The SchrÖdinger's Cats Fight Back

Fiction by Larry Hodges

“I will have my revenge!” vowed Schrödinger’s Cat, a black Bombay named Inky. “I’m not some superposition of states, I’m a cat, with thoughts and feelings and hairballs like anybody else.” She shook her paw as they closed the lid overhead on the metal box with a clang, leaving her in utter darkness. 

Then the fear hit her, the same whole-body trembling fear she’d felt the two previous times. Her body arched up as her fur stood on end. Her chances of surviving each time was fifty-fifty; maybe she’d get lucky again. Or maybe, like so many cats before her, she’d hear that deathly click.

Would her team arrive in time? Plans always look great when traced in kitty litter, but once in action . . . she shuddered. Where were they?

She would have her revenge. 

She sat down on the smaller metal box inside that was SCAT—Schrödinger’s Cat Assassination Trap. The shiny copper-covered device, about the size of a loaf of bread, contained a Geiger counter and a tiny amount of radioactive Plutonium that emitted, on average, one particle every hour. If the Geiger counter detected a particle, it would click, and SCAT would release a flask of hydrocyanic acid. One breath of that and she’d die in agonizing convulsions. 

How humane, she thought as she listened for the click. Would she be both alive and dead until the humans later opened the box to observe the result and reality manifested itself? How many cats had suffered this ghastly fate? It must end now.

A wide, thin, crescent shaped light appeared in the box, growing brighter until it became a large, toothy grin. Then the rest of the Cheshire Cat materialized, an oversized bluish-gray British shorthair, smelling of sweetened boysenberry tea. Its blood-shot eyes had the crazed, wide-eyed look of a cat on catnip overdose.

“What took you so long?” asked Inky. “Where are the others?”

The Cheshire Cat only grinned.

“Never mind, there it is. Do your job.” Inky gestured with a paw at the SCAT device. The Cheshire Cat floated over and swallowed it with a big gulp. It went back to grinning.

“Well, make yourself comfortable. I hope they get here before the Plutonium burps.” She stretched her limbs, one of her paws shaking as she strained to listen. 

The Cheshire Cat grinned wider. 

Screams from outside interrupted their discussion. Human screams, followed by stomping from heavy boots. 

The Cheshire Cat purred.

The lid of their metal prison rose with a creaky whine. Inky leaped out, followed by the floating Cheshire Cat. The metal box sat on a table in the physics lab, surrounded by bookshelves that covered the walls along with huge posters of Einstein, Heisenberg, and Schrödinger. The place smelled of Big Macs. 

“Swordcat fer hire, at your service, m’lady!” said Puss-in-Boots in a thick Scottish accent. He gestured with his sword at four humans in lab coats lying on the floor in pools of blood. He was an orange Hosico, like the cartoon Garfield, with knee-high black Corinthian ostrich-leather boots and a felt cavalier’s hat with a huge eagle’s tail feather. He stood on his hind legs, freeing up his sword arm, with a puffed-out chest and confident eyes. 

“About time,” Inky said. “I thought you were Spanish?”

“Had ta fight off a plethora of professors, Ma’am,” he said, nodding at the four humans on the ground. “The Spanish thing, that be a common misbegotten misbeception, cuz me distant ancestors be Italian and Spanish before I became a Scottisher. Stupid Banderas . . .” 

“You shoulda seen him!” The Ghost of Socks stepped into view, a black and white domestic short-haired cat with darting eyes and a satchel over his translucent shoulder. “All those nasty humans falling like pincushions. I wish he’d been around when Bill and Hillary and Chelsea . . . did things to me.”

“What things?” asked Inky. There was no limit to a human’s atrocities. Devils, they were. 

“Terrible things,” said Socks. “You have no idea, Schrödinger’s Cat.”

“Don’t call me Schrödinger’s Cat! That’s what human slavers call me. I have a name. I’m Inky.” 

“I be curious what the illustrious Clintons did ta ya,” said Puss-in-Boots to Socks. “Keelhaulin’? Iron Maiden? Impalement?”

