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The Lucky Ones Left - Chapter 1

CW: Strong language, Violence

The windswept dust blasts the paw held up in front of my face, white stained an ugly red by the oozing wound running down the back from my middle finger to about an inch past my wrist, which is wrapped tightly by my shirt. Even through my thick, white fur I feel the hellish new sun bearing down on me, quickly working away at the skin underneath. But precious shade is more scarce than ever, and I'm dizzy. So fucking dizzy. I'm not sure if it's the fact I haven't eaten in six days. Or that I haven't had water in two. Or that I'm still bleeding in spite of my makeshift tourniquet replacing pain with needles, and then nothing at all. The shelter of a tiny old sun-bleached farmhouse is welcome respite from the outside. I'm not thinking clearly as I fumble, fatigue-addled, with the lock.

Of course, it was locked because someone wanted me to stay out. Of course, they heard me picking the lock. Of course, they didn't like that very much. Of course, there's a shotgun in my face when I open the door. An ocelot begins to bark orders far louder than her small stature should allow.

"BACK THE FUCK OFF! WHO ARE YOU?!"

She's clearly terrified, but trying to hide it.

"SORRY! SORRY! I'M SORRY!"

My voice breaks as I spit out my frantic apology, partly because of the panic, but mostly because I'm starting to lose my voice. Hopefully from lack of water, rather than any sort of infection.

I stumble backwards off the porch and fall down the steps, landing on my tail and sending yet more adrenaline coursing through me, alongside a fresh shot of pain that runs up my spine. At least I'm not dizzy or tired anymore.

"GET THE FUCK-"

"AITANA!"

A panicked voice comes from upstairs, quickly followed by a somewhat scraggly male marten of similar persuasion.

"I'm alright, Eric!" The ocelot shouts in reply, sounding almost offended by the implication that she was not, in fact, alright. But she seems to notice now that I am not, in fact, alright, and her tone, while still authoritative, softens somewhat.

"OK, get up, and keep your paws where I can see them."

I oblige, slowly placing my feet under me and rising from the ground, eyes fixed on the muzzle of the shotgun. She notices this, and lowers it slightly. My eyes follow anyway.

"I can help you with your paw," she adds, softer now. "Come in the house, slowly."

"I-"

"I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise."

The ocelot lowers the shotgun all the way as if to prove she means it. I'm in no position to turn down her offer of assistance, genuine or not. So, I walk cautiously towards the house with my paws raised above my head.

The marten squeezes past her through the doorway when I'm back on the porch and begins to feel at my pockets and waistband for anything that I might use to harm them. Of course, he finds my bloodstained survival knife, which he holds up at me accusingly.

"Water," I say as if that's somehow a sane response.

But he just nods solemnly. He keeps the knife, though.

They guide me into the house and set me on a couch. It's a rather simple building, with a single room on the first floor. The kitchen is to the right, separated from the rest by a varnished wooden counter. Although there were certainly signs of wear, there had clearly been much effort put into making the space as well kept as was possible under the circumstances. Thick tarps cover the windows to keep out the worst of the sun, and an old standing fan buzzes away in the corner of the room, which is dimly lit by a single lightbulb which hangs from a makeshift fixture in the middle of the ceiling. Opposite the couch is the staircase, with a small closet under it, and to the left next to the front door is the entryway to what I assume is a bathroom.

Aitana ducks into the closet while Eric begins to inspect my paw.

"Ya got slashed pretty bad. Ya feelin' alright?"

"Yeah. Well... yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," I lied, not convincing anyone.

Physically, the adrenaline from having a shotgun leveled at my head is still doing wonders. Otherwise, not so much. I feel sick again. My paw got slashed badly, but the one who did it came off worse. The pleading and the crying and the choking play on loop in my head. They'd done nothing wrong, they needed that water as much as I did. But I was going to die, and they wouldn't share. Of course, when their friends came to investigate and chased me away it ultimately meant nothing but the end of yet another life. The marten looks at me skeptically, but doesn't pry further when that doesn't garner a response.

Aitana ducks back out of the closet with a bottle of water and a first aid kit.

"Alright, lay down and rest your arm up on the cushion, we want to keep your paw above your heart to slow the bleeding when we remove your shirt. I want to try to stitch it up."

Eric continues talking to me as Aitana begins to work at the tightly tied shirt, which is cemented in place with dried blood.

"What's your name, stranger?" His voice drips with fake sympathy.

"Eetu," I say flatly.

"Must be a rough time for an arctic fox, yeah?"

"I get by," I reply curtly. It's hard to tell through his monotone drawl, but now he sounds like he's actually pitying me. Given the circumstances I can't say I blame him, but I still don't like it.

And then the ocelot manages to untie my shirt. The wound doesn't bleed much more than it already was, but sensation shoots back up my arm and into my paw. The feeling of my nerves coming back to life alongside the pain of the wound is too much.

"GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH FFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

"Shit, uhhh, here, bite down on this."

Aitana hands me a large wooden dowel, and I take it with my uninjured paw and shove it into the back of my maw, biting down on it hard with my molars. It snaps immediately.

"MOTHER- FUCK- AHHH!"

I instinctively draw my right paw defensively towards my chest and cradle it with my left, but Eric grabs it and holds it high. I can move my arm but my paw is still largely unresponsive and dangles limply from the end of the limb.

"Above the heart, buddy. I know. You're gonna be OK."

His voice and face are distorted by the fog of tears and pain and hunger and adrenaline and dehydration and blood loss.

"Alright, Eetu, I'm going to wash the wound with these alcohol wipes now," Aitana says, trying to be reassuring.

I can only moan and whimper in response as I try not to scream again. She gently wipes at the wound, taking care not to cause more pain than she has to, although she rubs the wound several times, sending searing pain down my arm. Eric continues to try to keep my attention off of what she's doing, to minimal effect.

"So what happened?"

"Look, I-"

I feel the needle and I can't help it.

"AAAHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"Heyyyy shhh sh sh sh, you're OK! It's OK!" The marten immediately drops the mildly interrogative tone and tries his best to soothe me while he holds my arm tightly in place so that Aitana can stitch it without my writhing getting in the way.

I feel it pierce the torn skin and come back out again. And in, and out again. I feel the wound get pulled closed as she rips into the inflamed flesh again and again. I feel the thread slide through the punctures behind it. I feel the tension release as she cuts the thread. My whole world is a blur of disconnected colors and sounds and smells and sensations drowned out by pain. And then it's nothing at all.