She missed lemons. Maybe if they left the shop, she’d find some more. Surly Shirley ruffled up her feathers and shut her eyes to think as Princess turned over the large plastic container of dog treats and the puppies barked for joy.
It didn’t take long for the food to run out, except for some cans that the puppies chewed on but never got into, and a few sacks of birdseed that Surly pecked halfheartedly at. The kittens alone seemed satiated, eating the rodents that multiplied constantly. Surly Shirley had her own battles with the mice and rats over the bags of birdseed in the shop. And the lack of water remained. What little the animals could scrounge—from bottles left by the shop owner and the toilet the puppies dug their way into—was almost gone. Surly knew they couldn’t stay much longer. The problem was finding an open exit.
Surly was sitting on the shop’s cash register, staring out the window at the thick dark doors that led to the parking lot when the humans returned. The shrieks of someone enraged bounced down the hallway and echoed around her. Then she heard the boots.
“Welcome to Paws and Claws,” she said and whistled as she flew back to her cage. Princess looked up at her. The shrieks mixed with the deep shouts of several men, and the puppies ran to the door and began wagging their bony tails. A large group of people filled the hallway and tromped past. Surly squinted and pulled the cage door closed. The kittens stalked around their empty food bowls, meowing loudly.
“Hello, Paws and Claws,” she warned them again, and then immediately puffed her feathers and narrowed her eyes to small slits, pretending to sleep. A few of the men peeled off from the group and pushed on the pet shop door. It was locked. Two of the men picked up a heavy bench from the hallway and heaved it through the plate glass display window with a crash that scattered the loose animals. An arm reached gingerly around the jagged shards left in the frame to unlock the front door.
The bells bounced against the door as it opened. “Gah!” came a voice. The sharp yips of the dogs overwhelmed it. Surly opened one eye all the way, suspicious. The human was reeling back, its arm shielding the bottom of its face. “Something’s died in here,” he called back to his fellows. “Forget it.”
Surly appreciated the sentiment so much that she lifted herself up and added another dropping for emphasis. That’d convince them to leave, she thought. Her dislike made her temporarily forget the dire situation she was in.
“We need those tools, Walt. We have to at least look.”
The first human took a reluctant step into the store, kicking aside the tattered remains of a treat box. “This place is a wreck. It’s just a pet shop. What are we going to find here besides dead goldfish and dog crap?”
“Dental pliers,” replied the second man, pushing him forward. “And those claw trimmer things.”
A larger man drifted in behind them, holding up a bulky flashlight. He leaned down to pet one of the puppies. “Always hated this plan,” he grumbled. “They’re people. Can’t do this to people.”
“Really, Joe?” asked the second man, snorting and then spitting on the floor. “Next apocalypse you can decide what to do. Wasn’t my fault that bitch flaked out on the bounty. We had to do something with all those Infected, couldn’t let them run rampant the way they were.”
“I guess,” said Joe, “but what about that cure the trader told us about? Maybe we should check it out. Then we won’t have to—to declaw them and rip their teeth out.”
“That cure is a myth, Joe. Think about all those people hanging onto Infected they know. Like moms who can’t accept their kid is a zombie. The people who thought up this cure story are just trying to get people to willingly turn over their Infected. Pretend they’re going to get better and they can get some dangerous zombies off the street without a fight. But it’s a waste, killing all those Infected. They could make good workers. You don’t want to have to kill all those people do you, Joe?”
“No, Gray, course not. But it seems cruel to pull their teeth out—”
“I know, I know it does. But we got to keep our clients safe. If the Infected can’t bite or scratch, then if they get loose, they won’t hurt anybody, right? We’re just taking precautions.”
“Maybe we should just go ask about the Cure. I could do it. I could find out without anyone knowing about the herd—”
“Look, Joe, we don’t know anything about those people. Maybe they’re mad men. Maybe they rob and kill anyone that gets close. Maybe they have some kind of zombie army. I’ve kept us going this long. We both know I’m the leader and you’re the labor. Let’s just stick with what’s working. We just have to deliver the herd and we’re going to be set for life. Trust me. Now let’s find those tools and let the others know we’re ready to start the processing.”
Joe nodded hesitantly and placed the flashlight on the counter. The men began looking around and pushing empty shelving units to the sides of the store. Surly Shirley wasn’t going to stand for her home being invaded. She decided that was her chance. She slammed against the unlatched cage door, launching herself into the air.
“Paws, Claws, Paws, Claws,” she screeched to the others, exultant in her flight. She was a gray, sleek bullet aimed above Joe’s shoulder, a parrot superhero, leading the charge.
Except the others didn’t follow. The puppies barked frantically and Princess just grunted, sniffing at Walt’s pockets hoping for a treat.
Joe squinted and held up his arms, not certain what was going on. Surly crashed into his chest, then pushed up with her claws and flapped away. She flew around the store, trying to get another angle. She swooped low over his head, raking his hair as she passed, then landed back in her cage, which swung with the impact of her anger. She watched the men from her rocking perch, expecting them to leave in the wake of her furious territorial claim.
“What was that?” asked Walt, pushing Princess away.
“Bird,” said Gray. “Maybe we can have a chicken dinner tonight.”
“Or bacon,” said Walt brightly.
Joe shook his head. “Thought we were just looking for tools.”
“C’mon, Joe,” said Walt, “we haven’t had a decent meal in days. It’s been slim pickings since we started meeting other people. You going to turn up your nose at the nice fat piece of pork right here?”
“But it’s—that’s someone’s pet,” he protested.
“Not anymore,” said Gray, “it’s just a pig. Probably wasn’t anyone’s pet anyway. Wouldn’t be here in the pet shop otherwise. These were probably all the rejects.” He nudged one of the dogs away with his foot. “They were destined for the pound Before, and we all know what would have happened to them there. At least this way, they’ll serve some purpose.”
Joe picked up one of the smaller puppies as it tried again to appeal to the other men. “You can’t mean the dogs too—”
“Why not? They’re no different from the pig. Bit gamier maybe.”
“But it’s—it’s a dog.”
Gray shook his head in disgust at Joe. “It’s better than starving. We need meat. Unless—you want to do what the Infected are doing?”
“I’d rather be Infected,” scowled Joe. “At least I know some people that’d deserve to be dinner.”
Walt shrugged. “So don’t eat ’em. Plenty of cans of cat food left over for you.”
Gray picked up the flashlight and swept its beam over the store. “Go on, Walt, check in the back. There’s probably some cleaning stuff back there. If we’re doing the dental work here, we gotta clean it up so our stock don’t get an infection.” He turned to Joe who was snuggling the puppy in the crook of his arm. “Never known you to turn down a pork chop,” he said, poking him in the stomach. “C’mon, Joe, it’s just a pig. Just like every other pig. It’s going to die in here anyway or get eaten by the Infected on the street. Right?”