FSE

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Aaron wrinkled his snout as the sharp scent of animal dung forced his way into his nostrils, trailing out from the truck that trundled along the road just past the hood of his car. The pickup, which looked like it dated back to the roaring twenties, was moving along at a slow pace, and from the rattling sound it made as it drove along, he mused that there was little chance of it speeding up.

He leaned to the left, looking out his driver-side window. Moving his head out of the shadow of the truck forced him to squint against the sunlight, but he could see that the road ahead of them was clear, and ran straight all the way to the horizon. He dropped a cream-furred hand to the gearstick and hit the clutch, prompting the Mustang beneath him to lurch in protest. It took a couple of goes, but the old girl found fourth-gear, and he put his hoof to the floor.

The car was no slouch. With a roar, the hood vibrated in tandem with the V8 concealed beneath, and Aaron felt his body lean back against the ruined leather of the driver's seat as the car picked up speed. He swerved out into the oncoming lane, tires squealing, and looked at the truck beside him as he pulled past. The driver waved him by, peering out from under a red trucker cap with a cheerful, porcine face, and Aaron returned the gesture before pulling back into lane and speeding away.

The engine purred as he kept to a high speed, but the country around him seemed as if to be standing still. Already he had travelled further since leaving Chicago than the longest drive that was feasible back home, but all he found was straight asphalt, surrounded by cornfields, farmhouses, and the occasional white-painted silo that jutted high into a brilliant blue sky.

He pressed his hoof against the pedal, savouring the feeling of acceleration. The engine raised its pitch, while the white noise of the wheels on the road could be heard through the open driver's side window. Yet no matter how fast he drove, for how long, the vastness of Illinois would always defeat him; the surroundings never seemed to change.

He slowed the car, and reached for his cigarettes. Finding them on the dash, he shook one out of the soft pack, and held it between his lips as he lit it with a few strikes of a zippo. Right away, the scent of the fields around him was replaced with the hot, noxious nicotine fumes, that billowed around the inside of the car before being dragged out of the window.

He peered out of the windscreen at that blue sky that met the road on the horizon, and took a drag. Then, with a snort of tobacco smoke, he floored his hoof.

The car growled, then picked up speed, soon passing 60, 70... He gripped the wheel with both hands, fighting the tendency of the front to twitch from the minor imperfections in the road.

"C'mon," he growled, dragging on the cigarette, causing the end to burn a bright red. 80, 90, the car hurtled forward, met only by the open road. By the time the speedo hit 100, the hood's vibration was a blur, while from the suspension came a cacophony of squeaks and creaks.

Aaron's eyes remained fixed on the road on the distance as the seats and vents in the car rattled to the rhythm of the road, and those creaks gave way to the strained sounds of metal fatigue.

110, 120...

Aaron spat what remained of the cigarette into the car's ash-tray. His aim was reasonable, at least half of the ash hit its mark. The other half scattered across the floor and seat on the passenger side, mingling with an assortment of drive-thru trash, itself sitting upon worn, patchy leather and decades of rust. He lifted the sunvisor, pushing it up against the bare metal welds of the roof of the car, any covering having already been long gone by the time he had taken possession of it.

125...

That sunvisor still bore the card of the junkyard where he'd found it in Miami, and the agreeable mechanic who had looked the other way for a wad of dollars. He'd rescued it, a relic of the past; a symbol of youthful aspiration, which despite all this time seemed determined to keep going.

He found its persistence infuriating, and felt his hoof throb from the exertion as he kept the pedal to the floor. He took a deep breath and yelled over the engine,

"C'mon! Keep going you piece o'..."

He didn't finish the sentence. A booming sound ripped through the air, strong enough to jar his body against the seat. The engine's roaring stopped, and was replaced by a sound more akin to someone rattling a bag of tools.

Powerless, the car coasted to a stop.

Aaron found himself leaning back in the seat. He reached up to touch his face, finding his red-brown fur to be lathered in sweat. Through his clothes, he could feel his heart race. His frustration peaked, and he brought a fist crashing down upon the dash; the strike left his hand and forearm numb, and the sudden pain shook him. The anger left him like water going down a drain, and he was left cradling his injured hand, while a knot formed in this throat.

He was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle horn from behind. He reached up to adjust the rear-view mirror, and was forced to wipe it with his hand to make it clear enough to use. Sure enough, the truck he had passed up the road was coming up behind him, and it was obvious the driver had seen him break down.

===

"Thanks bruv. Do you need anything?" Aaron asked as the pig uncoupled the Mustang from his truck.

"Nope," he said. "Preacher says we gotta help each other, the way the world is goin'."

Aaron snorted at his words.

"Not one for churches and preachers, myself," he said. He regretted his bluntness almost as the words left his lips.

The pig's expression at once turned sour, and he jumped back in his truck. Before he took off, he wound down the window.

"You're a long way from home, y'know that?"

The diesel engine of the van spluttered to life, and in moments, he was trundling away down the road.

Alone again, Aaron looked at where the pig had left him. His car was sitting on the forecourt of a gas station and rest stop, which looked to be a "mom-n-pop" operation, with a simple canopy and two fuel pumps. Built from the same white-painted wood as practically every other building he'd seen since leaving Chicago, it stood out among the fields that surrounded them. Even so, once that diesel van's engine receded into the distance, it left behind a tranquil silence that Aaron felt would drive him mad if he let it last too long. He walked up to the front door and was about to knock when it opened from the other side.

The person who came out to greet him moved with a nervous energy, glancing around as if trying to see behind Aaron as he spoke.

