The very disciplined cats remained perfectly still. The female was the first to lower her weapon. She motioned for the others to do the same.
Sebastian kept his rifle trained on her head, right between her brilliant green eyes.
“You’re not going to return the favor?” she asked.
“No. Now step aside.”
“You really don’t have any questions for us? Aren’t you interested in hearing—”
“Step. Aside.”
The black-and-white cat started laughing.
“Fine,” the female said. “But do you know what this is?” She pulled a small plastic box from her pack and held it toward him.
He should have shot her right there. Before he could even come up with a guess, the cat squeezed the box like the trigger of a gun. Two wires shot from it and latched onto Sebastian’s fur. A surge of electricity pulsed through him. His muscles locked. A screeching explosion rang in his ears, so loud that he could not tell if his rifle had even fired. A wave of stabbing knives spread out in concentric circles from where the wires had penetrated his skin. The ground seemed to rise up toward him.
And then, as always, there was merciful sleep and oblivion.
UPON WAKING, IT took Sebastian a few seconds to realize he was tied to a telephone pole. A taut nylon rope bound his arms at his sides. His tail was tied down separately, fastened to a sewer grate, either to prevent him from using it or to stop him from shimmying up the pole. He was obviously not the first cat these people had captured.
It took a few more moments to notice that the sun was on its way down. That meant he had been out for five or six hours. He may have been drugged, for he was still exhausted despite sleeping for so long. If they were going to eat him, he hoped that they would get it over with soon. The ropes were tight.
Across the street was a building with cement pillars and white steps. A courthouse? A financial institution? He could not tell because the façade had been blasted away, the front steps littered with debris. A group of cats stood on the roof like a row of gargoyles. It was the same way the giant ants stood whenever they scouted an area. Maybe these people had captured Sheba, he thought. He tried to think of something else but could not stop imagining her tied to this same pole, wondering if she would make her way back home.
IT WAS MORNING when he awoke again. His eyes were open, though still unable to focus. Something wet and cold touched his lips. He turned his head away.
“Come on,” a voice said. “You need to eat.”
It was the black-and-white cat, the one who had snorted and chuckled at him the day before. He held a spoon to Sebastian’s lips, trying to get him to eat some tuna. A surgical mask and goggles hid the cat’s face. The rubber gloves he wore had been made for a human. They were like an ill-fitting skin on his knobby knuckles. On his left bicep was a black armband with a red circle on it. Inside the circle was a drawing of an animal Sebastian did not recognize — a cat with wings and a human face.
The row of cats remained standing on the roof of the building. The sun made their fur glisten.
“Why,” Sebastian mumbled, “why am I here?”
“That’s a rather existential question,” the cat said. He tapped the spoon to Sebastian’s lips. Sebastian finally relented and swallowed the hunk of fish. The cat scooped up another spoonful of the tuna and shoved it into Sebastian’s mouth.
Existential, Sebastian thought. The word meant nothing to him. Having to do with existence? But everything fell under that category. This cat was toying with him.
“Let me go,” Sebastian said.
“Can’t. We have to monitor you.”
“Why?”
“You might be infected.” The cat said this as if Sebastian were an idiot to ask.
“Infected with what?” Sebastian said, still chewing.
“EMSAH.”
“What’s EMSAH?”
The cat stared at him. He tossed the can of tuna aside and turned toward the municipal building. “He says he doesn’t know what EMSAH is!”
Atop the roof, the black cat stepped closer to the ledge. She motioned for him to continue and then folded her arms.
The black-and-white cat pulled a bottle of water from his backpack and held it out. Sebastian let his tongue hang loose and lapped up the water.
“The humans infected the animals with a virus,” the cat said. “After we became smart.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “It’s some kind of weapon. A bioweapon. The virus breaks down your vital systems. Makes you go crazy. We’re not sure how contagious it is. And there is no cure.”
Sebastian finished drinking. “I’m fine,” he said.
“People who are fine don’t camp out in the city and yell ‘Sheba’ for no reason. That sounds like EMSAH-talk to me.”
The cat considered putting the bottle into his bag. But after thinking about it, he left it beside Sebastian. “I’ll feed you again tonight,” the cat said. “If you’re not infected, then just hang on. We’ll know one way or another soon enough.”
Sebastian asked him to wait. The cat ignored him, and then he was gone. All was quiet again. The sun rolled across the sky. The other cats remained on the roof.
IT CONTINUED FOR another day. The black-and-white cat would feed him while wearing his protective gear. Then the cat would return to the safe distance of the building. Whether he was qualified as a doctor remained unclear.
Sebastian gathered more information about EMSAH. The “doctor” told him that the soldiers had recently encountered a pack of infected dogs, and they had to put the poor animals out of their misery. Unlike Sebastian, the dogs exhibited all the outward signs of the disease: foaming at the mouth, burst blood vessels in the eyes, open sores on the coat exacerbated by incessant scratching. It was that last symptom that varied from species to species — cats often scratched themselves into an unrecognizable state, sometimes even blinding themselves by clawing at their own eyes. Sebastian insisted that he had none of these symptoms.
“That’s what’s so strange,” the cat said. “You have none of the signs, yet you’re out here all alone, and you’re talking to no one. It’s like you skipped the sickness and went straight to the crazy. Can’t take any chances.”
And that, the cat said, was the most interesting part of the virus. In the final stages, it completely rewired the brain. A victim could become a catatonic zombie or a psychopath. Too often it was the latter, hence the need to put down the dogs. The cats let Sebastian live because they needed more information on the bioweapon. Any anomalies had to be recorded and studied. The entire war could depend on a single breakthrough from an unexpected source.
“Here’s the good news,” the cat said. “If you do have EMSAH, you can be my first feline vivisection. The ants usually clear out all the bodies — it’s safer that way, of course — so this will be my first chance to see the disease up close.”
Sebastian ignored this, and instead imagined the dogs that had been infected. Were they walking upright? Were they lined up and shot?
Was Sheba one of them?
Was he doomed to think of her every time someone mentioned a dog?
The cat asked Sebastian his name. Sebastian said that he didn’t have one.
“But you were a pet, right?” the cat asked. “I mean, your claws were chopped off. And you’re a choker.” He motioned to Sebastian’s genitalia.
Choker, Sebastian realized, must mean neutered. “I do not have a name,” he repeated.