Pandapocalypse S1e2part1 A knack for communism! (TftC)
Attention Pandapocalypsephiles (yes -philes is from a comic, no I don't think it's smart nor ironic): From now on I'll split the story into Story and Yiff segments, to make it more enjoyable for everyone!
Episodes will be released around the end of the week, with part one followed by part two and the yiff segment thereafter.
Episodes: Episode 1 http://sofurry.com/page/129411
(By the way the first commenter gets to suggest a fetish game is still rolling!)
Paul could hear something spilling, then he could feel something wet covering him, then he smelled something burn in his nostrils. Then one thought flashed trough his mind, ripping open his eyes: "Gasoline".
He tried to get up, then he realized where he was, in a pile of corpses, he could see their ghastly white eyes, their skin seemed dry, some of their moths still ripped open as if screaming.
"Help!", he shouted, in a squealing voice, desperately trying to get free.
"What the-?", he heard someone, he looked around finding someone at the edge of his vision. He was dressed in a dusty mailman's uniform. On uneven footing a field mouse man walked, over the bodies of the dead, the can of gasoline in his small fingers, that rang with the waves inside of it. He met Paul's eyes with an almost panicked stare.
"How the hell did you get into that pile?", he said in a voice, that seemed to hover between a baritone, and falsetto, never seeming to decide which direction it was going to go.
"This can't be! Everyone is dead, and I am some kind of, thing!", he started yelling, at Paul, who was busy fighting off the effects of the gasoline fumes.
"Just get me out!", Paul pleaded, he had gotten his right arm out of the pile, and tried to use his claws to pull himself out fully. Half panicking he looked around, the same desolate scene, he had met Panda in, for a moment he wondered about his balls checked them, but from what he could feel they were back to normal size.
"No Buddy!", it might just be the gas fumes or I have finally snapped, but I am not spending my last days talking to a radioactive corpse, I have mutations to worry about!", with that the mouse man lit a Zippo lighter, the flame reflecting off his beady eyes.
"No!", yelled Paul desperately crawling, forward, trying to get away from the pile, when he was standing at the bottom of it, he asked: "What the fuck? It's me Pau- uhm... bacon! You know the guy who sometimes threw rounds at the bar?"
Paul could see, the mouse mans hair standing, on edge, looking down at Paul through his whiskers, then he put the lighter away.
"You are one lucky bastard Mr. Mann." The mouse man said walking down the pile of dead bodies, Paul carefully brought about 30 yards between himself, and the pile, he walked backwards he couldn't take his eyes of it.
When he had made it, he realized just what had happened, every one was dead, all the people in this town, dead, nuclear war, anyone near civilization, dead. It brought Paul to his knees.
"Who'd have thought I would save the life of the man that I wanted to blackmail three weeks ago?", the mouse man said half to himself, half to Paul, throwing his lighter onto the pile, and starting the fire.
Paul stared, at it, the muscles of his new face twisting in horror for the first time. The bodies of the dead started moving under the heat of the burning gasoline, seemingly grasping for the living.
Then the mouse man, walked in front of him, mercifully blocking most of the pile from his vision.
"You know I was so happy, when I found out who you were. I had so much dirt on you Bacon. I felt really smart giving you that note, you would have given me anything.", he said. The mouse man then walked close to the fire until Paul wondered how he could stand the heat, or the smoke that crept down the road. Paul could smell it, the greasy kindling of hair and flesh, every pore sweating decay.
"Goodbye mother.", Paul could hear him say, waving at the pile.
Paul noticed the tail hole in the mail mans uniform, the mouse man was wearing, that had been precisely cut and sown shut, and the furred Tail protruding form it in a perfect line, never swayed just once.
Paul hung his head feeling sick, the gasoline fumes, and exhaustion were getting the best of him, at last, he could feel his eyes starting to disobey, wanting to hide from the horrors of the outside world, by turning inside his skull.
"You know my mother, Olivia Jones, survived all of this. She didn't die, that fast. She lived one month, thank god the bomb blinded her, or she would have been forced to see me like this.", Jones, his fur still standing on edge turned around, and walked over to him, he said it very loud almost screaming in a tightly controlled outrage.
He arrived in front of Paul, Paul couldn't answer, what could you say to a man, who lost his mother, and had nothing but contempt for you.
"Can you understand that Mr. Mann? Your existence makes her death that much more painful.", Jones grabbed Paul's skull, forcing his tired eyes to make contact with his, black beads, staring forth form a face that had the ridges of rage burned into it.
"I tried everything to help her, but apparently my condition is a matter of will, your wholly different form proves it!", Paul felt a far away punch hit his head, the way this guy talked reminded him of comic books. Of sweet soda, and never doing his homework, and reading under his bedsheets.
Paul's mind returned to current affairs, this was bad, his head hit the ground. He felt the pain, his brain just didn't seem to understand it anymore, too much gasoline.
"But then again, what does it matter.", the twisting shapes that had once been Jones walked towards the fire again.
"What do I gain from utterly destroying you?", he almost seemed lonely standing there.
"Go to hell.", Paul murmured twisting on the ground, time starting to slow down and speed up, the force trying to roll his eyes inside his skull becoming more powerful.
"Guess what, buddy you just made killing you worth my time.", Jones said pulling out a knife.
Paul tried to move but he couldn't, every time he struggled he felt more of the gasoline fumes burning themselves into his brain.
Keeping him on the ground, trying to get up, feeling like a fish out of water. With only one question in his mind: 'Why in the hell did I just say that?'
Then suddenly the two of them were interrupted by the noise of a truck engine coming from up the road. Paul felt relived, he guessed Jones would be smart enough not to murder him him in front of strangers, that wouldn't make him look like a sane creature.
He took a little too long to put his knife away. Relief, and the gasoline fumes made Paul fall asleep.
