I'm here! I tried to yell, but it came out as a purr.
She put us down, and Buddy tried to skitter away. But this time I was ready for him. I flexed every last bit of mental energy and clamped down on the scruff of his neck. Buddy jolted forward, then froze. He started to growl, but I cut it off. Then, slowly, I forced his head up to look at Amy.
She was reading something on a piece of notepaper, twiddling an apartment key in her free hand. Then I realized: Hey. That's probably my apartment key. What was going on? What day is this, anyway? Amy sighed, folded the note, put it in her jeans pocket and started for the door.
If I was going to get any answers, I needed to jump into Amy's body. Quick.
Okay, fur lips. Let's move it.
I jerked one front leg forward, then the next. One back leg, the next. Buddy was fighting me the entire way. You know cats can make themselves heavier when they don't want you to pick them up? Well, believe me, they can do the same thing mentally. I'm sure if Amy was paying any attention to Buddy, she would have immediately called a combination vet/exorcist.
Amy was at the door.
Leg, leg, leg, leg…
Amy was unlocking and opening the door.
We were a foot away. Time to go for broke. I summoned every ounce of mental control I thought I had over this cat and sent it to his back legs. It sprung up in the air like a jackrabbit who's had a carrot rammed up his ass.
We crashed into Amy's moving legs and did an ungraceful flop to the floor. Apparently, my presence negated Buddy's ability to land on all four feet.
Amy let out a startled, “Oh!” then looked down at us. Pathetic. Which, apparently, worked wonders. Amy squealed with pity and snatched us up into her arms, stroked our head and ran her knuckles beneath our mouth. Tremors shot throughout our body; our tail flicked wildly, joyously. Oh, don't stop, don't stop. Then I remembered what I had been going for. I lifted our head so it bumped Amy's jaw. “Buddy, slow down,” she said.
I bumped her again, rubbed our head across her cheek, and bumped her again.
“Buddy!"
Amy nudged our head up with a finger. “What's wrong with you, kit…"
We looked into her eyes.
Twenty-Two
Electric Amy
Whammo. The world did a backflip.
By this point, I was feeling like a world traveler. From the Country of Porcelain, to the strange, exotic turf of Feline, right into the uncharted territory known as the Female Mind. Oddly, Amy's mind felt closer to the toilet than the cat.
This is not meant as an insult-honest. The foundations of her psyche were unlike anything I'd ever encountered, and I'd encountered many a psyche.
I/Amy blinked, dimly aware that Buddy had wriggled free, leapt back down to the floor and scrambled away, probably looking for a place to hole up and bathe himself for a couple of hours.
Where am I? I heard Amy ask.
There was no Brain Hotel in here, to be sure. Just an ordinary human mind. Or was it?
No matter the environment, I had to create a suitable meeting place for our two minds. Right now, no doubt, Amy's consciousness was tumbling around in the void of her own brain, wondering how she'd lost her grip on reality so quickly.
I started to slap up a large room with wood-paneled walls, a comfortable rug, a desk, a couch, a few paintings. Then I realized a strange room like that would probably disorient her even more. I needed something familiar. So, I recreated my own apartment the best I could. That way, when I summoned her soul here, she would think she'd momentarily passed out. I could explain it away, without fear of her losing her mind.
When I'd finished, I called out to her. “Amy! Amy, wake up."
AMY IS AWAKE
The voice didn't come from any single location. The voice, for lack of a better description, came from all locations. I was in the voice, right here in the recreation my own apartment. I felt like a mere puff of breath within the voice.
“Amy where are you?"
AMY IS WITH YOU
“Can I see Amy?"
AMY IS ALL AROUND YOU
This line of questioning was getting me nowhere. Where was her soul? According to the rules (at least, as I'd come to understand them), it had to be around here somewhere. I checked the kitchen area-in the fridge, in the stove, in the limited cupboard space. Nowhere. I checked the bathroom. Not there, either. The only place left was my closet. But there was a sign tacked to the front of it:
WARNING! DO NOT ENTER
Now that hadn't been in my real apartment. And I sure as heck didn't invent it for this reproduction. What was going on? The damned thing was sealed shut, too-some kind of gray caulk pasting up the crack between the door and its frame, and a dozen metal hinges locking it in place.
Not that this was a problem. Hell, if I could recreate an entire apartment, I sure as hell could whip up something as simple as a brain-chainsaw.
So I did, and the crazy thing came alive in my hands, its sudden weight straining my arms. I thrust it into the closet door, and the chips started to fly. And as I did, the words on the door sign changed right before my eyes:
STOP! DO NOT CONTINUE
“Oh yeah?” I shouted over the din of the saw. “Or what?” And I pushed the speeding blade deeper into the wood, cutting across toward the frame. Sparks popped as I hit a metal staple.
The sign changed again:
THIS DOOR LEADS TO HELL
Interesting. “Well then,” I shouted, “tell the Devil to pull out his best china, ‘cause he's gonna have a guest!” I sawed back through the groove I'd already cut and finished the job on the opposite side of the door. The last staple sparked, and the door immediately folded up into itself and was sucked back into the darkness.
And that was what I found within my pseudo-apartment closet: utter and perfect darkness. Miner's lamp, I thought, and one appeared on my head. Double-barrel shotgun, I thought too-just to be sure. Who knows what kind of heat Satan was packing?
This had to be a trip for the record books. From the bowl of a Philadelphia toilet to the bowels of Hell. Yee-haw.
I stepped into the closet. The air got thick fast. To take a step meant pushing my way through air thick as beach sand. I found that if I pushed hard enough to one side, the space would part easier for me, but only for a second or two before the pressure came crashing back.
After what seemed like hours, I came up against a barrier. I reached out and touched it-smooth, like wood. I knocked on it. Sounded like wood. Was this a coffin I'd wormed myself into? That would teach me a Twilight Zone-esque lesson, I supposed. Dead Guy steps into a doorway to Hell, and ends up in a coffin, finally, where he belongs. Justice is served. Cue Rod Serling's Monday morning wrap-up.
But it wasn't a coffin lid. It was a door. I found what felt like a long brass handle and turned it.
Outside the door was a beautifully furnished bedroom.
Welcome to Hell, here are your robe and slippers, make yourself at home?
I had no idea where I was supposed to be. This certainly wasn't a bedroom I'd encountered before. It must be one of Amy Langtree's memories. I wondered if her consciousness extended this far. “Amy?” I called out. “Are you there?"
Amy popped her head through the door. “What did you call me?"
She'd startled me. I breathed heavily, then said: “Oh, God. There you are."