"Hi, you got car trouble? Was that Gus dropping you off?"

Aaron nodded.

"Yes, to both."

The man looked at him with a puzzled expression. He was short, and squat; wide at the waist and, if Aaron was honest wide pretty much everywhere else. He wore a pair of blue dungarees, the front pocket of which was full of a range of different tools. Underneath that he wore a short-sleeved flannel shirt, but out of the collar and sleeves spilled copious amounts of black, but greying fur. The same fur covered his small ears, muzzle and face, which bore the unmistakable features of an anthro black bear; one long past his prime.

"You're not from round these parts, are you?" he asked.

"No."

At that, the nervous glances ceased, and a relaxed expression crossed his face.

"Well, let me have a look," he said, then walked over to the car and popped the hood.

Aaron walked around the other side, but before he reached the front of the car, he spotted something; another vehicle was approaching, not much more than a speck in the distance, coming from the opposite way to the direction in which he'd arrived.

"Looks like maybe you got another customer," he said.

Aaron heard a jangle of the bear fishing through his tools.

"Nope," he called back, "that's just officer Radley. She comes by to refuel every day about now."

Aaron reached into his car and took out a cigarette, but thought it unwise to light it so close to the pumps. Instead, he just twiddled it between his fingers as he watched the distant car grow closer, spotting the red and blue lights affixed to the roof. He was watching for long enough to see darker clouds rolling in across the distant plains, amassing along the horizon.

The bear was still tending to the engine as the squad-car drove by then did a u-turn and swung into the station, coming to rest next to one of the pumps just behind Aaron's Mustang.

The door opened, and out of the car stepped a dog-anthro; an Alsatian. She was wearing a tan shirt, with green pants that bore a black trim, topped off by an unusual hat of a design that Aaron had only seen in movies. When she looked over at him to give a curt nod, he saw that she had a brown muzzle, with a lighter patch under her jaw that led down to her collar, and presumably covered her chest.

She slammed the door of her vehicle, then reached for the fuel nozzle and proceeded to fill it up. Every so often, she would glance at him, though she wasted no effort on appearing secretive.

"Steve?" she called out. She had a deep voice.

"You say somethin' Jennifer?" the bear shouted from the other side of the raised hood.

She kept her eyes trained on Aaron as the gas nozzle in her paws spluttered the last few drops into the tank.

"You okay?"

The bear's head popped out the side of the hood.

"Fine, fine. This out-of-tower just has some car troubles, that's all," he replied, and went back to work.

She holstered the nozzle and approached Aaron, shifting her gaze to the car, looking at the lights, then the wheels, and finally back to him. She stopped about a pace away.

"Looks like trouble," she muttered, "You got business in town?"

He shook his head.

"Passing through."

"You got ID?" she asked.

Aaron snorted at the question. She didn't flinch. Back home, he would've told a bobby where she could stick her ID, but then, he wasn't home. Maybe this was just the norm here? Either way, she wasn't worth the effort.

He sighed and opened the passenger door of the Mustang. Right away, several burger wrappers toppled out and fell onto the ground. He grabbed them and shoved them back into the footwell, then opened the glove box and rooted around inside until he found what he was looking for.

He turned back to the Alsatian and passed her a plastic ID card, not much larger than a credit card. Mostly white, it bore a diagonal green line pattern across much of its surface.

She kept her eyes on him as took it from him. Instead of looking down at it, she brought it up to her eye-line. When she read it, she lifted her other paw up to her head, and scratched under the brim of her hat.

"What kind of..." she asked, but Aaron got there first.

"Never seen one before? It's a-"

"I can read," she barked.

She passed the card back to him, and he returned it to the glove box. When he turned back to face her, she was more interested in the front of the car.

"Steve," she said, "is he gonna be on his way soon?"

"Any minute, I'd say," the bear replied.

At that, she took a deep breath through her muzzle, and marched back up to Aaron. Having risen to her full height, she was tall for an Alsatian, but at 6'9" to the tips of his equine ears, Aaron was a good four or five inches taller.

"Look," she said, meeting his gaze, "The folks around here don't want drifters wandering into town and causing a fuss."

Aaron stared right back.

"Like I said, I'm passing through."

"That so, huh?"

There was a moment of silence, until they were disturbed by the sound of the bear slamming down the Mustang's Hood.

"There ya go," he chuckled. Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron could see him wiping his paws on a rag.

The officer shook her head and reached into her breast-pocket, taking out a pair of dark, aviator sunglasses. She placed them over her muzzle and started off back towards her car.

"Gotta go, Steve. I'll pay the tab next time."

She got in, started the engine, and backed up, then turned to face onto the road. Before driving off, she stopped and lowered her window.

"Want some friendly advice?"

Aaron shrugged at her.

"Always."

"You said you were passing through, so pass through. Don't stop."

The car took off with a squeal of tire-rubber and pulled out onto the road, and soon she was gone.

"What do you suppose that's about?" Aaron asked.

"Trust me, you don't wanna know," the bear answered. "You should take her advice."

"How much? For the repairs, I mean," Aaron asked.

"No charge," he replied, "Preacher says-"

"Save it," Aaron snorted.

He got back into the car and turned the key. To his relief, the engine roared back into life, and with a wave, he pulled out of the tiny rest stop and thundered off down the road, back amid the world of endless fields, white-painted farmhouses, and a horizon that was turning a storm-laden grey.

Part 2 will come soon, and will appear on my Patreon a week before anywhere else!

Visit one of the links to keep up-to-date with new and continuing stories!

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A Country Coyote, Part 1

By Logan Greypaw

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