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Since he was born, I had always told him I would never let anything happen to him. Never. Always holding him to my chest, whispering in his folded ears, "No, son, never. You're gonna be okay. Poppa's got ya."

I should've known better. I was lying to a child. They say it's a deadly sin that leads only to more pain, but what was I going to say instead? Tell him, at his young age, not to be a little bitch or he'd get treated like one? It's when you're faced with these sorts of choices that you always just pick the easy way out.

He knew I was lying, though. I may not have known it. I may have really been convinced in my own falsehood, but he was always such a smart kid. Gets it from his dad, I bet. I guess you could say I was always the dumber of the two fathers, in most ways except technical. Can't help it. Blame Hadjib.

At least his last moments were peaceful, in a sense. But the moments leading up to it were the worst of his life, or of mine. I'd end up living with the consequences of lying to my child and destroying his trust in me, and then living with the unwavering hatred of my husband.

Have you ever seen your child torn from your paws? I have. It fucks you up in every single damn way you can possibly imagine, and then some.

We stopped for gas, just to fill up all the cans we had, all the ones we could fit in the trunk, but then a truck full of angry, tobacco- chewing, gun-toting, stereotypical Tennessee rednecks tried to get between me and the only thing that would, at that point, keep my family alive. Felice and I had already robbed a fucking pharmacy. He carried Luka out before I shot the clerk that pulled a gun on me. I then just grabbed the duffel full of drugs and ran. We knew we'd need them, we knew that they'd become a currency of sorts, both among people looking for a fix and for desperate, sick and wounded communities. That was the kind of leverage we needed. The next was a medical supply store, which was already devoid of staff but still untouched because, at night, it was nearly invisible in its little hole-in-the-wall suite.

While we were filling up, those men came. A couple of them bulky and strong, the others lean, all of them somewhat ugly and carrying horrible stenches. They tried to rush up and take the cans, but I was quicker. I had Vera out before they got close, and two were already dead. I hadn't even thought about it for a split second. The two big ones and the last skinny one tried to shoulder their rifles, but they were dead before they could even unsling them. Idiots.

Trouble was, that was all it took before masses of the dead-alive started swarming around us. I capped the cans and shoved them in the trunk, but Felice had to chase after Luka, who saw the freaks and panicked. Slippery little guy, really. I was instantly afoot, doing my best to get to them. I had deftly grabbed the short-coated, wavy-haired and bespeckled red and brown hybrid by the waist, lifting him expertly onto my shoulders, piggy-back style. The three of us were trying our hardest to get back to the Shelby, but there were too many.

The stench was unbearable, and it still clings to my nostrils. Felice unsheathed his hatchet and started doing just that-- hacking through limbs and heads, kicking each completely-dead body two feet from our little huddle.

The swarm was swelling in numbers, and we were soon surrounded. I felt claws and fingers scrape my back, and suddenly noticed, that as I gripped Luka's legs for his dear life, something was fighting me and he was screaming louder than a train whistle. I whipped around and was now holding onto his arms, while a huge bear was wrestling me for his lower half. "NO!" I firmly bellered, and it almost was like the giant rotten retard was mildly stunned. It was enough to get me some leverage, but out of nowhere, a deformed cheetah missing a left paw and half its tail sprang out of the crowd with lightning speed-- not terribly unexpected-- and squarely sank his fangs in my son's right shoulder.

His scream still haunts me to this very day. His pleads for help, as I had him around the wrists, begged me to save him. Felice finally shoved the blade of his axe into the freak's head, and it released its rigor mortis grip.

It took us even more thrashing and kicking to break through the herd of biters. Like swimming with reef sharks; only took one noticing for them all to mob around you, looking for a nibble, or a bite, or a chomp.

By the time we had gotten to the car, other people were shouting and shooting at the crowd behind us, once they saw that I was cradling a dying child in my arms. In the end, most people are sensible, kind, and compassionate. All they wanted to do was give us a chance, at the very least. We took full advantage of that chance, and I jumped in the car while Felice relieved me of our bleeding son. I got her started and backed up away from the pump. Felice started looking in the back seat for something and finally found it-- a grenade I had pulled off of a dead soldier when I woke up from my crash.

