“WE’RE GOING IN CIRCLES,” Ginger declared finally, sitting down at a junction of three tunnels.

I wanted to disagree but was far too tired. It seemed like days since we’d rolled and slid down the ducts to this level. Trip said humans used these vents to move air around the building — cold in the summer, warm in the winter. We were in the ceiling of the building, that much we could tell because every hundred yards or so along the duct a vent with slits would appear and we’d all crowd around and peer into the hallway below. So far, every time we did that all we’d see were groaning, shuffling zombies.

Trip was suffering the most; he had to squeeze and squish his body through these tight spaces, but he wasn’t complaining at all.

I sat down over a vent, peering down to see a number on a door: “Seven hundred eighty-five. You’re right Ginger, we’re going in circles.”

Trip leaned back against the wall of the duct, the most relaxed position he could find in such close quarters.

“We should rest here,” I suggested, taking pity on the larger animal. “Trip, why don’t you lie down flat there. We can fit over on this side of the duct; the rest is yours.”

Trip started to do that, gingerly spreading out to full width until that part of the metal duct was entirely filled with raccoon. He sighed with relief.

Next to me, Ginger was looking through the vent.

“What does that sign say?” he asked, pointing a claw at a human pictogram.

I squinted at the human figures inside a box. “Not sure. A litter box?”

“Humans don’t use litter boxes,” Ginger said, condescendingly.

“They don’t use our kind of litter boxes,” I responded defensively, “but they litter inside a room that looks like a box.” Connor was still being trained by his parents to litter in that room, so I often kept him company in there, encouraging him and distracting him.

Trip was snoring quietly now, so Ginger whispered his response. “We have to get out of here.”

I wasn’t sure what we should do. We had arrived at the hospital, but Connor was nowhere to be seen. This building had more floors than our house, so maybe he was on a different floor.

“What about that?” I asked, pointing at another human pictogram, this one with right angles stacked over each other. “That could mean stairs.”

Ginger nodded slowly. “But how do we get down there? And through the door?”

I pawed at the vent underneath me, but it was Trip who answered. 

“Those little screws in the corner of the vent cover, I bet between your claws and my paws we could get rid of them.”

It took some work, but we came up with a process where I would wedge my claw into the metal screw and turn until the edge of the head peeked up. Then Trip would take over and turn the screw until it was all the way out with his fingers. He said that the screws were holding the vent cover in place. We did two screws and scared ourselves when the vent cover suddenly dropped open.

We sat there, claws out, ears on alert, waiting for a zombie to notice the noise, but none of them did.

I poked my head down through the hole in the ceiling, amazed that we hadn’t been discovered. A look down the hallway answered my question. The zombies were gathered around some unfortunate mammal, eating it. I wondered if it was alive when they caught it. Despite my predator nature, I hoped it wasn’t.

Ginger’s orange head poked down next to mine, “They’re busy; we should go!”

I silently agreed, though this vent felt way safer than the laminate floor below us. “Trip, wait here until we get the door open,” Ginger said and leapt down the ten feet to the grimy tiled floor. The zombies didn’t move, so when Ginger looked up at me, I swallowed my fear like a too-large piece of kibble and jumped, landing soundlessly beside him. We carefully edged our way to the door beside the stair pictogram.

On my hind paws, I walked my front paws up to the metal bar and put my weight on it, pushing. It moved infinitesimally forward. Ginger mimicked my stance and I felt it give way.

“Now, Trip!” Ginger hissed, falling to all fours and scooting into the stairwell. I streaked in behind him and we both stared up at the raccoon head poking down through the vent.

“Ok!” he said as the door started to close behind us. “On the count of three. One ….”

“Hurry!” Ginger yelled, giving up on stealth.

“Two ….”

My paws scrabbled for purchase on the smooth door. “Trip!” I wailed as the door slid shut with a whooshing sound.

We called and called through the closed door but couldn’t hear anything on the other side. No squeals of terror from our friend nor shambling sounds from the zombies. The door handle on this side required thumbs, which was frustratingly ironic because of the raccoon on the other side who was the only one (zombies included) who could open it.

We scratched at the door, yowled our frustration, and eventually slunk away to the stairs. Ginger angrily wiped away his tears as we descended to the floor below. My reaction was worse: I was hoarse from calling for Trip and sick to my stomach with guilt. I kept hiccupping away tears, annoying Ginger to no end. I had told Trip he could go back to that comfortable apartment when we found Connor. I knew that even when I found Connor I would still feel terrible about losing Trip. 

The door on the floor below was the same design as the one between us and Trip and I began to fear that we had traded one prison for another.

Another two floors and we were getting desperate when Ginger stopped suddenly, his ears cocking to the side. I listened too and realized I could hear voices.

“Humans,” I said, my despair falling away like winter fur in the spring.

We raced down the flight of stairs to see a door wedged open with a bucket. I leapt over it and into the hallway, looking everywhere for the source of the voices.

“Pickles! Wait!” I could hear Ginger calling, but I was in a frenzy. Connor was close! I could almost scent him!

I careened around a corner and into a large room filled with couches, stopping short. Ginger caught up to me and we stood there, shoulder to shoulder looking at the two humans sitting in front of us. They looked terrible and smelled worse, hovering somewhere between alive and dead.

They sat on either side of a door holding large weapons and talking quietly between coughs and wheezes. Human backpacks, clothing, and toys were strewn here and there all around them.

One noticed us and raised his weapon our way, but his partner put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re harmless, Eli. Leave ’em be.”

“You sure?” The one named Eli coughed doubtfully.

“What could they do to us worse than these bites?” the partner said, pointing to a chunk of flesh missing in her leg.

Ginger and I backed up: they were bitten.

“See, they’re smart enough to understand we’re dead anyway,” she said, nodding at us. “Keep running, kitties. Nothin’ here but the soon-to-be dead.”

“Pickles, let’s go,” Ginger said.

But my eyes were on the pile of human toys. I slowly sniffed towards them. Something in here was familiar. I took a look at the wounded humans and decided it was worth the risk. I stuck my head in the pile and pulled out a stuffed horse, backing up with it between my teeth until I was beside Ginger again.

“Pickles, what in the Saber has gotten into you?”

“This is Connor’s,” I declared, allowing my pet’s scent to wash over me. “He’s had it since I was a kitten.”

Ginger knew better than to ask if I was sure. “Then he was here.”

“Yes,” I agreed, wishing I could carry this to my pet. He must be so upset to have left it behind. I looked around; where could he be? What would compel him to drop his stuffed horse like this? Who are these humans? Do they know Connor?

Ginger was looking at the door between the humans. “They’re guarding this door. Like lions at the entrance to a cave.”

I cocked my head, confused. Why would they be guarding the door? Where did the door lead? “They were bitten, so they were left behind?”

“Or they stayed behind and got bitten for their noble act,” Ginger answered. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that your pet, and perhaps mine, are down that path.”

I pawed at the stuffed horse thoughtfully. “What do we do?”

“We go back to Wally, like we said we would,” Ginger said.

“Yeah,” I replied, the idea of home so powerful I could almost smell my favorite pillow, and Connor’s ratty old blankie. But thinking about Connor made me look through the doorway again. If he was just through the open door, shouldn’t I keep going?