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This Forsaken World

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Ten: Criminal

“Well, this is an interesting sensation!” Grey remarks.

“We’ll be out of here in no time!” Monica chirps, glancing over at her lover.

“Oh, I’m sure! This was such a good idea you had, leaving the road to wander through miles of swamp.” He teases.

“Shut up, furless.” She giggles. “We only have so much food, and this is the most direct route. We’ll be fine, babe!”

The pale-skinned human man and the rust and cream-colored, canine Voeldahn woman share a gaze. He nods his head, carrying on with the trek without further mockery, however lighthearted it may be. They wade through waist deep water, keeping their eyes peeled for alligators. Walking beside Monica, Grey uses a stick to poke the ground before them, while Monica keeps her Cobray CM-11 carbine rifle close to her chest, the safety off and her finger on the trigger. She looks to Grey several times as they journey through the swamp, a smile spreading across her lips.

He’d shown his love to her many times before, but the most recent gesture means the most. Following the road, Grey was guided by the voice, but Monica saw how far each town was on their maps, and how limited their supplies are. With few game around them to hunt, and neither of them adequate trappers, she urged him to leave the road and move through the swampland. Out of his love for her, Grey conceded; they abandoned the road, which they were traversing several days earlier. To their delight, they’ve been making excellent time taking Monica’s route, and soon they’ll be through the shortest portion of the swamp and near another town.

Finding a moderate sand bank, the pair pull themselves from the fetid water and the rancid muck, resting on the driest ground they’ve seen in hours. Typically, they camp later in the day, but as the afternoon sun dips toward the horizon, they decide to stop early. This will give them time for their clothes to dry, and allow Grey the opportunity to find adequate firewood, lest they be haunted by the frigid night air. Setting her pack and rifle down, Monica pulls her boots from her digitigrade feet. She sniffs the putrid water that pours out, contorting her face in disgust and turning her head away, before noticing her own body odor as her snout turns toward her armpit.

“Ugh, the first thing we need when we get out of here is to find some clean water.” She remarks.

“Yeah. I’m not looking forward to boiling up this mess.” Grey remarks, glancing toward the swamp water.

“I wasn’t talking about that.”

“Oh?” He steps closer to her.

“The smell doesn’t bother you?” She asks, shying away in an adorable manner.

“No.” He says with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I like the way you stink.”

Giving her a tender kiss, Grey nuzzles her cheek. Monica rests her clawed hands over his forearms, holding onto him. He kisses her cheek and neck, again and again.

“You fucking liar.” She grins.

“I’d never lie to you, Precious.” He coos.

“Neither will I.” She speaks softly.

Reaching back and resting a hand upon his face, she strokes his skin for a moment. Lifting her arms high, she turns around in his grasp, facing her body toward his. Pressing her breasts against his chest, she throws her arms around his neck, her bushy tail swaying delightfully behind her perfect buttocks. Grey and Monica lean in, kissing each other with considerable passion. With jaws opened, their tongues caress, playfully wrestling with each other. Ending the kisses, they share a long and loving gaze.

“I like the way you stink too.” She coos.

Nuzzling his face with her snout, they exchange affection for a few more minutes, both of them growing aroused. However, Monica pauses, stepping back from Grey. With a pained look on her face, she holds up a hand. It’s a gesture he knows well.

“Are you okay, Precious?”

“Just feeling a little sick. I’ll be alright.”

“Doesn’t that usually happen in the mornings?” He raises a brow.

“Usually, but it sometimes happens in the afternoon too... Just think. In less than eight month this will all be over.” She says, taking methodical breaths as she leans against a tree.

“And then a lifetime of fun! Yay!” Grey teases.

“Hey, you signed up for this when you got me pregnant.” She grumbles.

“It was a joint agreement, Precious, and I was just being silly.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Your sense of humor is cut short when you feel like vomiting half the day.”

“Relax, Precious. I’ll make camp and do all the work... Again.” He smiles, resting a hand gently against her back.

“Where would I be without you?” Monica grins from cheek to cheek.

Leaning in, Grey kisses her head. Disrobing and hanging all but their underclothes to dry, Grey carefully builds a campfire and a simple lean-to shelter. In only panties and a bra, Monica sits atop her bedroll, placed on a platform of old wood that Grey built for them. With a leg outstretched and the other brought close to her chest, her arms wrapped around it, she watches as the human gathers supplies and cooks their food. How attentive he is to her needs and the needs of their unborn child always warm her heart; she’s never had a love like this in her entire life.

