FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Content warning: This short story contains themes that may not be suitable for all audiences. Please refrain from reading if the following themes scare, upset, or unsettle you. Cardiophobia, Blood, Gore, Dismemberment, drugs, abuse, death, moment of mortality, or religion.

Light, airy steps pattered on the forest floor in rapid succession, rubbish crunching along the worn shoes on the bottom of their light feet as rats ran along trees, fleeing alongside the creature in flight. Wayde, a naturally colored fox, a young adult dashed through the old woods, batting branches away desperately as his tired lungs pushed humid air from his throat. Sweat dripped from the male's head, coating down his face and chest, beads flying behind him while his heart thumped to the beat of a torn drum, a worn muscle forced to work harder than it ever had before. The poor fox's legs had been begging for respite for so long they'd lost their voice, working in the machine of panic which carried him aimlessly deeper and deeper in the woods.

The deeper in the woods the fox ran, the colder, quieter it became. Maybe from his heart throbbing in his ear, or his feet beginning to wear through the bottom of his shoes, he could hear nearly no other sounds than his own body’s screaming. The trees had become as dense as the fur on sheep, though branches stood out from trunks like the quills on hedgehogs, like a barrier of spikes crafted by a playful God, guiding a rat in a maze. Even with the trees and foliage brushing against the fox’s dirtied fur, he’d feel no life other than the pains in his chest. There were no stars watching him run, no moon giving him peace of mind or company, it was unnaturally dark, and the air began to turn mystically heavy, humid. Soon, a dense fog would start to clutch at the fox’s twisted ankles, near choking his raggedy lunges. He could taste the water in the fog, it tasted like the juice pulling under a rotten apple.

The further Wayde ran the thicker layer of fog seemed to lay on the area, soon blocking much of the man’s view, making it nearly impossible to see beyond a handful of meters. With the lack of sight, and fatigue burning his legs, the fox found it nearly impossible to continue any more than he had, partially expecting he had successfully escaped, though truthfully had given up. His mind raced while his legs slowed, his body swaying forward like it still expected to move at full speed. His legs twitched and pulsed like salt poured on snails, convulsing under his thinned skin. Wayde’s lightheadedness had become next to lethal, his consciousness only guaranteed through the overstimulation produced by his unweaving mind. The deeper breaths he took from the tainted land around him, the quieter he heard his thoughts strum against his burst ears.

Soon Wayde came to a staggered stop, placing his arm on a tree as he rested his dazed head upon it, gasping for a breath he seemed to have lost hours ago. His mouth hung open, spit and sweat dripping from his chin onto his decayed shoes as he struggled to compose himself the best way he thought he could. Surely, he had successfully gotten away, no longer would he be witness to the horrors he had the displeasure to partake in. Wayde had given more of himself to the church than most, and had sacrificed most of whom he dragged by their ears into the camp. Gentle tears rolled from his eyes as the wave of fear and panic fled, salty relief rushing in to fill the space like a gash in a boat. The weight of his body came to two points as his knees collapsed to the floor under him. Wayde rolled against the tree onto his back, his body shuttering as it became covered by humid fog. Even with twisted roots knotting against his back, his legs were too shot to desire to move to anywhere else.

Wayde's eyesight had been nearly permanently blurred, his body’s dummy strategy to put more power in his legs rather. He couldn’t focus on anything, not even the paperthin foot pawpads, dripping blood against sod he made into his bed. He slept with eyes barely open, his head jolting to any noise which got caught in his ear, though the longer he laid, the more disconnected he felt from his legs and arms. Only the woods knew how long he got to sleep and rest for, and those trees had become particularly chatty to the plants living against their roots. Word of his location did not spread at light speed, but fast enough to become public knowledge for anyone tapped into the land.

Wayde was not alone for long, not nearly long enough to get going once again. Soon, a silhouette moved wispily through the very trees which seemed to dictate where Wayde end up, though it phased through thorny branches which tolled the fox was he went. The creature approached Wayde, the fox only recognizing the imposing danger as it grew closer with more detail. Wayde whispered a deaf prayer and tried to spool himself back to life, yet his body laid lifeless, giving as little response as his prayer for help. A branch snapped, leaves crunching on the ground with the male's empty flight response triggering, the fox trying to jump up in defense. This failed though, noticing a weakness in his body, the fox's breathing slowing as the fog, thickened further with an oddly putrid sweet smell, seemed to leave him numbed. He raised his hand, his muscles beginning to fail before dropping to their side with a thud, yet he felt nothing. His body was trapped on the ground, disoriented as his brain desperately tried to send alerts to his limbs to move, his muscles to operate.