"Felice, wai--!" Too late. He had already pulled the pin and tossed the frag right out the door towards the hoard shambling towards us. I pushed the Shelby into gear and slammed the gas pedal, tires squealing underneath us. The explosion was close enough that we could feel a good jolt, the windows shaking plenty. The worst part, was that now the gas lines had caught fire. Naturally, the whole station had caught, and the flames ignited everything still in the fuel wells. Everything was suddenly ablaze, but at that point, we were almost a quarter mile away.

We were on the road another ten minutes. "I got the bleeding to stop," Felice mumbled. He was brushing matted, sweaty hair out of the beautiful hybrid's face, cooing gently. "You're alright. Daddy's gotcha..." I couldn't speak. Couldn't respond, couldn't even think straight.

"Felice... In the big medical bag, first section, upper right-hand corner, that's where I put the morphine. You have to get him some before the shock overwhelms him. Where exactly was he bitten? How close to the shoulder?" Felice reached behind himself and brought the enormous bag to his lap, setting it next to Luka, who was as quiet as a library mouse.

"I'd say it's right next to the trap, why?" I muttered a small curse, a tear coming to my left eye.

"It means we can't amputate it." Felice's expression was one of absolute horror.

He started shaking, mumbling like a deranged old man. "Wait, why would we need to amputate in the first place? He's fine!"

I kept shaking my head, reaching up to wipe the tear from my face. "He wasn't sweating two minutes ago, and the air conditioning's on. Check his forehead." Sure enough, Felice was shocked, even cursing as if our son's head was a bonfire. "That's the briefing we got. It starts with sweating, a fever, and chills. Next, his glands will start releasing acidic enzymes in his muscles, and he'll become extremely sore, as if he's just had a brutal workout. After that," I said, coughing a little bit, "It'll just get worse. Every nerve will start losing control and his bones will start to feel like glass. His stomach will turn and he'll vomit up everything until nothing's left but blood, and then he'll keep going. Coughing, too. Eventually, the blood he hacks up will start turning blueish because he's finally started heaving up actual lung tissue. Then... then, his eyes will become cloudy, and after that, his organs will shut down, one by one."

Felice was panicked. It didn't look like the boy was phased, though. Poor kid was so focused on how much pain he was, I doubt he heard anything. "After he's gone, he'll reanimate. It could take anywhere from a few minutes to maybe a couple days. All that starts up again is his brain stem and a few minimal parts of his brain that govern primal instinct. The reason they chase us? Try to eat us?" I paused, shifting gears as we sped up. "It's because of that basic instinct to eat, eat, eat. But that's all they know how to do. They don't understand anything else. The frontal lobe? The 'you' part? That's gone forever. They have no emotion, they're just... empty. That's the last thing I want for our son."

Felice was so taken aback, I doubted he believed what he was hearing. "Wait, wait, there has to be something we can do!" he began. He was frantically trying to think of ways to save the poor kid, but when I lifted my son's shirt away from his sticky shoulder, I could tell he was too far gone for me to just take my knife and carve off the flesh that had been bitten. It was bruised purple and green, oozing orangey-yellow pus. That was all I had to do before Felice realized there was no stopping this from happening.

I reminded him again to give Luka the morphine. "It won't put him to sleep, or ease all the pain, but it'll lift some of the burden. That's the least we can do for him." I gently applied the brakes, just as we came up on the 9th mile marker, putting us nine miles from the beginning of Interstate 40 and 9 miles away from Nashville. This gave Felice his opportunity to stick the needle in the boy's throat.

The boy was active again, this time from the pain of the needle, which eventually subsided. I got out of the car, telling him, "Come on, son. Now that you're awake, I want to show you something." Immediately, Felice started panicking.

"Wait, wait!" he pleaded. "Where are you taking him? What are you going to do?!" I held my hand up to try shushing him.

"Darling," I said in return, using a calm, quiet voice. "This needs to be done. It's for his own good, okay?"

"Poppa," the adorable little 8 year old started. "Where are we going?"