After the sun sets, Grey and Monica spend their night cuddling, as much to enjoy each other as it is to fend off the cold; there wasn’t much useable firewood around, and so the flames are low. The next morning, Monica waits for her morning sickness to pass before they eat their breakfast of old canned food and continue their journey. Hours of walking leads them to a shoreline. Climbing from the muck, they find themselves on a large parcel of actual land; it’s not the glorified sand bar they slept on yesterday. With a spring in their step, they walk through what looks like a once functioning farm, heading south by way of the sun.

“Do you think we’re out of the swamps now?” She turns to Grey.

“Not yet.” He says, looking through an old, topographical map. “Judging from the size and our walking speed, I’d say we’re about half-way through.”

“Damn... Should’ve picked a thinner spot.” She sighs.

“There wasn’t one, Precious.” He says as he returns the map to his military butt pack. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Slipping an arm around her waist, Grey leans in and kisses her cheek. Monica grins, her silver eyes watching her lover intently.

“I love you, furless. I really do.”

“And I love you too, Precious.”

BANG! The couple both jump at the sudden noise. Spinning around, a Voeldahn man aims a double-barreled shotgun at them.

“Get off my land!” He shouts in an almost incomprehensible southern drawl.

BANG! He fires another round, but no one is hit. Acting on impulse, Monica brings her rifle to her shoulder and swiftly fires twice. The man falls back, writhing on the ground in his filthy jean coveralls.

“Oh, ugh, my land...” He groans.

Lying lifeless, the couple stare at his body.

“Shit... We’d better go.” Grey urges.

The couple carry on, jogging away from the scene. Voices in the distance draw their attention. Men shout at the sight of the corpse that Monica and Grey left behind. Cracks and pops of gunfire erupt around the couple as they race behind a large willow tree for cover. Drawing his pistol, Grey leans around the tree and counts the various figures that swarm the body. Outnumbered three-to-one, every person around the man’s corpse is armed with some form of rifle or pistol, while two aim their firearms in their direction.

“Oh no... He’s dead!” A young man’s voice exclaims.

Seeing Grey’s head, one of the swamp people takes aim and fires, the round chipping the soft wood of the willow tree as the human retreats around the bark. Swiftly scanning the terrain, Grey sees a portion of land that returns to the water. A small dock catches his eye, roughly one hundred meters away. A tiny row boat with a shallow draft sits alongside the dock, tied to a wooden log that acts as a support beam. Turning toward Monica, Grey motions toward the dock, which he brings to her attention. They silently agree to steal the boat and make their escape.

“Damnit Cletus! What’chu’ doin’ boy?!”

“I seen one! They’z here!” A teenage kid replies.

“What?! Well, get ‘em boys!”

Before Monica and Grey can slip away to the next tree, the boy opens fire with a twenty-two rifle, while another fires a twenty-gauge, single-shot shotgun. Two more fire old revolvers, creating a barrage of hot lead and copper. As the man with the shotgun and the teen stop to reload, causing a lull in the gunfire, Grey takes a chance.

“Wait! Stop shooting!” He shouts.

“Hold up!” The leader instructs.

The others swiftly obey, taking the time to reload their weapons in preparation. Monica seems hesitant to run, looking to Grey and then holding up her rifle. It’s clear to him that she wants to simply kill them all, but Grey has other plans.

“Well?!” The leader impatiently calls out.

“Can we talk about this?!” Grey asks.

“Ain’t nuthin’ to talk about! Y’all killed Rictus!”

“... Rictus?” Monica murmurs.

“That was a mistake!” Grey replies.

“How can murder be a mistake?!”

“He started shooting at us first!” Monica yells.

“We reacted; we didn’t know this was anyone’s land!” Grey shouts.

“Considering it’s all water and muck...” Monica snickers.

“We didn’t see a fence and he never came out and talked to us! Hell, he shot at us when our backs were turned, without us ever seeing him!”

“Them’s was blanks!” The teenage boy shouts, his voice cracking.

“That’s how Rictus scares people off!” The leader adds.

“Are you fuh-?! That’s a really stupid way to warn people!” Monica growls.

“Had he just come out and yelled at us to leave, we would’ve! We aren’t looking to stay!” Grey continues.

“... Fer real?!” The leader asks.

“Yes!” Grey rolls his eyes at their idiocy. “We just want to pass through! We’re not out to hurt anyone!”

