Before the zombies came and changed everything, Dad would go on and on about that moronic light box. I never understood why he didn’t do what I often did: you know, stretch out across the keyboard. I used to love the little clicking sounds it made whenever I moved around.
Honestly, Dad, get a clue.
Anyway, I’m sure you don’t care about all that. What you want to know is how a cat like me went from being a pampered princess to a fierce zombie killer.
Well, first, you gotta have some zombies. And oh, boy, did we get a lot of those nasty things!
When the poop hit the fan, I was alone in my—well, OK, our—French Quarter pad in New Orleans. In fact, I’d been alone for almost two days—an unusual occurrence for me, especially since my parents worked from home.
And before you question the facts, I should point out that, while I might not be able to read a clock, my growling stomach and empty food bowl tell time just fine.
Anyway, Dad came in, frazzled and bleeding, grabbed the quickest shower ever, and packed a few extra items (including my bowls) into what he calls his “go-bag.” Then, he coaxed me into my carrier, took one last look around the apartment, and embarked on a not-so-fun adventure through the Quarter. There were smelly bodies everywhere, lots of roving zombies, and plenty of gunshots and screams.
Sadly, it was my first real tour of the neighborhood. I’d been outside before, but only briefly—like whenever my parents transferred me to or from their big blue pickup truck or for those two horrendous times they lugged me to the vet (big mistake on their part). But even then, I’d always been snuggled inside my carrier—and I had never journeyed very far.
Course, I knew a lot about the French Quarter. I had two window perches inside the apartment—one facing the rear courtyard and one alongside the alley—and over the years, plenty of ferals had stopped by to chat with me. After they’d quit bragging about being “footloose and fancy-free” and mocking me as a so-called prisoner of the humans, they’d eventually share what was happening in the neighborhood. The local feline gossip, the occasional canine talk, you get the idea.
Frankly, I never felt jealous of the ferals. To me, freedom was having cans of tuna opened just for me. It was lazing about in a warm patch of sunshine and not having to worry about some stupid dog disrupting my nap. Or hacking up a nice juicy hairball and having Momma immediately scoop it up and toss it into the garbage can.
Yeah, that’s what I call freedom.
Which is why it sucked having to leave that awesome setup. Sucked, too, having my first real tour of the Quarter occur during a zombie apocalypse. I’m sure the neighborhood had looked and smelled a lot better before the zombies came. The ferals probably thought so, too. If they were even still alive.
But I digress…
So, anyway, after my dad suffered many mishaps and misadventures between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, he finally got me to my momma—courtesy of Dad’s insanely fortified step van that he seems ridiculously proud of.
Honestly, I was just as happy in the blue pickup, but I guess it wouldn’t have been easy for my parents to sleep, cook, and pee in. Heck, all I need is room for a litter box, my food and water bowls, and a comfy spot to nap, but they’re both much bigger than I am. So, I suppose they have more complicated needs.
Back to Momma. She had been kidnapped by her own mom. At least that’s what it looked like to me. But Dad claimed Momma had gone there on purpose, to convince that woman to come with us up north—which she eventually did.
Oh, joy.
That woman. Dumb as a stump. The first three times she visited us, she’d insisted on trying to pat me on my furry head, but I’d never let her get too close. I’d always give her a fair warning—steely eyes and a loud hiss—and she’d usually back her butt off. But by the fourth occasion, I’d pretty much had it. No hiss or warning, I just bit the broad on the hand.
Momma was shocked and apologetic, but I knew Dad was pleased and proud of me. Sometimes, I think he would’ve liked to bite her as well.
After that incident, she never tried to touch me again. Wish I’d thought to chomp her fingers the first time.
Oh, here I go digressing again… I’d apologize for wasting your time, but whatever, I’m a cat, and cats don’t typically apologize.
OK, so, we were all together again. Momma, Dad, and the dumb woman. We’d also picked up a couple of other humans on our trip. George was a lady. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: what a weird name for a dame. But, hey, I don’t care, I’m progressive. Anyway, she had a teenage son named Casey. He was young but smart enough to keep his hands off me.
The plan was to escape the zombies and head up north. Specifically, to Big Bear Lake in northern Michigan.
I like it up north. The house has a lot of space to run around in, and there are tons of cool things to see through the windows. I get to watch deer, foxes, rabbits, even crazy porcupines. They’re weird-looking, but at least they don’t have to bite people to tell ’em to stay away. And lastly, there are the ballsy chipmunks, who try to tease me by dashing across the outer windowsills. I always laugh when they accidentally fall off.
Yep, it’s probably my favorite place in the whole, wide world.
Oops. More bloviating.
OK, back to how I’m an amazing zombie-slaying cat. I’ll just add one more tidbit of info: My momma loves me a lot, and I love her right back, but while we have a few similarities—like, when it comes to eating, we both tend to graze all day, and we can both be obsessive-compulsive at times (me, with my grooming, and Momma, with her, well, everything), I definitely take after my dad. We both snore (course, he’s much louder than I am), we both distrust everyone but my momma, and we both kick ass at killing zombies.
Don’t believe me? Just keep reading.
Chapter
2
“Jesus, Jill,” Dad said, “please shut the hell up.”
