Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Simpson, A. (pride and prejudice read txt) 📖

through the cabinets. He found what he was looking for in the narrow broom closet and pulled out a brand new, unopened, forty-pound bag of Meow Mix.

“Here you go kitty, look what I found. Today’s your lucky…”

He stopped mid-sentence when he turned to pour it out on the floor and saw more cats were staring at him. They were slinking up the basement stairs and forming a semi-circle, all sitting with their tails curled, just watching him. He started to slowly tear the bag open as he looked at them. It was a little eerie, so many giant, silent cats. He stopped counting at fourteen, and more were coming. Stacking up in rows. Sitting and staring at him, some licking a paw, some motionless. Some little ones were joining in and they hissed at him, probably had never seen a human before. At least not a live one. Jessie plucked at the string to get the bag open and finally got it to pull free. He hadn’t found any snack food for himself, but he thought he’d just let it go. He’d come across a gas station soon and these cats were creeping him out. One of the bigger ones came over and started rubbing against his leg, as cats do. Jessie was pouring the kibble out on the kitchen floor, trying not to stumble from the weight of the heavy cat pushing against his legs and purring loudly. He finished dumping out the bag and reached down to stroke the purring cat. Its purr became a hiss and half-inch long, needle sharp fangs sank deep into his hand. Jessie jerked back instantly, ripping a chunk of flesh from the fat part of his thumb and the cat sprang for him. Thirty other cats did the same, spitting and hissing, going for blood and tasty, fresh human flesh. He threw his hands up to protect his face and ran for the door, kicking cats and stumbling, nearly falling to his knees. He slammed against the door, crushing cats with his shoulder as they hung off of him, sinking claws into leather. They were a pack of squalling and snarling wild animals, their blood frenzy high as they made their kill. They ignored the food on the floor. They were interested in warm, fresh meat, not dried out bits of chicken byproduct and bone meal. Jessie grabbed at them and slung them, but he was covered in cats, all of them trying to reach the blood coursing through his veins. He stumbled on the stairs when a fifteen-pound fur ball darted between his feet and he fell down the three steps to the ground. They were on him, scratching and clawing at his hair, raking furrows in his scalp, and opening up a fresh slash across his forehead. The bandanna around his neck was the only thing preventing them from ripping into his jugular. Jessie roared in anger now and started rolling on the ground, trying to crush them. He drove elbows into writhing bodies and pulled them from his head to smash against the sidewalk. The snarling, screaming banshee shrieks of the cats were only silenced when they sank teeth into his flesh and tried to rip chunks free. He felt it when Bob slammed into him, breaking backs with his snapping jaws. He grabbed them and bit down hard, ragging them side to side before slinging them off and going after another. He was growling deep in his throat, but within seconds he was no longer trying to pull the cats off his master, he was fighting for his own life as they started tearing into him. These cats didn’t run from him like every other one he’d ever had the pleasure to chase. These fought back. These attacked him like he was the prey. Bob snarled and growled and barked and bit. Jessie punched and kicked and snapped necks with bloody hands, both of them taking damage, but dishing it out with interest. It was over in minutes as the Shepherd chased the last cat fighting to the top of the utility shed. It sat on the roof hissing at the barking dog, its muzzle wet and red with blood. Jessie pulled out his gun and shot it, sending it tumbling off the other side. There were seven or eight dead cats around him, the rest had run back inside and were hissing from the doorway. They still had some fight in them, but they scattered inside when Jessie aimed and shot in their direction.

“Sumbitch. I was trying to be nice to them,” Jessie told Bob as he wiped blood from his eyes. He was lucky, he supposed. If it had been summer and he wasn’t wearing leather, they might have gotten the best of him. They might be having a tasty little snack right now. One of the cats at his feet was hobbling away and Bob went after it. Jessie didn’t try to stop him as he bit down and started shaking it, breaking bones and crushing organs. Its squall of pain didn’t last long. He was breathing hard and missing small pieces of his hands where they’d torn chunks free. He must have had a dozen deep furrows in his head from their claws, but at least they didn’t get his face or his eyes. Maybe he needed to find a museum and get a suit of armor, he thought as he whistled for Bob and made his way back to the car. He grabbed one of the cans of gas and walked around the house, splashing it on the walls. He blocked the pet door with the barbecue grill and splashed extra fuel on it. When he finished, he tossed a match on the trail he’d poured down the driveway, then sat on the hood of the Merc and watched it burn. He daubed his numerous cuts and scratches with hydrogen peroxide, doctored the scrapes on Bob’s snout, and waited for the cats to