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Coyote came walking...

Carson groaned. Why was that stupid line in his head? God, his head HURT. One motherfucker of a hangover... But he didn't recall drinking. He sat up and looked around. Yep, same crappy tenement rental room. He rubbed his forehead, feeling the dried sweat and grime there. The room itself was small; one of a dozen or so in the building. Worn wood floors, a supplied bed of dubious origin and a small second-hand dresser completed the furnishings, the only light being the morning sunlight shining in through the dusty air.

He stood, wobbling a bit as he did, and realized that something we definitely not right- he was still dressed. Usually he slept raw, but he had on everything... And it wasn't smelling all that good. That had to change.

Carson grabbed a clean(er) pair of pants, underwear and a clean shirt and stepped into the hall. Nobody else seemed to be stirring, which was odd- people were usually rattling about no matter what time it was. The bathroom was empty too, but his head hurt and he felt lousy enough to not care. Soap, water and heat served to lessen the pounding in his head, and for the first time this morning he was beginning to think straight. Drying off, he stepped out and started to dress... And noticed something.

The stink on his clothes wasn't sweat and dirt.

It was death. Days old death; he knew the smell from the corpse of another fieldhand who'd died of heatstroke and hadn't been found for days. A cold, cold chill whipped down his spine, and he sat heavily onto the closed lid of the toilet. Why did his clothes stink of death?

The headache still remained, faded but there, and fear raced his heart. Carson quickly finished dressing and headed outside, still seeing no sign of the other tenants. Outside, a hot wind blew across an empty street, cars parked in various spots marked with the dust of several days. He couldn't see anyone in the streets, and nobody could be seen in the distance.

Coyote came walking...

He sniffed at the air without really knowing why. Dust in the air, maybe a touch of a distant grassfire, and... something. A musty, musky scent that he couldn't place at all. It itched at the back of his mind, as if he knew what it was but couldn't quite reach the knowledge. He started up the street towards the bar, knowing his fellow field workers, if still around, might be there.

The bar was open, doors unlocked and the lights on... But nobody was inside. Carson hollered a few times, then checked behind the bar and in the kitchen; nothing.

Swiping a beer, he popped the cap off and took a swig. The cold took the edge off the heat of the day, and perhaps from the headache; maybe it WAS a hangover after all. Then he noticed something dark on the floor by one of the corner booths.

The faint smell reached him before he got truly close- blood and... Other things. And death. He swallowed hard, and moved closer. Blood was pooled in a sticky, almost-black pool by the booth. Now that he was close he could tell that the table had been ripped loose- it was just balanced in its original position. On the floor was what was once, maybe, a person.

It had been dressed much as Carson was; thin button-down shirt, faded Levis and workboots nearly worn through from use. The thing inside the clothing though was torn apart, and wasn't quite human. Its face, twisted in agony, was half-animalistic- the lower jaw jutted forward with carnivore teeth while the upper was distorted as if the changes had stopped partway, likely when the poor bastard died. Other distortions were visible, but it was the face that stuck in Carson's mind.

The chest and belly had been torn open and hollowed out. Everything that had been within torn free and missing. Arms and legs were bare of flesh in places as well. The enormity of what he was seeing finally struck, and his beer came right back up onto the floor. Dry heaves followed, and he staggered away from the corpse.

Minutes passed before he could finally stand, panting, looking anywhere but at the nightmare in the corner. He went to the bar and got water, rinsing his mouth out. Carson went for the phone to call someone, anyone for help, but there wasn't even a dialtone. He leaned against the bar, anger at the lack of help washing away some of the fear and revulsion. His eye was caught by the date on the credit card reader, which was showing 'no connection'.

February 14, 2008. He remembered going to bed, early in the morning on the.... Eleventh? He slept three days through? Shaking his head, he grabbed another beer. Back to the street he yelled, "Hey! Hyaaa! Is anyone here?" The gravelly rasp of his voice echoed in the dusty silence. After minutes of nothing he walked along Main Street to see what he could find.

Coyote came walking...

