The wolves that prowled the woods of Blackwell forest were not from around here. Folks knew they were just strangers, hagglers who came looking for land to conquer. The Beasts of Blackwell forest know for certain that there was a time before the wolves, but those who remember it are long dead from time. The Wolves, their singular pack that just kept growing over the years, was located out in the middle of Blackwell, in an open clearing that served as a meeting ground for Beasts and Wolves.

Peter had never been to the Clearing before. He had never had a chance to visit, or any means to. Dead Men were the only reason anyone went to start a fuss with the Wolves, and Peter remembers well the way those meetings ended. The Beast who came to start a fuss would return to town, dejected and sad, totally defeated in their argument by the Wolves. Nothing ever changed in Blackwell, lest you count the weather. But both Zach and Peter doubted the weather had anything to do with the Dead Men that came hours ago. Zach was still shaken, he crawled on the dirt floor, like an Animal, not like a proper Beast at all. Peter had a mind to yank him up by his collar, and force him to walk normally, but he knew Zach would shake out of this frightened stupor soon. They were miles from the Clearing, they wouldn’t make it to the Clearing for hours now. So to pass the time, Peter began to talk.

“Hey Zach,” he said. “Remember that time Dylan snagged two pies off’a Mama’s window sill?” He said, a grin spreading on his face. Peter hopped a little while he walked, imitating an Animalistic Bunny. “He went around pretending to be a normal hog,” he continued. He hopped up onto a low hanging branch and swung from it, landing on the ground next to Zach. Leaves were everywhere. “An’ then he snatched ‘em up! Right when she weren’t lookin’ !” Zach nodded solemnly.

“Yeah, I rem’mber.” He sighed. “Pete, why you gotta make a mess while ya walkin’?” He got up, and brushed the leaves out of the path way. “We walkin’ through some folks’ home, ya know?” Peter silently high fived himself, mentally, for making Zach stand up. Peter just shrugged.

“These folks don’t mind a little mess, now.” He said, kicking up an anthill. “Do they?” Zach shook his head. He was now walking right on his hind legs, just like a proper Beast.

"Well I reckon they do mind, otherwise they wouldn't cut those branches so high." Zach said. Peter stopped and looked at him sideways, wondering what kind of lawn sorcery he was seeing. All Peter saw were a bunch of brambles and thorns that needed a trimming.

"I don't know what yer' talkin' about Zach, buddy, but okay then. These branches are so low, I can make a fine toy out of 'em." He said, swinging one away, rattling the leaves. Peter ran up ahead, knocking more leaves down from the branches. It looked like the sky had opened up and rained down spring on their heads. Peter was laughing at the sight, in total awe of the simplicity of its beauty. Zach just cleaned up the mess he left behind, sweeping the leaves out of the pathway with his tail.

"Ya keep this up, yer' mama won't need no new broom. She can just have my tail, what with how ratty and matted the fur is gonna be when I'm done cleaning up this mess." Zacariah grumbled. Peter wasn't listening though, he was too far away.

"What was that?" He asked absent mindedly knocking more branches. Zach growled.

"I said-"

"Speak up, I c'aint hear ya all the way over there!" Peter said. Zach growled louder, and ran up to Peter, blocking his path.

"Godamn it Pete, can you just take this seriously for a second!?" He said. He was on the ground floor again, not walking like he was supposed to. Peter flicked his friends nose gently with his paw.

"I am taking this seriously. Them Ferals in the Clearing is gonna change all this Dead Man business soon." He said, walking past Zach. Zach turned around to follow Peter, close behind.

"They ain't Ferals Pete, you know that." He said. Peter waved him off.


"Ya only saying that 'cause you afraid of 'em over hearin' us." He said. "Those Wolves are as Feral as any other Feral I done met in my life."

Zach gulped, he didn't want to admit he was afraid of the Wolves. He was a Meat Eater himself. As far as Zach knew, Meat Eaters shouldn't be afraid of other Meat Eaters. They were civilized Beasts, not those wild Animals that looked like them. "Yeah...you right." He said. "Still..." It was always better safe than sorry. The Wolves did risk their hides trying to protect them from the Dead Men. When they felt like it. Soon, night began to fall. And Pete had timed their departure perfectly.