I sighed, finally faced with the most difficult decision of my life. Something like this shouldn't even be so difficult. He's my son. Doesn't a father want what's best for their son? Is it better to let him suffer in agony and come back as one of those... things... Or to simply let him die in peace, quickly and painlessly?

Luka climbed over the gear shift and out through the door that I left open for him, while his dad sat in the passenger seat of the Shelby, paws over his face and weeping silently. "We're just gonna go for a walk through the woods so Daddy can figure out our next route. Poppa wants to show you something, 'kay?"

His nod was gentle, his voice so soft and sweet. "Okay, poppa... What are you gonna show me?"

"It's a surprise, son."

The two of us hopped over the highway's guardrail. I led the small, innocent child through the trees, holding his hand the whole way. We came to a spot in the woods where I tried my hardest to find something peculiar, and the heavens opened up and graced me with a spider still spinning her web in the early dawn hours, a few drops of sweet dew glistening on its strands. I knelt down behind my boy, letting go of his hand. "See that web, son? See the spider spinning it?" He nodded tenderly, barely an inch or two. "She's probably been working for three days now. Look at her work. It's both practical, in that she can catch her food in it, and at the same time, it is a work of art." I stood up, unfastening the strap on my holster that sat on my left hip.

"Just look at each individual strand. Watch how each drop of dew just gently sticks to it, making it glisten in the sunlight. Look at where the strands meet larger ones. Why do you think the spider makes her web like this?" I slowly, silently slid my revolver out of its holster, gently cocking about it.

"I... I don't know, poppa."

"Just think about it, son. Just think about it." I held up my gun, pointed it right as his tiny little head. A single tear strolled down my face. He opened his mouth, his eyes brightening as if he had just found the answer, but I didn't let him say it.

And I awoke with a start, right as I pulled the trigger. "LUKA!" I must not've been the only person startled, because my husband, who laid beside me, reclining in his seat, also had his eyes wide open.

Yet, something told me that he had already been awake for some time. I suddenly sensed that right paw was resting on my thigh and his left on my shoulder, with his body twisted to face me. "Jack, you okay?"

I nodded my head gently, telling him, "Yeah... yeah, I'm okay. Just... Just a bad dream, that's all."

"It was about that morning, wasn't it?" he gently prodded. I nodded my head, wiping involuntary tears. "Baby, look, I've been meaning to tell you this for some time... I know I've been wrongfully blaming you for something that wasn't your fault, something that we couldn't have fully prevented, and I just wanted to say," he took a brief pause, swallowing a little bit of phlegm stuck in his throat. "I just wanted to say, I'm sorry. It's not your fault at all, and I feel like shit blamin' you for it. It was childish and stupid, and you were already going through so much. No one should have to bury their own son, especially not someone like you, who's already lost almost all the family he has and has been dragged through hell time 'n' time again." His eyes met mine, and I could tell his eyes were faintly glimmering with salty tears, but he blinked twice, refusing to let them fall. "I just... I didn't know what else to do! I had to find something, something to focus my anger on and of all, it was you. I've been a fuckin' pansy and a horrible husband, and I'm sorry."

Felice rested his head on my shoulder, and now it was finally coming. With my left paw, I stroked his auburn mane, doing my best to soothe his aching nerves. "Darling, please... I'm not mad at you. Honestly, I blamed myself, too, and I felt it was only right; that I was getting what I deserved." He was shaking his head, trying to tell me otherwise, but I touched a claw to his lips. "No. Don't say anything. Shh-hh. His death," I said reassuringly, wagging that finger, "will not be meaningless. It's a lesson, but whatever that lesson is, we've still gotta find it."

I popped a few joints in my neck and sat up in the seat, patting my lover's left thigh a few times lovingly. "We'll get through this." Flicking on the CB, I grabbed the receiver. "Winnebago, come in Winnebago, this is Shelby. Engines on, repeat, engines on, we're rolling out, over."

It took a few moments for Mack to get up and answer the call. "Shit... Yeah, Shelby, we're here. Just getting dressed is all. 3 mikes, minimum, and we'll be ready, copy?"

