The One-Eyed Wampus stepped towards Woodrow, not breaking contact from what was once his own eye. Woodrow felt around for his gun before remembering that he put his holster down on the kitchen counter on his way to the bedroom. He was defenseless. One slash to the chest from the Cat’s claws, one bite in the neck from its teeth, and Woodrow would be dead.

  But it didn’t bare its claws or its teeth. It just continued to stare at Woodrow’s bulging eye. There wasn’t any sort of indication that he was mad at all. He stopped walking, sat and curled his tail around his feet. It occurred to Woodrow that cat was waiting for him to answer a question — though what the question was, he had no earthly idea.

  So they just stared at each other for a moment, Woodrow tense as steel cable, the cat with no expression whatsoever.

  “Yes, I’m the one that stole your eye,” Woodrow took a shot in the dark about what the cat might be asking him. “Sorry. Nothin’ personal. I just need it.”

  The cat continued to stare.

  “I know, I know, you need ‘em too. That’s why I suggested we take one eye from two cats instead of two from one,” he said. The cat did not respond.

  Somehow, it occurred to Woodrow that the cat wanted to lead him somewhere in the woods.

  As soon as this thought came to him, the cat stood up and made his way towards the door. He got halfway down the hall and turned around as if to say “hurry up you old coot”.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”

  Woodrow rolled out of bed, grabbed his gun, and put his shoes and jacket on. Now, if someone were to ever ask him if he’d follow a Wampus cat into the woods in the dead of night after it broke into his house, he’d reply with an emphatic “Hell naw!”, but for some reason, he felt that it was the right call, and that he wasn’t in any danger. He opened the front door. The cat left first and he followed, locking the door behind him.

  It led him around the house and to the trees in his backyard. They went deep into the woods. The cat seemed to see a path that wasn’t visible to Woodrow, and following close behind him helped him avoid the snags of any rogue roots or stray thorn bushes. They went up, up, up, over moss-covered rocks and through dense brush until they reached a small clearing and Woodrow put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

  The clearing was relatively flat, with only a slight slope to it, and was covered in untamed grass. Dozens of Wampus Cats were scattered throughout the clearing, mostly curled up on the ground in tight little balls. Some were black, some were slate gray, some were brownish-orange — and they all had their big yellow eyes fixed on Woodrow.

  He knew he should’ve been filling his pants right about now, but he wasn’t. His bones told him that they weren’t going to attack.

  The cats all got up at once and moved to one side of the clearing or the other so that there was a clear walkway right down the middle. The One-Eyed Wampus walked down the open path, and Woodrow followed. The rest of the cats turned their heads to keep their eyes locked firmly on him, but stood stock still beyond that. At the end of the path, a single cat stood before him. It was smaller than most of the cats around, maybe only a little bigger than your run-of-the-mill cougar, but its face was noticeably more angular, meaner looking than the rest, with a mask of gray standing out on a backdrop of black fur. Woodrow surmised that this was the One-Eyed Wampus’s mother.

  “I know you didn’t bring me all the way out here to hear me apologize,” said Woodrow, “Or to kill me. So what is it that y’all want?”

  The Mother didn’t say anything.

  Woodrow felt something emanating from the old cat that he didn’t expect — respect. It was clear as day; the Mother respected the cunning and bravery it would take to steal the eye off of a Wampus Cat, and appreciated the restraint it took to do it without killing the cat in question.

  “If someone can take your eye, then they deserve your eye,” Woodrow whispered. The Mother cat nodded her head ever so slightly.

  “But he disagrees,” Woodrow looked at the One-Eyed Wampus. His eye narrowed and his pupil dilated. “He wants to take me in a fair fight. Me and Bill Jones.”

  The Mother cat nodded again. The air seemed to get colder around them. The wind seemed to grow stronger. Woodrow determined that he had three days to bring Bill Jones into the den of the Wampus cats, and then they would each take a turn fighting the One-Eyed Wampus to the death — no weapons allowed. He had been spared on this night was so that he could bring Bill Jones to them. The One-Eyed Wampus hated Bill Jones. The only reason Woodrow was still alive was to bring him to the den; they couldn’t get past the traps set throughout his property, or they would’ve done it themselves. If they refused, then each other member of the Bigfoot Boys would be hunted down, killed, and laid in front of Bill Jones’s front yard.

