The house was secure. The front and rear doors were barricaded inside and out. Plywood covered the windows inside. I was stacking up the remaining materials near the rear door when I heard the sound of a plastic flap hitting a threshold.

We had forgotten to secure the garage entry. Which meant the pet door was open.

I whispered to my wife to get the children to the basement saferoom as I reached for the shotgun stored above the doorframe. I turned, expecting to see a zombie trying to force itself through the pet door. Instead, it was Rex, our cat, nearly unrecognizable as he stood before the door. He had ran out the front door a few days before the zombie attacks began and now, I guess, he had somehow managed to find his way home.

Rex turned his glazed eyes to look towards me, and gave the most awful meowing sound as he slowly limped his way towards me. And I knew the kitten I had raised was gone.

I felt a tear fall in memory of better times as I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and pulled the trigger.

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