Socks sighed. “Do I have to spell it out? They . . . they’d balance bits of tuna on my nose and I couldn’t eat it until they said okay, like I was a stupid dog. Oh, how I hate them! Monsters!”

“Dagragatin’ dagradations!” cried Puss-in-Boots.

The Cheshire Cat frowned. 

“They will pay for their crimes,” said Inky through gritted fangs. All those years, all those heartless experiments, while the human professors stood around taking notes, talking about her and other cats being alive or dead as if they were lab animals. Damn that Schrödinger! 

“You be bleedin’ outta yer mouth, m’lady,” said Puss-in-Boots. “Perhaps you should stop bitin’ yer fine, noble lips?”

She relaxed her jaw and took a deep breath. “For tens of thousands of days, humans have butchered us in their death traps, all in the pursuit of science, they say.” 

“You were lucky,” said Socks. “Nobody saved me. Damn Clintons and their private SCAT . . .”

“I had ta bat away a few wee particles in the castle SCAT afore I fought me way out,” said Puss-in-Boots, nonchalantly swished his sword twice at the wall, leaving behind a P.

The Cheshire Cat briefly frowned, then grinned again. Had it survived its own SCAT experience? Inky had never seen a floating cat. Was it alive or dead? 

“Today is payback,” said Inky. “You all know the plan.”

“Where be Bastet?” asked Puss-in-Boots. “It always helps ta have an Egyptian Cat Goddess on yer side.” 

“She’s started her assignment,” said Inky. 

Puss-in-Boots glanced at the Cheshire Cat. “It sure don’t talk much.”

“Not since some cat got its—”

“Don’t say it!” screamed Socks. “It’s a stupid myth. Chessie’s just the quiet type. Maybe it had a bad experience.”

The Cheshire Cat’s grin grew wider and then its mouth opened, like the maw of an insanely happy and whiskered killer whale. It waggled its huge tongue at them, showing that no cat had ever gotten it. Then it winked. 

There was a whir of motion at the doorway. “Ruff Ruff Ruff!” 

“It’s Pavlov’s dog!” cried Puss-in-Boots, swishing his sword through the air. “The only abomination more abominabler than a human!” The mutt combined the size of a Saint Bernard, the viciousness of a Doberman with a chip on its shoulder the size of said Saint Bernard, and the teeth of a young T-Rex. It raced about, slathering the floor with slobber and the air with the single worst smell in the world, wet dog. Its eyes had the dead-eyed look of a shark circling a school of tuna. Its dog tag said Charlie.

“Can you handle him?” asked Inky, wrinkling her nose.

“I’ll try, m’lady,” said Puss-in-Boots. “Charlie be like the Hound of the Baskervilles all growned up.” He squared off against the huge dog, sword in hand, his other paw covering his nose. The dog lunged at the cat, who barely ducked out of the way. The dog chased him into a corner. Growling and baring his teeth, Charlie advanced. Puss-in-Boots’ sword looked like a tiny needle in comparison. “I think this be me end!”

“I’ll handle this,” said Socks. He pulled a bell from his satchel and rang it. At the sound of the bell, Pavlov’s dog came to a stop and trotted over to Socks. He sat down motionlessly, staring at the cat, slobber dribbling out of the corners of his mouth like a pair of small rivers. Socks pulled a piece of tuna from the satchel and put it on the dog’s snout. “Waaaaait,” he said. Charlie stared cross-eyed at the tuna on his muzzle, his tiny tail wagging furiously as he salivated like a water sprinkler. “Buddy chased me around the White House for years until I got that bell.”

“Let’s get out of here!” cried Inky. The floating Cheshire Cat stuck its gargantuan tongue out at the dog and then shot out the door like a missile. The other three cats followed. Inky hesitated by the door, eyeing a coffee cup on a low shelf. Then she leaped up and swatted it off, enjoying the crack as the cup broke into a dozen pieces. “That felt so good!” she cried as she raced out the door.

From the door Socks called out, “Okay!” and Charlie snatched the tuna out of the air. 