  “Well damn, alright then,” Woodrow replied to the silent cats. “I’ll let him know the deal first thing in the morning. See you again soon.”

  “There’s no way in Hell we’re going back there.” Woodrow sat in Bill Jones’s living room, sipping a cup of coffee and half-watching an episode of Pig vs Pig, a show where morbidly obese men engaged in competitive eating contests against genuine swine. Usually the men won easily, but the swine was giving the man a real run for his money this episode.

  “Right?” Woodrow continued. Bill Jones was in the kitchen peeling hard boiled eggs over the trash can, and didn’t seem to hear Woodrow for a second.

  “Wait, wait, back up for a second,” Bill Jones said while he rinsed the peeled eggs in the sink. “The Wampus cats talked to you last night?”

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  “Well, not exactly,” said Woodrow. As he was about to say what happened, how he seemed to just intuitively understand them, he realized how ridiculous it all sounded.

  “They didn’t say it, I guess. But I just knew.”

  “Like they were talking to you telepathically?” Bill Jones asked, fascinated by the direction the conversation was going.

  “Sorta. Almost felt like I was talking to myself, to be honest. It was like I just knew that’s what they wanted to say, if they were able to say it.”

  “Wow.” Bill Jones darted back and forth across the living room, looking in end table drawers and under couch cushions until he found a notebook and a pen. He wrote down a couple of things and tossed the book aside.

  “Yeah,” Woodrow said. “But what I’m trying to say is that they want us to go fight a Wampus Cat barehanded, or they’re gonna hunt us down — Slugfoot and Chuck too. But we can’t go in there and do that though, right?”

  “What do you mean? Of course we can. We’re gonna get you that eye, Woody. I know you wanted to do it without killing them if you could, but clearly they don’t seem to mind. So why not? It’s perfect, really — you get the eye and we won’t piss off any more Wampus Cats, by the sound of it.”

  “Sure, if one of us could actually take a Wampus cat in a fist fight. I don’t reckon we can though.” That was an understatement. If they went through with this, they’d both get torn to shreds, no doubt about it.

  “Are you sure about that?” Bill Jones asked. Every time he asked that question, it meant he had some sort of trick up his sleeve. He went off to the garage for a minute and came back with a leather jacket and blue jeans on.

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed his keys and opened his door. Woodrow raced after him.

  “What? Right now?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Bill Jones replied. “Trust me on this. I got your back, Woody.”

  Woodrow sighed, but he hopped into the truck and they headed to the opening in the woods that the One-Eyed Wampus had shown him the previous night.

  “You know I know you’re a smart sonofabitch,” Woodrow started while they made their way to the Wampus den. “But this is dumber than dog shit. I couldn’t win a fistfight with a damn puma, let alone a Wampus cat. Neither could you.”

  “If you really knew what a smart sonofabitch I am, you’d know that I got something to fix that.” Bill Jones pulled a syringe from his jacket pocket. It was filled with a thick, pitch black liquid.

  “Inject this into my neck when we’re just about there. Hopefully it’ll do the trick,” he said.

  “Hopefully?” Woodrow replied. “What is this shit?”

  “I’m damn near certain it’ll do the trick — about ninety-nine percent sure. It’s something I’ve been working on for a while now, but I haven’t had a good test for it til tonight. Just make sure I’m the one that fights him first and give this to me.”

  “Jesus, alright. Give me that shit.” Woodrow snatched the syringe from Bill Jones. The fluid inside of it bubbled and flowed in different directions of its own accord. He tried not to think about it too much. When they were almost to the clearing, he popped the cap off of the needle and stuck it into Bill Jones’s neck, just as he was told to do. Bill Jones shuddered quietly as the dense fluid entered his bloodstream, but nothing seemed to change beyond that.

  The One-Eyed Wampus was nowhere to be seen in the clearing. He didn’t expect them to show up so quickly, Woodrow reckoned — he didn’t expect it either. But when the cats saw the two men enter their den, a few of them got up and dashed into the woods. A moment later, the One-Eyed Wampus was in front of them.

