Bob the Cat was growing impatient.
He wanted to go off chasing vampyrs.
He had gotten their scent from ******’s
clothes. He reeked of them. Bob drew
his conclusions based on smell. He knew
the vamps were weak; they may have
been super-whatever according to Philo’s
diagnosis but they were just vamps
to Bob. Birds and mice were
for the tiny cats; those little goddesses
who lived among people; basically ruling
from a perch. But this was war; this
was no time to hop through the fields
after rabbits; there were no fields. There
were no rabbits. Everything was undead.
The superundead were no different
from the merely dead. He’d sink his teeth
in and wring their necks all the same.