At the edge of town where the fields started Carson heard the first sound other than wind or his own voice; something growling. Several somethings. A police car was sitting nearby, and within it was a shotgun in its mount; it had been unlocked, and was loaded. Taking it he headed for the growling; he noticed that the car's ignition was still on and the fuel gauge was on empty.

The growling grew louder and the smell that had tickled his brain before was back, stronger. Not liking it nor the disturbing familiarity of it, he continued forward. He rounded the end of a garage; the sound was from within. Peeking around the corner, Carson saw that the door was partly up and looked stuck that way. He crouched down and looked inside, and saw not at all what he'd expected. He thought it would be dogs fighting- that's what it sounded like- but... These weren't dogs. They weren't people either! One, apparently female and in the tattered remains of a police uniform, was in the midst of being mounted by another, apparently male. As he watched, the female's features shifted a bit more animal, and it saw him!

The male was utterly occupied, but its partner panted, gasping out something that sounded like 'help me!'

That was it. Carson shoved the door the rest of the way up with a screech of tearing metal; he strode forward and clubbed the male with the butt of the shotgun. It yelped once before impacting the wall, unconscious. The female whined, dragging itself as far from the male as it could in its still-altering shape.

Carson didn't approach, but asked, "Ah don' know what ah kin do t' help, more than ah have." His accent, southwestern, didn't quite sound right to him. "What... Are you?"

The creature struggled to all fours, then sat in a manner much as a dog would. It looked like some kind of near-perfect blend between german shepherd and human; decidedly female and still slightly shifting. It shook its head like it was trying to shake something loose, then spoke.

"Ayrr.... Ahh.... I... Oooo... Dddooon'ttt. Know... Nname isss... Was... Harry."

He looked at the creature. "Harry Parker? The Sheriff?"

She nodded.

"Fuck. What happened to you? What happened to the town?"

The creature... Harry, shook her head, taking her time to make her muzzled face work around the words. "I got a call... About a wild dog out here... yesterday? The day before? I don't know. I parked and came looking for it, figuring worst case I'd shoot it and be done. It... Didn't work out like that."

Harry sighed, a very canine sound and glanced at the now-unconscious form of her attacker. "That... Wasn't quite so doggish when it got me. It jumped on me and knocked the gun away, then bit me... I don't recall much after that, other than a burning... Ooohh.... God..." She dry-heaved, shuddering at the recollection.

Carson looked at the former sheriff, then made a decision. "C'mon. Ah think we oughta get the fuck out of here. He'll be out cold fer a while." He wasn't sure how he knew that, but it was a certainty to his mind. Harry slowly staggered to her feet, oddly canine legs apparently still designed for an upright being.

"Where are we going?" She asked.

He shook his head. "Anywhere the fuck not here. Ain't nobody left but us that ah've found anyway."

Harry nodded, sniffing. "You... Smell good. Not like..." She shuddered. "Him. Get me out of here, please?"

He nodded, and the pair headed back towards town. Harry looked at her companion. "You're one of the fieldworkers, aren't you? "

"Carson Old Dog, yeah."

Harry tilted her head. "Didn't I lock your ass up a few weeks back?"

Carson grinned sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah... One of them things."

Harry suddenly stopped, and she brought her vaguely pawlike hand up and looked at it. With panic growing, she glanced down at herself. "God. Oh... God. What.... What AM I? How do..." She started to hyperventilate, at least til Carson fired the shotgun into the air. The blast echoed through the town, with no response to the blast at all. Harry stared in shock, pupils dilated til nearly nothing else was visible; but she'd stopped panicking about herself.

"Y'all got control again?" Carson asked.

She nodded warily, and Carson slung the gun back over his shoulder. "Ah don' know what you are. Damned if ah know why, either. But you're th' only person ah've found here, and ah'd count it kindly if you'd hang onto yourself."

Coyote came walking...

Harry's ears twitched. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Carson looked around carefully, but realized that whatever happened, only two people were left. Maybe technically only one.

