I suppose he never even suspected he was being followed until there was no chance left of escape. It was not really very surprising that someone was following in light of what he was carrying. When at last he realized, it was far beyond his power to do anything, he could only turn and accept his fate almost gladly, feeling this was, for him, the least tiresome manner in which to die.
He had stolen the package from another unfortunate near Westminster Bridge and after a quick look around to make sure no one had noticed what had just occurred he crossed the Embankment and entered the station. Down here was where he had spent most of his life, where the air was cooler than on the surface and where, ironically, he felt much safer.
I think he first began to feel uneasy as he strolled along the platform to the end and slipped into the darkness. As he padded along through the silence he thought he could hear another following, but it was difficult to hear such a soft sound clearly above the dripping water coming from overhead. By the time he reached Victoria Station he was convinced he was being followed and quickened his pace accordingly. Every so often he would stop briefly to try and gauge the number after him, but the echoes played havoc with the footfalls and it seemed as though a multitude were hunting him. When he reached Sloan Square he streaked up the steps and upon reaching the outside headed quickly for the Barracks. He was by now very short of breath and needed desperately to rest. Immediately he reached the shelter of a corner he saw four others issue from the station and look round and follow. He was on familiar territory now but knew the others would have a brief knowledge of the area, after all, you needed to know some of the land outside your own to survive.
He was sure he could lose them now. At least, he was until he turned a corner and came face to face with two of his pursuers. He turned to run into one of the buildings but was tiring fast and knew he could not outrun them for much longer. He would not have minded so much if he could only have found some way of ensuring that his package made it to his family, but he was out of ideas and, by being caught, had already sentenced his family to a fate far worse than his own.
His followers eventually cornered him on a small landing at the top of a flight of stairs near a window. They were after the parcel he carried but he would not give it to them willingly and would destroy it first. He backed out onto the window ledge and saw below him a group huddled around a bonfire. He couldn't escape and once he destroyed the package they would kill him. He dropped his bundle of food into the flames below and turned to face the other cats, ready to die.
It was October 1, 2248, and London sprawled in ruin.
It was October 2248 and the cats had succeeded man as masters of the city.
It was 2248 and the city stank of Armageddon.