There was a slight pause, as if Dad had glanced at Momma, expecting her to flash him a disapproving look. It had happened many times before.
But this time, I heard my momma say, “Mom, please stop making things worse.” Even she was getting sick of the dumb woman.
What the heck’s going on?
We had stopped for a break in some place Dad called Homochitto National Forest, so I’d decided to take a nap in one of the few zombie-goo-free spaces in the van. But who could sleep through all the racket?
Slowly, I poked my head up so I could see out the passenger-side window. I watched as some chubby dude in a goofy hat and uniform glared at my parents.
“Ranger Roberts,” Dad said, focusing on the pistol in the guy’s hand, “I swear we aren’t lying to you. The virus that spread around the country—actually, around the world—is bringing people back as zombies. Millions, maybe even billions of people have been killed. That’s why we’re fleeing the cities, heading north.”
“That’s it!” the weirdo shouted. “All y’all, move slowly to my car.”
I knew it wasn’t a good situation, particularly when the grumpy “ranger” guy forced my dad into the back of an SUV with Momma, George, and the dumb woman. Then, the dude slammed the back door, confiscated all my dad’s guns, and slipped into the driver’s seat. I could see a long gate between my parents and their kidnapper. Kind of reminded me of my carrier.
I heard the engine rumble, and I saw my parents exchange fretful, frustrated looks. Way past alarmed now, I unleashed a loud yowl and begged them not to leave me. But they either didn’t hear me or didn’t understand me cuz, a few seconds later, they were gone.
Well, crap, what am I supposed to do now?
I gazed around at the tall pine trees, wondering how I might track down my family. After a few confusing seconds, I hopped down from the passenger seat and noticed that the rear doors of the van were wide open.
Weird. Dad usually doesn’t leave ’em open like that.
Maybe he wanted me to be able to stretch my legs while he and Momma were gone. So, with a shrug, I saunte
red toward the back and poked my head outside.
It was a cool, moonlit night in early November. Might’ve been pleasant if I hadn’t been abandoned and all.
I scanned the forest, but all seemed quiet. No birds, no rodents, and no zombies. I could hear some odd sounds in the distance, but nothing nearby.
Satisfied that the coast was clear, I jumped out of the van, leapt over a stinky puddle of zombie goo, and landed on a patch of grass.
OK, full disclosure: That was the first time I’d ever felt grass. The ferals had often described it to me, bragging that it was the most amazing feeling to walk across a freshly mowed lawn. Often, they’d stop to roll around and scratch their backs on the blades. But I never much cared: Back then, I wouldn’t have traded my cushy setup for all the grass—or tuna—in the world.
I cannot fib, though. That stuff felt pretty damn good on my pads. So, I took a moment to lie down, stretch myself out, and roll back and forth. Yep, the ferals were right: Grass was as amazing as they’d claimed.
Course, they’d never gotten to experience the warmth of burying themselves under their parents’ down comforter. And frankly, that’s as close to heaven as I ever want to get.
Anyway, the cool grass felt good against my fur, but after a minute or two, I was over it. I hopped back on my feet and looked around. Nothing but me, the van, George’s station wagon, and the trees.
I let out a few ear-shattering howls to verify that I was alone. My voice was so mighty that it blew the kid, Casey, out of a nearby pine tree. He’d come in the station wagon with his mom, and he must’ve snuck up the tree to avoid being taken by the stupid ranger.
The boy smacked into the ground about ten feet away. I was thrilled to spy a friendly face… until I realized he wasn’t stirring. My powerful caterwauling had actually knocked Casey out cold. I’d have to be careful about using such a weapon in the future.
Upon further investigation, I could tell the boy was breathing. Unconscious but definitely breathing. I licked his face to rouse him, but he was apparently down for the count. It bummed me out that he couldn’t help me with my search, but still, I sighed with relief: I didn’t want anyone to blame me for the smaller human dying.
So, figuring Casey would be asleep for a while, I decided to venture elsewhere to look for my parents. I started walking in the direction of the car tracks, hoping I could sniff out the stupid ranger.
“Ouch,” I howled.
What crazy torture device is this?
Glancing downward, I discovered I was no longer strolling on grass. I’d obviously walked onto something that resembled my kitty litter, but each piece was way bigger, sharper, and more painful. I think I’d heard my Dad refer to it as “gravel.”
Well, whatever it was called, I couldn’t comprehend what sort of idiot would lay this stuff out. Maybe it made the car wheels go faster through the forest. But I didn’t care about that. The damn gravel hurt my toes.
I quickened my pace to get off the torture litter and found myself on more grass. A little taller and more ticklish than the other stuff, but at least it didn’t drive my pads crazy. With happier feet, I followed a nearby trail for a while until the faraway noises loudened. Sounded like running bath water.
Incidentally, my parents tried to give me a bath… just once. Yeah, they learned their lesson pretty damn quick—and still have the scars to prove it. You gotta teach ’em young, you know.
