FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

*CONTENT WARNING: * This story contains depictions of violence, murder and horror themes throughout. Viewer Discretion is advised.

His fingers were cold over the top of the crimson blossom in his shirt--worse yet, they were getting colder. Cyril's digits drove further into the wound, causing his vision to flash white-hot with agony as the bullet shifted somewhere against his ribs. A strangled wheeze escaped his throat, it was as quiet as he could force himself to be in the defining darkness of these tunnels.

His footsteps were the only company he wanted--there couldn't have been anyone else in this damned maze. Airguns were quieter than their bellowing counterparts, certainly, but even they made considerable noise.

Any sound he made would drag that damned beast closer to him even faster than a candle. Blessedly, Cyril had always been light on his feet! But the scent now... the heady copper stench was mixing in with the oxidizing steel, breaking through the underground mildew. He was--

No, he ordered himself, locking his jaw and blinking away tears of agony. He stumbled into one wall, only to shuffle into the opposite as he discovered another suffocating corridor. Lily needs me. Charles needs me. He... he can't grow up without a father. He continued to growl at himself.

He hobbled forward, ricocheting between the walls in this damnably narrow dark. There were always bulkheads at the end of these hallways. Always! He just needed to get to one.

Groping through the solid black, he nearly yelped with joy when he felt the smooth texture of steel. Quaking paws gripped the ring, and he tested it with his good shoulder. A sob crawled out of his throat only to be choked out by the necessity of stealth; the bulkhead wasn't locked, and gave way.

Cyril pitched forward through the hatch, his jaw locked against the white hot agony in his right side. Had he screamed alongside the squeal of the unoiled hinges? It felt like a stupid question--but it distracted him just enough.

Adrenaline throbbed in his temples as the Feline reached up to the searing stab. Even the lightest touch ignited a flare of pain that crawled around his shoulder blade, and down his leg. His elbow clamped down atop his left paw as he tried to apply enough pressure to stop the bleeding. He forced himself away from the hatch, leaving a bloody mark as he left.

The hallway opened in front of him into a sickening tube of sour, yellow lights. The far end held a ladder that would take him up; he only needed to reach it. Six shots, Cyril had counted. He was grateful for the leftover reflex from his service to the Crown; but that was years ago. Luck and a poor shot had saved him from the first bevy. Revolver. Had to be.

The Feline limped through the wasp-like droning of the lights as fast as his legs would carry him. Pain rendered one of them all but useless, but he shuffled forward leaving dots of crimson on the ground. He had to think--shot or not--panic was the real nemesis in the underground. Neither light or Natural Law would ever see the bowels of this dam.

He tried to map out the understructure as well as he could in his head, but the images wouldn't come to him. He'd not worked here long enough to justify memorizing all of the nitpicking things from--

Cyril froze, his senses dilating at the gentle noise. The slow creak of a beast trying to open the hatch he'd just closed. He pitched forward, shoving himself off of one of the walls with enough force to bounce off of it's opposite. The effort didn't mean much in such a narrow hallway.

A spasm beneath his palm forced a cough from his lung, as well as a spattering of blood that was far too dark to be healthy. He stared for only a moment in horror at the red splotch on the back of his paw. It caught the dancing lights, but stayed steady in his fur. It was already heavy with clot.

The blood was dark red... that meant oxygen rich. He was lung shot.

Cyril clawed his way to the ladder. His breath came in ragged droves now: his palm laid flat against the wound to force an airtight seal.

Eight meters to the ladder hatch.

Six.

Three.

The ladder stood, bathed in rays of natural light that brought a choking sob of relief up the back of Cyril's throat. He'd made it! It was the one thing that separated him from the surface--from help! But it required both paws. His whiskers twitched, and tail curled in irritation at the thought. If he wouldn't bleed out on the way, he would most certainly be able to get help. No--not could--would.

He had to. He_would_ survive long enough to find out which beast had shot him.

"Forty-three rungs," he flinched. "Then a call for help gets someone to pull you up the last seven." he instructed himself. He forced his left leg and extra rung upward--starting himself at two.

His jaw locked, but this was the only way forward. At least the only way without facing down a beast with an air gun and an itchy trigger finger. Cyril forced his mind toward thoughts of the folks waiting for him; on his wife, Lily--on their son, Charles. Her smile. His laugh. The gentleness of her touch. The toddles of his first steps.

Ten rungs up now. The faintest of sounds could be heard from above--eleven. Cyril faltered--his right foot slipping on one of the rungs. He caught himself, only to stare down at the blood between his toes now. He had to hurry.

Fourteen rungs.

He missed the scent of the blueberry pie she cooked. The warmth of the sickly sweet berries and whatever other spices she'd used; Cyril hadn't ever been sure. He could almost taste it now; her tuna casserole, those_revolting_ little crab and mayonnaise cakes that his mother-in-law loved so much. Ragoon? Rangun? More for her.

Halfway there.

Everything he wanted out of life was only 24 rungs and surgery away. Charles' graduation. His first lady friend--Hells, a lad-friend if the trade would let Cyril live to see it. Their first child. What would they be like? Would they be as driven to colors as Charles is? Would they have another scientist, or sailor? Perhaps both of them, artists?

Natural light caressed Cyril's paw; he'd made it! Top rung.

Now, all that was left was to shove the ladder cover off the top. He'd be free.

Cyril locked his jaw at the dull roar in his side, hooking an arm around one of the ladder spokes as he tried to shove upward with his full weight. "Below!" he yelled, hoping somebeast above him would hear. "Below! Someone's been shot!"

There wasn't any response. Cyril could hear motion just above him too; it made his shouts even more maddening that nobeast was trying to help him! "For the love of the gods, Below!" he yelled again.

He adjusted his footing--

--and slipped, howling as he careened backward down the ladder. He expected to hear the snap of bone as he landed--or for the world to cut to black. There was only one. He laid on his side now, curling involuntarily despite the creaks of shattered bone. The telltale groan of hinges told him the hatch was open again. Cyril didn't have it in him to face his executioner.

"Mother of gods, get help!" a voice cried. Cyril's chin tilted in the voice's direction. He rolled as quickly as he could toward a trio of beasts--two broke away from where he laid to go assist others. The third, a doctor whom Cyril recognized, was by his side in only a moment. "What happened?" the beast demanded.

Cyril tried to look up at the gent's features; it was an Otter. Cyril knew him. Kendall Whitaker, in fact. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but words wouldn't form. Clouding blackness was forming at the edges of his vision now; he knew it wouldn't be long.

His shaking paw was an ineffective wall against the blood, even with Whitaker's assistance. He drew in long, ragged breaths--trying his best to focus on the things that were waiting on him. On Lily. On Charles. On the ocean breeze. On the cold pressure against his leg...

He felt it now, and he used what little strength he could to try and force himself away--even if that was further into the arms of the Professor's inept cooing. The sensation of that thing--that_predator--_was crawling up his leg now. He could feel its stances. It was down on all fours, unseen by all, even though Cyril was certain it was leaving an imprint on his legs. His eyes flittered and darted around, squinting through the sour orange light, and the quieting buzz.

It spoke.

Nothing so clear as words--but instead sensations, forced into the shape of something Cyril could understand. Those memories of the sand between his toes, or the gentle caress of Lily's lips against his own... They would stay with him. He wouldn't simply move into that blissful oblivion, or any cycles of rebirth--whatever the Congregate had discovered.

His soul and all of its memories would never leave these ravenous, clutching shadows.

He would share everything with the Watcher, forever.