Chapter 1My Guardians are Three Disabled Cats

When the zombie apocalypse hit, pets turned into guardians. The system allowed three per person.

My best friend spent a fortune on three Tibetan Mastiffs. My landlord cleared out his fish tank for a trio of alligators. My boyfriend stormed the city zoo and came back with a lion.

And me? I had three stray cats. The oldest was blind, the middle one had a limp, and the youngest was barely a month old.

The moment the System locked in our pet registrations, I knew.

I was screwed.

My whole plan was to hide with my three disabled cats and just… survive. Quietly.

Day one of the apocalypse: Terror.

Day two: Helplessness.

Day three: My sons padded up to me, their big tails swishing, and dropped something unidentifiable at my feet.

“Mom,” the oldest one said, his voice a low rumble in my head. “I bit the heads off every zombie on the block.”

He nudged the grisly trophy with his nose.

“So. How’s this for playing it safe?”

* * *

【Apocalypse countdown: 24 hours. Your pets will become your guardians. Each individual is limited to three.】

The moment the System’s announcement echoed in everyone’s mind, the world imploded.

Pampered toy poodles and fluffy house cats were dumped on the streets. Vicious, aggressive dogs that people used to cross the street to avoid were suddenly the subject of frantic bidding wars.

My boyfriend, Mark, heard the news and raced to my apartment.

Without a word, he scooped up my three sleeping cats, bundled them into their carrier, and headed for the window, intending to toss them out like a bag of trash.

I moved faster than I ever had in my life, planting myself in front of him. “Mark, what the hell are you doing? I raised them!”

He exploded. “Did you not hear the announcement? The world ends in twenty-four hours, Anna! You really think a blind cat and a cripple are going to protect you?”

I stood my ground, a human shield in front of the window. Seeing that force wasn't working, Mark softened his voice, turning on that infuriatingly fake charm.

“Anna, baby, just listen to me. Be reasonable. We get rid of these… liabilities, and we’ll have six slots between us. We can get some serious protection. We’ll be untouchable.”

I wasn’t moving. I puffed out my chest, a bluff I didn’t feel. “Who says they can’t protect me? Leo isn’t crippled, and Luna isn’t blind. They’re good cats.” It was a stupid, pointless lie. Leo’s left hind leg had always been stiff, and Luna’s eyes were milky, sightless orbs. “You touch them today, and we are over. I mean it.”

Mark stared at me like I’d just been committed to an asylum.

He slammed the carrier onto the floor, and the raw anger finally broke through. “They’re not blind, Anna? No, I’m the one who’s been blind! What was I thinking, dating a stupid, bleeding-heart case like you?”

He stormed toward the door. “We’re done. And when the world goes to hell tomorrow, don’t you dare come crawling to me.”

The door slammed shut, the sound rattling the cheap pictures on my walls. Only after he was gone did I rush to the carrier, letting my cats out, my hands shaking as I stroked their fur.

It wasn't the first time I'd heard that kind of vitriol. Ever since I graduated college, the label "bleeding heart" had stuck to me like glue.

And it was all because I was, to the bone, a cat person.

After college, I got my own place, a tiny one-bedroom I could barely afford. To finally fulfill a childhood dream, I took in two strays I found shivering in a dumpster during a thunderstorm. A male and a female. I named the big one Leo and the smaller one Luna, and I loved them like they were my own kids.

To most people, having a couple of rescue cats isn't strange. The strange part was their appetite.

They wouldn't touch the cheap kibble from Walmart. They turned their noses up at the hundred-dollar-a-bag, grain-free stuff from PetCo. They ignored cans of tuna and fancy catnip treats.

They only ate fresh meat. Raw. Three-pound chickens? They could tear through four or five a day. When they got tired of chicken, it was pork. Then steak.

If I didn’t buy it for them, they’d slip out the window and steal it from the butcher shop down the street.

From that day on, my life became a frantic cycle of cleaning up their messes. I was drowning in credit card debt, my already pathetic paycheck vanishing into their food budget. I was the quintessential millennial cliché: working overtime at a soul-crushing job, subsisting on ramen and caffeine, and trying to ignore the constant, gnawing hunger. I fainted at my desk more than once from malnutrition.

The older women in my apartment building would see my gaunt face and pull me aside, their voices thick with pity.

“Honey, if those cats can find their own food, maybe you should just let them go.”

“You’re so young, Anna. You can’t ruin your health like this. You’ll end up with permanent problems.”

Lying in bed one night, my stomach aching with hunger, I decided they were right.

So, under the cover of a moonless night, I drove them to a park across town and “set them free.”