing my cane, I discouraged the cats from attacking me from the front.

Cruz was not as well-defended. His shirt was loose cotton, and those cat claws shredded the fabric as if it were tissue paper. His heavy backpack protected his back, but also provided a perch for cats to land upon and assail his head and neck. I caught up to him and swatted a calico with my cane that was furiously trying to gnaw his ear. It howled as it bounced off the wall next to us. Cruz grunted a brief “Thanks!” as he grabbed the siamese on his left sleeve and ripped him away, tossing him down the street behind us.

A third cat took advantage of my momentary distraction by climbing up my leg and chest to claw at my face. Only my neatly-groomed beard protected me from losing a chunk of my cheek. I grabbed this gray tabby by the tail and yanked him off my shirt, and he went into a hissing, dangling frenzy. A pack of cats were stalking me from my right side, so I swung this little psycho over my head like a lasso and chucked him into the crowd. Let them deal with that spastic maniac.

*****

The street ahead started to gradually slope upwards, which was discouraging to my poor, burning legs. I stole a glance behind me and saw that the larger part of the cat horde was still hard after us, hissing and howling. Cruz gripped the straps of his backpack and I saw that his right forearm was bleeding; from bites or scratches, I couldn’t be sure. He kept running up the hill, checking the balconies and rooftops for pouncing cats.

Because he was looking up, he failed to notice the ambush from under a BMW parked on the curb. From my position, lower to the ground and about ten yards downhill, I saw the telltale glint of those evil golden eyes just a split second before they struck. Two dark felines shot out from under the car and twisted themselves around Cruz’s legs, tangling him up. Already tired and off-balance, he stumbled and pitched forward, and the three cats waiting overhead pounced on his back, scratching and clawing. Under this coordinated onslaught, he could do little more than cover his face and scream for help.

Help, which I wanted to provide—I really did. But I couldn’t very well ignore the larger mob of predators on my heels. “Hold on!” I shouted. I smashed the driver’s window of the BMW, and its alarm went off. The flashing lights and sirens should have woken the dead, but did nothing to rouse the Vicenzans. I reached inside and dropped the car into neutral gear, and then slipped out as the sound & light show rolled backwards toward an unappreciative audience, who scattered in surprise.

Having bought us a few moments, I turned my attention to the fancy feast that was my traveling companion, and laid into those cats with tired, heavy blows from my cane. I could no longer react with hasty panic; instead I took a breath between each blow and went for the most violent strikes available. Moments later, I was helping Cruz back to his feet in the middle of five cat corpses. His clothing was torn into bloody tatters, and his face wasn’t much better looking.

“Come on,” I said, looking back at the re-organizing horde, “we gotta keep moving.” I pointed him up the street and we both began to run.

*****

We made it the next half kilometer without incident. Apparently the cats had learned some caution now that I had demonstrated my intention to push parked cars at them. They kept a healthy distance, but continued to follow us, occasionally uttering those haunting, low-pitched howls just to let us know they were still behind us.

My legs were burning, but fear and adrenaline kept me pushing through the pain. I could tell Cruz was on the verge of collapsing as well, as he kept stumbling every four or five steps.

We came to another bridge, not running or even jogging any more, but limping. “It’s not much further, Terence,” I reassured my injured companion. “The hostel is just about fifty yards past the bridge, if I remember the map correctly.”

Cruz grunted his approval. Neither of us wanted to consider that the hostel might be locked up, or abandoned, or worse—infested with more cats.

We reached the peak of the bridge, and looked ahead into a sea of writhing fur, sharp teeth, and glowing eyes. Behind us, there was more of the same.

“That’s why they weren’t chasing us,” Cruz huffed. “They knew we were cornered.”

“You’re giving them too much credit. These are just cats. They don’t have our intelligence.”

“And yet they’ve caught us.”

I looked at the hordes of hungry, vicious felines, bearing down on us from both sides, and almost conceded that Cruz was right.

But then I remembered exactly what advantage our species has over the common cat.

“Is this where we make our stand?” Cruz asked, leaning wearily against the bridge railing.

“Not exactly,” I said. I gave him a forceful shove over the edge. He yelped in surprise, and then splashed into the river.

Feeling rather petty, I extended my middle fingers towards the cats in both directions, flipping them the bird before I flipped myself over the handrail and hurdled myself into the waters below.

*****