Paul woke up to moaning, first he only saw a white dot, then it expanded until he could make out his surroundings. His head spun, and he vomited, the horrible taste wasn't helped by the fact that he saw Jones lying next to him, he felt incredibly greasy from the residue of the now evaporated gas, that clung to his fur.
Then the smell, worse than vomit, worse especially with vomit, the smell of the burned out corpse pile, it made him heave.
Paul got up, looking at Jones for a moment, he halfway lost his balance, and almost tripped over him.
His eyes took a little to adapt to the light, a beautiful afternoon, then he saw the huge hole in Jone's shoulder, with the blood staining the ground next to him.
But by some insane coincidence Jones clung to life, as he lay on the floor moaning, probably too lost in blood loss, and incredible pain, to notice Paul, he considered leaving him there.
Someone had shot him, then he saw the things that lay on the ground, leftovers from a halfhearted looting.
Some cans of food, in front of the general store, a few thrown about, and broken fishing poles, in front of the: "Hunts Hunting Emporium" that had been owned by a nice old man named Frank.
A few broken bottles lay in front of the bar.
Looters god knows where they came from, they had saved his life, probably ended another in the process.
Paul, turned back to Jones, he couldn't leave him there, dying. The man was insane, but not yet a murderer, Paul didn't want to kill him, by leaving, if, Paul would make Jone's pain stop. He tried to recall something from the field medicine book his father had bought him, so he would know what to do if he ever got injured hunting.
Paul could do nothing appropriate for an exit wound this big, the man had been shot by a rifle, these things were made to kill with the first shot. Paul was desperate, anything would do, just stopping the bleeding, and disinfecting it, and soon, or Jones wouldn't live to appreciate it.
There was only one thing he could do, burn the living hell out of that wound, and hope that by some miracle Jones survived it. Then it would be a matter of luck.
Paul felt sick, as he walked into the liquor store, the smell of the now smoldering corpse pile becoming overpowering, and took a bottle of bourbon from the shelf, to his right. The last intact one in the store. He got a packet of matches from behind the counter, and pulled the lever of the cash register that gave a tired "Ka-Ching", Paul smiled. That crazy bastard of a shop keeper really had kept a pistol in his register.
The man had always kept his right hand on the snub nose .38 caliber weapon, not because robberies were common in these parts, he was just paranoid, Paul checked it's safety, and grabbed the twenty or so bullets that were also in the register, he put the gun, and ammunition a paper bag, and walked out of the store.
He opened the bourbon bottle and held it to his nose, smelling it's aroma. In a better world he would be drinking this with a friend. Jones had stopped moaning, he would start again soon enough, if he was still alive. Paul could see the frail body shivering under the strain of breathing.
As he poured some of the liquor into the wound wondering if it would light, or maybe catch him on fire in the process, Jones body twisted a little. The sharp pain of alcohol on exposed flesh, forcing a reaction out of him. Paul took a match from the box, lit it and held it to the wound, it caught fire, Jones made a hissing sound, and lost what little consciousness he had, as blue flames filled the wound searing the flesh with a horrible stink. Soon the wound stopped burning.
Paul wondered, was he done here? He wanted to leave, but Jones had lost to much blood, he needed a doctor, food, someone to care for him, he didn't get those things Jones would be dead.
Paul touched the silky brown fur of Jones head, he seemed frail, and innocent,hen Paul remembered how he had almost been blackmailed, set on fire, and murdered by this asshole:
"Fuck you buddy.", Paul said.
Now all he needed was a car, and since he didn't want to dig through the smoldering pile of corpses just a few yards down the road, Jones had the keys to the only working vehicle.
He found them, in his right pocket, on an big bronze key ring, well worn, but it was definitely the kind of thing Paul was looking for.
Finding the car it would start was harder, as Paul found out three hours later, it belonged to the mail van still parked in the backyard of the post office, a place that took Paul an hour to find. The mail van was big, with lot's of cargo space, with a trustworthy sounding engine, that was just a bit weak for the large vehicle.
Paul loaded it with the few supplies he could scavenge, taking various alcohol, leaving some canned food, mostly things he didn't like, for Jones. Then Paul dragged him into the store careful not to open his wound, leaned him against the counter, laid a can opener, and a few cans next to him, and opened him a can of baked beans, setting it in front of him, then thinking that Jones would need to drink he put a six pack of beer cans beside him. The bastards doing the looting had only left "Blue Ribbon", Paul was generous with stuff he didn't like. He felt good, like forgiving Christian his mom had always wanted him to be. He was able to smile through his terrible headache.
The mail van still had a full tank of gas, so Paul decided to take to empty canisters, Jones had used to drench the corpses with gasoline, and wait for the next gas station, to refill his supplies, after all he had stuff to trade, even if someone had claimed it.
Then looking through the hunting goods store, he found that the looters hadn't taken the rifle mounted on a wall plaque, behind the counter. It was still in working order, and had been build for 10 gauge rounds, Frank said this had been his very first rifle, he was a genius with it, and when they sometimes went hunting, he would dust it off, and as far as Paul remembered, the old bastard had never missed once. Paul hoped some of that luck would rub off. He found some shells for it behind the counter, in a far off corner, and packed that stuff in the back of the mail van.
Paul wouldn't be able to use it for hunting, larger animals would be as dead as the humans, but maybe to scare off some looters.
Finally he had found a packet of smokes outside the general store, it had been stepped on, Paul lit one and drove off, leaving the town stained by the smell of the burning dead behind, and replacing it with the burning rich smoke of a cigarette.
(If you have read up to this point, you life is so empty that you can fill my comments section! Seriously fucking do it, be the first one to suggest a fetish for the next yiff segment!!! Seriously I am a total attention whore!!! I neeeed the comments!!!!)