"Well I knew we weren't gonna make it in one full day, so I planned ahead!" He said. Instead of reaching the Clearing they instead made it to a small shack. The lights were on, and Zach could here the chatter of a happy family from inside. Peter walked up to the shacks creaky front porch, and knocked twice. The door was answered by a ruff looking rabbit with scars and scraggly whiskers. His fur was gray as smoke, and he was blind in both his eyes. That didn't stop the old rabbit from hugging Peter and shouting "Why shoot me dead, and tuck me on a humans wall, it's my little nephew!" He said laughing. He patted Peter's back fondly. Peter smiled back.
"How you doing, Uncle Dreasby?" Peter said. Zach walked up to the porch as soon as he did, Dreasby had a look of shock and surprise on his face. "

"Well I'll Be Damned. Zacariah Gumphrey is that you?" He said. He shook Zach's paw fondly. "I thought you went off to one of them Colleges up in Westwell?" He said. Zach smiled back warmly.

"I did, Mr.Dreasby, I done finished my classes there are already." Zach said. Peter patted Zach's back proudly.

"He sure did! I saw every single one of his grades! He's as a smart as crow now, ain't he Uncle?" He said, as if he was the one to go to Westwell for three months. Zach rolled his eyes, and Dreasby laughed.

"Well I reckon he is." Dreasby said.

"Who's out there, Dill?" A female voice from inside yelled. And then she was rounding the corner, and at the door herself, ready to greet the guests.

"Peter B. Migsby!" She said. She was a brown rabbit with curly fur rolled into pins randomly all over. She had on a dusty apron, and her ears were in curlers. Only thing not trying to be curled were her whiskers and her lashes. Peter opened his arms and she returned the favor.

"Aunt Thula, how you doing?" He said. She pinched his cheek, and he yelped.

"You promised me you was gonna come visit and help at the farm!" She said. Peter shrank about five feet into the ground. He gulped.

"Uh... whoops. Looks like I done forgot about that..." he laughed nervously. Aunt Thula turned one last glare on Peter, before turning a warm smile to Zach.

"Zacariah Gumphrey, it feels like ages since I last saw your hide around here." She said. "Come on in, y'all. It's cold, and I can't believe Dill didn't let y'all in earlier."

They all went inside to the warm burrow, only to find a cramped household filled with a lot of bunnies. Zach and Peter knew each face, but to name all of 'em would take too long. They sat at the table with three other bickering bunnies, stuck in a heated argument over something political. A few kits were running around, playing some game causing even more of a ruckus. Peter started up a talk with his Aunt and Uncle, one glaring daggers, the other smiling as warm as pie at him. A radio box chattered on in the drawing room, and the den was full to the brink with the old bunnies, snoring away. Zach sat there at the table, realizing for the first time since the incident at the diner that he wasn't shaking or looking over his shoulder any more.

Peter came up to him, a grin on his face, and paw outstretched. "Come on, Zach!" He said. "Aunt Thula's about to take out the records, and you know how I get down at that floor!" Zach laughed at him, the first he'd laughed that whole day. A genuine one that felt good. Zach took his paw, and let Peter help him out his seat.

"Alright I'm comin'. But don't expect to steal the show, now. I may be three months rusty, but I can still tear it up!" He said. Peter grinned.

"Is that a challenge, fox face?" He called out to Zach.

"You know it, cotton tail." And the two of them danced the night away to Aunt Thula's records. And for a moment, just a few hours, it felt like there were no Dead Men in the world at all. Zach went to sleep that night, happy, and smiling. Peter slept on a cot next to his, ears all in his face and snoring away.

The world may have been ending, but they still danced on.

