Bite Me

the dark, working his foot between cat bodies with each step. When the match burned his fingers, he lit another.
    Bummer barked, the sharp report echoed through the basement. The Emperor turned and realized that he’d somehow made his way around a corner and the window was no longer visible. He reached inside his great overcoat and felt for the handle of the chef’s knife, which was stuck in his belt at the small of his back. He pushed on, moving into another room, a large one as far as he could tell, but still, to the edge of the match light, the bodies of cats littered the floor, most of them lying on their sides as if they’d just dropped over, or in awkward piles, as if they’d been in the middle playing, or fighting, or mating when something suddenly switched them off like a light switch.
    Another distant bark from Bummer, then a deeper one from Lazarus. “I’m fine, men, I’ll be finished with this and back out in no time.”
    Well into his third book of matches, the Emperor saw a steel door, partly ajar. He made his way to it; the dead cats thinned out and then there was a bit of a clearing inthe carnage, although only for a foot or two, as if a path had been cleared, but a narrow one. He stood and caught his breath.
    He heard men’s voices, but coming from back by the window, amid them more barking and now snarling from the men.
    “I’m in here!” the Emperor called. “I’m in here. The men are with me!”
    Then a distant voice. “Mo-fuckas need to cover this up. The City see it they brick this bitch up, then where we go when it rain?”
    There was a thump, then a grating noise, a rusty creaking, and the Emperor realized it was the sound of the plywood being fit back into the window and the heavy Dumpster pushed into place before it.
    “Block them wheels,” said the voice.
    “I’m here! I’m here!” called the Emperor. He gritted his teeth, preparing to run across the deep carpet of cat corpses to the window, but he hesitated, the match burned his fingers, and darkness fell upon him.
    THE ANIMALS
    “I’m pretty sure it’s the Apocalypse,” said Clint, not even looking up from his red-letter King James Bible.
    The Animals were spread out in various positions around the basketball court, playing HORSE. Clint, Troy Lee, and Drew sat with their backs to the chain-link fence.Troy Lee was trying to read over Clint’s shoulder, Drew was packing pot into the bowl of a purple carbon-fiber sports bong.
    Cavuto and Rivera made their way around the outside of the court.
    “What’s up my niggas!” came a scratchy, wizened voice—totally out of place for the surroundings—like someone smacking a fiery fart out of a tiny dragon with a badminton racket.
    Rivera stopped and turned toward a small figure who stood at the foul line dressed in enormous sneakers and an Oakland Raiders hoody big enough for a pro offensive tackle. Except for the cat-rim glasses, it looked like Gangsta Yoda, only not so green.
    “That’s Troy Lee’s grandma,” said the tall kid, Jeff. “You have to give her a pound or she’s going to keep saying it.”
    Indeed, she had a fist in the air, waiting for a pound.
    “You go ahead,” said Cavuto. “You’re ethnic.”
    Rivera made his way to the tiny woman and despite feeling completely embarrassed about it, bumped fists with her.
    “Troot,” said Grandma.
    “Truth,” said Rivera. He looked to Lash, who had been the ad hoc leader of the Animals after Tommy Flood was turned vampire. “You okay with this?”
    Lash shrugged. “What are you gonna do? Besides, it’s prolly the Apocalypse. No time to roll all politically correct up in this bitch when the world is ending.”
    “It’s not the Apocalypse,” said Cavuto. “It’s definitely not the Apocalypse.”
    “I’m pretty sure it is,” said Troy Lee, looking over Clint’s shoulder at Revelation.
    They all gathered around the seated Animals. Rivera took out his notebook, then shrugged and put it back in his pocket. This wasn’t going to be in any report.
    Drew sparked up the bong, bubbled a long hit, then handed it to Barry, the balding scuba diver, who inhaled the extra off the top.
    “We’re cops, you know?” said Cavuto, not sounding that sure of it himself.
    Drew shrugged and exhaled a skunky blast. “S’okay, it’s medical.”
    “What medical? You have a card? What’s your condition?”
    Drew produced a blue card from his shirt pocket and held it up. “I’m anxious.”
    “That’s not a