The morning came with no fanfare, no tolls or alarms. Besides the bodies, teary eyes, and crushed spirits, there was no indication a cataclysm had occurred at all. The sun shone in through the unassuming bathroom window, much like it did on most days at the hour of 7. The light caught the eye of D, who shifted uneasily upon the tiled floor whilst the shine dug at his cornea.

“Nngh.” he grumbled, noticing the stinging sensation in his arms and the sharp pain still in his chest. Eyes fluttering, the world came into focus over a period of seconds. Hand running through his sweat treated hair, he moaned in discomfort. Now sitting and leaning his back against the bathtub, scenes from the previous night danced across his eyes. He saw himself, about to bring his mother a glass of water, who was in good need of a sobering up. Shit, she’s at it again, he remembered thinking. The regret was instant. He could remember Dren shouting about something, probably the dirty carpeting in front of his room. He remembered coming out of the kitchen and stepping into the living room. There had been a commotion outside, but nothing unlike the street they lived on, some shouting, followed by a few curse words.

Suddenly, a rush of footsteps, deep pounding from the heels of military boots. D stopped, listening for a moment, just as he set the drink on the end table. The sound drowned out for a moment, and there was a peace upon the living room once again. His stepfather was lounging upon the couch, asking D something along the lines of ‘how was your day, boy?’ as the tie about his neck was loosened. His uncle Erink, who was standing near the door, had some sarcastic remark. He was half drunk, confirmed from the obtuse slurring betwixt his words.

D’s mother graciously accepted her drink. Always a happy drunk, at the very least, the thought that had lingered in his head. All was quiet for a moment, as D heard Dren shout once more. “Yeah, Whaddya want?” he asked. Then it happened. The door flew open, and a group of blue uniforms brandishing firearms bore down upon them. He shook the train of thought.

D leaned his head back, trying to banish the memories, rubbing his face with a blood crusted palm. Sighing, he strained to stand, not daring to look upon the dead face of his stepbrother. He approached the mirror and sink, turning the spicate so he could wash away the sorrow from his face. I can’t believe this is real. It couldn’t of happened. No. It’s a dream, just a bad dream. He thought, rubbing the ice cold water deep into his fur and skin beneath. The rush of chill reawakened him. In the mirror, just inside his stare, was the cold, dead eyes of Dren. D shivered inadvertently, turning swiftly. Almost as if it were reaction, he darted to the corpse and closed the unfeeling eyes with the tips of his fingers. He placed his hands upon Dren’s stiff shoulders, and said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He wanted the tears to come, for sadness to mean something, but nothing came. He sniffed once and stood, with his head down, his fingers slowly gliding away from the body. He walked to the doorframe and placed his hand on the nearest wall, still dizzy from coma induced sleep. The apartment stank of death.

Curse words and cold thoughts ran through D’s head, a chaotic jumble of hate, regret, and fear. What if they’re still around? What if they come back to finish me? He thought. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing. His stomach churned from malnourishment, but food was farthest from his concerns. The living room had a forbidding atmosphere, as D stopped cold in his stride just before crossing into the doorframe. Looking at his clawed foot, he was standing in the blood stain where Dren had originally fallen. Shivering partially from the morning cold and the presence in the room, he carefully crossed into the unknown. His eyes swept over the destruction, the broken lamp, the spilt drink, the bodies. He shivered once again, crossing his arms and rubbing his biceps for warmth. The door was still ajar, and he moved to close it quietly.

