Pickles vs. the Zombies Read online

  Table of Contents

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  Day Five

  Day Eight

  Day Nine

  Day Ten

  Day Eleven

  Day Twelve

  Day Thirteen

  Day Fifteen

  Day Twenty

  Day Twenty-One

  Day Twenty-Two

  Day Twenty-Three

  Day Twenty-Five

  Day Twenty-Six

  Day Twenty-Seven

  Day Twenty-Eight

  Day Twenty-Nine

  Day Thirty

  Day Thirty-One

  Day One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Landmarks

  Cover

  Frontmatter

  Start of Content

  Acknowledgements

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  Copyright © 2019 Angela Misri

  This edition copyright © 2019 DCB, an imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through Ontario Creates, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Pickles vs. the zombies / Angela Misri.

  Other titles: Pickles versus the zombies

  Names: Misri, Angela, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190089652 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190089660 | ISBN 9781770865587 (softcover) | ISBN 9781770865594 (html)

  Classification: LCC PS8626.I824 P53 2019 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  United States Library of Congress Control Number: 2018967101

  Cover art: Emma Dolan

  Interior text design: www.tannicegdesigns.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Manufactured by Friesens in Altona, Manitoba, Canada in August 2019.

  DCB

  An Imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.

  260 Spadina Avenue, Suite 502, Toronto, ON M5T 2E4

  www.dcbyoungreaders.com

  www.cormorantbooks.com

  For Kenzie

  I WATCHED THE ERA of human domination end from a sun-dappled window seat.

  In hindsight, I should have taken it more seriously
, but as a predator I was more curious than afraid. Also, I’m an indoor cat who watches way too much TV. My tolerance for dramatic violence might be a little messed up.

  “Wally, wake up,” I said, poking the fat, gray mass at my side with my paw.

  “Huh?” Wally mumbled, hauling himself to attention. Wally was from a family of military cats; his prized possession was the bronze general’s star on his collar he’d inherited from his father. Wally’s mother was none other than the spy Von Paws. Yes, THAT Von Paws. Sadly, Wally was also an indoor cat, so he had never actually gone to war, something that bugged him to no end.

  At this point, you’re probably wondering what resplendent family tree I descended from. Well, sorry to disappoint, but like 75% of the housecat population, I have no clue who my parents are. My first memory is of rolling around in a glass cage with five other calico kittens who looked identical to me, down to the black freckles on our noses. I drank my first drop of milk from a latex nipple attached to the cage, and when I left on my current assignment, I didn’t even have a name for the other cats to call out to say goodbye.

  My pet and I were born the same week, and I was assigned to this home when we were both eight weeks old. I was Connor’s second word after “mama” and he was my first love and only family. Unless you counted Generalissimo Wally.

  “Those three humans are eating an old human,” I reported, my own eyes fixed on the bloody scene below.

  Wally yawned, stretched, and finally turned his face to the street. “So?” he snapped. “Weaker gets eaten by stronger. Circle of life, Pickles. How many times do I have to explain it to you?”

  “This is different,” I said, pressing myself against the glass. “There’s something wrong with the predator humans. They’re not talking. And they’re moving around super weirdly.”

  Wally snorted. “Humans are terrible predators. What you’re seeing there is pack mentality. Obviously those three humans have dogs as owners. Poor monkeys.”

  The three predator humans were shuffling away from their prey now, leaving behind a mess of people parts and a walker.

  “They’re so slow, it’s a wonder they could catch anything to eat.”

  “The prey was very old,” I said.

  “Mmm,” Wally said, lowering himself back to his sleeping position. “Wake me up when the pets get home. I need to remind the male to clean the litter.”

  I nodded, my eyes still on the newly quiet suburban street, watching as the leaves in the trees blew softly in the wind. I could hear no birdsong, and even the squirrels seemed to be taking a break from their incessant travels. It was the end of the human workday, but other than the attack we had just witnessed, I had seen no other humans in hours.

  My pet was due home from the daycare soon, so I curled into a ball to rest. Connor was two and always needed my help to settle down when he got home. It was the busiest time of day for me, and I took my assignment seriously.

  “THEY’RE NOT GOING TO come home any faster with this drama,” Wally called as I flew by him on the way to the back door.

  Still nothing. No sign of my pet or Wally’s.

  I whipped back to the front door where my partner was cleaning himself, rubbing his paw over his whiskers repeatedly. Describing Wally as a long-haired cat was an insult to hair, because surely he had enough hair follicles on his rotund body to supply three cats and a small toupee. In the summer, our pets would have to take him in to be shorn like the world’s smallest, toothiest sheep, lest he start running into walls, unable to see through his fringe of Sia-like bangs.

  I stood at the front door, glaring at it. “The sun is down, the moon is up, and they’re still not home.”

  “Stand down, soldier,” Wally replied, checking the star on his collar for shine. He rubbed his paw over it repeatedly until it sparkled the way it was supposed to. “They probably went on one of those human-only trips. It’s not on my schedule, but they are terrible at updating me on their movements.”

  I am a short-haired calico, which, according to Wally, gave me a starting rank of Private. Wally gave me a thorough once-over as I stood at attention every morning. Every whisker and eyebrow hair was analyzed and adjusted to meet his exacting standards. I was pretty sure all promotions were based on growing hair as long and thick as his. So, I was going to be a Private forever.

