We arrive at the shelter with the night coming quickly, close on our heels and ready to consume us. I do not know what we were expecting. A log cabin? A English Tudor house? No matter. The shelter is octagonal and in many ways little more than a screened-in gazebo. Considering what we have just been through, where we’ve come from, this should provide sufficient coverage for the night. We set out things down and go about our quick-as-we-can business of securing the sight. We check the screens for tears. We bolt and lock the door. We inspect the floorboards to make sure that none are loose. Feeling safe enough, we unroll our sleeping bags. But it isn’t long before we hear the low groans and know that they have found us. Within minutes, we can hear their shuffling in the leaves and branches of the dark forest night around us. We hear a thud on the roof. We turn and see them start to climb up the screens: the zombie cats with their patchy fur and drooling hissing. Fear overwhelms us.
About Rob FrieselSoftware engineer by day, science fiction writer by night. Author of The PhantomJS Cookbook and a short story in Please Do Not Remove. View all posts by Rob Friesel →
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