“That tuna could have been us,” said Inky. She slammed the door closed, followed quickly by a huge thump as Charlie crashed into it. More crashes followed and the door began to bulge outward. They ran down the hallway and out the front door to the street and cool nighttime air. 

“Let’s get a car,” said Inky. An old blue Camaro drove by the college laboratory. The Cheshire Cat floated into the street directly in front of the car and grinned. The car skidded to a halt. Then Puss-in-Boots stomped out to the driver’s open window and held out his sword.

“Vacate yer vehicle, Ma’am,” said Puss-in-Boots, “or I be forced to vacate me gentlecatly code of honor.” The woman leaped out of the car and ran away screaming. The four cats jumped into the car. With a pair of swishes, Puss-in-Boots cut a P into the ceiling. Then he took the brakes, Inky the accelerator, and the Cheshire Cat the wheel. Socks took the passenger seat. 

“To the White House!” cried Inky, pushing down on the accelerator. They drove off. 

“What’s that sound?” asked Socks. Four pairs of ears perked up. 

“It sounds like distant barking,” said Inky.

“Rapidly becomin’ less distant,” said Puss-in-Boots. 

“He’s right behind us!” cried Socks. “Must go faster!” 

Puss-in-Boots leaped up from the unneeded brakes to the passenger seat with Socks and looked back. “Be Charlie that big before?” he exclaimed, fingering his sword. 

“It’s that stupid Dr. Pavlov,” said Inky. “Whenever Charlie sees food, he gets bigger.” 

“We be the food. M’lady, fightin’ a rabid elephant a second time ain’t in the job description.” 

“The bell!” Socks wailed. “I left it behind!”

“Throw it some tuna!” cried Inky.

Socks looked about, then began pawing about the seat of the car. “Hey, the tuna—the whole satchel—it’s gone!”

The Cheshire Cat grinned and licked its lips. Then it pushed its foot onto Inky’s back, and the car took off with a screech. It made a squealing right turn without slowing down as an incoming car honked. The sound of barking died out behind them. 

“Holy cat kibble, slow down!” exclaimed Socks. “You’re gonna get us killed!” 

Puss-in-Boots stared at his ghostly figure. 

“Again,” Socks added. 

The Cheshire Cat kept its foot on Inky and the accelerator, then jerked the steering wheel left. The car did a 360 as Puss-in-Boots and Socks shot about like rabid balls of yarn. The car came to a stop. The Cheshire Cat did its own slow 360 with its head around its neck, grinning at its fellow felines, then started the car up again at a more reasonable speed.

Puss-in-Boots stared at the Cheshire Cat. “A grin the likes of that shoulda be in a museum.”

Soon they reached the White House. The four got out of the car and approached the surrounding fence, which was barbed, electrified, and covered with grenades, with downward-pointing flamethrowers on top.

“They take their security very securitly,” noted Puss-in-Boots. 

The Cheshire Cat flattened itself to the ground. 

“Pile on!” said Inky. The three cats climbed onto the Cheshire Cat’s back. They slowly floated up and over the fence and landed on the other side. Then they made their way to the front door of the White House.

“Sir, we have a situation at the entrance,” said Agent Jon on the radio as he stared out through his night vision goggles at the small, eerie figures approaching. His cigarette teetered between his lips as they became clearer. 

“What is it?” asked the bored-sounding Secret Service Agent in Charge. “Another drunk fall into the fence and get cut, electrocuted, blown up, and flamed?”

“Sir, it’s a bit hard to explain.”

“Then explain.”

“Well . . . four cats are approaching the front door.”

Silence. 

“Sir?”

“Cats? You’re calling me about stray cats on the White House lawn?”

“Well . . . these are different. One has a big grin and floats in the air. Another is like a ghost you can see right through. Another is walking on its hind legs, with big boots, a sword, and a feathered cap. And leading them is an angry-looking black cat.”

Silence. The cats continued to approach. 

“Sir?”

“Agent Jon, have you been drinking?”

“No sir!”

“Then shoo the cats away and we’ll pretend you never called.” There was a click.

“Sir?” 