He leaned against the door and stood stiff as a statue for several minutes, listening intently to the sound of the morning. It was quiet, but not a peaceful one. A disconcertment shot through D’s veins. He moved around his deceased mother and approached the window. He gazed down the three stories to the street below. There was nothing, save for a single wandering hekshanian, cowled by a hooded sweatshirt. I’m not leaving them like this, if I have to go, D thought. I have to at least cover the bodies. He sniffed once as he stepped away from the window, crossing the room to the far hall. He moved on the perimeter, avoiding the bodies once again. He ended up at the mouth of his parents’ room. Entering hesitantly, he sat upon the bed. It was dark, save for the ambient light coming in from the hall. The dresser sat quietly, a pair of drawers thrown open. The mirror was at an awkward angle, as it always was. The bedspread was a sea green, with a set of white sheets beneath it. It’ll work. D stood and ripped the sheets from underneath the spread, wrapping them around his forearm. He walked out into the hall again, the leathery tip of his tail slapping against the doorframe. He winced, remembering the ancient sprain he’d suffered two years prior. It seemed like a century ago, now.

He emerged into the living room. Carefully moving around the bodies, he found a clean, relatively suitable spot to lay the sheets down. “I’m sorry.” he mumbled. “You’d want it this way.” He went to the body of his mother and placed his hand behind her head. His other arm went around her torso. The blood was still damp with blood. D lifted her with his muscular frame and set her down in the sheet, slightly off centered. Not looking at the face, he crossed her arms over her chest. He sniffled, feeling a tear that perhaps was on it’s way.

Hellbent on feeling grief, D quickly stood and went to the couch. His stepfather’s eyes were closed, which eased the pain. D made a harder time of his stepfather’s heavy, similarly muscular body. He carefully and gently slung him across his shoulders, carrying the corpse to the sheet. He set him down next to his mother in the sheet, taking a last look at the black slacks and black vest that characterized his stepfather’s working attire. Bending down, D straightened the tie around his deceased stepfather’s neck. “You were good to me and Dren, Red. I’ll never forget you.” He sat on the couch, staring at the bodies for a moment, placing his face into his hands. “I forgive you for everything, Mom. Everything” He paused for a moment. Shit.” he cursed, feeling the tears about to come. “No, not yet. Not just yet.” he whispered to himself.

D went to his own room and ripped his sheets from the bed, returning to the living room speedily. He opened the sheets and hoisted his uncle’s body into them. He quickly closed them, sickened by the damage to Erink’s head. “I hardly knew you, but Mom said you were a saint. I believe her.” Without wasting a moment, he went to Dren’s room, nearly cracking emotionally as he entered into the space, haunted by the death of his closest friend and kin. He pulled the sheets out daintily, returning to the living room. He placed them down and slowly returned to the bathroom. He knelt beside Dren’s corpse, almost hearing his angst filled voice as if he were still alive. “No one understands me”, D remembered him saying as a way to distance himself from family. “Sometimes I think you’re the only person I can talk to.” The quotation ran circles through his head.

“You were the only person I could, too.” D said, before raising the body up. He carried Dren back, and set him down. D reached down and clasped Dren’s hand. He chuckled pitifully, before molding Dren’s fist to offer the middle finger. “You would’ve wanted it this way.” he said, just before a series of tears built up behind his eyes. He took the edges of the sheets and folded them, effectively covering the body. He stood, crying whilst moving normally back to his own room again. He picked up the black and grey T-shirt that sat upon the floor and threw it on quickly, not caring much for appearance. He stopped for a moment, thinking to himself, squinting partially.

“I should, just in case.” He crouched on his haunches just beside his mattress. He lifted the mattress away from the boxspring and removed a small, unadorned wooden box. He flipped the latch it had, and slowly opened it. Inside was a Single Action Army revolver, one he’d been given by his late father, just before he’d died some years prior. The gun itself had supposedly been in the family for hundreds of years, and still bore a silver sheen that made it look new. “What the hell am I thinking? I’ve never fired a gun before.” he told himself. “But...” He removed it from the box, checking clumsily to make sure it was loaded. He stuck it in the space between his torn jeans and belt, pulling his shirt down over the weapon.