The coffee pot let out a high, and angry hiss on the stove. Mother Migsby came running from the dining parlor into the kitchen, hurriedly grabbing the pot off the stove, and setting it aside on the counter. She held her ears in her paws, and a rubber tie in her paw. "Good Lord, they just don't have no time today!" She said to herself, tying her ears back, and brushing her head fur back with them. She went to the cabinet for butter, eggs and milk, and some cream, but then realized who had the eggs already.
"Peter! Peter!" She called, her paws still searching for the ingredients. "Where you put them eggs, Peter!" Her son, as disheveled a bunny as one could get, came in tired from waking up.
"What about them eggs, mama?" He said groggily. Mother Migsby scrunched her nose at his pajamas. She ran over to him, and pulled at the edges of his pajama shirt.
"Good Lord, boy. Why aren't you dressed!? The customers will be here by the crack o' dawn, and your cottontail is still tucked an' fluffed in bed!" She messed over his head fur, brushing it this way and that, and Peter moved her paws away.
"I know, I know mama! I just slept in is all." He said, fixing his fur. His ears stood up, all crooked and drooping. "Them eggs is still in the basket. I'll go get 'em." He walked out of the kitchen into the dining parlor, snatching the basket off of one of the tables. The table cloth trailed after him, and he kicked it aside, reminding himself to pick it up later. When Mother Migsby saw the basket of eggs, she grabbed them up and set them on the counter right next to the coffee pot. Peter tapped the coffee pot with his paw. "Coffee gettin' cold, mama." Mother Migsby grabbed the pot, and quickly set it back on the stove, faster than any Beast in Blackwell could do. She grabbed the flour, handed the eggs to Peter "Start cracking, sweetie." And then began to make waffles.
By the time Dylan Hughes came into the shop, a big burly pig who worked out by the salt mines, Mother Migsby had made about 200 pancakes all piled high on a large serving platter. Peter walked out to the dining parlor where Dylan sat down at the counter. Peter had the coffee pot and sugar container already in hand, pouring and stirring it for the old pig. Dylan shook his head, and whistled. "Y'all are never the ones to lag behind, I'll tell ya that." He said, taking a sip. Mother Migsby set two pancakes the size of saucers on a plate, put it up on the window, and rang the bell. Peter gave Dylan his pancakes that he never got a chance to order. And Dylan gave them five coins, the total amount for the pancakes that he never asked for. And just like they always did, Mother Migsby cooked. Peter poured the coffee and sugar for the late stragglers that always came in behind Dylan, and Dylan sat and ate his food, while reading the Morning Panther (a sort of paper that was sold in Blackwell for a low cost.)
Nothing was out of the ordinary. Until Zacariah Higgsley came running into the diner, scared for his life. The other patriots stared at him with looks of disdain and confusion. Peter got up from his post at the counter and picked Zacariah up off the floor. "What in the hell's gotten into you, Zach?" He stood him up and dusted his tweed jacket off. "Running around like an Animal, and shit..." Peter muttered. Zacariah wasn't listening though. He grabbed Peter by the shoulder roughly.
"We've gotta block the doors. Quick." He said. Peter brushed his paw off his shoulder.
"What in the hel-"
"There are Dead Men past the Bayou, so close they're by my house, Peter." Zacariah said. The atmosphere in the diner seemed to drop drastically. Dylan put his plate down, fear in his face.
"You sure it was a Dead Man, Zach?" He asked. Zacariah shook his head.
"Not just one Dead Man, a whole bunch. A lot. A whole fuckin' herd of 'em." Zach said. Dylan dropped his coffee mug. It shattered on the floor. Mother Migsby came into the dining parlor, her paw gripped on the kitchen door for support.
"Jesus help us..." she said, her voice strangled in fear. Peter looked around the Diner, and ran for the nearest table. He grabbed the edge of it, pulling it across the floor.
"Well don't y'all all move at once now, help me block these damn doors!" He said. The other Beasts in the Diner moved quickly, shaken out of their fear by Peters voice. Soon the door was heavily barricaded, and the lights were turned off. Everyone moved away from the Diners windows, afraid of one of the Dead Men seeing them. They waited in silence, completely still, until they smelled the stench of rotting flesh. Once that smell hit their noses, the implications of what was to come finally dawned on them. Mother Migsby whimpered in fear. She clutched her apron in her paws.