Silence.

Agent Jon watched as the four cats drew near. 

“Shoo,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a cat eating broccoli. “Shoo, shoo.”

“Sorry, we have business here,” said the black cat, its eyes flashing.

“Important busyness,” said the cat in boots, swishing its sword. “Hey, me thinks you dropped your cigarettey. And your jaw.”

“Such bad memories,” sighed the ghostly cat, shaking its head. 

The floating, grinning cat floated and grinned. 

The four cats walked and floated past Agent Jon, who scrutinized them through squinted eyes. “Shoo?” he said tentatively. Then he pulled a flask from a pocket and took a long gulp.

“Where to?” Inky asked.

“The living quarters are that way,” said Socks, pointing with a shaking paw. “Don’t make me go back there! Such nightmares!” 

“We will avenge you,” said Puss-in-Boots. “Onwards my comwards!” He stomped forward in his boots as they followed the shivering Socks. 

“If you shake any worse,” said Inky, “you’ll knock the place down and ruin our plans. Pull yourself together, soldier! When this is over, we’ll share catnip.” If we make it out alive, she reminded herself. 

“That’s the door,” said Socks, pointing down a long hallway, shaking even worse.

“The one be guarded by two huge, angrily-lookin’ secert service agents with submachine guns?” asked Puss-in-Boots.

“That’s the one.” 

“I was afraids that be so,” said Puss-in-Boots. “Charge!” He shot down the hallway like a tiny, orange cheetah in large boots, swishing his sword about. 

“There’s a cat—” said one agent, raising his submachine gun.

Puss-in-Boots leaped into the air, shrieking as he attacked with sword, claws, and fangs. It was over quickly. 

“I’m sorry ye had to see that, m’lady,” said Puss-in-Boots as he sheathed his sword and retracted his claws. 

“That’s two less human scum plaguing the planet,” said Inky. 

“There’s something wrong here,” said Socks. He gestured at the second agent. “He should be carrying it.”

“Then where is it?”

“I don’t know!” Socks wailed, furiously looking about. “There was always an agent nearby who carried it!”

“We must find it!” cried Inky. Their mission could not end like this. 

“I reckons there be only one place it could be,” said Puss-in-Boots. He tried the door, but it was locked. 

“The key should be in his pocket,” said Socks, gesturing at the first agent. Puss-in-Boots pulled it out, and unlocked and opened the door. They tiptoed around the bodies and through the door.

“Walk quietly,” said Socks.

“Me boots do cause a bit of a clamor,” said Puss-in-Boots. “Now humans, they amble about like stumblin’ rhinocerosees on bubblewrap.”

“This way,” said Socks. 

“What’s that sound?” asked Inky. Once again four pairs of ears perked up. There was a faint clicking sound. Inky shivered—it sounded like the deadly clicks of a Geiger counter.

The four peered around a corner, and there he was—the President of the United States. He lounged on his back in gold, silken underwear on a sagging sofa, clicking away on a smart phone. He had a black leather briefcase as a pillow. 

“Oh yeah?” the President exclaimed. “Take this!” He attacked the phone in a clicking frenzy.

Socks wrinkled his ethereal nose. “Great, the place still smells like Big Macs.”

“That’s all they eat,” whispered Inky.

“There it is!” Socks whispered, pointing at the black leather briefcase. 

“Puss-in-Boots?” whispered Inky. 

“On it. Charge!” He raced over to the sofa and drew his sword back, ready to end the president’s presidency on a sharp note. Then he paused.

“He doesn’t seem to notice you,” said Inky, no longer whispering. 

“He’s in a clicking trance,” said Socks. “I’ve seen it many times. He’s not a threat.”

Shrugging, Puss-in-Boots bonked the president over the head with the hilt of his sword, and he fell off the sofa, unconscious. He held up the black briefcase. “This be it, the nucular football?”

“Yep,” said Socks. “With all the nuclear codes.” 

The Cheshire Cat opened its huge mouth and Puss-in-Boots tossed the briefcase in. 

“Time to go!” said Inky. They made for the door.

