Sara Reinke - Backwoods

The screamer saw them and hunkered down, its grotesquely distended hands dropping to the floor like paws. Its brows furrowed, its eyes red-rimmed and shadow-draped, and its lips pulled back as it bared its teeth.

“Shoot the heart,” Moore said again, then when the creature sprang at them, leaping from the ground with impossible, cat-like speed and fluidity, he screamed it out, snatching Alice by the hand and scrambling backwards. “Shoot the heart! For God’s sake, shoot it in the heart!”

Andrew shot it in the head instead, and it snapped in mid-air like a puppet with its strings abruptly cut. A thin arc of blood trailed behind it as it crashed to the floor, landing spread-eagle on its back, more blood pooling around its head in a widening circumference.

Keeping his gun arm extended, though shaky, Andrew inched toward it, fanning his free hand in front of his face and blinking against reflexive tears as the pungent smoke waned.

“Did you hit it?” Moore asked, little more than a croak from behind him.

Andrew nodded, glancing back at him. Moore held Alice in a fierce embraced, shied against the wall, both of them wide-eyed with frightened shock.

“In the heart?” Moore asked.

Andrew looked down at the screamer, close enough to take it fully into view. The bullet had taken out a broad, meaty swath from its cheek and jaw, peeling back flesh to leave underlying muscles, tendons and bones all starkly revealed. From there, it had punched deep into the skull, leaving behind a bloody, spongy channel, before apparently exiting the opposite side.

“Did you shoot it in the heart?” Moore asked again.

Letting the gun fall limply to his side, Andrew squatted beside it. This was one of the soldiers, he thought. Despite its grotesque appearance, it hadn’t been some sort of horror movie monster. Like O’Malley, it had been somebody’s husband or son, a living, breathing human being.

And I killed him, Andrew thought, feeling sick.

“ Did you shoot it in the heart?” Moore screamed, and Andrew looked back at him, startled by both his persistence and vehemence.

“No,” he snapped, scowling as he stood. “I shot it in the head, took out about half its skull from the looks of things. I think that’s going to do the goddamn trick.”

Alice ripped herself loose from her father’s embrace, hands outstretched as she shrieked. “Andrew, look out!”

He pivoted, surprised and bewildered, and the screamer tackled him, sending him crashing to the ground. It had scrambled up from its supine position so quickly and silently, Andrew hadn’t even suspected. Now it landed against him heavily, knocking the breath from him, plowing his head soundly into the floor. In an instant, it had him pinned, one of its enormous, misshapen hands mashed against his face, craning his cheek toward the floor, leaving his throat vulnerably exposed. He’d dropped the gun and could see it on the ground in front of him. It had skittered just out of his reach, and beyond that, pressed in horror against the far wall, he saw Alice.

Oh, God, it’s going to kill me right in front of her, he thought in a moment of sheer, blind terror. Oh, God, Alice, don’t look!

“Andrew!” she screamed, rushing forward, shrugging loose as Moore tried to grab her, restrain her.

“Alice, no,” he cried out, hoarse and stricken.

“Leave him alone,” Alice shouted, then Moore hooked her by the sleeve and whipped her smartly around, grabbing her again. It was too late, however. Distracted by Alice’s movement, her cries, the screamer scrambled off of Andrew and toward Moore and his daughter.

Moore’s eyes cut frantically about as he searched for any semblance of a weapon. “Here,” he called out. He pushed Alice into a corner, then stepped away in a broad stride, holding his arms out, waving them madly, capturing the screamer’s attention instantly. “Here,” he shouted again, backing down the corridor, trying to lead it away. “Here I am. Come and get me. Come on.”

“Daddy,” Alice mewled, clapping her hands to her face. When the screamer lunged at Moore, forcing him to turn and run, she screamed more loudly. “Daddy!”

The screamer was fast, impossibly so, and Andrew stumbled to his feet, snatching the fallen pistol off the floor. Though Moore cut a frantic, zig-zagging path down the hall, the creature stayed straight on course, bee-lining for him, and when Andrew squeezed the trigger, the bullet plowed into the meat of its shoulder, spinning it wildly, knocking it off its feet.

In a flash, it was upright again, whirling about and charging back at Andrew, using its deformed hands and feet to break into a wide, frenzied gallop. Andrew staggered backward, keeping the gun raised.

“Shoot the heart,” Moore cried out, and when the screamer leaped at Andrew, hands outstretched, it left its upper torso a wide-open, vulnerably exposed target. Andrew’s index finger flexed inward, and again, the pistol bucked against his palm. This time, when the bullet dropped the creature, it stayed down.

“Jesus,” Andrew whispered, shuddering as he stumbled back into the wall for support. He couldn’t bring himself to lower the gun and stood there, arms outstretched, shaking like a leaf.

“Daddy!” Alice flew down the hallway into Moore’s arms.

He scooped her up, letting her legs lock around his waist, her arms around his neck as he hoisted her to his chest. Looking past the tangled mess of her hair, he said to Andrew, “Did you get it this time?”

Limping forward, cautious, Andrew prodded the fallen screamer with his foot, turning it onto its back. He could see the bullet’s point of impact left of the sternum, the putty-colored flesh puckered in and peeled back around the sunken, bloody crater.

“Yeah.” At last, his arms drooped and he turned, meeting Moore’s gaze. “I got it.”

“We need to keep moving,” Moore said grimly. Obviously not trusting Andrew at his word this time, he’d checked out the dead screamer personally, satisfying himself that the nine-millimeter slug had indeed punctured its heart. Standing, he wiped his hands on his pant legs, then reached for Alice.

“What the hell was that?” Andrew asked. “You know, don’t you?”

Moore didn’t answer, but when he tried to brush past Andrew, hauling Alice in tow, Andrew caught him by the shoulder and shoved him back against the nearest wall. “What was that thing?” he demanded again. “Was it one of the soldiers like O’Malley?”

Moore tried unsuccessfully to shrug away. “It’s part of what’s left of Alpha squadron.”

It took Andrew a moment to remember. “The ones Prendick sent home? The ones with Rocky Mountain spotted fever?”

Moore nodded. “They weren’t sent anywhere. They were the first test subjects.”

At these words, test subjects , Andrew felt his skin crawl uneasily. “For what?”

Moore didn’t respond, his brows narrowing stubbornly, and Andrew pushed him into the wall again. “Answer me,” he snapped. “Whatever happened to O’Malley, is that what happened to those poor sons of bitches, too? What did you do to them?”

“It’s complicated,” Moore said.

Andrew shoved the gun into his face. “Try me.”

“Do you know anything about bioengineering?”

“No. Try me anyway.”

Moore sighed. “They were infected with a retrovirus, a specific, synthesized microorganism that can imprint its own genetic sequencing into a foreign cell, transforming that cell into one that’s like the virus. It’s a complete transformation, erasing whatever genetic code it’s replacing and proliferating until the entire host organism is overrun.”