The Girl with the Red Backpack
Humans, Ash decided, were made of contradictions.
They built nests that scraped the sky but fled when the earth itself turned against them. They carried fire in their hands but screamed when it burned. And now, this one—a small, two-legged creature with a red shell strapped to her back—smelled of tuna and terror.
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Ash found her in the skeletal remains of a grocery store.
He'd followed the smell for miles—sharp, briny, *alive*—through alleys choked with ivy and past hollow-eyed things that reached for him with rotting fingers. The store's windows were shattered, glass teeth lining the frames. Inside, shelves lay toppled like fallen trees, their contents spilled: cans dented, boxes bloated with mold, a single jar of honey somehow intact, golden and glowing in a shaft of sunlight.
The girl crouched in the dairy aisle, her red backpack a wound of color in the gray. Her hair was a tangled nest, her face smudged with dirt, but her hands were steady as she pried open a can with a pocketknife. Tuna. Ash's mouth flooded.
He hesitated in the doorway, tail twitching. *Danger*, hissed his instincts.
But—*the scent*—dragged him forward.
A floorboard creaked.
The girl froze. Her head snapped up, eyes wide and too bright, like his mother's in the dark.
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"Hey," she whispered.
Ash flattened himself behind a cereal box, heart pounding. Humans were loud, clumsy, their voices explosions. But this one spoke softly, as if she knew the weight of sound.
"I see you," she said. A pause. "You're skinny. Hungry?"
She slid the can toward him, the tuna's oil shimmering. Ash's nostrils flared. *Trap. Trick. Torn flesh.* But his paws carried him closer, one trembling step at a time.
The girl didn't move. Her breath hitched as he neared, as if *he* were the predator. Ridiculous. She was giant, all elbows and knees, yet she looked at him like he was something fragile. Something worth saving.
Ash lunged, grabbed a shred of fish, and darted back. The tuna burst on his tongue—salt, fat, *life*—and he nearly whimpered.
"See? Not poison," the girl said.
A shaky laugh. "My mom said cats know things. Like… if people are good or bad. You think I'm good?"
Ash didn't think in *good* or *bad*. He thought in *safe* and *not safe*. This girl smelled of sweat and metal, but beneath that—sunlight on dry grass. A scent that hadn't yet curdled.
He took another step.
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It came from the freezer aisle.
A low, wet rattle, the sound of lungs drowning in their own decay. The girl paled. "Oh no. *No no no*—"
A *monster* lurched into view, its jaw unhinged, skin sloughing off in gray ribbons. It wore a store apron, the nametag still legible: *HI! I'M JEN!*
The girl scrambled to her feet, clutching her knife. Ash hissed, fur on end, but the zombie's milky eyes locked onto the tuna. It lunged.
"Run!" the girl screamed—to Ash or herself, he didn't know.
Chaos.
The monster knocked over a shelf, sending a avalanche of soup cans crashing. The girl dodged, slashing at its legs, but the blade skidded off the bone. Ash leapt onto a display of rotten fruit, his claws finding purchase in mold-soft cardboard.
*Think. Think!*
His mother's voice, or his own? *"Climb. Always climb."*
"*But the girl can't climb"*.
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Ash moved without thought.
He sprang onto the monster's back, sinking his claws into its necrotic flesh. The thing howled, swatting at him, but Ash clung like burrs to a dog's coat. The girl stared, frozen.
"Go!" Ash wanted to yowl. *"Move!"*
She moved.
Grabbing a jar of pickles, she hurled it at the monster's head. Glass shattered. Vinegar and brine flooded the air, and the zombie recoiled, its screech piercing. Ash leapt free as the girl bolted for the exit.
"Come on!" she cried, holding the door open.
Ash hesitated. Trusting humans had gotten his mother killed. But the monster writhed, clawing at its acid-burned eyes, and the girl's voice cracked—
"*Please.*"
He ran.
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They collapsed behind a rusted car three blocks away, the girl's breath sobbing in her chest. Ash crouched beside her, every muscle taut.
"You… you saved me," she said. A tear cut through the grime on her cheek. "Stupid cat. You shouldn't have."
Ash didn't understand her words, but her trembling hand, hovering near his head, spoke a language older than speech.
*May I?*
He leaned in.
Her fingers brushed his ear—gentle, so gentle—and something in him fractured. He hadn't been touched since his mother's tongue rasped over his fur. Since warmth.
"I'm Lila," she whispered. "You got a name?"
Ash blinked. Names were human nonsense. He was Small-Paw, Tree-Climber, Survivor.
Lila studied him, her gaze lingering on his white paw. "Ash. Like the stuff left after a fire. Okay?"
He didn't protest. The name settled over him, lighter than fear.
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They walked as the sun bled out. Lila's backpack jangled with cans, her knife gleaming at her belt. Ash kept pace, his tail flicking at every sound.
He padded closer, his flank brushing her ankle.
The road ahead was a scar on the earth, but for the first time since the closet, Ash didn't feel alone.
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**End of Chapter 3**
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