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I had a nightmare. An awful, terrible nightmare.

Once the apocalypse struck and society collapsed into soup, I had plenty of things to worry about, from basic survival and keeping warm/hydrated to avoiding enemies. They included violent raiders, the enclaved cities, crazed preppers, psychotic marauders who embraced the new lawless world. However, out of all these dangers, of all these fears, the main subject of my infrequent nightmares were focused on my former foster parents. The same bastards who abused me up until I defended myself. Then, I was punished for it under a court of law.

In my nightmares, I would be either back in my jail cell or the prison farm. Chains heavier than weights adorned every inch of my body. I could barely move. All around me, the foster parents or the judge who prosecuted me would take turns belittling me into submission.

“You’re a murderer, dog! You’re a murderer!”

“You tried to kill the same people who put a roof over your ears, and this is how you repay them?”

“Scum like you deserve to rot! You deserve the death penalty!”

Their big, bulging eyes were everywhere, judging and scrutinizing me. I’d try to run eventually, breaking the chains, but their eyes and voices followed. Their repulsed voices dripped like IVs into both ears. A corridor I burst into transformed back into the courtroom, only for the tall ceiling to disappear and the pews to transform into gnarly crops needing to be harvested. The voices switched between ordering me to get to work and wishing I’d die, then wishing I’d never even been born, that I didn’t deserve to live or have people who loved me.

Afterwards, I woke up breathless and blind.

Gasping for air, I calmed down after realizing where I was and sighed with a relieved smile. Surrounding me on all sides were three warm, purring bodies. Their black fur melted into the dark room, but my wayward arms and paws easily felt every masculine contour and sculpted muscle. Semi-hard lengths rubbed against my right thigh, my left thigh, and against my left knee, while three cold noses nuzzled at my torso for warmth, their forms cuddling with mine. I imagined that Ambrose and Blaine were on my sides and Cliff partially straddled my left knee, curling his tail and body to mine. As quickly as I remembered they were with me, memories of the nightmare disappeared like faint mist.

It's just a dream, I reminded myself. Just a dream.

Unfortunately, nature called, and I gently pried myself free from the naked triplets to use the bathroom. However, not before I got quick glances of the three black cat brothers sprawled on the mattress, shifting and cuddling to each other for warmth like a purring midnight triad. They were so adorable just as they were sexy. It brought a smile to my face.

We all deserved a long night of sleep. All four of us had been involved in the finished construction of a new barn silo in Second Chances, to house the surplus grain and corn farmed during the year’s harvest. The final hours spent assisting in its final touches left us all sore, like the triplets and I had endured a marathon around the town’s perimeter fence. Still, it was better than constructing the barn during the winter, according to either Cliff or Ambrose.

Anyway, I finished relieving myself and walked downstairs in my birthday suit to grab a cup of water. After months of having sex with not just the triplets, but their father as well, sometimes together at once, all of us walked in our birthday suits during downtime. At least, inside their cabin and in mine, though I rarely slept alone there nowadays. It required a little encouragement, but I gradually felt at ease walking around without a stitch of fabric. It didn’t matter where I was inside the rustic two-story cabin, be it in either of the upstairs bedrooms, down the staircase, or into the kitchen and adjoining living room. I no longer felt self-conscious about casual nudity.

Thus, I didn’t flinch at all when I reached the kitchen’s main island and heard someone whistle. It was Mr. Sauveterre—Zachary, sitting back on the couch while in his bathrobe.

“Good morning, sonny,” he greeted. “How’re you doing? Couldn’t keep asleep either?”

“Morning. I’m…I’m good, I think.” My nose tiredly motioned down to the coffee table in front of his knees. The steaming mug in particular that sat on a wooden coaster carved from a small oak tree. “Is that real coffee, or the grown stuff?”.

“The natural, grown in one of the greenhouses.” He grinned, his warm auburn eyes glinting from waning rays of moonlight. “Have a drink if you want. It’s better than that processed crap we got in bulk.”

“Thanks,” I laughed, then leaned down to pick up the warm ceramic cup.

As I did so, Zachary subtly patted his legs apart to give a better view of his enticing crotch under the bathrobe. The silhouette of his cock pulsed invitingly. My chocolate muzzle blushed as I straightened my posture.

“Hmmm, something catch your eye, Donovan?” he asked flirtatiously.

“Maybe.” I winked back, then took a few sips, sighing at the taste. “Mmmm, that IS good.”

