I turned away from the window towards my scavenged supplies. The real loss was the box of .38 had fallen somewhere ‘out there’. I checked the revolver and only had two shots left, better than zero. I moved my belt over to my new pair of jeans along with the holster and the kukri, which was finally wiped off and put back into my velcro-sheath.

I was kind of surprised how well the blade had been holding up. Like some master-bladesmith had been fucking around and made this ‘in his youth’. I would have easily broken my promise to not check and spent a Feat point on being better at wielding it, if I had any clue what its official name was.

Where Arch-Shithead Gabby was concerned, I had no doubt that this half-abandonware system would gleefully steal Feat points from me. That reminded me, I needed to find Ren-Faire weapons, not actually from the Ren-Faire, but weapons that were used there. Although I’d gladly loot a Ren-Faire stash if I found one. I rolled my shoulder and the wounds protested. Oof.

So, daytime and I’d need time to gather my own supplies strewn around the house or loot the house itself. I’d need something more than that… There it was.

Order of Operations. Take a day to heal and gather information. Secure the house. Cat-doors needed to be covered to do that. If an exterior window was broken then I’d need to secure the door that led to that room. Got it.

I pulled out the surprisingly well-built desk chair and moved it over toward the window, then took out one of my three remaining ration bars and slowly ate as I watched out the window.

I wondered if there was a skill for ‘spending time’ because I was getting A LOT of practice. I had found a sewing kit in the same drawer that had held the shotgun shells and found that I had a surprising skill with sewing of all things. Not excellent, but competent. That struck me at some point as I was fixing my bug-out bag. Basic Competency was finally showing some worth. I relaxed into it and whenever the itchy, ‘gotta check my phone’ feeling came up, I tempered it against the idea of a brutal cat-based death.

There wasn’t much else I saw except that one of my t-shirts had been brought out of the house and into the field in front of my window. My curiosity was quickly saited as a procession of cats walked over it and each took a moment to cover a portion of it in piss. I did not want all my shit soaked in cat-piss, just the thought pinched my face and wrinkled my nose.

I, somewhat successfully, hid my surprise of my little voyeur sesh being ‘known’ and flipped a finger toward the cats. I had no desire to yell and they seemed to hold no desire to talk as well. Haughty things before the world went to shit, now? Insufferable pricks. At least I got a rough-count, and it didn’t make me feel better. 60. There were 60 of the fucking things. Insanity. Cat Farmer Jane had deserved her fate.

I checked the door, which the cats tested in response when they heard me rearrange stuff on my side. After waiting for a break, I changed my bandages, took more pills and went to sleep. I wasn’t feeling great and the cat-wounds still looked terrible.

I groaned awake.

If you’ve ever heard a cat sing you’d know that their particular rendition of the Gitmo treatment was, perhaps, the only thing that could have made me inclined to take a government-funded extraction to that particular part of Cuban paradise. I’d take heavy metal over their terribly tuned, surprisingly varied ways to chorus that I’m a ‘piece of shit’.

Despite their best efforts, I ripped open a pack of the emergency pain meds and used the chemically soft-cushion to fall back asleep.

I woke up and knew that I had a fever and I looked back at the numerous cat wounds on me. Then I inventoried my food and water situation. Maybe a few more decent gulps, a can of peaches, which I ate for breakfast, and… that’s right, I ate the last ration bar yesterday.

So then, today was going to be the day.

I shoved what still had a purpose into my repaired bag and the shotgun shells into my fanny pack as I watched the cats play outside. They’d look cute if you didn’t know what snotty monsters they actually were.

I saw the King-Queen-whatever cat with their bodyguard then yelled to the door, “I want to discuss terms!”

I heard several cats laugh on the other side of the door and one choked on its own spit which set off another round of laughter.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

My jaw clenched but I held to the plan. There was no fucking way. No. Fucking. Way. I was going to let cats starve me out in this room like some pitiful rat.

Then, I saw it. A dog was prowling around the edge of the property, a scout. I would have, ideally, been able to observe the interactions between the groups a bit more, but I didn’t have the time to do that, or the patience with the growing rankness of the room. I loudly rapped on the window and started fake mouthing words to the king cat outside. I pointed to it and then to me and flapped my hand in a talking motion. It narrowed its eyes but eventually sent its bodyguard toward the house. I softly stepped away from the window before hefting the shotgun. I had already removed the bedframe and had been careful to be quiet about it. My foot was braced against the dresser.

“Seriously guys, please let me go!” I pleaded and the guard-cats burst into a renewed round of laughter.