“Please…” The Fox muttered, barely having the strength to move his jaw, his eyes growing lazy, yet his mind fully conscious. It felt awful like a sickness had floated into his nervous system, a plague leaving the fox so weak, so numb, as if a petrified corpse floating in a salty lake. The Fox found himself in thought, the only function seeming to remain in his control. Just days before this moment he was not the prey, but the predator, stealing without a second thought, striking defenseless creatures, ripping away sacred creatures from their host, unforgivingly. Wayde became so selfish to escape, he found himself begging to a God he long given up on, one who captured the calls of all who were harmed by his hands. The Fox found himself in a place of disbelief, eyes weakly looking to the sky in prayer though nothing but the creature ahead would hear his whimpering babble. For the first time, he was all alone, weakened by his abandonment, and lost to a selfish void of greed, forcing him to become nothing more but the same weak bugs he devoured, bathed in dirt and dismay, laying upon his death bed.

From the darkness, the figure appeared, cloaked in a baggy black cloth with a tight leather suit underneath, the cloak dirty, ripped, and aged beyond reasonable repair. Their shoes were made of sturdy metal at the sole, leather and cloth tightening around the creature's massive feet. Its gloves were made from some leather, watertight with lard binding the gloves to the long sleeves. The body was ambiguous, not showing proportions of male or female, as if they were beyond this world. Attached to their head was a plague doctor's mask, hand-made with blackened stained leather, dark glass eye holes at the top, riveted to the suit below. There were two holes near the tip of the beak of the mask, cotton stuffed in them and stained with some sweet yellowed tar, holding the same putrid smell as the fog. The tar leaked from the rivets holding the glass to the eyes, and joints of the mask, an unholy, monstrous look from the creature. The Doctor's posture was perfect, a straight back as it eerily met the end of the Fox’s feet, looking down upon them. The doctor held a modified lamp, bellows pushing out thick, poisoned air, it creaking as it moved in their hand, though gently placing it down. There was no heartbeat from the Doctor’s chest, unlike the Fox’s. A faint yellow haze constantly surrounded them.

“What in God's name..” Wayde muttered in a hushed tone, though his jaw seemed to give up before he could ask further. The fox wanted to gag on the growing tarred smog resting in his throat, but he had lost control to even cough up the phlegm in his neck. The doctor leaned down to meet the fox, face to face, pressing their thin, weightless fingers to the Foxes' lips. Wayde’s nostrils burned as smog drifted into his lungs.

“Hush, child.” The Doctor spoke with a raspy, muffled voice. The voice was gentle and sweet, but Wayde had no idea where it came from. The Fox was compelled to shut his lips, Wayde’s lazy tongue dragging into their mouth. The Doctor breathed out above the fox, thick gas pouring onto his chest from their mask. As the gas touched his body he felt an awful chill, as if his blood was running from the gas, hiding from the monster above him.

“Best not forsake God’s holy name in a time like this.” The Doctor said, a hand placed on Wayde’s cheek, rubbing it gently. They inspected the fox, their head moving up and down the male to get a good look at them. They grabbed the fox's arm, rubbing their gloved hand against his fur. Wayde’s dirty fur raised against the doctor's hand. A nauseous feeling in Wayde’s stomach began to clue him in on who this creature was.

“So soft, so damp. Lord…your muscles are so worn.” They commented softly, genuine interest and concern in their muffled voice. The doctor moved down the male's body, wheezing gently in their mask as gas continued to pour on the fox, a burning warmth beginning to spread from his chest to his limbs as the smog decorated his body. The doctor grabbed along the Fox’s legs, feeling the exhausted muscles, a short sniff coming from behind their mask like they had begun to tear up. A shutter across the Doctor's body as if every muscle had spasms in random order, lumps of mass moving indistinctly along the covered body of the creature. The doctor moved forward, their awful mask pressing against the nose of the fox, a cough bellowing from deep inside the mask, other coughs echoing throughout the Doctor's body.