"Copy," I replied. "Three mikes. I got my watch. Shelby out." I tapped my titanium-plated wristwatch, showing my husband. "If they're not done in three minutes, I'm telling you, we're moving on. Ain't got time to wait for their asses." I reached under the steering wheel. My husband nodded in agreement, wiping his snout. And he was always acting so tough...

The engine of the sparkling grey and black 1968 Shelby GT500KR roared to life, purring as it idled. "Yeah, yeah, that's my baby," I chuckled. Felice rolled his eyes. Checking my watch, I noticed the other part of our group had about 30 seconds.

"Shelby, Shelby, come in! We're ready, over!"

"10-4," I responded, turning the steering wheel to get the car pointed towards the road-- as we were pulled off to the side. "Right then, we're oscar-mike. Shelby out." I gently put my foot down on the pedal and got the monster rolling on the pavement. Gazing through my window showed that we had nothing but clear skies to our south, and nothing but empty blue showed itself in the west. "What a beautiful day," I nodded.

"Shit," my husband said while fishing through his pockets. "That's the last of my cigarettes!" I shrugged, pointing to my uniform's pen holder, which was currently holding three or four stogies.

I cleared my throat. "Take one of those. And use a match, not a lighter, or you'll kill the flavor. Matchbox in the glove." He did so, lighting up and rolling down the manual window. "Babe, you mind gettin' me one?" He nodded, silently passing over the one he had just ignited and grabbing a second one from my pocket. I stuck the thin cigar between my teeth and took a quick puff. "Much obliged." I shifted into second gear and got us going to a decent speed, doing roughly 60, with the RV keeping about fifteen feet close. "How far do you think we'll get? College Station's not far to our north, that's where Darwin lives."

"In just the daylight hours?" He asked. "I imagine we could get there in the next hour or two at this speed. Gotta save gas, after all. Sometimes, though, I really think you oughtta dump this old guzzler."

"Nah," I said, shaking my head. "All it takes is an EMP to destroy these fancy new automatic cars. This baby?" I patted the dash. "It would take a nuclear war to break her!"

Felice had his arms crossed, clearly doubting the power of my beautiful piece of machinery. "Besides," I muttered. "Since I stripped out some of the unnecessary weight, I imagine she gets better mileage. Maybe like... 15..." That only my husband laugh at me like I was a bumbling fool.

The next few minutes were a bit silent, with Felice keeping his paw on my thigh the whole way. In fact, I could swear that every minute or so, that devious little hand of his went about an inch higher, as if he thought I wouldn't know it. Just thinking about it was getting me aroused without much effort.

We were on the road for maybe another five minutes. When I glanced down out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that my dear husband now had that wandering paw of his just a few inches my crotch. I quirked an eyebrow in his direction, and all I got in return was a slow, sly grin. "You could at least wait until we stop," I mused.

Felice nodded, shrugging a little. "I could," he flirted. "But I don't think I will." I could feel my slick member starting to roll out of its sheath, firmly pressing against my uniform pants.

"You're distracting the driver," I said, smirking. I caught a little bit of glare from the sun and reached into the center console to grab my aviators, flicking them open and gently setting them on my muzzle. My husband just grinned wider, his huge tusks now starting to seem less out of place.

"Maybe," he moaned, slow and sensual, making sure to draw out that "a". His paw kept groping and grabbing, and he continued, "Maybe I wanna distract the driva. Gimme a little excitement, thinkin' how much of a daredevil I bein'." Atrocious English again. That there tells me he's so horny he just doesn't care what he says. Dirty little dog.

Since it was my right cheek facing him, that right cheek all covered in scars and completely immobilized, I couldn't really show him a decent snarl without turning my head, and that would mean taking my eyes off the road. Quite a check. Instead, I took my right paw off of the gear shift and gripped his left. "See, I'd love to, babe, but I've got standards."

My darling hairless husband leaned up, put his lips by my ear and whispered, "Fuck your standards, fuck you, and fuck me." I nodded my head some, clicking my tongue. That paw went straight for my crotch again. Soon, Felice was reaching his hand straight down my pants and I could feel his padded digits gripping around my now completely erect, ten-inch member, getting a feel for it and letting the warmth soak into his hand.