As it turned out, I hadn’t heard a running bath at all. I’d heard a river. The ferals in New Orleans used to tell me about one in particular. They kept calling it “Ol’ Man River” or the “Big Muddy.” Maybe I’d stumbled onto that one. Course, I doubted it. We were quite far from home, and there were probably lots of rivers in the world. Besides, this one seemed a great deal smaller than the one the ferals had described.
I trekked along the rushing waterway, still searching for some sign of life. A couple of minutes had passed—or at least, it seemed like a short time to my feline brain—when I heard some blubbering coming from behind a giant pine tree. Curious, I carefully inched toward the trunk, peeked around the side, and noticed a human girl curled up against the base, crying her wee eyes out. Although I’ve never been terribly great at guessing ages, weights, or even distances (just like my beloved momma), I figured she couldn’t have been more than five or six.
“What’s wrong, little human child,” I meowed.
I was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to speak “cat,” but you never know. It had taken my parents months—if not years—to learn even the basics, and they still misunderstood me all the time, so the odds that the small blubbering girl would comprehend me were fairly slim.
Hopefully, she wasn’t deaf. Even if she couldn’t understand me, I assumed she could hear me. But she didn’t budge.
So, I meowed again.
This time, she pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned against the tree. Tears continued to streak down her little face, and she was hyperventilating, almost as if she was about to hack up a hairball.
Finally, her breathing slowed, and she looked over at me.
“Oh, hello, kitty,” the young girl said.
Chapter
3
For a moment, we simply stared at each other. About three feet of needle-covered earth lay between us. Despite her ever-flowing tears, she smiled warmly at me. So, I decided to close the gap separating us. Cautiously, though. I’ve always been wary of the young ones. They tend to be grabby.
The little girl continued to cry, but it seemed as if she’d changed her mind about the hairball. Maybe she was saving it for later. Good thing, too. Momma wasn’t around to clean it up.
“What’s your name?” she asked, eyeing the tag hanging from my collar. “Mine’s Penny.”
“Azazel,” I meowed, knowing my tag just had a weird ID number on it—for some find-a-pet website that no longer existed. “Azazel,” I meowed once more, just for emphasis.
Course, what’s the point? You probably can’t understand me.
As I suspected, she didn’t comprehend me at all.
“I think I’ll call you Pinky,” Penny said, still sniffling through her tears. “Pink is my favorite color.”
Yep, clearly no experience with cat lingo.
“Kid, do you see a speck of pink on me?” I yowled. “Besides my tongue, I mean.” I glanced down at my fur. “I’m gray, brown, black, white, but not…”
Purrrrrrr.
While I gave her a piece of my mind, Penny had gingerly reached over and started scratching my chin, just like my parents do. It’s only my favorite spot to be touched.
“OK, fine,” I chirped. “You can call me Pinky.”
As she stroked my chin, her tears dried up, and she stopped shaking. I have that effect on people.
“How did you get out here?” Penny asked.
“I’m just passing through,” I meowed. “With my parents.”
“You don’t look like a wild cat. Betcha have parents.” She frowned. “Betcha they miss you a lot.”
She’d reclaimed her hand, but my chin still tingled where she’d stroked it.
She sighed. “I lost my parents, too.”
I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t lost my parents. They’d been taken from me by some random dude who clearly didn’t believe their zombie tale but wanted all their weapons anyway.
“They’re coming back,” I meowed. “I’m not alone. I even have the crazy kid from the tree waiting for me. They’re all coming back.”
But she just stared at me, a puzzled look on her face.
We were getting nowhere fast.
Stop panicking. First things first… where are Penny’s parents?
She claimed to have misplaced them. But where? And how long ago? Were they looking for her, or were they already zombies?
Crap, I don’t know what to do. Wish Dad and Momma were here to help.
As I sat there beside Penny, wondering if she’d be better off with or without her folks, I suddenly hear
d voices above the rushing water. Too far away to make out their exact words, but I didn’t think they belonged to zombies. More likely, living humans. Either Penny’s parents or mine.
Perhaps my dad had overtaken the chubby ranger. Or maybe my momma’s mom had finally turned into a zombie—and distracted the kidnapper by munching on him. I’d overheard my parents talking about that infected scratch of hers. It was just a matter of time.
But regardless, we needed to track down the voices—and find out who they belonged to. Just in case.
“Follow me, Penny,” I meowed, then tried leading her away from the tree and back onto the moonlit path.
When I heard no footsteps behind me, I turned around. Penny was still sitting on the ground, peering around the trunk.
“I said… follow me.” Then I nodded toward the path beside the river.
Humans can be so dense.
She squinted, as if trying to decipher my language. When I gestured at the ground again, she must’ve finally grasped my meaning cuz she stood up, brushed off her dirty pink dress, and fell in line behind me as I headed off toward the voices.
Chapter
4
Together, Penny and I strolled down the trail alongside the river. As we walked, I kept a watchful eye on our surroundings.
Although the water beside us was rather loud, I could still make out the faint sounds of voices in the distance. I wasn’t sure if Penny could hear them, too, but she followed me nonetheless. Probably cuz she didn’t know what else to do.
You know, us cats get a raw deal when it comes to our senses. We can see, hear, and even smell just as well as any stupid dog can—sometimes, even better. Most humans think otherwise, but they’re dead wrong.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 69
