Don't Look Back
This place had been a place of safety. The metal-clad, air-rattled corridors were known to all aboard, the fourteen lucky ones, chosen for this mission to the stars that a million people would die for. Huge freezers of food, luxurious quarters, a vast science lab to take care of whatever might be found on this new planet far from home. Corridors rung with laughter, the smell of hot food caressed the air, every breath a privilege.
A million people would die for this mission.
Soon, thirteen more would too.
Only you remain. The captain of this doomed vessel, the Titanic of the stars. The air reeks of blood, the only sounds clinging to the gore-dripping corridors those of screams and alarms. You flick the lights off, hoping that near-darkness will give you the advantage, and the yellow fluorescent tubes scream into a flickering fit. The whine of electricity, the howling alarms, the still-lingering blood-hot screams, the incessant beep of the emergency beacon, all wash over you like a bath of fire, wrapping bands of steel around your ribs and crushing out your breath.
A single tear sears down your skin and burns your cracked, blackened lips. This is it.
Even if you only hold it back, slow it down, you have to try. The commander is still frozen in his leather chair, mouth stretched wide in a death-grimace, blood now cloying and drying on his immaculate uniform and sleek dark hair. Dark wetness glistens in the gaping rend that was his abdomen, spills of once-warm flesh and lifeless innards split and torn my merciless teeth. Your former comrade destroyed.
What's that? A chill settles into your stomach. You already know. It's coming for you. Now.
Holster your pistol, grab your ele-knife, get out. Get out, because the beast has got the scent of its final victim here – your scent. Get out!
Run. Run. Don't look back. Ignore the harsh alarm lights and the screaming siren. Ignore the wire biting into your thigh. Ignore the blood running down your face and catching like liquid metal in your mouth. Don't stop. Which way? Turn left. Your energy's failing. Stop. Something's here; it knows you're here. It's here for you.
Point the gun – left – right – to the ceiling. Oh god, say it's not here. It can't have caught you. A ragged sigh, half-resignation, half-determination, passes your lips. Your left hand finds the electrified blade strapped to your side and draws it, priming it to maximum voltage. If you die, so does this son of a bitch facing you. Hunting you.
Sweat mingles with blood on your lips as the seconds stretch like aeons. It's here. It's watching. Waiting. Where?
A hiss like machinery, breath laden with noxious fumes; teeth rend the metal mesh at your feet. There. Glints of bloodied jaws, five-inch claws, stained, stained with your comrades blood, stained with your blood. You empty the clip of your gun into the beast's head, it's mouth, eyes, brain, praying for a miracle.
None comes.
It stands up now, three feet above you and still crouched below the steel ceiling. Carrying blades red with blood and black with poison, stronger than ten men, and humanly intelligent. It's mouth stretches wide in a dreadful grimace that may have been laughter on a human.
Fear fades from your body. You're beyond fear. Beyond the pain of the claws that slice deep into your arm, through cloth, skin, muscle, gouging into the bone.
The beast freezes. Begins to shudder. It's eyes crackle, sparks sprint along the dark blades, and you pull your knife from between its ribs.
But it isn't dead yet.
A poisoned blade whistles past you, and you try and dodge. Nearly. The hilt catches – only a glance, but it spins you away. The slashed cut on your head spilling fresh blood into your eyes and mouth.
The blade rushes towards you. Don't look at it! Don't scream. Move – no strength left. Keep quiet, don't let it hear you scream, don't look at the blade or the beast or the slashed remains of your former comrade. Don't –