It Takes A Child
Another slow July day began at 11:53 A.M., GMT offset -6, as Adam rolled out of bed with a muzzy groan. He'd been popping in and out of a lazy, prolonged dream for the past two hours and grabbed a few precious threads of it before the covers finally slid off. Another porn dream, he could tell from the tone of it. He toed a controller out of his path as he pulled on some well-worn jeans and a shirt, blinking away the sunshine.
Parents were gone as usual, leaving him the only kid in the house, as he had been for years. He squinted at the note on the fridge as he sipped a protein shake: "Everything's where it always is, have fun, clean out that bird nest or it'll be your ass. Love Dad." Well, if he didn't get it done now he'd never motivate himself to, and his fuzzy rear would be had. Dad never accepted the but-I'm-a-cat line of reasoning anyway, the bastard.
Twenty minutes, a cold-cut sandwich and a bathroom break later, the back door finally slid open and he scuffed outside in thick-soled work sandals. "Stupid damn nest," he mumbled. "Never even heard or smelled any damn birds, gotta take out the damn nest, summer break 'n everything..."
The heavy aluminum rod he usually used for these odd jobs was lying by the back door. He grabbed it, scuffed around the corner of the house through thick backyard grass, and saw the nest. Tucked away under the eaves, made out of woven newspaper and trash, though with a certain weird regularity he only saw in beehives. It was an impressive thing too, larger than a beach ball, and he could only guess how they snuck this one into being under his nose. "Damn birds," he complained again- summer vacation takes everyone's vocabulary away- and reached up to give it a good whack. It tumbled right out like a piñata and rolled to his feet, trailing scraps of hardened paper. The cat recoiled- and then he saw it as half of it rolled up to expose the interior.
Tiny little creatures, shaped just like the anthros, scuttled inside the shell of it with pitch-warped shrieks of panic and pain. The inside of the 'nest' was shored up with scraps of wood and metal, full of glittering objects too small to see in the bizarre flash. More squirmed inside the broken construction, making tiny squeaks of distress and blinking into the daylight flooding in- entire tiny families small enough to line up on his little finger- a freakish mix of an opened anthill and the Borrowers...
He screamed and launched backwards, imagining them scuttling and crawling towards him in a flash, and dropped the pole in reflex as he sprinted back inside the house. The door banged shut on its track and he thumped down on a chair, trying to think of what happened.
Spiders. Maggots. Something that wasn't bipedal and sentient inside that nest, something that didn't stare back at him in abject horror. That was when he felt the tingle of motion on his sandal and a weight tugging on the top of his furred foot, yanking on the little hairs. Something had clung to him, some sudden darting motion, and was crawling across him like an ant. He didn't scream then- more of an inarticulate yell as he kicked his sandal out and ripped at the straps to see what was there.
One of the tiny creatures was clinging to his fur, buried close to the skin, hands and feet grabbing his pelt. The kick almost jolted it loose, plucking hairs from the tender skin, and Adam reacted with a quickness. He swung his hand and knocked it, bruised and shaken, further down his foot, where it slid along the gritty roughness of his unwashed pads. Between them to safety.
He didn't think of hygiene or disgust. He just grabbed his pads and scrunched them together, foot flexing with the motion, and the creature died in the fuzzy rifts between them in a wet pop of bone. The cat groaned and kicked forward, feeling the thick cream of pulverized flesh digging itself irrevocably into every crevice; it felt like catching a worm between his toes as a kid.
"Fuck." That settled it. Hallucinations don't pop. Adam hobbled one-footed to the counter, grabbed a napkin, and swabbed between his toes; a broken lump of anthro, too tiny to guess at anything more distinct than 'canine', fell out like a loose tooth, leaking blood. He looked outside the window as he ran some water, ready to flush the corpse down the sink; he could still see the nest outside. Autopilot alone kept him from screaming again, some buried feline instinct.
His fingers hesitated as they dangled the crunched thing over the drain. He forced himself to let go, trying not to acknowledge to himself why he'd hesitated. No, he wasn't hungry enough to eat a tiny mutant that he'd just squashed. He was sure of that. As for tiny mutants not yet squashed... no. He shut that out for a few seconds longer, trying to resist the tingles that grew in his body every time something small and helpless moved near him.
Still, it had to be admitted. Those things out back were real. They could be his ticket to fame and worldwide scientific breakthroughs, or they could be the freakiest thing he'd ever witnessed. What to do about them? He dropped the body down the drain and ran the disposal for a second; the blades flung up a thin string of meat that slapped into the sink before water pushed it back down again. His jaws clenched, less in disgust than a display of willpower. That smelled good.
That's when he saw a jostling of the broken nest. His eyes darted over to the fence- inches off the ground. What if these things got loose? Oh, fuck. Whatever they'd do, there's only one way to be sure. He had to corral them, get the tiny creeps in their nest again, before any others got the initiative of the one that latched onto his foot. His feet slid back into sandals he re-strapped, and with a quick gritting of his teeth, he stepped out and shut the door. A few steps later and he had the metal bar in hand, shifting his grip down as he approached the nest.