“Well... Maybe it was all a big misunderstandin’! ... But Rictus is still dead and we needs yer blood fer that!” The leader shouts.

“Tell ‘em, Cleon!”

Without uttering another word, the half-dozen men and boys open fire. Spreading out so that they can get better shots, Monica and Grey prepare themselves. Two men come into view on Monica’s side. She doesn’t hesitate, firing six shots, three of which strike a man in the chest, stomach and leg. He drops into the dirt, writhing and coughing up blood. One round blasts through the side of a teenage boy, ripping into his heart and killing him, while two rounds miss entirely. Grey takes aim with his two-tone Bersa Thunder 9 Pro pistol, firing five rounds as fast as Monica. Two strike the boy who’d seen him, a round plowing through an eye and killing him, while his others miss, though his target flees. With two dead and one dying, the other three panic.

“Shit, Flavus! They got ‘em! They got Tumor, Rictus, Patsy and Cleon!” A young boy yells

“This ain’t over yet!”

Taking cover behind a tree, Flavus blows a whistle that hangs around his neck. With a series of five blows, some short and some long, he signals others. Taking up their weapons, along with the few that they can reach without being shot by the couple, the swamp people open fire on Monica and Grey yet again, keeping them trapped behind the tree. With a lull in the firing, Grey and Monica lean out from behind their cover, seeing at least another six emerging from a field. Perhaps their house is there? Monica fires over and over again, aiming at a boy who kneels beside a thin tree, trying to hide from Grey.

He’s struck several times and killed, while Flavus attempts to retreat, only for Grey to shoot him twice in the back. The final attacker races for his friends, firing wildly behind him and without even looking. Taking careful aim, Monica puts a bullet into his spine, dropping him like a rock.

“Damn! This is turning into a redneck rampage!” Monica remarks.

“This is probably our best shot! What do you want to do?!” Grey turns to her, swapping magazines.

“Let’s go!”

Taking the lead, she races from behind the tree and toward the dock. Grey covers her, hopping backward as he shoots his pistol at the approaching group. Seeing the seven corpses doesn’t deter them; they race toward the group even as Grey’s bullets fly past them. His motion and their distance makes them difficult to hit, though he only wanted to buy them time. Realizing that they aren’t phased in the slightest, Grey reloads again and sprints as fast as he can to catch up to his lover. Reaching Monica at the docks, she uses a knife to cut the anchoring rope. Several of the swamp people begin firing at them, though they’re still some distance away.

“Get in and row!” Monica yells as the bullets fly by. “I’ll cover us while we-”

Monica suddenly flops into the boat.

“NO!” Grey shouts.

Jumping into the craft, it bobs in the water as it slowly drifts from the dock. He kneels on the floor, looking down at Monica, who lay flat on her face, unmoving except to shift with the little boat. Blood pools around her, running toward his knees. Grey drops his gun, his eyes welling up as he grabs his head with both hands. Now unconcerned with his own safety, his focus is entirely stolen by his lover. Taking her into his arms, her head slumps forward, rolling on her neck as if it were full of ball bearings. Turning her over, he can see an exit wound above her left eye, both of which are open and slightly bulging from her skull, a result of neutralizing the vacuum pressure.

Struck in the head by one of the swamp people’s bullet, it’s a most unlucky shot for the couple. Cradling her body, Grey begins to cry as Monica stares lifelessly into the sky.

“God no... Please... Don’t go...” He whimpers.

The bullets continue to fly, one of them grazing his back and tearing a chunk out of his grey denim vest. Brought back to reality, Grey’s sorrow is surpassed only by his anger. Setting her body gently onto the floor of the boat, Grey picks up her rifle, one side coated in her blood. Taking aim, he fires round after round, killing two more swamp people, and injuring several more. When the carbine rifle’s magazine runs dry, he tosses the rifle toward the front of the boat, finds his pistol and keeps firing. With only two uninjured men left, nine dead and the rest wounded, they finally retreat.

By now, the subtle current has pulled him nearly sixty feet from the dock. Dropping his pistol for a second time, Grey slumps back into the boat, crying like a child as he lay on his side, staring at Monica’s corpse. Eventually, he finds the strength to sit up, cradling her in his lap and stroking her. Speaking softly, he tells her several times how much he loves her and how sorry he is. The boat drifts for several hours, lumbering along in an obvious river and gently bouncing off of corners and pieces of floating debris; Grey never attempts to steer the craft, leaving it’s oars untouched on the floor.

