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The soft thump and clink of silvery shells in the snow barely broke the sound of the storm outside, faint wisps of steam rising up from where the shells melted into their resting place in the cold. A hand fumbled in its ragged glove against a jacket pocket, yanking a pair of six more bullets out, their cases reflecting the snow around for only a moment before the hand dropped them into a snub nosed .38 revolver's cylinder. A faint click as the cylinder was pushed closed and rotated to lock snug into place, the barrel now tilted up towards the doorway once more. A breath pushed through the air, faint wheezing following at the tail end, making a brief mark of humidity on the back of the matte metal frame. On the other end in the doorway, a set of bodies lay slumped against each other. Lives extinguished in a hail of hollows, blood making a cooling pool of redness in the snow that'd settled in the front of the house. One lonely eye in a destroyed skull found its gaze on the killer's face, though it seemed to look so far beyond.

Bishop's free hand gripped the wooden cross at his neck, glove creaking slightly as he tightened his grip. In the shadow of the house's protection, his orange and black fur blurred into a dark brown. The blood on his face smeared the white fur, making the visage of the red panda seem almost bastardized in a copy of the real deal. Nose wrinkled in a mix of emotions as steam erupted from both nostrils again with a wheeze. With a muffled cough, his lungs practically groaned in protest, a sharp pain in his chest keeping him from inhaling too deeply. Winded. Battered. Victorious.

Backing away, his paws scarcely made a sound as the snow turned to hardwood flooring. Adrenaline flow fading from his system, the dull throb of his head and the new bruises and scrapes along his chest and arms made themselves known quickly. There was no doubt about it. He was still alive. It was cold, but not in the same vein of blood loss. Just the chill of winter. A thunk, and more pain against his hip, broke his unruly thoughts as he nearly tumbled over a kitchen table. Swinging the revolver about, he aimed it into the dark hallway past the kitchen. There could be more of those things in here, like the two that chased him from the woods.

It was hard to hear though. His makeshift ear protection kept him from going deaf when his plus p shells barked fire, but likewise dampened his ears from hearing footsteps or shuffling limbs at distance. So he waited. Pale green eyes flickered back and forth between the open door and hallway, waiting to see the twisted bodies of what used to be...well, he wasn't quite sure. Some looked like they used to be human, others beast. Like him. All that mattered was they weren't who they used to be. Monsters. No more here though, he felt. The only blood he could smell was from the doorway where he'd shot down the duo. Anything rotten here was frozen by the cold, or picked apart by scavengers.

Steam puffed from his mouth as he sighed, still accented by that damnable wheeze. Holstering his snub nose at his side, he felt a paw bean brush the kydex. A claw dragging against the denim of his jeans as he drew his hand back. Lifting his hand to view, a grunt of frustration escaped his muzzle, witnessing the new hole in his glove's fingertip. Probably got caught on the edge of the doorway, with all that broken and splintered wood. Regardless, he couldn't help but wiggle the finger that poked through the hole. He just had to. It felt right.

Stepping away from the kitchen table, he pulled the glove off with his teeth and made to stuff it in one of his back pockets, tail flicking snow in thinly veiled frustration. The other hand clicked on the dulled yellow light of his flashlight where it was mounted on his jacket breast pocket, illuminating the hallway and two doors towards the end of it. Both doors were closed, and still no activity made itself known in this house. Turning back to the kitchen area itself, he made a glance towards the window over the sink, though fruitless it was. The window was practically covered in snow and frost, with a small crack in the glass at the top. He could see next to nothing through it. Another grunt, steam flowing from his little black nose in an imitation of cigarette smoke. Next came the cabinets and drawers. The first few turned up empty, with only a handful of likely bad cleaning supplies and few sponges. Bishop took the packet of sponges. Better than nothing, and he hated to admit that it worked on the blood in his fur pretty damn good if he could ever get another bath. The next cabinet was more disappointing than empty. It had a can of potted meat.

This was a major blow to Bishop's poor heart. Spam used to be a staple for him in his late teens. Back before all this. But now he couldn't eat it. His body would fight him if he did. Closing the cabinet door he puffed again, quickly flipping the rest of them open. There had to be something here besides things he couldn't have. A can of beans, some rice, something.

Frustration mounting as he moved from cabinets to drawers, pausing every so often to look up and around to see if he was about to get jumped again. High and low he looked, nose wrinkling at every can of spam, dog food with meat chunks, and what looked to be tactical bacon. God DAMN this place for taunting him so. He couldn't even take it to trade away, Bishop hadn't seen hide nor hair of the normal folk since the snow first fell a month or so ago. With a final puff of steam, he stood up from the bottom cabinet and drawers. Stretching his back against his grey hiking bag, which was starting to feel woefully light, Bishop stepped out of the kitchen and drew his revolver once more. His light illuminated the hallway again, and he made little effort to keep his steps quiet as he moved down it.