I couldn't even focus. I almost missed a gear in the worst way possible, and I could feel the box grinding. "Okay, okay," I said, reaching my hand down to stop his. "Babe, seriously, stop." He sat up, crossing his arms, pursing his lips as if he was about to pout.

"Fine," he mumbled.

I lifted the receiver for the CB radio, saying, "Winnebago, this is Shelby, we've got about 40 miles or so before I've gotta refuel, over."

The response was nearly instant, and it was in Derick's voice. "Shelby, we copy. We gotta refuel soon, too, so you're fine. Just worried we're gonna end up being on foot is all. Out."

I shrugged, clicking my tongue. "Sucks to say it, but with all the gas in the world going bad, eventually we're gonna have to start finding new vehicles, cars that can handle flex-fuel..." Felice chuckled as if he was victorious, and I nudged his upper left arm firmly. He returned the favor, and as did I, with significantly more strength. My husband then "gave up", rubbing the spot where I had punched him and pretending to pout. "Not fuckin' funny," I mumbled.

The next forty or so miles were a bit boring. Felice had fallen asleep at about the fifth mile out of the forty, and that left me alone in the silence with a stonking hard-on and my nightmarish thoughts. I did my best to fill the void in my mind by trying to think back to a happier time-- my late twenties. Back when I was finally becoming an independent adult-- a mature adult. I remember, the first day I got out of basic, after they assigned me to Fort Campbell with the 101st Airborne, I took a week of leave just to fly back to Houston. I had a new-found power, a new level of confidence that far surpassed my feeble, meek, nervous childhood and teenage days. I landed in town, and took a cab to Rosenberg, a town that I had been dragged to when my mother remarried. I hated that damn town; always found it to be cancerous and diseased with every imaginable plague.

I remember going home, just walking right through the front door. My mother was preparing some thiki masala-- my favorite, and she didn't even know I was home. The moment she saw me, she dropped the glass of water she was just taking a sip out of, and it shattered on the floor at her feet.

In a split second, I was able to analyze every detail about her, something the Army had instilled in me. New wrinkles, stress lines around her forehead. More grey hair-- it depressed me to see her with more grey than when I left. She had a new, faint set of scars, four little dots on her muzzle. Had to have been from where that bastard grabbed her.

My step-father must've heard the commotion, because he came running into the kitchen. He always pretended like he cared about her, but the whole family knew better. At least he treated her better than he treated me.

Robert, the bastard Bengal tiger who married my mother, stood six feet tall, even, and was decently muscular and well built. He had a bit of blubber than made it look like he drank a little too much beer-- "a little" being a gross understatement. His eyes were blue, but not like mine. His were icy, cold and harsh, and they gave an air of sinister hate, particularly for me and my kind.

This man had pressured my mother into marrying him. He had money, and he saw Rivka as more beautiful than any canid he'd seen before. Grabby hands, I'd say. They were married when I was 8, and at that point, I might as well have said goodbye to a decent childhood; and I did.

My step-father and I squared off, standing toe to toe, each of us in the other's face. When I was inducted into the Army, I was small-- a mere five feet six inches and one hundred twenty pounds. In the fourteen weeks of basic, I had my last growth spurt and shot up four inches and gained sixty or so pounds, most of this being in muscle and absolute strength. To this day, I still support the military for giving me the power to destroy my enemies, both foreign and domestic.

Robert was suddenly so much smaller to me. Not shorter, but... smaller. He looked weak. He had never had a proper workout routine and never served. Still, he had a lot of guts, just the wrong kind. "You got some kinda balls, showing your puny l'il ass 'round here, faggot." I didn't even respond in kind. I simply raised my left hand, already balled into a fist, and threw it with all my fucking might. He was completely unprepared. No one had ever put him in place. What audacity!! It was unthinkable, absolutely unthinkable, that an inferior species would DARE raise a hand against a mighty tiger!

He should've known better.

