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Ben ran. His heart thudded like a drum against his chest, beating so hard he practically felt it in his throat. The metallic taste in his mouth was sharp and nauseating. He wanted to vomit, but knew if he slowed for even a moment, they would catch him. Branches scratched his face, scrawling angry red lines across his cheeks, but Ben hardly noticed. The only thing he felt now was an all consuming fear. He could hear them now, shouting at him in their strange language, impossibly fast and closing in.
Not even an hour before he was perched in his tree stand, deep in the forest. Much farther than he should have been, but he was desperate at this point. He had watched as the last of the sun slipped behind the horizon. Though he’d promised his momma he’d be home before dark, he continued to wait stubbornly, praying for just one single buck. Hunting season ended this weekend, and between football and farm chores, this was his last chance. Ben dreaded facing his father, let alone the boys at practice, to explain how he yet again hadn’t caught his first deer. Most local boys had done so by twelve, but Ben was nearly seventeen with not even a rabbit under his belt. Whispers of “queer” already moved around the locker room when he walked in. This was his only chance. If he didn’t come back with a kill, those whispers would only grow louder.
With a sigh, Ben turned his focus back to the woodline. He sat silently for another thirty minutes, thinking of excuses he could tell his mama as to why he was so late, feeling a headache coming on. Then, movement off to his right caught his eye. Turning carefully, he nearly cried out when a buck came into view. It was beautiful, a solid 8-pointer. Ben estimated it at around 250 pounds, tough to drag back, but worth it. The perfect first buck. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves as the buck lowered its head and grazed, completely unaware of the threat above him. Ben leveled his rifle, offered a quick prayer, and slowly squeezed the trigger.
The crack echoed through the otherwise silent dark forest, and the deer dropped like a stone before it could even lift its head. With a cry of elation, Ben slung his rifle and hurried from his stand. The buck laid around forty yards away, its body resting in a pool of spreading blood. Ben knelt, carefully placing his rifle next to him before reaching out to touch the jagged wound in its center mass. As soon as he made contact, however, a jolt shot from his fingers up his arm, settling with a hollow ache in the center of his chest. He drew his hand back with a startled cry, pins and needles still tingling up his arms.
“What the f-” he began, but cried out again, doubling over as a wave of white hot agony throbbed through his whole body. His right arm suddenly itched so fiercely it felt like fire ants were gnawing under his skin, as red blisters began to march up his arm. He scrambled a few feet back from the deer, breathing heavily and clutching his arm to his chest, tears of pain and terror springing to his eyes. Ben watched, petrified, as little blue orbs began to drift up from the deer’s corpse, pulsing in bright rhythmic flashes. He could feel the headache from before deepening in the back of his skull with each nauseating flash. He heard a strange clicking noise coming from his right and snapped his head over, his vision blurring for just a moment as a wave of nausea overtook him. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision enough to see a creature emerging from the darkness a mere six yards from him. It was tall and pale grey, with a large, bulbous mass that Ben could only assume was its head. Its face was a black, featureless void that stared back at him with an air of uncaring menace. Terror locked Ben in place for a moment as he watched the creature draw closer. It said something to him in a strange language he couldn’t recall hearing before. It sounded more like a series of metallic clicks than real speech. His headache was getting worse the closer the thing came, so intense he could feel it throbbing behind his eyes, making the white and blue orbs that now danced around the creature flash even brighter. He heard something snap behind him and jerked around, fighting another wave of nausea to see that another one was coming up from behind. It was close enough that Ben could see the thing's organs shifting behind a thin layer of semi-transparent grey skin. This seemed to unlock whatever paralysis had struck him, and he screeched as he scrambled to his feet. He leaped over the fallen deer and his gun, nearly stumbling back into the dirt before he was running full tilt deeper into the forest as the creatures continued to click behind him.
Panic had sunk its claws deep into his brain now. He had forgotten all about the deer, or why he was even out here in the first place. The burning in his arm had reached a fever pitch, spreading through his veins like venom. He risked a glance back and let out a scream that came out as a thin whistle of air. The creature was right behind him, spindly arms reaching out towards him, nearly touching. He turns back around just in time to slam headfirst into a tree, sending him sprawling like a rag doll to the ground. He lands in a heap, motionless, face first in the dirt. He’s still taking in great gasps of air but was out cold.
“What the hell is this guy doing out here? I thought we closed this area off,” Agent Salas muttered, nudging the limp body with his boot until it flipped over. Just a kid, he realized, with a nasty gash on his forehead too. Salas glanced down seeing the red blistering that ran up the boy's arm and winced. Agent Ruppelt didn’t answer him. It didn’t matter much how or why the kid was out here; all that mattered now was cleanup. He pressed a button on his hazmat suit, his voice coming out muffled and tinny.
“This is Agent Ruppelt to command. We have an infected Tango by testing field three. Need hazmat, over.” There was a long pause, but Ruppelt was already taking out his service pistol from its holster.
“Roger that. Sending out now, over,” replied a crisp metallic voice. Ruppelt looked up at Salas, who was still looking mournfully down at the sprawled out body.
“He’s dead anyway,” Ruppelt says, trying to be sympathetic, but missing the mark.
“I know,” Salas replies, sounding melancholy, but already reaching for a tarp.