By early afternoon, the boat comes to a halt against a sharp turn. Having collected himself as much as he could through his grief, Grey ties the boat to a tree jutting from the swamp, before pulling Monica from the craft; he leaves her pack, rifle, and his pistol behind. Carrying her inland, he quickly finds a willow similar to the one they’d hidden behind. Setting her body down, Grey starts to dig, pulling at the soil with his bare hands. He grits his teeth through the pain in his heart as thunderclaps echo in the distance. Freezing solid, he takes a shaky breath and turns his eyes toward the sky.

“Why am I being punished like this?!” He demands, his tears streaming down his face. “What did I ever do besides try and listen to you?! I did the best I could, even if I sometimes wasn’t good enough... Doesn’t that count for something?! ... Are you punishing me for my past, before you spoke? ... Well, I’ve been atoning for that ever since this all started, and you know I feel guilty for each and every misdeed... ... Why won’t you answer me?!”

Collapsing onto the ground, he lay on his hands and knees as the rain starts to fall. He hasn’t ever felt such anguish. The cold droplets soak his clothes and turn the ground into oozing mud. Looking at his hands as they sink into the ground, a trickle of red catches his attention. Turning his head upward, he can see Monica, leaning against the tree where he’d left her. Her blood is washing from her back as the rain soaks her body, matting her fur and turning her hair stringy. The changes in her silver eyes, which he’s yet to close, burn into his memories.

Turning his head away from the horrific sight, he fervently digs. At some point, he finds both a rock and stick, using them to scoop away the mud until he’s created a hole nearly three feet deep and just tall enough. Returning to Monica’s body, he taps her nose, crying even harder when she doesn’t respond with her wonderful smile. Closing her eyelids, he leans in and kisses her forehead.

“I’m so sorry, Precious. It should’ve been me, not you.”

Dragging her as carefully as he can out of fear of hurting her, he sets her in the hole, positioning her as if she were sleeping. Feeling his strength waning, Grey rushes to push the mud over her body, covering her in a fraction of the time it took to dig the hole. He spends another hour collecting and stacking rocks, and using his knife to carve her name and a loving epitaph into the willow tree’s bark, all the while being soaked in the rainstorm. Sitting at the foot of her grave in the fetid mud, Grey trembles. He shakes not from the cold of the rain and the wind, but from the pain in his heart and the fear of being alone.

"Now you have someplace to rest...” He speaks to her grave. “I told you I'd find you one. I just wish... I just wish that I was with you.”

A grand thunderclap draws Grey’s eyes toward the sky. Looking up, he sees a massive streak of purple lightning. It seems to point at the farm where she died. It’s at that moment that Grey’s pain once again experiences a metamorphosis. With a rage so powerful that it cannot be comprehended, he rises to his feet and walks slowly back toward the boat. Climbing in, he sits in the rainstorm, casually loading Monica’s rifle and the magazines for his pistol, which he carefully holsters. Taking the oars from the floor of the boat, he begins to row, heading up the river and toward the place where Monica died.

“I know this isn’t what you want, and I know that you won’t guide my hands the way you’ve been...” Grey speaks as he rows, his eyes turned toward the sky. “And I don’t fucking care anymore...”

As the sun sets and the rain stops, Grey returns to the dock. No one is there waiting, nor are any bodies or weapons lying around. Everything has been collected. Even if a group of hundreds had been waiting for him, this wouldn’t have deterred him. Tying the boat down with the short rope that Monica had cut, he collects her rifle and begins the march. His stomach churns as he looks toward the old willow tree that had shielded them, one side riddled with bullets. Trudging along the path, he looks into the field where the other swamp people had come from, finding a massive house nestled in the center.

Walking toward the manor, which looks exceptionally old, he wonders how many he’ll kill before they finally stop him. Will they even? Perhaps he should fumble a reload when only a few are left standing? He traverses the field and walks around the house, which has all of its windows shuttered. He finds a large outhouse and a collapsing shed, but nothing else of interest. Returning to the front of the house, he stands beside the front door, preparing to kick it in. He hears a crying emanating from within, pausing to listen. Children weep for a lost father, and it nearly disarms Grey.

Closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, her remembers what Monica looked like as she lay dead in the boat. He remembers the child he’ll never have because they killed her, all over a stupid misunderstanding caused by an exceptionally dimwitted man. With his rage peaked once more, he faces the door. A swift kick near the handle catches everyone inside off guard. Nearly a dozen Voeldahn, mostly young women but with a few men and some young children, stand to their feet in a dining room. By the time they turn toward the foyer where Grey had entered, he stands in the archway and begins.