Curling up and doing his best to lift himself, Robert touched his fingers to his right cheek. I didn't let him up. Instead, I squarely booted him in the ribs, and he collapsed flat on his belly. I knelt down, turning him over. I could feel the piercing eyes of my brothers and mother over my shoulders as they all stood in shock. Blowing a few pitch black locks out of my face, I brought my right fist and slammed it into the bridge of his muzzle. I could feel bone and cartilage snapping, and blood flooded out of his nostrils. I kept whaling on him, blow after blow. With one paw, I gripped his throat half-way around, digging my claws into the sides of his neck. With my left hand, I took my claws, pressed them at the top of his right cheek, just under his eye socket, and slashed all five dagger-sharp nails down his face, each one piercing his cheek muscles and fat layers.

I gained my composure, standing before this now broken man, his face completely pulverized, and for once in my life, I felt a sense of true victory, as I had finally returned the favor I swore I would. "I told you, you piece of shit. I told you, one day, I would come back, and on that day, you would wish you had never come near my damn mother. That on that day, you would wish you had never been born. Robert still wasn't done, though.

This tiger was trying to pick himself up, trying to have the last word, but I decided I was through with him. I kicked him the the chest, kept my foot there, and bent at the knee, wrestling his pants off of his hips while he lay there. With one claw, I decided I would take from him what he didn't deserve.

The screams that day were music to my ears. Never before would I have dreamed of completely castrating a man, but for Robert, I would make an exception.

Those screams, shrieks of pain and horror and shock, kept echoing in my mind, and I could feel a grin etching itself across my face.

That "man" eventually bled out on the kitchen floor. Never before have I felt such satisfaction in knowing that a person was dead, especially in such a painful way. That phrase? Ya know, that one that goes "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy"? That saying didn't apply to a despicable piece of shit like Robert.

I blink a few times, hearing a voice nagging in my mind. Not my own, no. Glancing over, I can tell my husband's been trying to get my attention. "Are you even listening?"

His face was all askew, his brows furrowed, like he was mildly annoyed with me. I shrugged a little. "Nah... Sorry, babe. Was reminiscing something," was my simple reply. He scoffed, leaning back in the seat.

"I was looking at the map earlier," he started. "We're almost to the rest stop. Was wantin' to know if you'd be interested in, ya know..." There was a brief pause, while Felice gently bit his lower lip. "Finishing up, maybe?"

I quirked an eyebrow, trying to keep down a smirk. "Seriously? Finish up what, you molesting me?"

"Oh," he breathed, folding his arms behind his head. "Don't pretend you didn't like it." The dirty little Crestie was clearly enjoying himself, and acted as if he knew just what I wanted.

"Sure," I admitted. I mean, come on. When your husband's stroking you, driving or not, there's no way you don't enjoy it. "But I think someone was flirting with death and not me..." I glanced over at him, poking my tongue out. To that, Fel rolled his eyes and started mumbling. Who's the victorious one now?

Looking ahead, I saw an empty parking lot with a strip mall. Bunch of hole-in-the-wall stores, even a bakery and a taco joint. I put on my blinker and took a left into the lot, and our tail was quick to follow.

I parked right by the curb, pulling the brake up and shutting off the engine. Felice and I opened up our separate doors. When I got out of the Shelby, I had to take a moment just to stretch all those sore knots of muscle out of my back and legs. Glancing back, I saw Felice doing the same. Had to take a moment just to admire those smooth, damn-near perfect curves, the way his hips rounded off at the perfect angles and how his spine bent just the right way to show off exactly how plump he really was. Suffice it to say, Felice had quite the feminine form. It suited him, and boy did it suit me. A man with some curves just gives me more to grab onto when I'm bending them over.

My husband must've got me ogling-- mostly because I wanted him too-- and just to give me a show, he swished his tail some, swinging that curly little pom-pom on the end. All that, just to flex and show me how capable he really was. I licked the left side of my lips and hopped up to slide right over the hood of my baby to grab my other baby around the waist from behind. I felt his bare pads brushing against my bushy, unkempt coat while I rested my muzzle on his right shoulder, opting to show him the good side of my face. He always said he liked those scars, but I never did. Never.

"We oughta get to clearing out these stores, see what we could find. Who knows, there might even be some stuff to make fajitas." I sensually whispered in his ear with a soothing Southern drawl, "And don't think I'm just gonna let you slide by, teasin' lil ol' me and not get punished none." To that, the curvy canine bit his bottom lip, showing me a little twinkle in his eye.

