FSE

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Hey gang! This is a little novella I've been finding myself cooking up. It will have a total of 3 arcs broken into sections for your convenience. :) Hopefully you'll find it to be worth your time.

Now for the obligatory warnings: This story contains violence, undead, alcohol usage and other strange moodiness. If these sorts of things bother you, you may want to read something else.

Still here? Awesome! Enjoy the reading. :)

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Damn; it's cold out here. Standing here in the frost while the tips of grass peek from the snow, huddled on the roof while the seasons change. I'm glad I bundled up, even if I'm already dead- this cold freezes to the soul. Today is Valentines Day and there's that special feeling in the air. That feeling that half makes you want to grab someone to snuggle, and half makes you want to take out a knife and start stabbing.

I'd sit here reminiscing, but I've got work to do.

There she is! I see her hat sparkling in the sunlight, a little faun stepping out in the morning cold. Eight AM, right on time, and clueless as to what lies ahead. The way she kind of sparkles in the light with that long brown hair tumbling down; she's almost beautiful. Her small dark eyes are alert, and her slender ears are perked high, her rising and falling breast thinly veiled by that cashmere sweater of hers.

Got to get a clean shot. I hesitate; well, almost anyway. Got to wait, those shapely haunches are in the way as she leans down to pet a stray. Finally she straightens up, her breath frosting in the air, lingering like a halo in the thin light as I take aim. A muffled shot rings out, startling the nearby sleeping songbirds. It almost sounds like they're cursing me as the faun falls, not that I care; I've been cursed before.

I climb down from the roof and wander off before the cops can arrive. It's still early, there's lots of time to get out, but I take no stupid chances. Thank gods I'm a bobcat with all the balance and stealth included or else I just might accidentally draw attention to myself one of these days.

I don't like doing this stuff, but if it weren't her it'd be me on the chopping block. If anyone knew about my existence... let's just say I stick to my work not because I like doing it, but your job options are a little limited when you have to stay hidden and keep mainly to yourself. If I went back to school I'd be nailed to the wall, and, last I checked, you've got to at least give a name at an interview. I guess things aren't too bad, I mean, it pays well and I'm pretty good at it. I've been doing this stuff for over 125 years now, and still haven't been caught and only one ever got away.

I pass in the street a couple a' cats, a lion and his mate. The two don't even see me; I might as well be the breeze or a couple of withered stray leaves. The two are so wrapped up in each other it's almost visible, like a thick blanket covering them. I really hate seeing people like that; it just makes that hole in the chest feel even emptier. I hurry the pace. I'll just get back to the boss, collect my pay and see if Mike's is opening early today. I've got to move along and get myself together, maybe put some embalming fluid back in the barrel. I've just got to stop thinking about her. I wish I just had shot and let things be... Carol. Damnit, I miss her. I hope to god she's not cursed like me.

It's a place in the upscale side of town, one of those little nooks where the cops like to come in for some coffee. Sometimes I wonder if they know who really runs it, but others I think they just don't care. Three knocks on the back door and an old Doberman answers.

"Delivery for Mr. Peterson."

The Doberman gives me a stare cold as ice for a few seconds. "Come inside."

Down past the storage and to the "Accounting" room where the boss does business. Yeah, it's legit here, taxes and everything, but it's not just coffee they're selling. I rap on the door with my old thick knuckles, then wait until a smallish raccoon answers. Back behind the old desk is a grizzled swallow, the grey and white of his business suit seeming to merge into the grey and white of his feathers. Scattered out on the desk are a few guns, mostly automatics, and all I'm pretty sure of the quality the cops would give their right nut for. A Labrador with dark fur is speaking in Portuguese with the boss. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out they're discussing prices and when more will be coming in. Like anyone with some prudence, I hang back and wait my turn.

As the Lab leaves, he turns and spots me. His dark eyes grow wide and he crosses himself, "Santa Maria, mãe de Deus." he stutters before leaving.

I'm used to the reaction.

"'Ey, CalIB: How's our boy.", the boss chirrups.

I really wish he wouldn't call me that. "Hey boss. The doe's dead."

"I was figuring that. I know you wouldn't be here otherwise. Have a seat." he said, pointing a tawny scaled hand at the chair across from him, "You know I've been meaning to promote you, right?"

I take my seat, brushing aside my battered black trench coat. "Yeah? I'm flattered but you know I'm not interested." My voice cracks slightly from its familiar rumble. That's the one thing I hate most about being good at my work, when they start talking about "promotions".

"I know, but I thought you'd like this one. We've got a brand new shipment coming in and our men need a guard and you KNOW if I'm making it, it pays well!", the swallow says with a smirk, pleased at himself. "Besides, it lets you get to know my daughter! I'm sure she'd like you... once she gets over the... eh... you know..."

My eyes narrow to slits and my narrow tufted ears tip backwards, half blocked by my old black cowboy hat.

"Woah there, son. Hit a nerve?"

I force myself to take in a deep breath.

