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.

I crashed right after. Eat. Sleep. Sleep. Eat. Even in my dreams, everything smelled like food.

Didn't last.

At dawn, frantic scratching ripped me awake.

I opened the door.

Bubba and Missy were sitting there.

Bubba had a fish in his mouth. Missy pinned a bird under her paw.

They didn't move, staring up at me with those watery eyes. Quiet. Waiting.

The second they saw me, they pushed their catch into my hands.

The wall I'd built overnight cracked.

But I remembered those starving days and forced it down.

"No. I can't afford you. Don't come back."

I shut the door. Everything went quiet.

Then I stood on my toes and peeked through the peephole like a total creep, tears streaming.

Day one—they chose not to eat.

Day two—still starving.

Day three—same.

They got thinner every day. I played cold. Inside, it burned.

A week later, Bubba couldn't hold it anymore. He threw up bile right in front of me.

That broke me.

I yanked the door open.

"Get in."

I gave in.

Guess I was born to be a cat dad.

After that, I worked even harder just to keep us fed.

Three part-time jobs. Sixteen-hour days. No breaks.

Word got around to my old classmates that I'd lost it. Said I had some disease where I couldn't live without cats.

Didn't care. My only job was protecting my two babies.

Eventually, I got used to the grind.

Right when I started feeling proud of myself, Missy got pregnant.

She gave birth to a snow-white little fluffball.

Yeah.

A full-on chaos gremlin had entered the world.

***

I'd never seen a cat that white. Though named him snowy. Snow would look dirty next to him.

Snowy opened his eyes on day one. Walked on day two.

Day three? He opened the door himself, ripped open the milk delivery box, and drained every carton in the building.

Bubba and Missy were fine with raw meat.

Snowy? Not even close. He only ate live prey.

He wiped out the hamsters that had overrun the complex. He dove into the lake and yanked fish straight off people's hooks. Left them staring at bare lines. Even the neighbor's pet rabbit wasn't safe.

I went from scooping litter to full-time damage control.

All day, I hustled for cash and apologized, trailing Snowy and cleaning up whatever he wrecked.

At twenty-three, fresh out of college, I'd been all ambition. I was gonna be somebody.

Two years later? Bottom of the food chain. I felt like apologizing to the sewer rats.

Still, the four of us stuck together. Survived every crappy day side by side.

And now the apocalypse was coming.

Zombies. Strong. Fast. Everywhere.

One snap of their jaws and you were done.

Sure, my cats could take down chickens, ducks, mice, rabbits. Feed them wolves, whatever. Didn't matter. They couldn't shield me from zombies.

The clock kept ticking.

Less than twenty-three hours left.

I couldn't send my cats to their deaths.

But with my bank account? No way I could buy some loyal, powerhouse pet. And taming wild beasts? Not happening.

So what—just sit around and wait to die?

I went back and forth until my jaw hurt. Fine.

If I prepped enough and stayed off the front lines, I'd survive.

As long as I had food, I could hole up in this crappy rental. The longer I lasted, the better. Every extra day was a win.

Once I decided, I didn't stall. I jumped into the supply rush.

With the apocalypse looming, order flatlined. Everyone was hunting for powerhouse pets.

I used the chaos, slipped into the supermarket warehouse, hauling out hundreds of pounds of staples—oil, grains, canned goods—trip by trip.

Instant meals. Self-heating ready-to-eat packs. Dry noodles. I wiped the shelves clean.

I ran my beat-up car back and forth until half my apartment was stacked with bottled water alone.

Through all that noise, the three cats never woke up. Lately, they'd been sleeping more and more.

My one-bedroom was crammed with supplies. I was drenched, legs shaking, ready to drop.

Didn't matter. No time to crash.

I hit the hardware store, bought steel plates, and reinforced every door and window. When the zombies showed up, I'd at least buy myself a little time.

When I finally finished, I sank to the floor, eyes half-shut.

The lock clicked.

My landlord, Alan, stormed in with a crew behind him.

"Leave the stuff. Get out. I'm not renting to you anymore."

***

My heart slammed. I glared at him. "On what grounds?"

Alan swaggered, twirling the stick in his hand. "Because it's my apartment. I do whatever I want."

His guys slammed me to the floor. I couldn't move.

I watched them haul out my supplies. Then I watched them set up a custom fish tank in my living room.

No clue how Alan pulled it off, but he'd gotten crocodiles.

Wires cinched their jaws shut. Their exposed teeth still gleamed—cold, sharp.

Alan admired them, then scooped up sleeping Snowy.

He grabbed him by the tail and swung him around, laughing. "You're not actually counting on this thing to protect you, right? There's barely any meat on it. Wouldn't even fill my crocs' teeth."

Snowy, usually feral, hung limp—dead asleep.

Bubba and Missy didn't react either. Heads down. Out cold.

Still talking, Alan moved to toss Snowy into the tank.

"Don't!" I shouted. "I'll leave. Just don't hurt them."

Only then did he fling Snowy back at me. "Smart. Get the hell out. Come back and I'll feed you to the crocs too."

One hour until the apocalypse. My fully stocked home? Gone. I was out on the street with my three cats.

This time, I was done.

One in my arms. Two on my back. I kept my head down, trying to disappear.

I turned the corner—and walked straight into Dylan, my former friend, and Bella.

Arm in arm. Three Caucasian Shepherds at their side.

Dylan smirked. "Well, if it isn't Jaime. Still can't quit your three feline bosses, huh?"

I barely heard him. I was staring at their hands.

"We broke up a few hours ago. You're already with him?"

Bella dropped the mask. "You really think I'd date a skinny, broke loser?

"Dylan and I have been together for a while.

"We were gonna use you to raise strong pets. Then shove you to the zombies. Nine guardians for us.

"But you're too stupid. Clinging to those deadweight cats."

Dylan grinned, patting her head. "Babe, why waste breath? We've got Shepherds and a lion. Zombies or not, he's dead. Let's give our boys a snack."

I backed up, shaking.

Was I really about to get ripped apart before the zombies even showed? Their teeth were huge. This was gonna hurt.

The dogs lunged like they got the memo. Barking. Charging.

Dylan clapped. "That's it! Tear him up!"

Jaws wide. The stink of blood hit me. My legs locked. Nowhere to run.

I shut my eyes.

That's when the cats woke up.