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.