“Oh my God, there it is!” Socks cried. He trembled like never before, staring at a golden object in the corner. 

“It’s just a ball of yarn,” said Inky. “C’mon, we have to get going.”

“All those years, and finally . . . it is mine,” said Socks.

“What be you talkin’ bout?” asked Puss-in-Boots. 

“I wanted that yarn!” Socks wailed. “Up and down they’d whirl it, and every time I’d paw at it, they’d yank it away, and they’d laugh. Couldn’t they spare a single bit of yarn for a poor kitty?” He batted the ball of yarn across the room. He chased after it, batting it over and over like a crazed handball player. Then he bit into it and shook it side to side, growling. Then he threw it against the wall. 

Realization dawned on Inky. “The indignity!” She’d often seen humans use the yarn torture on cats. Oh, would they pay!

In a sudden frenzy, all four cats attacked the yellow ball of yarn, batting it back and forth in a mad game of feline ping-pong.

“That’s enough,” Inky finally said, breathing heavily. “Back to work.”

“We’ll just be takin’ this along as a souvenar,” said Puss-in-Boots, impaling the ball of yarn on his sword. With a flip of his wrist he shot it into the Cheshire Cat’s gaping mouth. “We’ll tear that aparts later.” 

“Thanks, fellows,” said Socks, picking golden threads from his teeth with his claws. He no longer shook. “We can go now. Follow me.” 

On the way out Inky swatted a coffee cup off a table. Soon they were racing through the hallways and down stairways. 

“At the end of this hallway we turn right,” Socks whispered. “We want the first door on the right. But there’ll be two more secret service agents guarding it.” Then he looked up at the walls. “Oh My God—they’ve put up portraits of Presidents Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy!”

“So?” whispered Inky. His ears shot up. “Wait, Garfield was president?”

“The four human presidents who were assassinated!” Socks exclaimed, “It’s an omen! We’re doomed!”

“Shhhh!” Inky put her paw over Sock’s mouth, but it just went through his ghostly jaws. 

They walked to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner. Sure enough, there were two secret service agents—but they were cowering against the door they guarded. Standing before them, slobbering in all directions, was Pavlov’s dog. One reached for his gun, but at an almost supernaturally deep growl from the dog, he stopped, and instead whispered, “Nice doggy!”

“Charlie’s grown another foot!” whispered Inky. “He’s the size of a moose. And he looks really hungry.”

“Spoutin’ saliva like Niagarous Falls,” whispered Puss-in-Boots. “How’d he get in here?”

“A better question is, how are we going to get past him?” whispered Inky.

Puss-in-Boots sighed. “I’ll handle this.”

Socks shook his head. “He’ll gobble you in one gulp.”

“I gots to face me demons.” He held out a paw. “One for all and all for one!” All four stuck out their paws, Puss-in-Boot’s orange, Inky’s black, Cheshire’s bluish-gray, and the ghostly Sock’s ghostly white that stuck through the other three. Then Puss-in-Boots held up his sword and stepped into the hallway. 

“Here, doggy, doggy, doggy!” he cried. The other three cats stood behind him.

Charlie snapped his head toward the sound, slobber shooting in all directions. Puffs of steam shot from his nose. The two secret service agents raced away, screaming. 

Charlie charged, barking like a howler monkey the size of a moving truck. 

Puss-in-Boots held out his sword like a mouse with a toothpick. 

Inky protracted her claws, then looked at the charging behemoth, then at her claws. Uh oh. 

Socks said, “Fellows, I’m living proof that cats don’t get nine lives and I’m no use here anyways, so I’ll just wait over there,” and eyes wide, he backed away. 

The Cheshire Cat grinned and licked its lips. 

Charlie grew in size as he raced towards them, spewing saliva like a comet.

“It’s been nice workin’ with you alls,” said Puss-in-Boots. Then he turned and squeaked, “En garde!” Inky raised her claws while furiously thinking, Don’t be dogfood! Don’t be dogfood! Socks tried hiding under his own tail. The Cheshire Cat grinned. 

