The shack where Tinker was quarantined was built from corrugated metal sheets held together by mismatched bolts and a web of wiring. Old road signs, some faded and dented, served as makeshift panels. An old chain-link fence had been repurposed as ventilation on one side, while parts of a broken-down refrigerator formed the door.

Two orange cats stood sentinel by the door, their narrow eyes scanning the surroundings with hyper-alertness. As soon as they spotted Ziggy, their stiff postures relaxed, their sharp eyes softened and they greeted him with a nod. But when their eyes set on Lee and me, they were guarded, filled with suspicion.

They spoke to Ziggy in low, clipped tones, informing him that Tinker's condition had worsened. He was fading, and time, as always, was running out. The news had already begun to ripple through the borough. The once calm gardens of Little Eden, where the cats protected against vermin, lounged, and lived a free life in relative peace, had turned into a hive of anxiety. They were now fracturing in the face of uncertainty as fear took root in their hearts.

After a brief exchange with Ziggy, the guards gave Lee and me another once-over, still suspicious but ultimately stepping aside, granting us silent permission to enter. The second I crossed the threshold, a wave of nausea gripped me, and an icy shiver crept down my spine. An uneasy tension coiled within me, refusing to be shaken off. My breath caught in my chest.

At the far end of the room, tied to a long metal pole with rope and strings was Tinker, a gray-furred cat unusually large… nearly twice my size! He had a muzzle strapped tight over its mouth. As we stepped further in, his head jerked up, ears twitching, sensing our presence. He twisted, contorted in short, desperate movements against the restraints. A low growl rumbled from deep inside his chest–a sound both feral and heart-wrenching.

The eyes—those eyes—staring at us were dull, fogged with something half-dead. But if you looked closely, you could still catch a faint glimmer of blue, a fragment of who he once was. But also something else. A kind of tragic, terrible awareness. He was disappearing fast, his mind slipping away like a memory.

“My god,” Lee gasped under his breath. “What happened to him?”

“What’s inside him?” I asked, noticing movement in Tinker's chest. “Is it another blob creature? Like the one we saw in the rat.”

“Tinker patrolled at night,” began Ziggy. “We heard him shouting. There was a fight in one of the greenhouses—there were pots and glass shattering. Then came a terrifying screech. When I went out to investigate, I found Tinker sprawled in the greenhouse, unconscious. Next to him was a dead rat, its chest had been ripped open, as if something had clawed its way out from inside.”

“Then, like what Page said, it must've been the blob thing,” Lee concluded.

“At first, we didn't notice anything unusual,” Ziggy continued. “The gardener brought Tinker in and had a veterinarian examine him. He was fine, physically unscathed, the vet said. So, he was allowed to go back home where he lived with his mother and brother.”

“But then…”

“Tinker began to grow, until he was almost double our size and with that growth came an aggression that was wholly unlike him. One day, during a heated argument with his brother, he nearly turned on his own family. Fortunately, a few of us—myself and a couple of other cats—arrived just in time to intervene. As he came at us, I caught a glimpse of them—tendrils writhing in his mouth. That was the moment I realized he was infected.”

“How did you manage to tie him down?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Ziggy replied, wearily. “It took several of us to restrain him and bring him here.”

He looked at Tinker, his eyes heavy with sorrow. As if unable to bear the guilt any longer, he turned away, head down. “There's only one way out for him, I'm afraid.”

Stolen story; please report.

“But there has to be a way to remove the blob thing from him,” I said. My heart was heavy. It was a difficult truth to accept—the chilling realization that this fate could befall any of us. “Or perhaps, the humans could help him.”

He shook his head. “He’s as good as dead either way, and if that thing escapes, it could possess one of us—it needs a host.”

I sighed. So, it seemed the decision had already been made.

“As for the masked stranger,” Ziggy added, “these creatures started showing up right after he arrived. I doubt that’s a coincidence.”

“That’s why I’m here. I need to find out who this stranger is.”

I told Ziggy and Lee about the poison Sarah Kelping had bought from him—poison laced with some unknown sweet substance. But now, with the discovery of that blob-thing, there had to be more to the masked stranger. He was dangerous, that much I could feel. So, what was he here for?

“Where will you start your search?” Ziggy asked.

“The apothecary, of course. I figure we'd find our answers there.”

“I’ll go with you,” he insisted. “It could be dangerous out there.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You have Wanda and four kittens to care for. They need you here.”

“Look!” Lee exclaimed, tilting his head toward Tinker. “I think he's coming around!”

He was right. Tinker's clouded eyes sharpened, as if the fog within his mind had momentarily lifted, and he seemed to recognize Ziggy through the haze. Though his voice was stifled by the restraint of the muzzle, we strained to make out his desperate plea. He was pleading for an escape, but then it struck me: for him, escape meant death.

“Do it quickly—please,” he begged. “I can’t do it anymore. I don't want any more pain... no more.”

Inside him, something dark and alien was writhing, fighting to seize control of his mind and body. His face contorted, not from the external restraint, but from the internal battle he could barely hold at bay. It was ravaging his very being. Clawing at the edges of his sanity.

Ziggy stepped closer, mindful to maintain some distance. “You’ll find peace very soon,” he said, his voice carrying a note of solemn reassurance.

“So how exactly are you planning to…” Lee began, “you know... take him out?”

I swatted him behind the ear. “What a thing to ask!”

Lee flinched, taking a step back. “Just curious.”

Suddenly, a piercing scream erupted outside. Voices strained with both anguish and fury. The sound jarred me. We hurried out of the shack, temporarily blinded by the harsh daylight. There, Tinker’s mother and brother stood locked in a heated argument with the two guards, who looked unsure whether to stand their ground or retreat in the face of such raw emotion.

“Let my son go! Tinker didn't mean what he did!” Tinker’s mother was red-eyed, her voice cracking, but she pushed on. “Don’t kill my son!”

Ziggy boldly stepped between her and the guards. Tinker's brother, like some cornered animal, arched his back and hissed, fangs bared in a flash of hostility. His hackles bristled. His bright yellow eyes, fierce and unblinking, locked onto Ziggy with a glare that promised danger if harm came to his mother.

Ziggy remained calm.

“There must be a way to save him!” Tinker's mother begged, desperation in her voice. “I beg you, please—find a way!”

“There’s little left of your son in there. You should say your goodbyes now—he might still be able to hear you.”

Tinker's mother, her sobs wracking her frail frame, stepped hesitantly into the shack. Her surviving son followed closely, his head gently nuzzling her side in a tender gesture of comfort, as though to lend her the strength she so desperately needed. We stood by the entrance listening to the muffled sounds of a grieving family. Their farewells, thick with emotion, filtered through the walls.

After some time had passed, Ziggy stepped inside the shack, just as one of the guards escorted Tinker's family out. There was no resistance. This was an inevitable moment.

Other cats began to crowd near the door, drawn by the same morbid curiosity. We heard shouts—loud and frantic—followed by a chilling, ear-piercing screech that froze the very blood in my veins. Then, abruptly, all fell silent, save for the soft sobs of Tinker’s mother.

A few cats approached, attempting to offer comfort, nuzzling their heads against Tinker’s loved ones or gently licking their cheeks in a tender, empathetic gesture. Others began to hum a mournful tune, one we had heard many times before at the funeral rites conducted by humans. The melody, steeped in grief and reverence, resonated through the gathering. The very essence of our collective despair had coalesced into that somber song.

When Ziggy and the two guards stumbled out of the shack, their faces solemn, I refrained from asking how they had done it—there was no need. Some things were better left unsaid. A single glance at Lee was enough to warn him into silence. He nodded and kept his lips tightly sealed.