She'd learned to trust her instincts.

And something was very, very, wrong.

Her bones itched more than they ached, and her blood boiled in a way it hadn't in a very long time. Not for the first time that day, she heaved herself to her paws with a groan, and took to pacing again.

Was tonight the night? Were the Pinkterons coming?

But it was storming outside, odd rumblings that rattled her bones and clattered her teeth together, sheets of rain that hit the roof hard enough to be loud even to her ears, and she was sure that they were not that foolish.

She walked from one end of the room to the other, grumbling in discontent, her hips aching even as she kept her lame leg off the ground. "Gin, girl, c'mere," Abigail beckoned, stooping down and sloshing around the bowl of stew she'd put down for her that morning to try and make it enticing. It was little more than broth, the meat so cooked through that it was all-but liquid so that she could eat it with dull and missing teeth, but like that morning it failed to draw her interest. Unease curdled her stomach, tore away any appetite she might have had. Something was wrong, and she wouldn't be settled until she knew what it was.

"Crazy dog," she grumbled as she returned to her sewing, but her scent had soured some with concern.

God, but she hurt, and for a moment she tried to lay down, to take some weight off of her joints, but agitation had her on her paws in moments. Thunder cracked, and she could feel it in her bones, aching and throbbing, and she couldn't help but to whine, rising to hobble back and forth, back and forth.

Oh, she wished John and Uncle were home. They'd left earlier in the day, and weren't back yet. Something was going to happen, she could feel it deep in her bones, and the fact that they weren't home yet made her fur stand on end.

"What's wrong with Gin?"

At least, though, Jack was home.

The boy frowned at her, shifting his book to hold it in one hand, scratching between her ears with the other before slouching down on the couch. It felt so familiar, and something niggled at the back of her mind - she should know this. She shook her head irritably as though trying to cast away a fly; normally she'd do anything for a bit of affection, but she didn't want to be distracted.

"Dunno," Abigail said, attention on her sewing, "she's been like this all day. Maybe it's the storm?"

She scoffed at the thought—as if a storm could scare her! She doesn't like thunder, sure, but she wasn't afraid of a little storm.

This, though, didn't feel like a normal storm. It had been pouring all day, and the thunder was all around odd, didn't sound right even to her ears, and the lightning looked strange through the window.

"A little storm's never bothered her before," Jack frowned, flipping open his book and beginning to read.

The living room went quiet, broken only by Abigail's murmuring, the clicking of her needles and the rasping of the pages of Jack's book as he flipped them, engrossed in… whatever it was he was reading.

God, did she miss reading. Sometimes he read aloud to her, but not nearly as much as he used to, and she missed it.

Her ears pricked up and, although her hearing wasn't what it used to be, it was still good enough to pick up the sound of hoofbeats outside, thumping beneath rattling wagon wheels. She hoped it was John and Uncle, and it should be them, but it could have been anyone, even the Pinkertons and, with how the day had felt so far she wasn't risking it, so she stumbled over to the window, feeling awful sorry for herself as she wobbled up onto the windowsill, struggling to balance on a leg and a half, squinting out into the storm.

Oh, she knew those horses! That Paint, Jack called her Beatrix after an author he liked, and that Appaloosa, John had named her Axle, and they made an odd pair but worked well together. And yes! There was John clambering out of the wagon but—where was Uncle?

And why was this so familiar?

Reassured that it was just John, she dropped from the windowsill with a groan, glad to take the weight off her hips. Still though, agitation rolled through her gut and she couldn't help but to pace and pace, starting to frog hop, drawing her hindlegs together and stepping with them both at the same time - it hurt less.

'Oh, John'll kill you for that,' she snorted as Jack kicked his feet up onto the couch, shoes and all. But Abigail saved him from a hiding, chastising him into putting his feet back down right before John stepped inside. She wagged her tail at him, then wagged it even harder when he agreed "Something funny's going on out there."

"Thank you!" she whuffed, "Finally, someone with some sense!" and then she realized she'd said that John had sense and wondered if she'd lost her mind. He reached down to pet her, "Hey Gin," stroking his hand down her spine and then between her hips.