I rarely ever got to drink coffee as a teenager. Martin and Martha wouldn’t ever allow it. However, the ones I did have were always burnt or not well-brewed, and often with the ‘processed crap’ Zachary complained about. If memory served me right, then the older black cat was indeed correct. None of them held a candle to what I just tasted.

“Told you,” he said, taking the mug from me and setting it down on the table after having his own deep sip. “Mmmm. I never understood the townsfolk’s mentality on certain items. We’re all fine with some homegrown things—Hell, Sarah Fellman has a moonshine distiller. But there’s something about the conveyer belt coffee that keeps them wanting more…”

He scooted over and patted down the seat beside him, and I obliged. “If it’s better, why doesn’t everyone in Second Chances prefer using the beans we grow here?” I pondered. “It’s been four years. Must’ve been a huge bulk ya bought before everything went to hell.”

“Very big,” he laughed, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “At least a few dozen tons of packaging. Must’ve emptied a few superstores during our first prepping session.”

“Wow…that is big.” My tail wiggled as I felt his fingers caress my left shoulder. “Won’t we run out of it at some point?”

“We ration it like all the non-perishables we stocked up, but everyone here still prefers the corporate, soulless, packaged junk for some reason.” He shrugged, his whisker twitching in disgust. “If I had a dollar for every request to find coffee cans and packaged beans during our excursions, I could be a millionaire. Not that money means anything anymore, but still…” The older black cat let out an amused chuff. “Sooner or later, there won’t be a single grain of pre-apocalypse coffee left. At least, for Second Chances to scavenge.”

“God forbid there be another apocalypse when that happens,” I chuckled, and so did Zachary. We exhaled together, then gazed into each other’s eyes.

“What’s the matter, really?” He tilted his head, giving me a fatherly smile laced with concern. “I noticed you were trying to toss and turn a bit an hour ago when I checked up on you and my boys. Bad dreams or something?”

Knowing that I could not lie to him, and not really wishing to, I nodded.

“Bad dreams,” I confirmed. “Don’t get them as often as I used to. Not since I moved here, but yeah…tonight’s nightmare was a doozy.”

“Was it about anything in particular?” he asked.

“My old life,” I mumbled. “My foster parents. The trial. Being trapped in a courtroom while everyone kept telling me I deserved to be miserable…I know it’s all horseshit. I know it all doesn’t matter anymore, but it still fucking sucks. Trust me, I wasn’t a saint as a teen, but I never tried to attempt murder on my foster folks. Nobody—the judge, jury, or even my lawyer—believed me when I said it was the other way around. They just saw a punk-ass Doberman and decided I was guilty, and that I deserved to rot in jail…I felt so powerless. And I still feel like that whenever I get bad dreams.” A whimper escaped the back of my quivering throat. “Not just that either. Before, during, and after all that, I never counted on being this…this happy. Never counted on feeling so…safe and sound, after all these years. Y’know?”

Zachary drew me closer into a hug, patting my arm. “I get what you mean,” he said. “You went through quite an injustice. It must have been so traumatic for you, not only to be forced to defend yourself at that age, but nobody believing you. I get that too. It does suck. Makes me glad that the criminal justice system is gone. Makes me glad you escaped that farm and you found your way over here…”

We no longer embraced, but I did rest my head against his shoulder as we lay our backs against the couch, resting on the soft fabric. After a small moment, Zachary cleared his throat and spoke.

“I have nightmares too,” he confessed, then clarified, “At least, I used to.” His deep feline voice didn’t tremble, but I did hear it quaver slightly the further he spoke. “Sometimes it’s the same and sometimes it’s different. I’m either in a dark hole at the bottom of a pit or wandering the empty street, looking for Ambrose, Blaine, Cliff, calling their names at the top of my lungs. The worst nightmares are where I’m being endlessly dragged away from my boys by armored thugs in police uniforms. They call me every horrible name under the Sun, tell me that I’m a sex offender, a sicko, and don’t deserve to see my sons ever again for the rest of my days. I had these nightmares every single goddamn night the day after we got charged and kept apart in the days leading up to our own trial. These bad dreams still happened even after we reunited when the world ended, when we made it to Second Chances, and even after that first horrible winter…but year after year, they started to fade. Truth be told, I can’t even remember the last time I had one of those horrible dreams.”