Something squealed under the heavy rubber soles. He twisted his foot, smashing it unseen to the dirt, and took another stop- this one landed on two, judging from the tiny quivers of motion in separate spots under the rubber. The cat's features twisted in an uncertain smile. He flexed his weight from front to back; the first creature squeaked and audibly broke open, but the other made no such sound of protest. He looked at the sprawling hunk of paper and cardboard lying on the ground before him, then hurriedly yanked his sandals off... having them come loose in the middle of hunting down these things wouldn't help at all. He jabbed the bar into the dirt and flipped his sandal around.
The tiny thing squirmed, broken and contorted but alive, in the treads. He twisted the sandal in his hands, popping it free, and letting it fall to the ground in a broken heap of what looked eerily like dog. These things couldn't be intelligent- he could tell that much from the tiny brains in each skull. So why did they look so much like the real thing, how could they organize actions and an entire nest? All he knew was the structure was still lying in the dirt, boiling with its sickening little vermin. He'd fix that soon enough.
More of the things writhed in the grass, rushing to the assistance of the canine-bug he'd dropped in their midst. This time he felt it when he slammed a foot in the middle of them; tiny bodies crunched or broke under his sole, depending on where they were, one body pushing and clawing at his arch. He lifted up pads already red and fur-smeared from previous victims and placed his big toe right over the aggressor, his weight pushing the fox into a tiny divot in the ground, and grinding; a bloody clot of fur rode along after his toe was lifted. Half of the knot at his feet was taken care of, and this time he didn't hide his feline instincts for the rest.
Balancing adroitly on one foot, he waited for the glimpses of motion to show through the long grass he hadn't mowed as much as he should- it hid them, but made it harder to move unnoticed if they ran. They all ran. A tiny feline of some sort fell under his gory toes and crumpled like a soda can. His callused instep chopped another dog to the ground. Something reptilian, with what looked like wings, failed to take off in time; he swatted it to the ground and pounded a heel on it, again and again, as it kept crawling after the first hit. After a few stomps bone showed through black hide, and after a few more the shattered bone couldn't be distinguished from anything else. He viciously slid his heel across the dirt and left a fan-shaped streak of what horribly resembled dragon across the dirt.
Which still left the rest of the tiny things he'd seen, let alone the squirming population he hadn't seen. He got to hands and feet, poised like a track runner, sniffing at the grass. Scents of blood and ruptured bodies rose through the overwhelming panic-fog that set his mouth to watering. His mouth hung open to let him inhale the faint molecules... and there. He crawled over the smashed remains of his victims to find what was hiding in the grass, smashing a fist on a cowering wolf-child without sparing a glance or even realizing the youth of what he'd smashed- don't children stamp all ants regardless of their age? It gave a shrill noise as he pounded its ribcage in, and died seconds later. Just a distraction on the way to the prize just ahead.
It was easy to catch them. He just swung his hand and pried up, shrieking with terror and acceleration, a whole clutch of mice. They had all the adult-tinted fur, but could have been at any point in pubescence, for all he knew of mice- or these freakish bugs. A larger mouse clung to them all with ferocious chitters at him, the most heroic and futile care he'd ever seen in person. Didn't their guardian- or mother, or older sister- know what was about to happen? He was a cat.
Five mice, six counting the larger. He dispensed of them in turn. The first tiny little bug he picked between his fingers squealed, and the others grabbed for it- him?- with desperate voices. He made it quick in case he needed both hands to subdue the things. The mouse fell into his mouth where teeth speared it in, shocking it into mortal injuries that left it mere seconds to appreciate the leftover scent of sandwich in his mouth, and the incredible pain of a triple impalement, before his tongue pried his meal loose and it slid to his throat on a tide of pinked saliva. The others wailed in dismay, the older mouse baring her oversized teeth at him.
Adam just smiled. It was an expression that never crossed his face before. Another mouse found his fingertips around its young body, and this time he brought her up to his nose and inhaled a river of terror-stink and female scents. "Nice," he mumbled without thinking, and slid her past his lips. She squirmed and clawed, and he winced at the pinpricks of blood drawn on his sensitive tongue, anxiously cramming her back and trying to will her down his gullet by sheer force. It was hard to swallow with so much dry fur at his throat's edge, but he concentrated on not coughing her up, and soon her pelt was slimy with his muzzle's juices; he swallowed eagerly, and felt her slip down, his throat visibly working its invisible passenger down. Another chorus of grief from the mice.