  “Bill Jones wants to go first,” Woodrow said. “That alright with you?”

  It was. Woodrow had to step aside, and could in no way help Bill Jones at any point, unless he wanted every Wampus in the den to pounce on him at once. The cats all cleared the area and Woodrow stood among them so that it was only Bill Jones and the One-Eyed Wampus left in the clearing.

  The man and the cat circled each other, each waiting for the other to strike first, to make a wrong move. There was a wild look about Bill Jones that Woodrow had never seen before on his usually-stoic friend. Finally, after the suspense had built to a breaking point — the One-Eyed Wampus pounced.

  Bill Jones sidestepped out of the path of the cat’s claws and kicked him hard in the ribs. Woodrow had never seen Bill Jones move so quickly before — he hadn’t seen any man move so quickly before. He almost seemed like a wild cat himself. The One-Eye Wampus stumbled back a few steps and roared. Bill Jones roared back. The two of them collided. The cat ripped at Bill Jones’s chest with his claws and he sent a torrent of fists at the cat’s shoulders and head. The cat sliced through the leather jacket and sent three streams of blood cascading down Bill Jones’s belly, but he didn’t seem to notice. He connected with a nasty right hook to the side of the cat’s head and the scratching stopped. He stumbled, dazed from the blow. Bill Jones took advantage of the opening and jumped on top of the One-Eyed Wampus, pummeling him, screaming maniacally. Wet cracks emanated from the cat’s head with each blow until he stopped moving and Bill Jones stood up victorious.

  “Holy shit,” Woodrow said.

  “Carry that to the truck for me, will ya?” Bill Jones said and pointed at the cat’s corpse. He was panting hard and felt the blood when he put his hand to his chest. Woodrow hoisted the body over his shoulder and the two of them left the clearing. The rest of the cats did not protest.

  “We need to get you to a damn hospital,” Woodrow said. He threw the cat into the bed of the truck and sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Naw,” Bill Jones panted. “Just wrap me up when we get to my house. And get that eye on ice.”

  “Are you touched, boy? You’re gonna bleed out before we can even get you home!” Woodrow countered.

  “It ain’t that serious. The bleeding’s already starting to stop.” The blood was starting to coagulate over the wounds, but there was still plenty more seeping between Bill Jones’s fingertips. It wasn’t looking good. Woodrow stomped on the gas and floored it to Bill Jones’s house.

  “Get that cat in the freezer, now. I’ll tend to these wounds myself.” Woodrow had to help Bill Jones out of the truck. He was pale and could barely stand up straight.

  “I really think we should get you to a hospi—“

  “Hurry! Gotta freeze it as quickly as we can!”

  Bill Jones stumbled to the bathroom and Woodrow hustled to the garage. There was a big, empty chest freezer pushed against the wall that Bill Jones had bought for this exact occasion. He flipped it open and stuffed the whole cat inside.

  “You alright in there?” Woodrow knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. You can come on in if you want. I’m not takin’ a shit or nothin’.”

  Woodrow opened the door and Bill Jones was sitting on the toilet with his shirt off and bandages wrapped around his chest. A red splotch slowly grew bigger on the white gauze, but his face looked less pale and his eyes weren’t as cloudy.

  “What was that shit you took?” Woodrow asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Bill Jones replied sleepily. “Can you get me a bag of chips or something? I’m starving.”

  Woodrow reluctantly went to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of chips. He threw them at Bill Jones, who scarfed them down on while still sitting on the toilet.

  “Are you seriously not gonna tell me what that shit was?” Woodrow pressed.

  Bill Jones looked up and looked deeply into Woodrow’s eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “All that matters is we got you that eye. We’re making progress. Can probably get your surgery in next week.”

  “Will you even be able to fuckin’ walk next week?” Woodrow said.

  “Yeah, of course, I —“

  Bill Jones coughed. Blood flew from his mouth and splattered against the wall in front of him.

  “Holy shit, I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “No! I’ll be fine, I swear on my granny’s life. Just help me to my bed so I can get some sleep. It’s been a fuckin’ doozy of a day.”

  It wasn’t even noon yet, but Woodrow didn’t disagree with him. He just carried his friend to bed and wondered what in the world was going on in that head of his.