David stepped towards me and gently lifted the cat from my grip. The cat instantly calmed down. The fucking thing started purring as he held it! Another of the zombies came forward and seemingly begged David to pass it over. “Gween”? Was this a word? Was this the cat’s name? Can’t say – I never did hear a zombie, any zombie, utter another syllable – at that time. I was having trouble getting my head around the situation: I was in a fetid den with a bunch of zombies – many of whom had, no doubt, recently slaughtered and eaten their fellow students – and now they were fussing over this rotten cat just like so many old women! The Catholic church almost exterminated the domestic cat in Europe during the Middle Ages – on the basis that it was the servant of the Devil or some such. What a load of superstitious nonsense, eh? Eh? Despite the coolness of our welcome, David seemed intent on spending the night among his fellows – and amid the rank, decaying filth that lay all about. “Nice little place you got here, Fellas,” I said. “I like the way you’ve decorated it.” No response. Zombies apparently have no sense of irony. But I knew I would be safe there – and nowhere else but where David was. So, I stayed. But I didn’t actually get any sleep. You might think I was nervous about one of my co-residents suddenly requiring a midnight snack. But no! I was now quite certain that David’s presence protected me absolutely from zombie attack. What kept me awake was that friggin’ tortoiseshell cat. It parked itself in the opposite corner of the room and kept me under constant observation. I could see its wide green eyes glowing in the dark. Whenever I chanced to close my own eyes, it was on the move, creeping ever closer to me. When I opened them again, it retreated. “This is ridiculous,” I thought. “It’s just a little pussy cat. You need some sleep, Pete.”
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