Four left. The little bugs kept crowded around each other. This time he picked the biggest juvenile, sniffed again to check- male- and followed the next urge in his head. This mouse sailed into his muzzle like the first one, and when he bit down, he was careful to do it with the heavy rear teeth, not the sharp frontals. Instead of a clean impalement, flesh folded and tore in his muzzle, squirting blood and tiny scraps across his teeth; he growled in delight and let the mice hear the crunching, blood dribbling from his lips in a frothy drool, as he shredded their companion into several chunks. The mouse lived for surprisingly long. It wasn't until each limb was detached and the torso was being halved that it finally gave up, but he kept going for long after that until there was nothing left but paste, tiny bones crunching like glass splinters in his mouth.
Then he grinned at the mice and opened wide to show them what happened to their pal, sticking his tongue out at them, before scraping the remains off his tongue to swallow. A fleck of brain rested on his lower lip, unnoticed.
The mousey guardian seemed to have lost her will to fight at this last display. All three survivors looked sickened, body and soul, almost comatose. Of course he wasn't going to let them off so easily; he crouched and set the eldest on the ground, immediately slapping his tough heel over her and keeping enough weight on her to ensure if she escaped at all, it would be a crawl. The two mice that remained he rolled in his hands. Gently at first, disorienting the numbed victims. Then he applied more force.
Protests and squeals followed a bell curve as his ministrations took effect. The harder he pressed, the more they shrilled and begged in nothing he could recognize at words, as the blunt tumbling and pressure rolled along their bodies and softened what rested inside those fuzzy grey pelts. It hits its apex as he used his palms as two millstones, and mice who were undoubtedly beloved companions were instruments of each others' death, grinding relentlessly against each others' weakest points. Then lungs gave, the entire structure of each mouse gave like a rotten fruit, and the protests weakened in volume as they lost the ability to make sounds.
When he opened his hands again after a minute more, there was a hairy glue spread between his hands. He thumbed his shorts down with a little effort. Good thing he had the privacy fences all around him. With nervous glances to the neighboring houses- his first sign of rationality in this grisly rampage- he flexes his fists, draining the runoff, and coaxed his boxers down. There throbbed a drooling erection, staring him in the face, its sheer stiffness keeping him from stripping effectively. Mouse-slickened hands came down as he stroked himself, barely able to keep from flattening the victim still under his foot, breath uneven and dry as he stood and caressed himself with meaty lube.
He could see motion in the remains of the nest with his intensified vision, sharpened by arousal and sensory overload. The slime he worked along his penis was blood-hot and gritty with bone. Syrupy arousal mingled with what he'd streaked along his length and drizzled to the creatures at his feet, fingers tightening in response to the pulses he felt in his fist, and minutes later, he lost control and groaned, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet, and his eyes rolled back as the lids over them fluttered. He held it in for four hammering pulses before he could wait no more, and a few gobs of white shot out and splatted onto the creatures hiding inside their nest.
Ice ran along his spine, oil washed over his fur anew, and in a few seconds it was over. He shook a few times to fling the rest of his semen into the grass, feeling his lube cooling on sensitive skin. "Fuck." He pulled his clothes back up, pulling up some grass to wipe off the rest of the mess on; he'd deal with the traces later. Then he stepped back and looked down; the mouse lay in his footprint still, covered in someone else's flattened remains.
This little thing deserved special attention. He put her in his pocket, where she clung in a catatonic mess, teeth audibly grinding against each other. Just a few barefoot steps, his still-sensitive cock tingling in his boxers and messing up his groinfur, brought him to the shed, where he grabbed a can and some matches. He still had hours before his parents got here; he had the perfect plan. Next to the nest, which he yanked off the ground before any of the creatures could make up their minds to escape his 'mark' and flee. Two suicide-jumped to the ground as they felt their home lifted, but he marched around the house with the nest held out before him, so nothing could jump onto his face or attack. Stragglers could be dealt with by the neighborhood birds and pets. This was organized, this nest needed something separate.
He dropped the nest on the asphalt driveway and poured some of the can's contents on it. The reek of butane met his nostrils. The creatures inside, possibly guessing what he had in mind, stirred, or rather the few that could stir did. A lot of the wounded from the nest's initial fall were clustered in the many chambers and side-walls. He didn't look inside. He just squirted a ring of fuel around the nest to ensure the job would be finished and lit a match, dropping it onto the construction and listening to the unnatural wails drifting out from it. How could such tiny lungs make such noise?
As the nest burned he went inside, feeling his boxers stirring with a newfound excitement. He'd have to clean up a few hours, but there were other priorities first. Whatever the mouse in his pocket was thinking, she kept thinking it as he lifted her free, not acting or stirring in her own defense, not even when he got out the tweezers, scissors, and nail-file. After all, she was going to need to be disarmed to have the duties in mind he had for her.
Half an hour later, he sat upstairs in his room, the mouse- relieved of claws and teeth- squirming in the underwear he closed around her, his hand keeping her trapped against his slippery erection. The nest smoked outside, tiny shrunken corpses still inside.
It just goes to show you.
It takes a child to raze a village.