"OK, Ok, son. I won't pry." the boss raises his scaled hands gesturing in a repeating "stop" motion with them both, "You go and have a nice day." the corners of his beak turn up into a nervous smile, "Here's a little bonus." reaches into a drawer with a deft movement of his hand before tossing a few bundles of cash up onto the desk, "Get yourself something nice, maybe something for a lady-friend. Ok?"

I growl, a broken rumbling sound, "Have a ... nice... day..." then I get up and walk out the door.

I'm not sure if they can realize I can hear them, but the Doberman from the door has slipped in and is speaking softly with the boss, "Why do you keep that bobcat here? He creeps me the fuck out... with those unholy green eyes and have you even noticed he doesn't seem to be breathing? Where the hell did you find him?"

"You know better than to ask me questions.", the boss hisses as I slip out the back door.

The sun is just starting to rise past the rooftops, shining into the street. The air smells of frost and gun metal as people bustle to their jobs in the chill of the morning. I don't pay attention; they all end up the same after awhile. I kick a rock from the sidewalk into the snow, putting my broad paws into the pockets of my jeans. The boss, he doesn't understand; some things, you just can't forget.

As I turn around the corner a woman already laden with boxes from some early morning shopping bumps into me. As I reach down to help her pick up her things from the snow my heart freezes. Her paws are patched, grey and white. I hurry to gather the rest, then hand them back to her, careful to not let her see my face though for a brief moment I see hers. It's an old hound, her narrow muzzle starting to bald. I mutter an apology then hurry along my way, glad it was just an overactive imagination playing the devil with me for a couple of seconds. Even though it sucks being damned like this sometimes I still wish Carol was with me. I still remember her face after all this time. I can practically still trace the curves of her gray and white patches, the shape of her slender paws, the arch of her back as she lay sleeping, and, even though I'm sure there's nothing left by now, those distant, haunted green eyes still call me. It's like there's no line between yesterday and tomorrow today; no wonder they say Valentines Day is one of the biggest drinking holidays of the year. Mike's had better be open or I really don't know what I'm going to do with myself. For gods' sake, I just mistook a dog for a cat!

Eleven AM and the streets have thinned some as I reach the old redbrick cellar bar that is Mike's. Inside through the frosted glass window in the door I can see the faint glow of warm light. I turn down the stairs in the alleyway and read the sign, "Monday- Friday: 3 PM to 2 AM. Friday-Sat: open at noon with River hours till 4AM. Sunday: 6-10PM. VALENTINES DAY: 11 AM to 3PM by reservation only."

I curse; I really should have thought ahead and checked instead of walking all this way. I turn and walk back to the streets, trying hard not to start grumbling. I pass a well-dressed pair of skunks in the alleyway on the way out. The woman pauses and stares as I walk by, though the man tugs on the sleeve of her long dress to urge her along. "Honey, that man has the strangest eyes..." "Don't worry about that; remember how your aunt had those strange grey eyes?" "Oh yes, and remember the time people thought she was..." the two disappear into Mike's chattering away happily.

Well, it's a long time till sundown and Mike's is the only place I know that opens before five or six. I walk along trying to decide what to do. Luckily the shadows cast by the midday sun black my face to the point all people will see is my white muzzle. Why, I could even pass for normal so long as I don't go off and do anything stupid like going back into a shaded area; God bless the man who invented hats. One of these days I should look into getting some new clothing, maybe around Halloween when I'll just look "festive" and the department store clerks won't be too nervous about me. I chuckle to myself; it's a sad world, isn't it?

Near an intersection a crowd of folks have gathered. It looks like someone decided to take a swan dive into the pavement and, as usual, there's about thirty or forty onlookers in a blur of multicolored fur and feathers, gathered like buzzards around a kill. The blood on the snow mirrors in strange cruelty the red and white decorations in all the shop windows. I pause for a few moments, not to gawk, but to reflect. There's a fine line between good and bad, life and death, love and hate. It's like the difference between red and white in a window and red and white on the pavement; same colors, just different viewpoints. One of these days I should get back to my painting or maybe try my paw at writing some poetry. Carol always called me such a sap when she had the lucidity to be able to speak.

The cops show up and I wander off with the rest of the crowd. Well, that was a good waste of twenty minutes; now for the rest of the hours. With no better place to go, I wander down to the old train station. I've kinda got a little place down by the train station. It's not much, just a spot where I can stretch out on the rooftops and watch the trains go by. It's not as many as there used to be, but it's still better than sitting there doing nothing, and I don't feel like heading back home today.

I slip though the crowds like a walking shadow, turning down a few alleyways . For a few moments the darkness uncovers my features. Luckily only a few half-dunk bums are here, and after a few drinks, nobody seems to care that your eyes are strange, that your body's grown cold, or even that you're not breathing anymore- that's why I love bars. Ducking past the steaming vents in the pavement behind a cleaner's, I climb an old fire escape most the way to the top of an old brick building left over from at least 70 years back.

From the precarious perch of the top of the fire escape, it's up the rusty ladder I go to the rooftops to kill a little time and take in a couple sights. It's time for me to kill a little time....

(to be continued in Part 2, Arc 1: On the Roof)