Turns Out Cats Are Endgame

When the zombie apocalypse hit, pets leveled up into guardians. Three per person. That was the cap.

My buddy dropped serious cash on three Caucasian Shepherds. My landlord dumped his fish and started raising crocodiles. My girlfriend bolted to the zoo and came back with a lion.

Me? I had three strays. Bubba—blind. Missy—lame. Snowy—barely a month old.

The second the system locked pet slots, I knew I was screwed.

I barricaded myself inside with my three "broken" cats and kept my head down.

Day one—fear.

Day two—helpless.

Day three—the cats strolled back in, tails up, dragging something I didn't recognize.

Bubba looked at me. "Dad, I bit off every zombie head on the block. I'm solid, right?"

I just stared.

[24-hour countdown to the apocalypse. Pets will transform into guardians. Three per person.]

The second the notification dropped, the world lost its mind.

Spoiled pets got dumped on the street overnight. Dogs people used to cross the road to avoid? Suddenly sold out.

My girlfriend showed up the minute she heard.

She shoved my three sleeping cats into a carrier, yanked the window open, ready to toss them.

I jumped in front of her. "Bella, what are you doing? I raised them."

She snapped. "Did you not hear it? Twenty-four hours. You're betting your life on a blind cat and a lame one?"

I blocked the window. Didn't move.

When that didn't work, she switched it up. "Jaime, be smart. Kill these pieces of trash. That's six slots between us. We load up on real beasts. We'll be safe."

"No." I held her stare. "Who says they can't protect me? Bubba isn't lame. Missy isn't blind. They're good cats. Touch them and we're done."

She looked at me like I'd lost it.

She slammed the carrier down. "They're not blind. I am. For dating you."

Her voice went ice-cold. "We're done. When the world ends, don't come crawling."

The door slammed.

I let the cats out fast and finally breathed.

Not the first time I'd been called names. Since graduation, people liked to call me "saint."

All because I'm a legit cat dad.

After college, I rented this place and picked up two strays on a rainy night. One male. One female.

The bigger one was Bubba. The smaller one, Missy. I raised them like my own kids.

Nobody cared that I had strays. They cared about how much they ate.

Bubba and Missy wouldn't touch fifty-dollar kibble. Not the hundred-dollar stuff either.

Canned food? Fancy treats other cats went crazy for? Nope.

Fresh meat only. Three-pound chickens—four, five a day.

Then they'd get bored of chicken. Switch to pork. Then beef.

If I didn't buy it, they'd sneak downstairs and steal from the butcher.

So yeah. I became the "dad" cleaning up after his "kids."

Debt piled up. My already sad wallet got wiped every month just feeding them.

And me? Corporate mule. Overtime nonstop. Head spinning from not eating. I passed out at my desk more than once.

The grandmas in the complex felt bad and tried to talk sense into me.

"They can hunt. Let them go. You're young. You can't keep starving yourself like this."

Lying there with an empty stomach and an IV dripping over me, I figured they weren't wrong.

So one dark, windy night... I opened the door and let them out.

***

To be honest, the day I sent Bubba and Missy away was the fullest I'd eaten in forever.

Barbecue. Fried chicken. Beer. Milk tea. Cake. Ice cream.

I ordered everything I usually couldn't afford and stuffed myself until I had to brace against the wall just to walk.