With Monica’s rifle brought to his shoulder, he fires over and over again. The rounds rip into the group as he sweeps from left to right. Body after body drops, many of them injured but still alive. Before he knows what’s happened, all thirty-three rounds have been fired and the rifle clicks empty. Stepping into the room, an old man cowering in the corner tries to tackle him, intending to stab him with a large bowie knife. Grey moves aside, slamming the metal buttstock into his head. The feeble grandfather lands with a thud, turning in time to watch Grey callously beat him to death.

As his brains spill out of his cracked skull and split flesh, Grey throws Monica’s rifle in a fit of rage. It strikes a body, which groans. Drawing his pistol, he takes aim and fires, shooting the teenage girl in the back of the head, the round exiting near her left eye. Moving from body to body, he shoots them all in the head, whether they’re alive or not. Finding three bodies lumped together, he takes aim. Bang! A round rips through Grey’s right side.

“Ow! You fucker!” Grey shouts.

Over and over, he fires into the bodies until his Bersa pistol locks back. Kicking a woman’s corpse over, he finds his assailant, a boy who’s most likely in his early teens. Taking the Uberti Peacemaker clone from the floor, he cocks the hammer and fires into the boy’s face. One, two, three, four, then five times, only for the hammer to fall on spent casings several times over. Dropping the empty revolver, Grey stumbles through the dining room, his hand clutching his right side. Leaning against the hardwood table, he slowly reloads his pistol before taking off his vest and his black hooded jacket.

His bloodstained purple t-shirt sticks to his body, peeling away like a second skin as he checks his wound. The bullet has plowed through the outermost layers, gouging his flesh. It couldn’t have struck anything vital, but he could potentially bleed out. Using his knife, he cuts squares of denim from his vest, destroying the garment. Tying his jacket around his waist and over the overlapping denim bandages, he grits his teeth through the pain. Taking his pistol, he wanders through the house, finding a fireplace with a crackling flame in it. Taking a chair, he lifts it up before slamming it into the floor, breaking off a leg.

Taking the leg, he ignites it, walking throughout the first floor of the house and setting it on fire. He could care less if anyone else is on the upper levels, hiding from him; he just needs to see it burn. Circling around and entering the room across from the dining hall, Grey hears a noise. Swiftly drawing his Bersa pistol, he aims his weapon toward the sound. There, in a corner, is an elderly woman, probably the wife of the man he’d bludgeoned to death earlier. She clings to two small children, so young that they’ll likely never remember him or this event. The silent, shivering boy hides his face while a little girl looks directly at him, her fretful whimpering drawing his attention.

The pitiful girl shares a fur coloration much like Monica’s. Her little silver eyes looking up at him with such fear. Staring down at her, Grey can swear he sees his reflection in her sterling orbs, frightened of the monster that stares back at him. Stepping back, he lowers his pistol.

“Please... Spare the children!” The old woman pleads.

“All this suffering... It’s terrible and crippling. The pain is more than physical, when we're all alone in this world. It’s downright criminal.” Grey speaks, resting his head against the wall.

The old woman cocks her head, a perplexed look on her face. Turning his eyes toward her, Grey takes a labored breath.

“They killed my woman, and our unborn child... They didn’t have to shoot, because we didn’t want to stay here... So worried about their precious land... Well, I made sure they’d never leave their land again!”

His volume as he suddenly shouts causes the old woman and the children to tremble. A flaming board lands in the now blazing dining room, drawing their attention. Slowly turning his head back to the old woman and the two children she holds, Grey pushes himself away from the wall. Stumbling from the room, he holsters his pistol as he leaves the three to live or die; neither matters to him. Windows shatter behind him as the flames swallow the manor, incinerating everything left inside. By the time he stumbles back to the little row boat, the roof collapses, effectively erasing the manor from existence.

Climbing into the boat, he unties the anchoring rope, pushes off and begins to row. His eyes well and his bottom lip quivers as he looks to the empty space where Monica should be. Shifting his vision toward the rising smoke of the manor, the image of the terrified girl flashes over his mind. It’s almost as horrifying an image as Monica’s opened eyes, staring lifelessly into the sky. Pulling the oars towards him, he loses his grip, falls back into the boat and begins to weep. The combined pain of what he’s lost and what he’s done envelopes him like a nightmarish fog.

“Oh, God... I’m so sorry.”