“Good sir, please rest now. Your body, your heart… let me end your nightmares.” The Fox’s brain shot a pulse of fear throughout his body, his muscles letting out a defiant, ineffective twitch. After the Doctor spoke, they reached their hands on the mask, unplugging the cotton from the nose holes. As they did, heavy smoke poured from them, a dark orange with hot tar droplets rolling to the tip of the mask before falling onto the male. It leaked a strong sweet smell down onto the fox, the whole creature's body becoming stiff, all function from the brain cutting off from his body, his heart nearly stopping as it slowed. The awareness in the Fox’s eyes seemed to quickly vanish as Wayde nearly passed out, his eyes still open before the Doctor forced them closed with their hand.

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Time had certainly passed, but Wayde knew not how long his body got to rest, helpless to the creature who had knocked him out. Was it mere minutes or many hours?

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No, it felt far longer than that. Wayde could feel a pain in his stomach, the feeling of starvation against the otherwise well fed stomach. It must have been days.

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Brutal and despot, abandoned by any savior, no, no feeling this heavy could weigh on the brain this much after only a few days. Wayde knew the feeling well, it took months to feel this kind of aggravating pain plug at the strings of his brainstem. The Fox's poor head was too overwhelmed with emotions to understand the concept of time, washed of memories of the night, lost in lucid thought. Was this a punishment of God? Was this a nightmare he’d recover from? Would he wake back up in the worn church his congregation called home?

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The Fox could feel his brain churn to life with the same vagueness in the world around him as the unstable, sickly comfortable dreams he spent asleep in. His head was no longer just in pain, but a chemical searing, a pain which he could hear bouncing in his head. A ring vibrated his tender eardrums, tinnitus which blocked out all other sound around him. He couldn't feel his legs, his body, but he could feel a pounding pain beyond what he had ever felt, beyond comprehension of any living creature, like the roots being ripped from a rose bush. Such an experience could only be felt in hell, yet, no living creature, from the intelligent to the feral rat would have earned his punishment.

Wayde could feel his swollen brain press against his skull, its mass seeming ready to burst out from his ears. His ears trembled at the pressure they felt, though, the ringing which kept him ignorant would begin to lighten and resolve. Replacing this, Wayde could hear the sound of ripping and tearing, gnawing and the sound of little gulps taking down mass of meat. His ears became full from the noise of flesh being pulled off from bones, tendons failing and giving way to muscle being stolen aimlessly. He could hear crunching, several little jaws smacking as they chewed tender, well worked muscles. Soft joyful squeaks beckoned eagerly in the silent, dark woods.

His nose began to twitch, another sense punished to allow information to flood into Waydes already troubled head. The earthy smell from the soaked sod had seemed to be pushed out by the new smell of rich iron, like a butchery restocked with rabbits and swine hanging off rusty hooks. Rotten loam and the stomach turning smell of sweet garbage seemed to push beyond the smell of meat, making the male's nose flinch. This wasn't right, none of this seemed right.

Wayde began to feel his odd body once again. He was freezing cold but the surface of his skin felt warm, like a wool blanket put across a frostbit body. His heart pumped stiffly with little pressure or force, but worked unnaturally slow. Heavy pain could be felt in his tired heart, it slowed but forced blood through it as if a sledgehammer was coming down with his beat, squeezing pulp of every last useful drop. Every beat made his arms spasm, yet his legs remained unresponsive. The Fox was beyond theoretical thought, he needed answers. He never had felt this way before, never so in pain, never so weak, his heart never as heavy as it had become.

Wayde’s hazy eyes, while open, gave little information to the puzzled head the fox found himself trapped in. His eyes would begin to read the land around him, amorphous blobs forming dummy shapes, then stark details poured against the hard lines painted by his mind. Wayde had become desperate for an answer to what had happened, what was happening, though he was not aware of what he would see. His blurry eyes failed to focus on anything near him, his pale body still stiff and unable to move. He squinted, dying for information as he stared at what he believed to be the doctor. The doctor sat towards the edge of where his feet were. The Fox’s eyes began to widen, adjusting to the darkness, beginning to see an unholy sight, sickening to even the most corrupt.