Painful and difficult as it was, I reluctantly released my lover. In less than two or three seconds, I was face to face with my giant quarter-horse friend Mack. His duster was arguably a bit short for him, but I still thought it suited him. And yet, I also thought that someone of my height could pull off the full length, letting it almost touch the ground. I held out my left paw out of habit, and Mack took it in his and shook with me. "Good catch," he mused, winking at me. I nodded, glancing over at Felice.

"Couldn't be happier," I replied, before walking past him with my revolver out. The door I approached was one to a dentist's office. It opened with ease, and what I saw inside made me think as though the office had remained untouched by the undead scourge or their living counterparts. I motioned for the rest of the group to follow me. Mack whispered to me that he told Lucy to stay back in the camper with a shotgun pointed at the door. I nodded and pointed down the hall, past the reception wing, to a set of double doors. "Check those doors. Covering you." The horse nodded and moved towards the door, his AR-15 pointed squarely at the glass. He gently pushed it open, and the entire hallway looked empty. "Jesus," I breathed. "Guess no one wanted to show up for work, huh?" Mack and Fel shrugged, and Dereck gave a call from the other side of the clinic. Bruce and Bridgett were on it quickly as could be.

"Someone's been here," the otter mumbled, just as the rest of us were catching up. He noticed something we hadn't-- loose dirt all over the carpet. Come to think of it, as I looked around, I began noticing that the potted plants were all fresh, clean, well-watered and fed. There were several white stains on the carpet all over the lobby, and just one of the chairs was out of place.

Bruce got down on all fours, setting his .300 Winchester hunting rifle beside him. He sniffed softly at the ground, and looked up at Mack. "Feline. Definitely domestic, possibly Arabian. Fresh, too." His accent wasn't much different from my husband's, save that it had a slightly gruffer tone. Ironic, for an American bulldog. Then again, I've known plenty of English ones with impeccable accents of all different types, so who's the racist one now?

Bruce got up, slung his rifle over his back, and poked Bridgett. "And 'das where you come in ta play, sweetcheeks. I dun talk to cats all too well, you're just an exception cuz you don't never talk."

"Nobody said you'd have to talk to whoever's here, ya nutless mutt." That's my husband for you. Bruce was flabbergasted and Bridgett blushed, avoiding eye contact for a few seconds before looking up only to catch Felice slyly winking at her. I nudged him and he gave me an inaudible "What??"

Dereck shoved his way past Bruce, taking the lead with his Remington shotgun shouldered. "Bunch of fucking assholes, all of you. Can't believe I ever stayed." He stopped when we came to a hallway that had four doorless rooms, two on either side. I pointed at Mack and Bruce, motioning for them to check the room to our close right. I pointed at Bridgett and Dereck, and moved them to the far right. Felice took initiative and went for the close left, and so I naturally took the last available room. The word "Clear!" came from the other rooms, but not mine. I couldn't say that given what I had walked in on.

Of course, given my terrible luck, I came upon a body strapped to an examining bed, a tarp covering it. It started thrashing when it heard sounds, and the voice it made... Scratchy, hoarse and dry.

I unsheathed my knife, shoving everyone else to the side. Holding down the reanimated corpse, I sank the blade through what felt like its eye socket, making a sticky squelching sound. I turned around, facing the rest of the group after wiping the blood onto the tarp and putting my knife away. "We've got to find whoever's here." Bruce and Mack nodded in agreement, but my husband just... rolled his eyes again.

"Do we really need to bring one more person along?" he asked in an almost childish, whining tone. He took me aside, whispering to me. "It's just one more mouth to feed and one more person to trust." I put my paw on his shoulder, looking him the eye with a certain ferocity while tightening my hand.

"Life is precious, Felice." I could almost feel him beginning to quiver, like I was staring into the remains of his soul. "Just remember that the next time you try to put someone in their place, because all you're doing is going out of line yourself. You," I growled, wagging a finger in his face, "Are no saint. You can't judge these people when you've done nothing but betray people, myself included. Don't think I'll ever forget what you did with my friend, because I will never, ever let it go." I released my grip of his arm and looked past him, towards the hallway. "Let's go."