The Beasts in the Diner all moved far away from the kitchen windows, and the barricade. They huddled together by the counter, a bunch of Beasts in clothing, afraid of the Dead Men who would rip it from their bodies in a hungry instant. After the stench came the sound. The Dead Men never groaned loudly, it was their feet that did all the talking. Their feet were loud thuds on the ground. Zacariah flinched with each foot fall. Soon the stench and the sounds became over whelming. There really were a herd of them, Peter thought. The roof of the diner shook with the added weight added on top of it. The Diner was built into the side of a small hill, partly because this was cheap land, and partly because Dead Men didn't know up from down.
Henry Gilgaby, another Badger with no relation to the Badger on Blackwell Bayou, flexed his claws. One of the Dead Men knocked lazily on the door. It smelled them. It knew they were in here. It just didn't know how to get in. Henry growled low, so low only the Beasts in the diner heard him. The Dead Man eventually gave up, and moved away. When he came to the window, the Beasts got a good look at the disgusting creature that would tear them apart if it got in. This one looked like an old man. His face was half eaten away by decay and death, but his blue hospital gown made it apparent that he was an old one from the beginning. Some of the Beasts wondered how a Dead Man from the beginning could be alive today, but didn't question it. The Dead Man shambled away from view, and the stench of rotting flesh and the sound of their feet hitting the ground, slowly drifted away. The Dead Men would reach the gate that separates Blackwell from the Humans Hovel. The Humans would get rid of them for sure.
Slowly, but surely, the Beasts of the Diner released their anxious breaths. Henry put his claws back, and relaxed. Zach was still shaking, and Mother Migsby had passed out a long time ago. Peter slowly got up, went to the lamp across the room, and with shaking paws turned the lamp back on. As light came back into the Diner, the Beasts hunched by the counter all began to rise. Dylan helped rouse Mother Migsby from her sleep, and Peter picked Zacariah off of the floor. The poor fox was so shaken, Peter could feel his trembles through his tweed jacket. They moved quietly. No Beast talked or made any sound. They didn't say anything, and they didn't leave the Diner for a full hour. Only then we're they sure that the Dead Men were long gone.
Zach helped Peter take the barricade down, and neither of them spoke while doing it. Dylan left the diner, but never went to the mines for work. Instead he went to his home where his wife and kids were, where they lived. All the way past the Bayou. Where the Dead Men had came from. Hoping to God the faint smell of pig was just his imagination. The other Beasts soon left shortly after, not talking or making a sound. Each one as quiet as the last. Zacariah was the only one who stayed behind. Peter gave him a cup of coffee with lots of sugar. "Drink." He commanded. Zacariah picked it up silently and drank. Mother Migsby retired to her room, and Peter knew he wouldn't see her for a while.
Peter had a lot of questions. Why were the Dead Men this far out? How did they travel so far without dying? What have they been eating? Or rather... who have they been eating? Blackwell couldn't have herds like this coming through on the daily. There was only one Beast who could possibly know what the deal was with this herd. "Zach." Peter said. Zach stared at him, still shaking, his eyes not really meeting Peter's. "We're going to go see the Wolves after this. Do you think you can take the journey?" He asked. Zach shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
"Y-yeah...I...I'm Good enough for the journey...." He said. Peter knew he was lying, but fear wasn't a good thing for a Beast. Especially not for a Beast like Zach. If he wanted to get better, he was gonna have to keep moving forward, and Peter knew from experience that moving forward was the best remedy there was. He patted Zacariahs shoulder lightly. "Good" he said. "Finish that coffee, and then we leave. Got it?" Zacariah nodded. Peter returned to his spot at the counter, his hands under his chin, and his ears slightly drooping from exhaustion. He closed his eyes, and tried his best to imagine the Diner as it had been only an hour ago.

