Stories Of Horror

Dinner Time

"Dinner Time"

You might think I'm an idiot for bringing my cat with me. The dead were rising from their graves and wanted human flesh for dinner, and the living abandoned our towns in search of safety, taking only what we could carry.

The thing is, though, I love Mr Fluff. I raised him from a tiny, scruffy kitten. As it turned out, the Squishies (that's what I call them) don't even care about Mr Fluff. I guess cats don't taste as good as humans. My husband could tease me, calling me "Ripley." He died about a month ago, when the Squishies attacked our camp in the night, I couldn't save him...

Now Mr Fluff and I were hulled up in an old farmhouse. The squishies caught my scent a few miles back. They've surrounded the place, banging endlessly on the walls. We've been trapped here for days, and I'm getting pretty hungry.

The squishies will break through the door in a few days, I estimate. I might be able to fight them off, if we haven't starved to death first. Maybe. Mr Fluff keeps meowing and looking at me and I keep petting him and saying "it's alright."

I don't want to do it, but I know I must.

I go for a gutshot the first round, revealing the tender innards. Judy, soft, easy to eat. I mean to end it with a head shot the next round but the gun jams. Just my luck.

I lie back, forcing the mind above the pain. Blood pools around me, warm and thick. In a choked voice I call to Mr Fluff. "Here kitty, good kitty. Dinner time."