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The engine of the Mustang purred in a happier tone as Aaron's hoof squeezed the pedal. Through the windshield, he watched as those clouds on the sky raced towards him like a front, soon covering every speck of blue with a uniform, soul-sapping grey that left the world on either side of the road looking flat and lifeless.

Aaron nearly jumped from his skin as a fork of lightning lanced from the sky over to his left, striking some unfortunate farm in the distance. The fork rippled up through the clouds, filling the world with a dense sheet of white that, for a moment, overwhelmed Aaron's vision, though he carried on driving as the rumble of thunder echoed across the plains.

Afterwards, there was a moment of silence, then, as if someone upstairs had turned a valve, the heavens opened.

Aaron closed his driver-side window, but despite the speed at which he winched the handle, it wasn't quick enough to stop the lukewarm raindrops drenching his left arm and shoulder. He exhaled a sharp breath from his long snout and rolled his eyes, then flicked on his wipers and headlamps. Both worked... in a fashion. Still, neither of them were going to win any awards. The yellowing light gave some view of the road, but mainly reflected off the huge drops of rain, that seemed to be falling almost vertically. The sound inside the car was something else; less a pitter-patter and more a booming drone like a thousand soft mallets striking the same kettle drum.

A few more minutes, and Aaron noticed that he was sweating. A lather sheen was visible on his forearms, while he felt his collar dampen. As he breathed, he could feel the water in the air on his tongue; the rain had brought about a startling rise in humidity, and inside the car, it was like being in a bathroom with the shower running.

The sky was filled with a bright white flare as another fork of lightning crackled down from the clouds, this time touching down to Aaron's right. The rumble chased the flash, leaving only a few moments' gap. In the aftermath, the rain grew stronger, soon making it difficult for Aaron to see the markings on the road, and he eased off the gas just a touch. The engine quietened, and Aaron heard a strange sound; a kind of whistling, like a kettle on the boil-

A bolt of lightning screamed down from the sky, splitting the world in two, and Aaron could only watch as it struck nearby signpost in a shower of sparks. It left him half-blinded, his vision taken up by a pattern of blue-and-yellow after-images.

For an instant, Aaron felt sand beneath his hooves and concrete against his back. His bottom lip quivered, adrenaline washing through his system as the world was filled with shouting voices, anguished cries and the metallic smell of blood.

The delusion was shattered by the booming sound of thunder, emanating as the lightning bolt crackled and faded, and Aaron was dropped back behind the wheel of the car with a jolt.

"Shit!" he yelled, as the car had veered off to the left. He wrestled with the wheel, steering from one direction to the other, fishtailing to the protesting squeals of his tires. He would turn one-way, then the other, but each time, his wheels would fail to get purchase on the wet asphalt, until a bump in the road sent him careening off to the right.

The car mounted the edge of the road, and though Aaron jammed his hoof on the brake, the vehicle carried on, piling through an insubstantial white fence with enough force to knock out the headlights.

With rainswept darkness visible through the windshield, Aaron held on for dear life as the car ploughed through the field beyond. Over a distance that Aaron had no way to judge, it slowed down, then came to a complete stop. The hood shook, then spluttered, and the engine died.

Aaron was alone, accompanied only by the sound of rain, pounding against the bodywork.

He slumped forward on the wheel, stopping only just short of leaning on the horn, and breathed with such strength that his equine nostrils flared and shrank with each breath. His mind raced back to before hitting the fence, before swerving, to that moment just after the lightning strike; the sensation of being in another place, a long time ago. The memory was, to him, like staring at the sun; and he shied away from it, feeling a well of rage build within his chest.

What followed was a tirade panicked words, shouted and screamed at the top of his lungs, grating on his throat. He shoved open the driver's side door and stumbled out into the field beyond. His hooves sank into mud, but he pushed himself forward, away from the car, feeling tall crops within the field whipping against his face.

With each fresh obstacle, he screamed into the storm; promises, curses and profanities. Eventually, his knees sank in the mud, and he was too tired to lift them. The rain beat down, soaking him through, until the fire within him was utterly doused.

He threw his head back, his mane of red-brown hair flinging droplets of sweat and water away from him as he glared at the featureless sky. The storm showed him no sympathy, and the rain ran in rivulets down his equine features, pooling in his eyes, mingling with the salty sting of tears.

His fists clenched as his lips trembled from the lump forming in this throat. He fought it with every fibre of his being, but it was no good. There he remained, and wept.

He had no idea how long had passed before he regained his composure. Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps an hour. All he knew was that by the time the lump in his throat subsided, any semblance of daylight was gone. He scanned the horizon, and in the distance, saw a dark collection of shapes, only just visible through the rain. He rose to his hooves and managed to stagger back to the car, grabbing his keys and wallet before slamming the door.

He set off at a stumbling pace, during which he fell a bunch of times, leaving him caked in mud so persistent that even the torrential rain didn't wash it away. Still, after about twenty minutes, he was close enough to see the closest building for what it was.

It was a barn. In fact, if Aaron was being honest with himself, it was like some kind of barn stereotype. Red-painted, with white beams criss-crossing various parts of the structure, it looked like what he imagined you might see on a Midwest postcard. More importantly, though, the doors were tethered wide open.

He plodded on through the field, feeling his calves burning and thighs tiring. His arms felt like lead pipes, while he was forced to look up at the rain every so often to help keep his eyes open. Any notion of investigating the other buildings was a far-off problem, something to do in the morning, and before he knew it, he stumbled out of the field and reached the door.

Upon stepping inside, he sighed with relief at getting out of the rain. It was still humid, certainly, but at least it was dry. He waited a moment, listening for any movement, but he was pretty sure he was alone, and that this barn was probably just used for storage.

