FSE

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Bishop awoke with a gasp, lungs heaving against the cold air as he fought for breath. His thoat ached with dryness and his little black nose stung with the chill of the air as he sat up from the bed he'd fallen back upon. The first thing he noticed was that his mouth was dry as could be. Almost painfully so. The second was that his headache had passed, along with the chill that felt as if it'd soaked to the bone. The new wool cover he'd acquired was working just dandy it seemed. Sitting up from his resting position, he cast a few scanning looks about the room he'd settled in. Still empty, fortunately. If his luck had followed the trend it'd been on for the past few days, he'd have woken up with one of those things just waiting for him.

But it was empty as could be, aside from his haggard reflection staring back at him from the mirror. His breath calming with each passing moment, he found the strength within himself to stand up once more. He'd salvaged all he could carry from this room. Time to move on. There was one more room in the house before he had to venture back out into the cold of this perpetual snow. As he stepped to the door again, Bishop flipped the picture back up from where he'd planted it downwards. He was leaving, so the previous owners could afford to see what he'd done to the place now. For a brief moment, he met their eyes.

A beautiful family, not totally unlike what he'd known in what felt like years before all this. A father and wife, with only one son. A second picture was added to the frame of the son in uniform, dated four years ago. Water marks marred the second picture. Tears. Bishop tore his eyes away before he could think too deeply about it. He knew his already questionable mental state could only take so much more before something bad happened. He really had to leave.

With a grunt he hefted his hiking bag up off the floor and slung it around his back, slipping his arms through the bag's straps as he did so. For a brief second it'd caught on his tail before the stripped red thing flicked away instinctively. Bishop still didn't understand how he was moving it. It just did things sometimes.

A paw slipped down to a side pocket on his woodland camo cargo pants, popping the two buttons open and pulling out a silvery stainless steel flask. No alcohol unfortunately. Some strong bourbon would be a godsend in a time like this. Unscrewing the lid, a furred finger flicked the cap aside, and he brought it to his lips. Having a snout was still unfamiliar to the fellow, and the uncomfortable cold of the metal bumping into his damp nose made him flinch, before finding his mouth again. Drinking small sips at a time helped ease the icy water down, though he could practically feel the chill from it dumping into his gut. Down the flask went again as he finished drinking his fill. And with a clink, he slapped the cap back on and tightened it down.

Bishop shook the flask, feeling the weight and slosh of the water left. Figuring it had about a quarter left in it, he'd need to find some clean water fairly soon, or melt and boil some snow. He dropped the flask into the side pocket once more as he twisted the knob of the door, again flinching slightly from how cold the metal was, and opened it.

The red panda stepped out into the hallway with a click as both the door closed behind him, and his flashlight turned on again. Not that it was particularly needed though, he could see a golden light shining into the house off the snow, and it was nearly bright enough to see without his own light. As was growing typical, he puffed some steam into the air before drawing his snubby and starting his march to the final door.

When he reached the door, a paw rubbing sleep and dust from his eyes, he found fit to pause and listen. He hadn't been attacked by anything inside the house so far, but letting his guard slip right now could kill him.

_ "An ay ain't keen on get'n kilt jus yet" _

He muttered to himself underneath his breath. His heart slowly began to pound faster and faster as adrenaline threatened to dump into his veins. His gun went up, and he shoved the door open, stepping through the threshold as quick as his little black paws could take him on the hardwood floor.

In an instant his stomach lurched into his throat and he almost doubled over. His gun lowered as he turned away from the scene. It was a bathroom, with a nice big tub. In the tub was a corpse holding a kitchen knife and sporting a fairly big slash right across the throat. The water was frozen over but the blood had yet to fade to a brown. It couldn't have been even a week old.

Bishop had done his share of killing the things that attacked him outside, but seeing what used to be a normal person dead, having taken their own life in such a horrible way, was almost like a physical blow. He coughed, barely catching himself in a gag as he tried to do a quick once over the room. A cabinet behind the mirror at the sink that was shut, the knife on the floor with blood still frozen to it by the body's hand, and a half empty bottle of irish scotch on the sink.

Gathering his courage he stepped in further, trying his damndest to keep the corpse out of his line of sight. Opening the cabinet, he grit his teeth. He could see his paw shaking, and it certainly wasn't from the cold. On the inside was a few mostly empty pill bottles. The pharmacy prescribed opiates were all gone, no doubt taken by the dead in the tub. Bishop shook his head, cursing.

_ "Stop thinkin bout it dumass __ " _

Checking the other bottles by giving them a shake, he pocketed a nearly empty bottle of aspirin and some cold flu meds. Generic brand, but they looked alright to him. A box of band aids went into one of the side pouches on his hiking bag with a bottle of one a day vitamins following right behind. Better than nothing. Next came the real treasure.

Bishop popped the cork on the scotch and took a long swig, letting the burn fill his throat for a long five heartbeats, before sealing it up again. Disgusting. But 160 proof. The warmth, false as it may be, relaxed him. He let out a breath he didn't know he was even holding. Thank God everything was frozen, so he couldn't smell the body rotting. As the alcohol slowly settled in, Bishop moved on. He didn't dare take that knife.

