He used to think the Burrito Cat stories his grandfather told were to frighten kids during the Festival of the Dead but there it was, lying on the floor, watching his every move. In the stories, the victims never survived, consumed by the Burrito Cat in the most horrific manners imaginable. If he could only reach the fireman’s ax on the wall, he might have a chance at survival. It was desperation hope but the only hope he had.

He crawled at a snail’s pace, fearful that if he moved too quickly, it would pounce. It’s dead-black eyes followed him across the room. The nose and whiskers were twitching wildly. He couldn’t tell if it was assessing him as a potential threat or a potential meal. If it could smell fear, he was sure he smelled like a bouquet of roses.

Walking ten feet takes, at most, 2 seconds. Trying to crawl ten feet while petrified with fear takes an eternity. His only hope lay with the ax.