“Common pox, black death..” muttered the crouched doctor, a lung in their hands as it tore off bits of its flesh, feeding it through a passthrough under its mask, cutting sounds and slicing the meat before it was gulped down. Blood soaked their leather gloves and suit, mess all over the land around them. The awkward lumps and random movements of the doctor suit were now replaced with sagging leather, as if their body had gotten smaller. A mass of a creature seemed to run back and forth from its arm to its chest, occasionally peaking out tiny hands to pull meat into the sleeve. The doctors own lungs heaved with humid air, like rushing air blowing out of an excited balloon. Wayde cared little for these details, eyes locked against the torn lung held by the doctor. His eyes wandered downward to his chest, the cavity broken into like raccoons to a trash can. His chest had been torn open with gruesome percussion, organs spilled over to the side and barely attached by single blood vessels, purposeful to keep the creature alive as long as possible. A lung, kidney, liver, and intestines all sat on the cold dirty floor, a rat exploring through them as if a kid in a playground. Remarkably there was little blood all around the Fox, yet his blood vessels all seemed under immense pressure, like ready to burst

Disgusted, Wayde turned his head away from the doctor as fast as his failing muscles let him, unable to grasp the God given point of his dissection. He watches as feral rats ran around on bloodied hands, carrying bones with flesh dangling from their smiley maws. His watery eyes stared at the forest floor, beginning to focus around two neatly sat femurs, patella, tibia, fibula, and roughly constructed foot bones, the remnants of his legs. Both of his legs had been ripped apart to their bone, skin laid out with muscle eaten away. The bones had gentle cravings on them and careful writing etched into them. Neither of his legs were attached to his body, both bones ripped out from his hips with rats consuming the flesh that remained. His feet were gone, the bones laying on a frame in a rough position of where they sat. Next to the bones of his feet was another set of smaller bones, labeled “Feral Fox”. Scraps of paper laid on the floor with the incoherent ramblings of the mentally sick.

“What makes you any different.” Mentally sick, the doctor spoke to themselves as their mask began to tear from the sides of their hood. The beak of their doctor's mask seemed to start to corrode with the tar which leaked from its exposed rivets, ready to give way. The rats who worked for them began to shutter in fear around the doctor, working nervously as the creature growled under their mask. Something seemed to trouble the doctor, a question plastered against the torn blood soaked paper notes laying on the floor. The doctor's book, cover decorated with pressed on flowers and leaf stamps, sat in view of the fox. Wayde could feel his stomach sink, partially from recognition, though that could have just been the gang of rats who were carrying it out from his exposed torso. The doctor tore a piece of the Fox's lung, placing it into a glass with other samples, placing the dish aside others they laid alongside Wayde.

Horror built on his face as his neck gave up, his head falling back down and turning to the right side. He noticed an opened pouch of tools and instruments, all used, all coated in dried blood. A few rats had seemed to nudge them into place, making them align perfectly within the kit. “Feral desire pours from your body, yet you call yourself intelligent.” The Doctor scoffed, packing some of the Fox's leg bones into a bag. “No. You're no more intelligent than the rats.” A wheezy laugh came from the mask of the Doctor, the creature coughing suddenly. As they did, the beak of the mask tore from its bindings, falling into the open torso of the fox, laying in blood like the puddle at the bottom of a fruit bowl. The doctor turned to look at Wayde, her silvered eyes giving a faint glow, yellow tarned fur tacked together as the awfully sweet smog seeped from a hole in her throat. She looked no older than thirty two, no larger than a hundred and twenty pounds, and was barely a predator herself, a weasel culling the weaker around her.

The Fox looked to his left to look away, the lack of blood in his brain almost making his panic mute. His dried pale lips mashing together and forming the faintest “W” sound he could muster. The Doctor turned to Fox with a frown, her body sneaking up to his head with heavy breathing coming from their clogged nose. Several rapidly beating hearts pounding from the Doctor’s body irregularly, arms jittering from excitement as little rats moved inside her suit, like gasping from the sudden rush of fresh air by the failed mask gasket. The meat she had held dropped out her hands, she seemed to not care for it, reaching instead towards the fox's head, gloves soaked in his blood.

“How beautiful you are, and you don't even know it.” The Doctor's voice trembled. The Fox was unable to back away or fight, barely conscious, barely alive by this point. Tears rolled from the side of his eyes to the soft soil, the Fox staring to his left, not even listening to the rambles of the lunatic. He may have been sick, but she was beyond curable. The Fox was beyond saving, he knew now just how alone he was, not a person or a God watching over him, other than the Doctor, and the rats which ate away his unfettered core. He closed his eyes tight, finding the strength to compose himself enough to speak to the woman holding him hostage, only able to mutter her name, his lips trembling with just as much cowardness as weakness.