“Does it ever get easier?” I asked. “Do you think there’ll be a time where we stop having ‘em at all?”

He squeezed my shoulder and smiled in the darkness. “Time will tell, but I know one thing for sure: so long as I’m the leader of this town, I’ll do my best to make sure nobody around here gets new nightmares.”

My smile mirrored his. He gently pulled my head in and kissed me on the forehead. My tail wiggled faster, as did his, which then started to brush against my legs. I giggled at the ticklish sensation, then snickered when Zachary planted a feline kiss (half a kiss, half a slow lick) on the area between my right eye and ear, which folded inward from the blood rushing to both sets. His mustache did wonders too in making me feel flushed.

I savored his lips when they touched mine, then growled when his masterful tongue spread my maw open and danced in leisurely affection. I let out a moan that vibrated to the same frequency as his rising purrs. He pulled away, letting me gasp for air and replace his sweet aroma with sweet oxygen.

“If you’re trying to invite me for a pre-breakfast shag, it won’t work,” I informed the horny middle-aged feline. “I got totally drained last night.”

He lapped at my neck after lowering his whiskered nose, then stopped. He kissed the right of my jugular and chuckled in contentment.

“Well, it’s too early to go back to sleep, but too early to wake them up,” he said, referring to the triplets upstairs. “Do you wanna listen to the radio then? I love doing it while watching the Sun come up.”

“That’s what she said,” we spoke in unison, then laughed. Even after the end of the world, it felt great to hear someone like Zachary make dad jokes.

He stood up to walk over to toy with a radio nestled on the mantle of the brick fireplace. His muscled silhouette stood out against the glow of remaining embers behind the metal screen, and I could almost make out his toned dadbod underneath the bathrobe. I was also distracted by his swishing tail that wagged like a hypnotist’s pocket watch when finally, he found the station.

Something played. It was an old rock song, from the late Eighties. Hearing it again after so long made my toes curl and tap against the rug carpet at my feet.

“Wow, this takes me back,” Zachary mused, sitting back down beside me.

“Me too,” I agreed, my tail wiggling against the couch cushion. “Last time I heard this was years ago. I think it was in…well…”

He noticed my hesitation, perking an eyebrow. “In where, Donovan?”

I flushed in embarrassment, both my ears partly folded again. “In a, uh…a nightclub.”

“Nightclub, eh?” he hummed in amusement. It didn’t take a mathematician to add up that I was far from the age of twenty-one before the Collapse. “My, my, how did you sneak in back then? Fake ID?”

“Cost me a huge chunk of my monthly allowance, and an even bigger pain in the ass to find a forger at my high school,” I admitted. “But it was worth it.”

Zachary laughed. “Weren’t you the little rebel, huh?”

He squeezed my left shoulder, and I leaned against his shoulder too as we sat there, listening to the rock music change to another song.

“Where do you think it comes from?” I asked.

“The broadcast?” The feline mulled it over. “My guess is that it’s a well-hidden, well-supplied tower held by a former DJ. Or, it’s an automated system with solar panels. Either way, it’s possible. Why, we’ve heard quite a few crazy things on the Hub’s radio besides random music, like this one crazy chick out in Tornado Alley that gives weather reports.”

“Weather reports?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Weather reports,” he confirmed with a wide, amused grin. “She and her storm-chasing team do it all just to spite the enclavers in Oklahoma City. And warn everyone else about crazy weather patterns if they don’t have Doppler radars. Even small ones like ours. She’s like Robin Hood. Kinda admirable, really. And then there’s the freaky cult out on Washington Island. At some point during the last four years, one of them took control of a radio station. They spout nothing but Bible quotes and eternal damnation to everyone listening. And don’t even get me started on the stranger number stations, Donnie…”

I listened attentively to him describe more and more strange radio signals he’s heard during the apocalypse and beyond. It was all fascinating. The two of us eventually fell silent once a song either of us recognized started to play. Our tail swayed with the music and our toes tapped to the beats and lyrics. Meanwhile, the black sky outside turned to ocean blue and finally gold, the emerging warm sunlight casting through the living room windows overhead like a spotlight. A new dawn approached just as quickly as nighttime disappeared, along with the effects of the natural coffee we had been drinking.

We later fell back asleep, only to be awoken by three rambunctious, very naked black cat brothers descending from upstairs. We had no nightmares by the time they woke us up. Not even later that next night, or the night after that, or the night after that.