He staggered forward until he felt a familiar sensation against his hooves: straw, and he reached out with his hands to confirm it was, in fact, a great stack in front of him. He collapsed forward, landing with a bounce, before turning over and facing the door.

As he watched, every so often an angular shaft of white light would pierce the gloom, followed by the familiar rumble of thunder, all set to the hollow sound of rain against the roof, and the smell of dirt and straw. The constant bass noise, punctuated by the occasional boom was somehow comforting, even nostalgic. His eyes grew heavy, and in moments he was asleep, lost amid dreams of fallen friends and desert sands.

~~~

Aaron was roused from his slumber by the feeling of something cold and hard poking at his left temple.

"Hey," said a female voice.

Aaron stirred, but just felt himself drifting back off to sleep when he received another poke to the temple, stronger this time.

"Hey!"

He yawned, then turned his head to face where he judged the voice to be coming from. He opened his eyes and light filtered in, blinding him at first, sending a throbbing pain through his forehead. Soon they adjusted enough to allow him to see the barn doorway, which right now was like rectangle of searing sunlight.

But in-between him and that doorway was a person in silhouette. Some sort of canine, judging by the pointed ears and bushy tail.

He brought a hand up to rub his eyes, and in moments, he saw something more alarming.

Aaron's heart skipped a beat when he spotted the metallic sheen glinting off the twin barrels of a shotgun; one pointed straight at his head! He rolled over until he was facing the canine, then backed himself up against the haystack.

"Whoa, whoa, calm yer tits!" he shouted, "I don't have any money or my phone-"

"I don't give a shit about your money!" the female shouted back.

"Then why..." he trailed off as his mind caught up with his mouth. "This is your barn?" he asked.

"Of course it's my barn! It's my land! What did you think this was about?"

There was a pause; Aaron thought it was wiser to let the gun-toting female speak first, so he waited until she carried on.

"Did you think I was here to mug you?" she asked.

As she spoke, Aaron could see the barrel of the shotgun jittering about.

"Well," he said, with a chuckle, "you did wake me up by putting a gun in my face."

Almost before the words had left his lips, the female jumped in with an irate tone.

"Why are you talking like that?"

Aaron pushed himself off the haystack and stood up on his hooves, doing his best to stay vertical. The female stepped back a touch to accommodate him, but kept those barrels trained on his face.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Y'know," she said, before giving an exasperated sigh. "You talk funny."

"I'm English," he said.

"For real?"

He nodded.

"But I thought..." she started, but soon gave up on whatever she was about to say, letting her shoulders droop. "Never mind," she mumbled. She stepped back again, then lowered the shotgun until it pointed at the ground.

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

"That's what everyone says."

"How'd you end up here?" she asked.

Aaron gave her the short version; about how he had been passing through and broken down in her field, then limped into the barn during the storm.

"Well," she said, looking him up and down, "you're not going anywhere like that."

For the first time since waking up, Aaron looked down at his own body. She was right; he was covered in solid clumps of mud that had dried during the night, along with bits of straw that had adhered to it like glue.

"You got a shower? If I could intrude," he asked.

She glanced back out the doorway, then back to him, as she seemed to mull it over.

"Okay, but just remember," she tapped one of the barrels of her gun, "I'm a good shot, so no funny business. C'mon."

Aaron followed her as she stepped out the doorway into the daylight beyond, and the moment they were both outside, the silhouette became the form of a young female canine. She was wearing a pair of blue dungarees, with straps over the shoulders, on top of a simple cotton tee; both were stretched taut over her chubby form, especially at the belly, breasts and broad hips. The sandy-coloured fur on her neck was complimented by long, similarly sandy hair, that fell around her shoulders in a carefree, unkempt manner, out of which poked her cute little ears, triangular and fox-like.

Those ears told him she was no fennec, but her fur, which was short and neat, didn't suggest she was some kind of wolf either. Coming from England, Aaron had never seen one in person before, but he assumed she was a coyote.

She strode along the dirt road that connected the farm buildings with a confident gait, shotgun resting over her shoulder, while her curled-up tail swished and swayed behind her large butt and powerful-looking thighs. Aaron couldn't help but steal the occasional glance as each marching pace caused her rear to twitch from side-to-side.

Together, they passed what looked to be a silo of some sort, and were faced with an old-fashioned farmhouse, of the sort that could've been here a hundred years or more. White painted and wood-panelled, it was large, with a peaked, tiled roof, and more windows than Aaron could take in at-a-glance.

"You live with your family?" Aaron asked.

"I live alone," she said. "These past two years, anyway."

Aaron was puzzled. This place was huge! Even at a guess, it must have at least six bedrooms on the upper floor alone. Then again, he remembered what she had said about being 'far from home'; perhaps this was just the norm in the Midwest.

They stepped up onto the decking that surrounded the house and approached the door.

"After you," the coyote said.

"You don't trust me?" he asked.

"I don't know you," she replied.

"Aaron," he said, and held out his hand. "Aaron Swift."

She glanced at his hand for a moment before looking back at him, causing Aaron to look at it himself. It was filthy, covered in all manner of dirt and grime, and in no fit state to offer to anyone.

He pulled his hand back, and as he did so, the coyote snickered, then burst out laughing. Aaron couldn't remember the last time he laughed, but when he looked at her muzzle, opened in a wide smile that spread up to her curvy cheeks, he felt a grin creep across his own features.

The laughter changed her cold demeanour to one of warmth; Aaron couldn't get over how cute it made her look. Her laughter was infectious, and in moments, he was laughing along with her.

She reached forward and clasped her sandy-furred paw around his filthy hand, then sshook it.

"Sandra," she said, between fits of the giggles. "Just Sandra."

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A Country Coyote, Part 2

By Logan Greypaw

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