Even through his ear protection he could hear the clicks of his claws on the hardwood. In a weird sense it brought a comforting feeling. Reminded him of an old dog his family had back home as a kid. Nostalgic feelings aside though, his gun was high as he reached the first door. Grasping the handle with a free hand, he twisted it and paused. If one of those things was on the other side, it'd be throwing it's body at the door in a second or so. So he waited, counting seconds with his heartbeat and the blood starting to pound in his ears in time with his headache.

Nothing. He pushed to door open, glad to let the brass knob go before the icy metal started to sting his paw pad, and swung himself into the room. He pied it off best he could by himself, but room clearing alone was always an impossible task. It was empty anyway. A bedroom with boarded up windows and thick curtains. A bed with wool blankets and an honestly kinda disgusting looking yellow pillow. No pillowcase. The dresser was in pieces at the far corner.

Walking in further, Bishop made his first act to turn the picture with the previous owner's family facedown on the nightstand. He didn't dare meet their eyes. Next was to close the door behind him, set his hiking bag against it and lock the handle. Again he stretched, the spot on his back where his bag had kept the heat trapped quickly cooling off as he did. For a moment he tapped back and forth from footpaw to footpaw adjusting his shirt under his jacket. Taking the bag off had moved it to an uncomfortable position and he could just about feel the cold air reach his fur. Then it was more scavenging. First order of business was inspecting the topmost wool blanket on the bed for blood or contaminants. Anything nastier than Bishop already was. It seemed clear for the most part, aside from a few odd marks here and there, so he added it to his collection of warm gear. Well, soon to be warm. Taking a corner of the blanket he set it just over his left shoulder, before throwing the longer end over his other shoulder, and pulling it back around. Making a wrap over his body and neck, he rolled it slightly on one side to keep his shooting hand free, Bishop did a quick spin to see if it'd just fall off. It didn't budge, thankfully, so he still had it in him.

Tucking the opposite end into the other to keep it snug he tested his draw a few times, clearing his holster again and again to make sure he wouldn't snag on his new wool. With a soft chuckle, hardly escaping his snout, Bishop whispered out to himself.

"Good 'nuff fer th' fellas Ay hayng oot wiff."

Thick accent from a scarcely used voice, packed in an unfamiliar muzzle, sounded loud in the closed room. His tongue felt heavy, though thin it was. Hearing his own voice almost brought another laugh bubbling up, a hand clamping down over his snout. Hell, it sounded like he was from an old cartoon.

Taking another look about the room, Bishop near jumped out of his skin as he saw a figure standing there. And he did really jump, clearing a good two feet off the ground before landing with a thump against the wooden floor. Fur bristling, tail straight as an arrow, and previous smile quickly turned into a snarl as he yanked his gun from it's holster. He stopped when the figure did the exact same. Down to the last tooth, and the exact same manner of drawing. Oh. His standard puff of steam from his nose punctuated his realization.

_ "Dammit Bish, tha's yer own self." _

A few feet away was something he'd not seen for a good while. A mirror. And there he was standing it in. An unfamiliar figure. Stepping up to it and thrusting the gun back home at his side, Bishop did a quick lookabout himself. Brushing snow from between his ears here, picking out dried blood there. Looking into his eyes. It was all so different now. He missed his old self, before the snow fell. Back when he was a good looking fella, with that nice sexy stache he'd stressed over getting right since he'd been a teen. With the blue eyes and strawberry hair. And without the fur. That was a major part. He'd not seen his own sunburned skin in what felt like ages.

A mist blurred his eyes. There were a lot of things he missed. Being human was pretty high on that list. His family was at the top. With a huff from the springs, he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed behind him. His ringed tail curled around to his lap, where he almost instinctively wrapped his arms around the fluff, holding it tight to his chest. The wave of emotions from the past few hours crashing around him as the adrenaline and focus on survival ebbed away. It made his chest feel tight and his breath caught. Bishop ripped his eyes away from the mirror, and closed them, a paw rubbing his face as the red panda deflated.

He'd just need to rest them for a moment or two, then he'd be back on the move. He swore it to himself. Just a minute. He promised to avoid starting this train of thought back up again, and he promised himself that it'd be alright if he can just make it through the week again. After all, he made it this far. He just needed a minute or two, he thought, as he drifted off into thoughts.

Maybe just five.

Notes: Been a loooong long while since I've wrote anything so forgive me if it's stiff. Pretty rusty still. Next Chapter eventually, maybe soon. Thanks for reading!)