She squealed, a sharp pain shooting through them, and they buckled, sending her crashing to the ground. It was humiliating and, even as he said "Oh shit, ("Father!" "Is she alright?") sorry Gin," bringing his hands under her to scoop her back onto her feet, she hid her face in her paws.

She wobbled on her paws, hips feeling weak, praying that they didn't give out on her again, that she could last through the end of the year, took a step and decided to lie down when they ached, hiding her muzzle between her forelegs. She still wanted to pace and pace and pace, but her hips wouldn't allow it.

"Damn Rufus's gone crazy, wolves howlin' and birds flyin'," John grumbled, stooping to scratch that spot behind her ear apologetically before walking up behind Abigail, who dismissed it as 'just the storm, John' again.

"Uncle make it back yet?" he asked, and she groaned, knowing that it's not just that storm, dammit! and, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, wished that she could speak.

She shoved him away, and Guinevere panted a laugh at the wounded expression on his face, though her words sobered her. "I thought he was with you, off drinking in the fields," she'd been dozing when they'd left, so hadn't known where they'd gone, and something about it struck her wrong, "I mean working, as you call it now."

There was a funny noise outside, and she raised her head from her paws to look at the window. Something moved, but the storm was pelting down so hard she couldn't pick out much more than the movement itself, the rain so heavy it was little more than a curtain of grey. It was there and gone so fast, though, that maybe she imagined it?

"No, he went into town a few hours ago, after we busted that hammer workin' in the meadow." John was kneeling, tossing wood into the fireplace from the sound of it, but her attention was still held by the window. What had that been?

She startled, yelping when something wrapped around her, only to look up and find John carefully scooping her up. Abigail made a joke about Uncle waiting out the storm in a whorehouse as he set her down by the fireplace, and she stretched out with a groan and a thankful thwap of her tail, laying so she could stare out the window, basking in the heat that soaked into her bones.

There was that sound again!

She jolted her head up, barely hearing John agree with her in a roundabout way, squinting: what was that? There was something resting on the window, brownish-grey, there and gone in a heartbeat and if she didn't know there wasn't a tree there she would have thought it a tree branch.

There was movement in the corner of her eye and she jumped, flinching, turning only to see Abigail getting to her feet. She snorted, sniffing the air, but the building was, admittedly, well-built and well-insulated and so the only smell was John, filthy and reeking of horse-sweat, and the offness of whatever Abigail had spent the day cooking.

She walked away to work on cooking it and John slumped down into her chair, while Jack remained absorbed in his book. She paid half an ear's worth of attention as she stared at the window, trying to figure out what she'd seen before, her fur standing on end. Something was very, very wrong, and how only John could feel it was baffling.

"What you readin'?" John asked, and she fought down a groan. Bless his heart, but he couldn't bond with Jack to save his life. Bless him, really, but he was trying.

"Just some book about monsters," Jack grunted, and she frowned, feeling as though she'd heard this conversation before.

There was an awkward silence, long enough that she turned her ears back to the window, slowly and carefully stretching out onto her side, keeping as much of her weight off of her hip as she could, until John finally said "Tell me about it," and she grinned, "Good job John! That's how you dad!" He was actually showing interest in something Jack was doing!

"It's kind of dumb," Jack grunted, and she groaned, "Come on Jack, he's giving you an olive branch! Stop being such a teenager!"

And holy shit, John actually made a joke back at him, "Well that should suit me just fine," and she couldn't help but to laugh, huffing loudly.

"Well, it's all about in ancient times how Aztec warriors worshiped the sun but, during full moons, some of them worshiped the moon instead."

Her brain stuttered to a stop. Hold on, freeze frame, pause the movie. Did he say Aztec warriors?

Oh, oh no. Now she knew where she'd heard this conversion before ("and upset the equilibrium of things.") There was no way, absolutely no way at all. She'd accept being turned into a dog. She'd accept time travel. She'd even accept falling into a different goddamn dimension.

But zombies, no, zombies were too far! There was no such things as zombies, and there was no way she was in Undead Nightmare!

No way, no how, never ever. She refused to accept it. She was weak, she was old, she couldn't even protect herself from an angry bunny.

What would she do if there were zombies of all things shambling around in a world where there was no respawning, only horrifically final Game Overs?