A/N: A slight warning for those who do not like Gore. If you don't like Gore then I would advise you too not read ahead.
.......

The Badger sat in his shack, an old ramshackle sort of hut, that sat right on the edge of the Bayou. The night sky was but a dark abyss. The stars had long since disappeared. They no longer showed their brilliant faces when the humans turned their lights on at night. The Badger, as he was aptly called for no beast would dare utter his birth right aloud, sat in an old easy chair. The Badger couldn't read, but when he stole it from the Dump, he was pretty sure the one he nabbed was a "Lazy Boy", since the humans had yelled that when he was running away with it. "Com' back ere' with mah Lazy Boy, you damned Feral!" It had spat, as the Badger made his way out of the Dump.
The thought of being called a Feral made The Badger a little miffed that night. His claws dug into the arms of the old Lazy Boy, as he remembered the way the human had said it. "Feral". I ain't no damn feral. Fuckin' human. Don't even know... he don't even ...Tired of the the humans taunt running through his head, the Badger stood up out of his Lazy Boy. He stomped over in his big dusty boots towards the meager little hovel he called a kitchen. There was no sink, or pail even, to wash the dishes. The Badger made use of nothing. Cleaning was never his God send. The Badger spent most of his time preparing himself a meal. The only thing worthy of calling food around the Bayou were Minnows and Trout. He had a bucket of them, in a pile higher then the bucket itself. The Badger cast an intimidating figure as he scooped some up with his claws, and clattered them onto a plate.
He slumped back down into his Lazy Boy, ready to enjoy his meal in the dim lamp light, when he smelled the scent of rotting flesh on the air. The Badger stood up at an alarming pace, and stood their half perched on his chair, sniffing the air quietly. Dead flesh...it ain't carrion either... Dead flesh was bad. Dead flesh meant a Dead Man, and a Dead Man was better at killing Animals than a living one. A Dead Man meant a Dead Badger. Those words were not his, but his mother's. The Badger remembered very well the lessons his Mama had given him on the Bayou. You better watch 'Urself, Fenry, or you'll find yourself stuffed and mounted on them humans walls. She had said that to him years ago, teaching him how to hide from hunters in the spring time.
The Badger heard feet falling next. First the stench, and now the sound of a moving body. It was definitely a Dead Man. The Badger flexed his paws, stretching his claws as wide as he could get them, testing their strength. They could tear up a Lazy Boy, but can they tear this Dead Man's throat just the same? He walked toward the door, careful not to make any sudden or harsh movements on the wooden floor board. He blew the lamp out on his way out the door, and then he got down low to the ground on all fours, just like Mama said. Keep low. A Dead Man c'aint get ya all the way down here. They c'aint bend the same as the other 'uns. The Badger crawled his way over his busted porch. The night was not silent. He could here the crickets screaming for eternity, so loud they almost drowned out the noise of the Dead Mans feet. The Badger was a savvy Beast though. The crickets were loud, but not too loud for The Badgers ears. Suddenly, he stopped. The Badger stopped in his tracks, his nose twitched in the air as the scent of rotting flesh grew stronger. The Dead Mans feet were closer to him now. Just a few more steps...
The Dead Man came into the Badgers view, finally. He was an old rotting Dead Man, the type that had died ages ago. It's a wonder how some one hadn't killed him from the beginning. The Badger didn't hiss or scream. He stayed low to the ground, his claws outstretched and ready. The Dead Man wore clothing, something that not every Dead Man could boast about. He looked like he was one of those business types. But The Badger didn't care about any of that. When the Dead Man came closer, moaning in pain and duress, the Badger sprung up into the air, claws digging into the Dead Man's head. The Dead Man fell backward, right on his back, as The Badger tore at his head, grey matter that was all but mush covered his paws. The Badger didn't stop, not even after the Dead Man was really dead.
The Badger moved away from the corpse, his nostrils filled with the stench of rotting flesh. He couldn't stand that smell. It invaded every part of his being, his clothes, his shack. He couldn't stand that damned smell. He stood up, not caring if some hapless human came upon him this far away from the Bayou. He ran, as fast as he could, away from the Dead Man, and the minute his eyes spotted the shack he called home, he slid into the Bayous water. He scrubbed away at his fur and claws until his paws felt numb. At one point he thought he heard whimpers, like a kit in pain. It wasn't much later after this ordeal, that he realized those whimpers came from him. When he felt that his body was free of the stench, and that he smelled like his usual self again, he stepped out of the Bayou, dripping wet and smelling of fish.
Good. He thought. That's just the way I'm supposed to smell. And with the night officially ruined for him, he went back into his shack. He didn't bother re-lighting the lamp, and instead sat down in his Lazy Boy. He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep that night. Not at all. His nose was still awake, still searching for the slightest hint of rotting flesh on the Bayou.
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