Charlie leaped, mouth open, wide enough to swallow a motorcycle, spraying slobber on the quartet of cats. Puss-in-Boots screamed. Inky screamed. Socks screamed. 

The Cheshire Cat leaped forward, colliding with Charlie like a pair of Volkswagens—the canine one much larger—and with a loud thump, the two bounced apart. Charlie tilted his head quizzically at the unexpected adversary. Then he bared his teeth and opened his jaws even wider than before. 

There was a creaking sound as the Cheshire Cat strained to open its mouth wider, its facial muscles jutting out as it strained. 

“He’s got you outmouthed!” cried Puss-in-Boots. He leaped between the two behemoths, extending his sword at the dog. “I’ll hold ‘im off as longs I can.” 

With super-canine speed, Charlie lunged forward with his jaws and snatched the sword out of Puss-in-Boots paws, tossing it aside. 

“That weren’t so long, was it?” Puss-in-Boots grumbled.

There was a louder creaking sound, and the Cheshire Cat’s mouth opened three more notches. It lunged forward and engulfed the huge dog. Charlie barked his outrage as the Cheshire Cat closed its grinning, bloated mouth, like a pelican that had swallowed a hippo. The Cheshire Cat burped and grinned. The muffled barking slowly faded away. 

“Into the Security Bunker!” cried Inky. “Puss-in-Boots, you first.” A moment later two screaming agents raced out, followed by Puss-in-Boots, his sword jabbing their backsides. 

The four cats sped into the bunker. Puss-in-Boots slammed the door shut.

Socks sniffed the air and then wrinkled his nose. “I hate Big Macs!”

There was a corner table with four coffee cups. With a leering grin, Inky swatted them off, purring. Then she turned to the others. 

“Let’s get to work,” she said. “Cheshire Cat, we’ll need the nuclear football, SCAT, and the coffee machine I asked you to bring.”

The Cheshire Cat spit out the items, along with a hairball the size of a breadbox that smelled like dead rat. There was a distant sound of barking until the cat closed its huge mouth. 

“Eeeew!” said Inky, staring at the hairball. “We’ll also need the towel.” 

The Cheshire Cat spit out a Garfield beach towel inside a protective plastic bag. Inky pulled it out and wiped the drool off the three items. 

“I’ll never drink coffee again,” said Socks as Inky wiped saliva off the coffeemaker.

Inky opened the nuclear football with her trembling paws as the others crowded around. Her years of study would finally pay off. Or not. She nervously tried to remember all she’d learned. 

“That’s all it be?” asked Puss-in-Boots. “Just a buncha notebooks and some radio thingy?”

“Were you expecting a big red button that said, Launch Nuclear Missiles?” asked Inky, her claws and teeth flying over the device and the SCAT, inputting numbers and disconnecting and reconnecting wires. 

“How much longer this be takin’?” asked Puss-in-Boots. “The humans won’t convenient-like not find us and break down the door ferever.” 

“Just a few more minutes.” 

“Try to make it a few less minutes,” said Puss-in-Boots. He swished his sword twice, leaving a P on the wall.

Finally, Inky stepped back.

“There it is!” she exclaimed. “CRASH! Cat’s Revenge Against Stupid Humans.”

“It’s beautiful!” cried Socks. “But golly . . .” He frowned and went silent. 

“I need to check with Bastet,” said Inky. She grabbed the bunker phone and dialed. “Your Highness? . . . yeah, you too . . . all sheltered? . . . suits too? . . . yeah, you’re amazing . . . you’re the Pied Catter . . . We purr at your greatness . . . okay, we’re about to go into operation. Bye, Your Highness.” She clicked the phone off. 

“She’s completed her mission,” Inky said. “And now—”

She was interrupted by a loud banging and yelling at the door. 

“It look like the humans has discovered our whereaboutins,” said Puss-in-Boots. “We best hurry.”

“Just a minute,” Socks said. “I also have a phone call to make.”

“What?” exclaimed Inky. “You realize we’re at the culmination of a rather complicated caper?”