“Willard…”

The Doctor's legs shuffled unnaturally, Willard craning her neck over Wayde’s body, not letting the fox avoid her eyesight any longer. She breathed, the rats around her taking as big of a sick inhale, though she quickly spoke. “You see it now, yes? I do... oh, I do sir.” The Doctor said, her hands crawling inside the Fox's chest, barely mindful of the guts pushed aside. She seemed to be aware of who Wayde was, and Wayde clearly knew Willard, yet Willard paid no mind to the fleeting mumblings of the vaguely alive creature she dissected. She pulled out random seeds from the fox's chest, the seeds sprouting and blooming against the glow of the woods. Willard placed them aside for the rats to gather, just as they had been gathering other material around them.

“You're wonderfully delectable, I can taste the rotten sickness inside of your body.” Willard stated, their raspy voice almost reborn with life. “You have provided me with much research, sir, I shall not forget your cunning, yet I, unfortunately, know still too little. If only I could have your mind.” The Doctor remised, a sorrow in their voice that they could not use the Fox fully. A silence fell upon the forest, the Doctor's head craned as the rats all watched the Doctor, waiting. After a few moments, Wayde blinked slowly, the Doctor gently patting the Fox’s head with their bloody hand, scratching his scalp before running his hand over Wayde’s head. Wayde’s eyes began to grow hazy as his body's strength seemed to run thin.

“God has blessed me with you, and for your work, I shall not let you linger.” Willard spoke with a smile, prideful of their accomplishments that night. The ghostly creature reached behind them and to their waist belt, the sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath. They brought the knife in view of the Fox, the beautiful knife reflecting the glow from the Doctor's eyes. The knife was cast from silver, the handle adorned in ivory and dark wood, the guard mimicking a cross. Holy scripture lined the guard, symbols etched deep into the blade with a canal, a channel made to guild blood into the runic scripture. The Doctor slowly brought the knife above their head, their other hand wrapping around the blade as they aimed it at the Fox’s exposed heart, barely beating.

“No… Willard..” The Fox mustered. He wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready for his life to go to waste as it was about to. There was so much more he'd wish to do, and so many things he wanted to do over, yet there would be no chance for him to do so, and worst of all, no one would know of the crimes committed in these dense woods other than the rats and his old companion. His life flashed in replacement of every thought he had, imagining moments that made his throat feel full, gentle sobbing, growing anger starting from the male.

Willard cleared the phlegm from her throat, rats began to sit patiently, heads hung low. Their squeaks muttered softly, like in prayer. She began. “Amen, I commend you, my dear brother, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator.” The Doctor began, though was interrupted by the Fox.

“Please… I don't want this..”

The knife trembled in Willard's hands, a furrowed brow forming on her forehead. “May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth.” Again, the Fox spoke up. Though annoyed, she’d not wish to deny Wayde of his final words.

“No- G- God damn you…!” Wayde spoke in a soft yell, the loudest yell he could bring himself to shout. Willard's long, unkept nails pressed through her leather gloves, digging into her hands with frustration.

Yellowed tar dripped from the hole in her throat over the fox's head. He could hear it burn against his skin. “May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life, in death.” The Doctor's voice seemed to become quiet as if the weight of their crimes pressed into them. They had spoken this same speech many times before, yet something made them feel awful. Though, foxes were a rare commodity, especially one she’d come to know so well.

“You sick, vile, disgusting-” Wayde growled through gritting teeth, his numbed hand raising barely off the ground in protest. Willard barely stood and moved closer to Wayde’s head, kneeling back down and pressing her knee against his throat. She had given him plenty of time to make his peace, yet he only tried to spark another fight.

“God bless.” The Doctor's hands trembled, shaking before they took a deep breath, tasting their own calming poison. They breathed out with raspy lungs, hands still. In a flash a weak shrill jutted from the fox's pinched throat before the sound of the blade cut it off, a silence falling through the woods. The sober quietness seemed heavier than the heart of the Doctor, their rats as still as the dead, the creature sat above. In the darkness, silence, the creature felt almost lost in self-reflection, but they wouldn't let their convictions stop what they had set out to do. Moments later, Willard continued their butchering, slicing, tearing, and chewing noises reverberating within the tired woods, not letting a single morsel go to waste.