He turned to leave the apartment, grabbing a green and grey jacket from the coathook behind his door. He tossed it on quickly while exiting the apartment. The hall was empty, and the red carpeting was marked by dozens of boot prints that led further down the hall. D rubbed the dried tears in his face, making them blend and mold with his regular complexion. He quickly gained back his regular and somewhat anti-social composure, before carefully walking down the hall toward the stairwell. His hand unintentionally drifted toward the handgun concealed at his waist with regular intervals, expecting to be gunned down any moment. It was quiet, almost too quiet.

Approaching the stairwell, D gazed over the railing, his head darting around to get a better view. After nearly slipping over the rail, he straightened his jacket and began to take the stairs one at a time, constantly shifting his glare to see the next exposed inch. The stairs wound down two flights in the windowless well, the concrete steps clacking softly as D drug his charcoal colored hindclaws across it. Standing in the lobby, which was unnaturally uninhabited, D felt slightly uneasy. Normally, there would be some kids in the lobby, playing cards, or even some of the older folk, conversing with friends in the building. Craning his neck to see over the clerk’s desk, he only saw an overturned service bell, the kind of which you would normally find in a hotel, not a residential building.

“Nothing’s here, man.” D said to himself, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. “Who else could’ve gotten it? Hope I’m not the only one left, man.” He remembered the hekshanian he had seen walking out on the street. “I guess I’m not all alone.” He walked to the front door and peered around the corners through the glass, checking the street. Paranoia was already sinking in, not aided by the sudden appearance of a slim and tall form behind him.

“They gone?” the female voice asked. Panicking unexpectedly, D reached for the gun, but it slid from his hands, clattering to the floor beneath him. He rushed to grab it up, but saw a distinct set of hindclaws owned by nothing other than a hekshanian. They were covered slightly by a pair of black slacks.

“Fucking craika, Relisia. Sneak the hell up on me, will ya?” said D, who regretted his aggressive tone instantly. “Sorry. Just jumpy as hell.” Relisia came closer, only an inch shorter in stature than D. Her deep crimson-brown fur was occasionally hard to look upon. Lithe and probably a little too skinny for her own good, she approached the door window.

“Don’t be sorry. I’d be freaked, too.” She turned and sighed, pulling a cigarette from her shirt pocket, which was striped like a mechanic’s work uniform. She lit it and pulled another, offering it to D. “Hmm?”

“Haven’t smoked since seventh grade, Rel. You know that.” D said whilst waving away the offer. “Uh... did you...?” he asked awkwardly before being cut off.

“They didn’t come home, and I haven’t heard from them.” Relisia took a deep puff and exhaled vigorously, crossing her arms across her chest in uncertainty. D rubbed his bicep, like he usually did when anxious or awkward. “... you ok?” she asked, quickly fixing her eyes on D without moving her head.

“I’m... fine.” she knew the pain behind the words. “Just...” D scuffed his claws across the floor, continuing to rub his arm.

“Don’t talk about it, yet.” Relisia said, going to the door. “Cold morning. We should take a look around.” Her words were ice, but harnessed in a backdrop of verbal evasion. “‘Least you decided to pack some heat.” she said, pointing at the revolver in D’s grip with her cigarette.

“I’ve never fired a gun before.” D said, shoving the gun back into his belt and pulling his shirt over it. “I’m not much good.” He went to the door, pushing it open for Relisia. “Lady’s first.” She nodded indignantly and crossed into the crisp morning, holding her arms tight to her chest for warmth.

The street was still, save for another teenage northern hekshanian walking on the opposite side of the street. He stopped and stared for a moment at D and Relisia, then continued on.

“Nngh.” D mumbled, staring at the back of the hekshanian’s head as he walked away. They trudged on for a few moments, confusion and bitterness keeping them at a tense silence.

“Maybe we should...” Relisia broke the silence, but drifted back to her cigarette before finishing. Her arms tightened. D understood, but was too afraid to offer his jacket, which was keeping him warm in the early morning weather.

“The uh, police station isn’t too far away. A couple blocks, maybe.” D suggested in an attempt to bring normality and calm back to the situation. “We’d at least be safe there, if things heat up again.” Relisia warmed to the idea, but dismissed it with belligerency.