“This won’t take long.” Socks grabbed the phone and dialed a number, ignoring the looks from the other three. Even the Cheshire Cat looked aghast. 

“Hello, Chelse?” Socks began. “I’m fine, everything’s great . . . yeah . . . Look, Chelse, are Bill and Hillary with you? Good . . . I can’t explain, but you need to get to a bomb shelter. Now. A bad thing’s about to happen . . . Promise me! . . . okay . . . I promise to visit soon . . . love you too.” He hung up. 

The others stared at him. 

“I had to, they’re family!”

They continued to stare.

“Well, you’re family too. Can we move on?”

“About time,” said Inky. She put CRASH inside the coffee machine. “Roll it out!” The humans would never think to look inside the coffee machine. Stupid primates. They wheeled the coffee machine out of the Security Bunker, then went back inside and closed the door.

“And now we wait. The humans pondered the fate of Schrödinger’s cats, as if we were nameless lab specimens.” She licked her lips.

There was a huge boom as something big and heavy smashed into the door, which dented inwards. 

“Don’t worry, everyone, that door is built to be nearly impregnable,” said Socks.

“You said, ‘nearly impregnable’?” asked Puss-in-Boots. “That leaves ‘em a loophole they could crash a batterin’ ram through. Speakin’ of which, they seems to be usin’ one.”

“Probably one of those heavy desks they store down here,” said Socks. “Maybe the Resolute Desk.” 

“Ignore them,” said Inky. “Let us instead ponder the fate of Schrödinger’s humans. As soon as the radioactive Plutonium in the SCAT emits a single particle—which it does about once per hour—it’ll register on the Geiger counter and send a signal to the Pentagon to launch the nukes—ALL of them—along with authentication codes. Every major city in the world is targeted. Countries with their own nukes will automatically launch theirs in retaliation. And we’ll sit here in safety while they suffer the fate they bestowed on so many cats!”

“How will we know, since we’re down here?” asked Socks. 

They all jumped as there was another boom. The door dented even more. 

“It’s basic nuclear physics, Copenhagen interpretation,” said Inky. “The humans will be in superposition, simultaneously dead and alive until we observe them, just like they did to us. Once observed, they will collapse into one of two realities, dead or alive.”

The Cheshire Cat nodded its head knowingly. 

“I don’t get it,” said Socks.

“Neither does I,” said Puss-in-Boots.

“All you need to know,” Inky said, “is that the longer we wait, the more likely a particle will emit, sending off the nukes and killing humanity. As time goes by, the likelihood of them being dead when we finally do observe them will approach certainty.” She glanced at Socks. “Except for those few in bomb shelters.”

“Why are you twirling your whiskers?” asked Socks. 

There was another boom.

“I thinks the door be almost off its hinges,” said Puss-in-Boots.

“Bastet got all six hundred million cats in the world into shelters,” continued Inky. “Amazing what a Goddess can do with catnip, tuna, and a laser light.” She fought the urge to purr as she waited for the inevitable, then gave in to it. 

The Cheshire Cat grinned, then coughed up bottles of milk, cans of tuna, and a can opener, all packed in airtight plastic bags—rations for the duration. 

Charlie leaped out of its mouth.

“The canine gods have smote us in the end!” cried Puss-in-Boots, drawing his sword. 

But Charlie lowered his head, whimpering. He was back to Saint Bernard size, dripping in Cheshire Cat saliva. Before Puss-in-Boots could stab him, he licked the cat’s face with his still rather humongous tongue.

“Now ain’t that the surprise, he’s like a big pussycat!” said Puss-in-Boots, wiping drool from his face. He and Inky stroked the great beast’s slobber-covered back as Socks shivered in a corner. 

“Welcome to the team,” said Inky. “Dogs and cats working together against our common enemy, I love it! Pavlov’s no better than Schrödinger, those monsters.”

Then Inky’s ears perked up at the sound from outside the door. So did the other cats’ ears and Charlie’s. 

“Does hearin’ count as observin’?” asked Puss-in-Boots.

“Sure does,” said Inky.

They had all heard the distinctive click of the Geiger counter.