As we walked down the stairs into what had become a fetid pit, a cat greeted us. When I say ‘greeted’, that is a relative term. Actually, it hissed loudly at me and then growled deeply, with real menace. I was definitely not welcome down there as far as it was concerned. Apparently, it could tell the difference between me and the other residents. It liked them. It didn’t like me. How curious. As I tried to ease my way down the stairs, passing the small, hissing fury, its eyes suddenly widened to the size of saucers and its ears flattened back onto its head. It repeated its hiss of warning. “Fuck off, puss!” I said, in a friendly tone. Apparently, it didn’t like bad language because, with that, it reared up on its hind legs and made a standing vertical leap for my face. I weaved backwards and, in any event, it didn’t quite reach the height of my face but, as it dropped back to the ground, it caught its claws in my thigh and clung there. Naturally, it also sank its teeth into my flesh as hard as it could and, muffled by its mouthful, growled menacingly. There was pain, considerable pain. One or two of the assembled zombies made noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter. (Do zombies have a sense of humour? If so, I didn’t think much of it.) I grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and peeled it off my leg – there was an audible sound of my skin tearing, ever so slightly, beneath my jeans. I held the cat before my eyes – it was still growling and spitting but temporarily immobilised by the same ‘hold’ that its mother had once used on it when it was a kitten. I shaped to hurl the little monster far away from me – but, as I did so, I noticed the zombies, as one, abruptly stared at me. So, I stopped mid-throw. Did these zombies really care what I did with an apparently feral – and certainly out of control – cat?
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