Stepping out of the room, he gingerly closed the door behind him as if to not disturb the dead, and made for the front room once more. Bottle in one hand, gun in the other, he was going to greet the day and escape from this miserable place. His steps weren't as soft and careful as they'd been the day before, emboldened by liquor and the bright sunlight coming through the door. It even made golden glimmers on the two bodies he'd left. Wait...

There were slivers of golden somethings in the blood and open wounds of the corpses he'd shot. Thin as paper, like long gold hairs stretched out to the now frozen blood. Almost like the silk on an ear of corn. They caught sunlight like they were metal though. And ever so slowly moved in Bishop's direction, much to his distress.

Eye's widening in horror as the golden things strained and reached, moving as if hairs standing up in a storm, in his direction. He almost dropped his newfound scotch. At a longer glance, there even seemed to be less blood pooled on the ground than yesterday. And on the one with a destroyed skull's head, there was no blood at all. Frozen or otherwise. Just the golden hairs.

_ " __ The fuck?!" _

The words slipped from his mouth, and he recoiled, stepping back a few paces. When he spoke, the gold things went crazy, twisting and squirming like they were trying to escape the frozen bodies and get at him. His heart jumped and thumped like a war drum, eyes wide as dinner plates. He thought to take a shot, but the bottle in his other hand gave him a better plan. Racing back to the bedroom, he flung the door open and ripped his folding knife out of his pocket, stripping a long rag off a bed sheet. With his teeth he tore the cork from his scotch and began stuffing the rag into it, wrapping the extra length around the bottle's neck. His free hand fumbled in his pocket for the plastic bic lighter he'd snagged from his aunt weeks ago to stop her from smoking at the wedding.

With more than just plain old haste, he flew down the hall back to the front room and made to light the rag. The lighter flicked and threw sparks for a few tries before catching, and Bishop held it to the rag until it caught fire. With a hiss, he yanked the lighter and his paw away in pain when the flame licked at his hand. But it was alight. And with a grunt, he launched his makeshift molotov onto the corpses with an underhand toss and jumped back. The bottle shattered, and the high proof alcohol caught the flames. Well, caught slowly. It was no gasoline mixed molotov, so the liquor spread over the bodies in a splash before the fire followed behind. But it didn't matter.

Bishop could almost hear a hissing through his earpro as the corpses caught alight as well, with moisture popping in the bodies. If his paws shook over the suicide, his whole body was shaking now. Over and over the words 'What the fuck' repeated in his mind. A faint feeling on one of his teeth brought him away from staring into the flame and burning bodies. A paw reached up, to find the cork stuck to a canine tooth.

Looking down at the cork as he yanked it free, he threw it into the fire as well, mind buzzing with fear, disgust, and confusion. Then a realization struck. He'd just set the only easy exit ablaze. Bishop grimaced and turned away, making his way down the hallway for hopefully the last time. The bathroom window was too small for him. That bedroom window was likely the only good way out. Back into the place he'd passed out in, he ignored the indent he left in the bed and clambered over it. His paw sank into the memory foam mattress as he approached the window and inspected it.

It was doable, that much was for sure. The boards had been nailed on the outside of the window, with what looked like straight ten penny nails. It shouldn't prove to be a huge issue, and Bishop somewhat had what he'd do figured out. Dropping off the bed, he made for the destroyed dresser, hefting a particularly thick piece in both hands. With his legs, he made to try and push the bed aside, but fell face first into the mattress with a whump and a groan. Cursing as he raised up again and reaquired the piece of wood, he turned and used his hip instead. These crooked animal legs were still doing him no favors. If he'd had his own legs, he coulda kicked this damn bed aside like it was nothing.

Another grunt of effort as he twisted in the free space he'd made by moving the bed. A loud CRASH resounded through the house as he slammed wood into wood, splinters flying off the end that'd struck the glass hit the wood on the other side of the window. Noisy, too noisy, but he couldn't just wait till the fire burned out. Another thump as he struck again, and Bishop almost instinctively wrinkle his nose. The wood acting as a barricade had simply broken in half, with a near perfect circle where a knot had been in the grain. If he wasn't escaping this place right now, he'd have been cursing the lumber quality that companies dumped into hardware stores, while also flexing his arms as if to show he was just that strong.

Still gripping the broken wood, he waved it about the window space to knock and clear away any broken glass. Tossing the lumber aside, he finished up by throwing the blanket he'd cut earlier over the frame of the window just in case. He slung his bag through first, before rolling himself out immediately after. His eyes squinted harshly and stung for a few moments as the light from the near blinding snow filled his vision, stumbling in the dampness, before grabbing his back and once more throwing it over his shoulders. A quick pat down and he confirmed he had everything, gun, bag, wool blanket over his neck. Lifting his footpaws one after the other he checked for blood or glass shards, then brushed his clothes off too. He had to rely on visual inspection, the liquor in his system was making him numb. That or the cold was.

It was probably a good -5f out here, and Bishop wished he could still wear boots. His little paws just didn't work with them, slipping right out, and he hated the feeling of damp socks so those were out too. He froze though, as somewhere off in the direction of the fire he'd lit, something screeched. Hearing it through the earpro like this meant it was especially loud. Time to get the hell out of here. One paw in front of the other, tail bristling as his ears swiveled on his head.

_ "Hell wiff 'at, ay wanna go home." _

Notes: Another upload for the day! We're getting through this rust slowly, but writing this little story is good practice. Thanks for reading, again! Next upload will be eventually, I can't say when.