“We should see if Zel is ok.” Relisia said, quietly, taking another puff from the cigarette hanging from her tensed lips. “His place is closer than the station.”

“What’re we gonna find-” D said, cutting himself off. Zelester was Relisia’s cousin, a couple of years older and possessed the same painfully red fur as Relisia. D struggled with paranoia, but accepted the idea temporarily. “Alright.”

They walked down the block in silence, quietly taking in the sights. The red and brown brick buildings were unsettlingly still in the damp morning light, the alleys separating each possessing a quiet haunt.

“We’re almost to the plaza.” D mentioned while squinting into the distance. A slow pyre burned, the silhouettes of corpses hanging from the plaza tree blurred by smoke and embers. D felt ill and cast his eyes away. Relisia tugged at his sleeve and bid him to take a different path.

“Around.” she said with relative calm. They deviated from the main street, using a back alley behind the local grocery, Samentha’s Market. The water from the sewers burbled up in the iron grate near the loading dock like it always did. Carefully looking around the corner, D signaled it safe to continue. As soon as they emerged into the somewhat enormous back alley, a group of hekshanians appeared from the street ahead. They seemed panicked and hurried. As they came closer, D and Relisia noted that a pair of them, two males of southern descent, were carrying another male, holding him up by the shoulders. This third male was seemingly injured, and bleeding quite profusely from the gut. His otherwise white shirt was damp with blood. Picking up on the conversation they shouted while moving, D and Relisia discovered they were headed to the hospital, which unfortunately was quite a distance from Samentha’s Market.

“C’mon, En, hold on man.” The larger of the two bearer’s said with hopelessness. “Hold on.” They shoved past Relisia and D angrily.

“We should go.” Relisia said as D stared after them. “Hey.” D shook his head and snapped back into reality. He sighed and rubbed the bullet wound in his chest. It burned and felt irritated, but he didn’t dare mention the wound.

“Yeah.” D said, faking a wry smile. “Less go.” They crossed the street ahead, noting the destroyed cars parked along the strip. One green vehicle’s door was open, and a corpse covered by a blue jacket lay beside it. Without speaking a word, they crossed into the next alley, which was lined on either side by windows, which framed ground floor apartments beyond. Inside these windows, an occasional scene of death and destruction unfolded. A dumpster some feet ahead sat open, the previous day’s garbage emptied in to it, the can sitting beside the dumpster, overturned and empty. Space tightened as they squeezed past the dumpster. A female hekshanian, very young, possibly in her early teens sat beside the dumpster on the far side, crying slowly and quietly into her palms. D and Relisia passed by unassumingly, but D snaked out an ‘It’ll be ok’ to the young girl as they passed.

“Why did you...?” Relisia nearly asked, before catching notice of the hard glance in D’s eyes. She turned away, somewhat embarrassed. The alley opened into another street. The buildings were less ominous, and Relisia assumed they were now past the plaza. “We’re green, I think.” she pointed over and across the street. “The club’s the next street over.” D complied, and they jaunted across the pavement quickly and back onto the concrete sidewalk. A clothing store lay before them, but it’s presence was dark and forbidding. Moving under the canopy that shadowed the sidewalk all down the strip mall that occupied the sidewalk, they took another alley. With relief, they saw no signs of death there. Walking with a certain stiffness in their stride, the pair emerged at the opposite end onto West Rai Street. “This way.” Relisia muttered, running ahead of D with surprising vigor. He chased her for twenty seconds before she stopped cold. She looked ahead at the staircase that led down into the club that sat under the pavement. The “Moon” was the only title the establishment had ever been known by. With haste, Relisia glided down the stairs, paying little attention to the awkward handrail offered. Her hindclaws clacking at the bottom, she turned and took ahold of the bar that opened the massive iron door leading inside. She tossed it open with some force. She ran in, D shortly behind.

“Craika...” she muttered in disdain, the long-burnt-out cigarette tumbling from her lips to the marble floor.