  “Relax, girl. Go read a book or something,” Wally said, turning away and stalking to our shared food dish. “The pets will be home soon.”

  “IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS,” Wally whined plaintively.

  “You know there’s no one here to see you but me, right?” I replied without looking at him. I was back at the window seat, watching the street.

  There had been another flurry of activity moments ago, with one of the groaning humans taking a beating from a pack of other humans. The “winning” human pack hadn’t eaten their adversary, though. Perhaps it was just an expression of dominance on their part … like the sparrow I had threatened through the back window yesterday. I’m pretty sure she understood my hiss, even through the glass. Wally says most birds will drop dead of fright before taking on a real cat. I don’t know that he’s right about that, but I prefer a panel of glass between us just in case.

  “This is unbearable,” Wally repeated, rolling around on the floor in mock-agony, “a standing army must have provisions.”

  I rolled my eyes but was careful to keep my back to him, and not to show any disrespect. Wally had lived here for many years; his pets were the parents of mine. I owed him much for my training. Plus, I didn’t want to be demoted to whatever was below a Private.

  “Uh oh,” I hissed, standing up.

  “What?” demanded Wally from the floor.

  I didn’t need to answer, though, as the object of my concern bounded up onto the roof, slowly walking towards the window where I now stood at the ready.

  “Well, look who’s people-watching,” Ginger said, sitting on his haunches and trying to look casual. An orange tabby with very long whiskers and eyelashes, Ginger had white paws that looked like slouchy rolled-down human socks, a genetic feature he loved to take credit for, as if he picked his feet out of a Gap catalogue.

  “Get lost, riffraff,” Wally said, landing beside me with more grace than usual.

  “Or what?” Ginger replied, eyeing the slightly open window. It would be a squeeze for me to edge through to reach the orange-haired cat on the other side, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Just scram, Ginger,” I said, slipping my paw through the space under the window to demonstrate my intention.

  “Hey, I just came up here to get a view of the zombies,” Ginger replied, turning his back to us and slowly walking away. Every move this cat made looked like he was posing on a literal catwalk. As if photographers followed his every move.

  “The what?” I blurted out, hating myself the second the question left my lips.

  Ginger turned around, his smirk wide. “The zombies. You know, the dead humans wandering the streets, eating anything that moves.”

  “Never heard of ’em,” said Wally, but his ears (and mine) were pointed directly at Ginger.

  “Zombies?” I repeated. I looked at the bookshelf behind us. Where had I read about zombies? Or had I seen them on TV? I spent most of my reading time immersed in graphic novels and manga.

  “Maybe your pets don’t have a name for them, but mine do,” Ginger replied, sitting down to examine his claws, an action that usually got Wally’s back up.

  Not today, though.

  “Zombies eh?” Wally repeated, trying the word out himself. “Are they a new kind of human?”

  Ginger rolled his eyes dramatically. “They’re not new, they’re just dead.”

  “So, this isn’t just what happens to humans when they die?” I asked. I’d never witnessed a human death before.

  “No,” Wally said before Ginger could
answer. “My pet’s father died before you were assigned, Pickles. He died, got stiff, never moved again. I got a good look at him before he was discovered.”

  Wally turned his attention back to the fluffy orange cat on the other side of the glass. “What makes you say they’re dead?”

  “The smell, for starters,” Ginger answered, crinkling his pink nose for emphasis. “And the fact that they’re impossible to kill.”

  Wally snorted. “Nothing’s impossible to kill.”

  Ginger sat back down on our roof as if he had all the time in the world. “You watch. That zombie down there — he’ll get back up.”

  I fixed my eyes on the still figure in the road, ignoring Wally’s repeated snorts.

  Minutes ticked by, but cats are patient: we watch.

  Our patience was rewarded. The zombie began to stir, and I took an involuntary step backwards. Even Wally was amazed. The man’s two arms had been lost in the battle we’d witnessed, but somehow, he pulled himself to his feet, silent but for the groans of his battered body.

  “Well, I’ll be a long-haired Siamese,” said Wally through his teeth. We were all up, our tails twitching as the zombie slouched away, his movements as unnatural as the body that still moved.

  I turned wide eyes towards Wally, new worries forming in my head. “Where is Connor?”

  “STUFFING YOURSELF IS A bad idea,” I said, watching Wally eat the food scattered on the floor.

  It had taken some tearing and ripping, but we had managed to release the food from its canvas container this morning. There was now food scattered all over the basement floor, and Wally seemed to be doing his best to gather it all into the safety of his stomach.

  I had gone through book after book looking for where I had come across the word zombie, but had found nothing. I was sure it was from a TV show. One Wally’s pets watched after Connor was in bed, usually with me curled up next to him.

  “Wally …,” I started to say, but a noise above us interrupted me.

  “The pets!” I exclaimed, bounding away and taking the stairs two at a time. Wally was calling for me to stop, but I hadn’t scented my pet in days and I was too excited to slow down.

  I careened around the corner into the kitchen to stop suddenly in front of three humans I had never sniffed before.

  My ears flattened as they all turned towards me, their arms raised in aggression.

  “It’s just a cat,” one said, lowering his weapon slowly.

  “How do we know it’s not a zombie cat?” another demanded, advancing on my position.