You survived a few months! You tried to rescue kitten and failed.

A few months. Not bad, honestly. You made it further than most people who confidently claimed they would thrive in the apocalypse while owning zero survival skills and three fancy coffee machines. You figured out shelter, you found food, you even started to get a little cocky about the whole thing. That was probably your first mistake.

Your downfall? A kitten. A tiny, scraggly, big-eyed kitten you found shivering behind a dumpster on what was otherwise a pretty solid supply run. You knew, somewhere in the rational part of your brain, that this was a bad idea. You brought it home anyway. You named it something adorable. You shared your last can of tuna with it.

The kitten was not doing well by nightfall, but you told yourself it just needed rest and warmth and the power of your good intentions. You had survived a zombie apocalypse for several months on those same three things, so the logic felt sound. It was not sound.

By morning, the kitten had turned. You, still half asleep and running entirely on misplaced optimism, reached down to check on it. The kitten made a sound no living creature has ever made, and before your brain could catch up with the situation, it had taken a very enthusiastic bite out of your forearm.

The infection moved fast. It always does. Within hours, you joined the shambling masses, shuffling through the streets with your undead kitten trotting loyally beside you. On the bright side, you two are inseparable now. On the less bright side, you are both technically dead and actively terrifying to survivors. A few months was a genuinely decent run, and the cat does seem very attached to you, so at least there is that.