I’d show them how we got to the top of the heap. If they needed a refresher course in apeman violence, I’d be happy to provide.

My cue came when the laughter suddenly cut and I sprung into action, kicking the dresser away from the door and I barely had to touch the door before it fell inward. My shotgun was already up before the cats knew what was going on. I aimed for the bodyguard, the bobcat.

There were two booms and scattered pieces strewn around. My head was ringing something fierce and apparently being on the business end hadn’t been any easier. The cats stumbled around like D-Day extras in a Call of Duty game. I tried to reload it but dropped it half a second later. I picked up the baseball bat that had been sitting against the doorframe and went to my grim work.

My task finished in barely a few seconds, I got the jump on a cat that had been running up the stairs to presumably investigate the commotion. I caught it mid-leap and tiger wooded it into the ceiling. He stuck for a second before dropping down in a wet thump. I took the steps down two at a time, taking out scattered cats until I reached the front door where I slammed a priceless grandfather clock onto the ground to secure it and made my way to the back. I heard dogs barking.

I entered the kitchen then jumped immediately back as a cat used its counter perch to take a leaping set of swipes at my head. I low-ran through the doorway and dodged its next attempt, before twisting myself and spun the bat to violently sweep around. It caught the creature between it and a full crockpot of moldy food as it swept them off the counter. Moldy food splashed out from the shattered porcelain and onto the floor. The smell nearly made me gag, but I didn’t have time for that.

A quiet sound stood out strangely in that moment of odd silence and I placed it less than half a second later. The swish of a cat door. I pulled my pistol, then spun and shot twice at the cat, missing the first and winging it with the second. I dropped the pistol and an overhead two-handed chop with the baseball bat settled the issue.

My eyes swept over the kitchen and I ripped off a cabinet door and nearly fell on my ass as a cat that had been nestling in there leapt out with murder in its eyes. I raised the cabinet and caught it on it then fell forward to crush it underneath. Then I batted a probing cat’s head back out through the cat-door and slammed the cabinet in front of it to block the entrance. I heard the scratching and yowls, but disregarded them, I needed something to hold this in place. I pulled out the nearest drawer I could reach, but that was a no-go, silverware. Shit.

The force pushing against started to increase and that grandfather clock in the front wasn’t going to be working all day either.

I grabbed a knife out of a block on the counter and used the tip of the longest one to pull the toaster over toward me. I then let the cabinet move back and stabbed the first furred thing I saw poke through then pushed the oversized toaster behind it as I dragged the fridge over from the wall. I don’t know why I thought a toaster was going to hold it back but it bought me a desperate second before I could clearly hear the barking of the entire pack of dogs. They really were man’s best friend even when they weren’t trying to be.

I dropped the fridge down in a massive crash and shoved it behind the cat-door blocking cabinet then raced toward the front of the house, a few cats were trying to push the clock away as more tried to worm their way in. I tightened my grip on my bat and waded in.

After repositioning the clock to properly block the door I then found the study, filled with bookshelves, and emptied it of scattered hostile resistance. I ran through the rest of the house and found a heavy end-table that would do the job and put it down, then braced that with the grandfather clock.

In… and out. I wasn’t done. I made my way through the house and cleared out the now scattered pockets of resistance still daring to live in my new home. There weren’t many, and now, there were none. After a bit of searching I found a toolbox in a closet and started taking apart bookshelves, desks, and even a bit of the hardwood floor.

I was a man on a mission and ignored the calls from outside as I hammered the pieces into place over the windows. Afterwards I sat on the stairs and felt, for the first time in what seemed to be a long, long time, somewhat safe. I went back to the kitchen and kicked the piles of cat into a corner and rummaged through some food and managed to combine a few canned things into a pot, spiced it a bit then tried the gas stove. It didn’t work. But the wood stove in the living room did as I filled it with wood and lit some of the old newspaper with matches and started it up.

I started as I heard a yowling echo down the stove and smiled.

“Bad kitty,” and I hefted the pot of makeshift chili on top of the counter and took a seat with my back to the wall before getting up and retrieving my shotgun, the .38, and, after some searching for the ammo box, reloading both. Antsy, I made another lap and checked on my secured surroundings.

I’d reinforce the upstairs too, after I had lunch-dinner.

I found it well-made for my tastes then stood up and went to the kitchen for something it was missing. I added it to the stew and felt the sides of my jaw squeeze and cramp. Then I added some more salt.

Duck would have loved it.

I ate every bite.