"Someone said... No. I must have been hearing things." Harry crossed her arms across her chest, as if just realizing that she not only had breasts, but four of them. Carson saw the action, a blush darkening his already native-dark skin. "Let's get y'all something more'n tatters t' wear. C'mon" He turned towards the storefronts lining Main Street, gesturing for her to follow.

As far as either could tell, whatever took place happened when everything was open. The stores had some more evidence of violence, but thankfully no more horrific scenes like in the bar. With Carson acting as a guard, Harry found clothing that mostly fit- a button-down shirt and a pair of pants that Carson altered for her tail.

"Where did you learn to sew?" She asked, and Carson glanced up from his stitching. He grunted, then answered. "Ain't got money for a tailor. Ah live town to town, job t' job. Y'learn what y' need doin' that."

"Not the kind of macho image you guys have, you know." He wasn't sure, but Carson thought she was grinning at him. He rolled his eyes. "We do what we do t' survive. Ah'm good at that."

The pair made their way to one of the diners, and Carson found that the gas was still working. He fired up the grill, making burgers for them both. He wasn't willing to mess with the deep-fryer, so he made hash browns instead of fries. With beer, the meal is had in silence.

"Carson?" Harry asked.

"Mm?"

"What do you remember? About what happened?"

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, ignoring or forgetting the napkins. "Not much. Ah woke in mah room in Arlan's boarding house, full-dressed and stinking somethin' terrible. My head hurt like God had taken his favorite sledge to it, and... Nobody was there."

Harry sniffed at Carson, which got a raised eyebrow. She flicked her ears in embarrassment, then tilted her head in surprise. She sniffed again, this time more carefully. "Carson... You smell like..." Horror ran across her face, and she tensed as if about to flee.

Coyote came walking...

This time they both reacted. "God-damn. YOU heard that?" Carson asked, not forgetting Harry's fear of a moment before.

"Y... Yes." She responded. " It was... It said, 'Coyote came walking.' "

Carson shook his head. The words as Harry spoke them echoing louder and louder in his head; he moaned, falling to the floor on all fours. He curled into fetal position, the words blotting out everything else in his world. Then... Silence.

Something nudged his back. "Wake up," said a male voice. It sounded familiar to Carson, and was laced with both amusement and impatience.

He shook his head, and for the first time since waking up his head didn't hurt. All around him was prairie grass, blue sky and white clouds above. The air smelled clean, and... Wait, wasn't he somewhere else? Carson pushed himself up, looking about. "Harry? Sheriff?"

The familiar voice spoke again. "She's not here. Neither are you, really. You should be though. You've forgotten." Sarcasm and maybe a touch of wistfulness was in the speaker's tones.

Carson couldn't see who was talking. "Where are y'all?"

A sigh came from somewhere... Lower? "Look down, stupid. You've always been rather dense."

Looking down, Carson saw a rabbit. A hare, or jackrabbit actually. The creature looked at him with too-bright eyes. "Yes, I'm a hare. Yes, I'm talking. No, you're not dreaming, no, I have nothing to do with what happened in Kitsburg. Any other stupid questions?" Somehow, the creature grinned.

Carson goggled a bit, then considered. A laugh came out, just a short single bark. "Well, I can't say you're the worst thing ah've seen today!"

"You need to remember, old friend." The hare seemed... Sad?

"Remember what?" He could feel something... It was right there, just out of reach.

"Who, and what, you are. Bad things have happened. Mankind has touched something terrible, and the People have suffered. Very, very few still live. We are needed again, but of us all you are the only one who has never left mankind."

Carson felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze, and swallowed hard. "Ah think y'all need t' tell me... And that ah'm not gonna be likin' it."

Hare nodded. "True enough. You've forgotten before. Usually when you've died and come back. I'll bet you died at the moment that so many of the People did." Hare looked up at Carson again, and his voice, still soft, said one word that was louder than all the sounds that had ever been heard.

Harry ran to Carson when he collapsed, turning the man onto his back and checking his pulse. It was steady, but slow, so she tried to make the craggy field-hand as comfortable as possible. Not long after, Carson stirred and his eyes opened.

She hovered nearby. "Are... Are you alright?"

Coyote grinned. "Yes... And we have work to do."