As we soon learned, our troubled neighbor had gone off his antipsychotic meds, a police standoff had promptly ensued, and now, L.A. County sheriff’s deputies were evacuating any nearby residents from their mobilehomes. We barely had time to dress, much less pack anything, including our wallets or our precious cat—who had hidden herself at the sounds of frenzied cops in our backyard—before we were whisked away from the scene.
We spent the entire day hunkered down in the park manager’s home, listening to distant gunfire and explosions, ruminating on the fate of our faithful little calico. Over sixteen hours later, Clare and I were completely stressed out, and our neighbor was dead. Suicide by cop. As tragic as that was, we had no time to mourn; we were still freaking out over what poor Pawws had endured in our absence.
When we returned to our place, we discovered the sliding glass door ajar and bullet casings everywhere. The overeager cops had apparently shot and killed our neighbor from our porch. A pool of his blood even lay at the foot of our front steps, where paramedics had tried in vain to resuscitate him. And naturally, Pawws was nowhere to be found.
For the rest of the night, we searched high and low for her, imagining the worst-possible scenarios. Perhaps she’d gotten caught in the crossfire and slinked off to die under one of the neighboring houses. Maybe the cops had stumbled upon her and decided to transport her to a kill shelter. Maybe she’d simply fled from home in terror, only to be crushed beneath a truck on the busy avenue that fronted the park.
Despite all our fretful thoughts, we eventually found her crouching in a darkened corner of a closet—alive but traumatized—and I vowed then to never put another furbaby in such peril. A hard vow to keep during a zombie apocalypse.
And yet, here I was, doing the same damn thing all over again.
Bile rose from my gut, an invisible vise constricted my chest, and the throbbing in my ever-present headache intensified. All at once, adrenaline superseded exhaustion, and I snapped.
“Come on, asshole, listen to us!” I gripped the steel mesh, my knuckles whitening. “We’re not fucking terrorists! We’re just trying to survive, and we don’t have time for this crap! It’s not our fault you’re such an idiot! Now, turn around and let us get our goddamn cat!”
But it made no difference. No matter how much Clare sobbed, no matter how much I railed and swore against the imbecile putting more miles between us and our feisty girl, we obviously weren’t turning around anytime soon.
Eventually, I turned to my wife. “I’m so sorry, baby. But try not to worry. She’s a tough kitty. She’ll be fine.”
For once, though, even I didn’t believe my bullshit.
An awkward silence fell upon the SUV’s interior. I heard little beyond the hum of the engine, Clare’s occasional sniffles, and George’s murmurs of commiseration. I gazed out the window at the passing trees and hung my head in shame. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to close the doors before allowing the ranger to march us out of the campsite. True, I was exhausted, more tired than I’d ever been in my life, and despite several bursts of adrenaline over the past couple days, I doubted I had much gas left in the tank.
But, still… I had a responsibility to protect Clare and Azazel at all costs. And even though I’d fought to keep my cat alive through the most challenging of circumstances, I’d utterly failed her in the end. I only hoped that her natural curiosity of the outside world or lifelong concern over being abandoned wouldn’t urge her to leave the comparative safety of the van.
Maybe all our worrying was pointless. For all we knew, Casey had scrambled down from his tree as soon as Ranger Witless drove away. Perhaps he’d already secured the van—and hatched a rescue plan.
“Clare,” Jill said, her voice even weaker than before, “I’m not feeling too good.”
Just the cue my wife needed. In an instant, she straightened up, wiped her nose, and squeezed her mother’s hand. Jill had worsened considerably in the past fifteen minutes, her sickly grimace and involuntary swallowing an indication of what was to come. The infection was slowly rotting her insides, churning her stomach with nasty fluids that wanted out, and the bumpy car ride probably hadn’t helped.
In fact, sitting in a stuffy backseat without water and a dose of Dramamine would’ve normally made Clare puke-prone, too, but she was too concerned about her mom to fret about her own motion sickness.
“Excuse me, Ranger Roberts,” my wife said, her tone snippier than usual. “My mom needs to throw up again. I suggest you either stop the car or roll down the window.”
His gaze darted toward the rear-view mirror. “We’re almost there.”
I caught his eye in the reflection. “Define almost.”
Without reply, he pressed a button beside him, and Jill’s window descended with a whoosh. A cool breeze rushed through the backseat, and my mother-in-law hung her head out the window like a carsick puppy. Perhaps the noticeable change in temperature delayed the inevitable because Jill managed to hold it together for the three minutes it took to reach the ranger station.
As soon as Ranger Bob braked the vehicle and shut off the engine, however, all bets were off. With a nauseating gurgle, Jill leaned farther out the window and released a torrent of otherworldly vomit.
“Jesus,” the ranger sputtered, almost leaping from the vehicle. “What’s wrong with her?”
I pinched my temples, a major migraine on the rise. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”
When Jill had finished evacuating the contents of her stomach (and probably a few liquefied organs as well), our clueless captor gingerly approached the rear of the SUV. He covered his mouth with a bandanna—either unsettled by the odor of vomit or
