“THIS IS POINTLESS.”

“What’s pointless?” asked Ginger from outside on the windowsill. He’d been quietly watching us try to turn on the radio for the past ten minutes, and we had done our best to ignore him.

“We have to find out where Connor is, and those thieves said the radio would tell us,” I answered, knocking the black rectangle controller to the floor. Radios were human contraptions, sometimes filling our house with tonally questionable music. Wally claimed to enjoy something he called “jazz,” but its chief attraction seemed to be that it put him and his pet to sleep within minutes in the recliner, leaving us with their loud, matching snores.

“Why are you here?” Wally demanded, stalking to the window, his tail twitching.

“Boooooored,” Ginger answered, rubbing himself against the windowsill and scenting it. “Nothing to do at home. Nothing on TV. So bored.”

“Stop that!” commanded Wally. “This is not your territory. The borders are well-marked. Private Pickles, make a note.”

Ginger wasn’t listening, though. He had turned towards the back fence, where two humans pawed in a vain attempt to gain entry.

Suddenly a new zombie appeared, entering the yard from the corner, groaning and slouching alarmingly quickly towards Ginger, whose back arched like a furry stegosaurus. This zombie I recognized. He used to be called Vish, and he used to care for Connor when the parents were away. Now … he was in no condition to care for anyone.

We could hear Ginger’s hissing through the cat door, filled with dire warnings and threats, but the once-Vish ignored them all, continuing to advance on the orange cat.

Dead humans behind him, a dead human gnashing his teeth mere yards away, Ginger reacted at the same time I realized his intent, scrambling through our cat door and into our house with all the grace of a pug walking a balance beam.

“What is wrong with you?” hissed Wally, his eyes locked on the humans, but his words entirely for the invading cat.

“What did you expect me to do?” he hissed back, all three of us now lined up in a row of hissing, arched anger, our teeth bared at the young dead human on the other side of the glass. The two other zombies had pushed down the back fence and groaned their way to the once-Vish where he pawed at the door. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life and it was this stupid orange cat’s fault.

“You led them right to us,” I said through my chattering teeth.

“Yeah, because they totally missed you before,” Ginger replied, anger and fear evident in the twitch of his tail.

But the humans seemed confused by the door, pressing against it but making no move to turn the handle.

“What are they waiting for?” Wally demanded, his eyes switching between the shambling, groaning threats.

“I … don’t think they remember how to open doors,” I said, as surprised as Wally at their clumsiness. I was sure we were done for.

They spent a few more minutes vainly slamming their bodies against the door and glass and then turned to leave, one at a time, their expressions vacant.

We stood there, tense, unwilling to believe that they would give up so easily.

I was scared to unlock my limbs. Afraid I would collapse onto the floor like some kind of liquid cat and never re-form into a solid.

Predictably, it was Ginger who relaxed first, easing out of his aggressive stance to sit back on the rectangular controller on the floor.

A buzz of static made all three of us jump as the radio came on.

“By the Saber!” Wally cursed, his voice high and surprised.

“Shh!” I replied, willing my heart to stop hammering in my ears and positioning myself right next to the speaker. “I hear humans!”