Gene woke up. A ghostly wind haunted the empty shelves. The air was thick with the scent of old dust and dry rot. A dripping sound filled the empty shop with its echoes. Good—nobody would be able to sneak up on him.

  Day four of being hungry. Gene stood up without groaning, the pain in his stomach held at bay. This would only get worse. The light hurt his eyes. He licked the condensation from the windows. He smiled, remembering he was taught that trick by a gentle survivor—then killed her for her food.

  Outside, there was only the wind. No footsteps. No voices.

  Doors stood open. Cars sat where they had been left. The blinding sun beat down on the cracked, heat-scored asphalt, making the shadows razor-sharp and scarce. Bodies lay in the street, old enough that Gene did not slow for them.

  He went from door to door. Drawer to cupboard.

  Almost nothing.

  ***

  Gene stopped halfway down the stairs of another empty house. Between breaths, he listened with eyes closed. His mouth fell open.

  “Bark!”

  He closed his mouth again. Was that an animal?

  “Bark!”

  His bag slipped from his fingers. An animal.

  His stomach bubbled. Food.

  Gene rose onto his toes and leaned toward the doorway. Another bark. It was close, not dulled from distance.

  Hiding behind cars, doorways, trash cans. With every step, the sound grew louder.

  A cat, relaxed and sunbathing in the middle of the road.

  Something prickled at the back of his skull. A cat doesn’t bark.

  Gene didn’t care if the cat barked. Meat is meat.

  Bark! This one flattened by distance.

  Ah, what a lucky streak. A dog and a cat. His mouth filled with saliva.

  He sat down behind an abandoned car, eyes fixed on the cat. Possibilities stacked up. A lure was the best way of catching a cat. Cats were quick; chasing it would be the end of him.

  Gene clenched his fist and held it out.

  “Fishy snacks,” Gene said with a light voice.

  The cat came closer, step by step, sniffing to find out what was in Gene’s hand.

  Four or five steps left. Gene lunged, threw himself on the cat.

  It jumped back and clawed his hand, hissing, then backing off further. The sharp rake of its nails left a stinging track, its body a fleeting rush of unexpected strength and fur against his rough skin.

  “No, kitty,” Gene slapped his hand to his thigh. The pain was sharp, the blood thick.

  He took another step forward. The cat walked away.

  ***

  Gene followed the cat, all his muscles tightened. It would be food for a week. His thoughts drifted.

  A campfire. Feline meat roasting. He smelled it, charcoal mixed with fat, ripe meat. His mouth filled with saliva at the memory.

  The cat looked back at Gene every few steps. A shiver went through Gene. Wait. Something’s wrong.

  He stopped following the cat and looked around. Was this too easy? Gene stared but spotted no movement in the street.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Gene shook his head, pushed the thought away. If there were people, the cat would be gone. Still, he felt unease. He smelled something strange all of a sudden. Stale blood.

  The cat went into an alley. Gene stood there, frozen. No way out. Too many corners. A dead end. The air here was immediately cooler and damp, carrying the metallic, coppery smell of stale blood that clung to the brick.

  He waited at the alley entrance. Stared into the street.

  After a minute or so, he saw movement. The adrenaline shot past his hunger. His vision tunneled toward the movement.

  A bark. He relaxed. Just the dog. A large dog. Slower, but stronger. Sharp teeth.

  First the cat, to regain some strength. Then the dog. He’d be fed for months. Gene laughed—the first laugh since he couldn’t remember when.

  He went into the alley. It was darker there. Gene moved slowly. Quietly, he kept low to the ground. Not letting the cat out of his sight.

  ***

  He saw the cat sitting on a container, its tail flicking. Its eyes locked on Gene. It licked its paw, rubbed it over its head. The ground in front of the container was stained—dark stains.

  He looked at the cat again. It watched his every move.

  Gene shifted his feet. His body was already making the turn.

  “Oink,” came from behind the container.

  “What the…?” Another “oink” came from behind the container.

  He pinched himself. Twice for good reason.

  A snout. Brown. Sniffing the air. A tongue came out, licking its lips. Gene stood, nailed to the ground.

  A pig?

  “Grrr.” A sound from behind him. His bladder clenched.

  Sneaking up on him from behind—the dog.

  Its teeth bared, drool dripping. The dog’s breathing was a loud, wet rasp that echoed off the high walls. The pig was huge. Its rough hide seemed to absorb the light. Were they always that muscular?

  Gene’s knees trembled. Was he tricked? By a cat, a pig, and a dog?

  Coincidence. It had to be.

  Dogs bite. Cats claw.

  Pigs—

  The dog pushed Gene closer to the middle of the bloodied area of the alley. The pig stepped from behind its cover. Gene’s breath stopped for a moment. One ear was missing. Its tail, only a stump. The eyes of the pig locked with his. Gene swallowed hard. Almost human. Even worse, there was a familiar look in its eyes—the one Gene saw in the people he robbed, the people whose loved ones he killed.

  “Oink.” The sound lingered. The pig stepped forward. The cat looked different now.

  Shiny fur. A full belly.

  ***

  His knife came into his mind.

  “Hah,” he straightened.

  He drew the knife in one motion.

  The blade caught the light.

  “You see that?” he barked at them. “Pain.” He sliced the air.

  The animals didn’t flinch. The circle tightened. He shifted from foot to foot, eyes snapping between them. They kept looking at him, straight in the eyes, not seeming to blink. They kept coming.

  The dog was breathing heavily. His stomach twisted. The dog took a step forward, barking hard. Gene turned around fast, almost losing his balance. His knife cut the air.

  Gene noticed that he had nowhere to go. Normally, he’d bargain. The animals didn’t stop.

  “Shit,” Gene muttered. Cold sweat broke out across his pores.

  The cat jumped when Gene was looking at the pig. It touched his leg and jumped back.

  Gene turned toward the cat with his knife. Too quickly, it seemed. He fell to one knee on the ground, his knife still firmly in his hand.

  Hot breath blasted in his ear—wild and uncontrolled. He swiped the knife. When the knife swiped, so did the cat’s paw. A full claw with razor-sharp nails missed his neck by only a finger.

  Gene missed again. He put one hand on the ground, pushing himself up.

  The pig bull-rushed him. It slammed into Gene’s chest at full force. Pain exploded. A loud snap came from his chest. He swiveled the knife again. The pig squealed as Gene felt resistance. The pig was bleeding from the side of its head. Not a big cut. Not a lethal cut.

  He’d only made it worse.

  The dog bit Gene’s hand, the one holding the knife. Gene’s fingers locked tight.

  He closed his eyes for a second, still kneeling on the bloodied part of the alley.

  He opened them only to see the cat making another pass. He twisted toward the cat, but the dog still held his hand in its jaws.

  The cat clawed his neck, the blood running.

  Gene tasted his own blood in his mouth.

  “Oink oink.” The pig slammed its head into the side of his skull.

  Gene’s vision blurred.

  His consciousness wavered.

  Shame burned hotter than the pain.

  A howl tore through his ear. A tail brushed his cheek.

  Gene lay on the floor of the alley, bleeding from his neck. He felt the cold, slippery film of his own blood spread beneath his cheek. His heart beat for the last time.

  The dog howled again, joined by the cat’s meow and the pig’s oinks.

  ***

  Night came over a little town somewhere in the wasteland after the madness struck.

  In an abandoned bus, on a thick layer of straw, three bodies lay softly breathing under the night sky. A dog, a cat, and a pig huddled together for warmth. Bellies full. Satisfied.