Beretta moves quickly through the moonlit lumberyard. Her six-year-old son grips her hand, struggling to keep up. A well-scrubbed bandana covers Micah’s unruly hair, and his mother sports one in faded denim. She carries a tattered backpack bulging at the seams from a much-needed supply run. Once through the yard, following the train tracks will lead them to the coast and a chance of survival at the last remaining human outpost.

Portable toilets face north. The site office, a prefab, is to their right beside the lumber storage and cutting sheds — a solar-powered sensor light flickers near the far fence. Beretta pauses, ears straining, and hears a bellowing sound.

“One Who Devours is close. Ready, Micah?” Motherly concern manifests in the telepathic link.

He nods and squeezes his mother’s hand. She squeezes back.

Another sensor light clicks on — closer to their position this time.

“We move now.” They run.

Zigzagging through the lumber stacks, Micah glances back and sees a bloated shadow skitter between the wood stores. A call pierces the air, and he whimpers.

“It’s searching for us, Micah. No more mouth sounds.”

They sprint for the office door. Opening it, they dash inside.

* * *

Papers and coffee cups lined with dust lay strewn about, remnants of a decimated humanity. A Formica table dominates the room. Rows of rust-mottled lockers line the sidewalls, some open, some closed, and a large window with broken plastic blinds is on the left side; a filing cabinet is on the right.

Beretta eases the door shut. “Micah, get down!”

Micah hugs the nearest office wall, making himself as small as possible.

Beretta pulls the filing cabinet towards her, blocking the door. Quickly scanning the room, she spots the lockers and bundles Micah into an open one. He looks fearfully at his mother, who crouches down to his level.

“Don’t come out until I mind speak. They hunt alone, but you must stay quiet. Understood?”

Micah nods, a solitary tear rolling down his face, which he brushes away quickly.

“Un-un-understood, Mom.” His tiny frame slumps against the back of the locker as Beretta stands up and closes the door.

She grabs her pickaxe from the side of her backpack and pads to the window. Chewing her bottom lip, she watches and waits. The predator emits calls, echo locating their position. More lights glow. A high-pitched screech confirms what Beretta knows. Now, it will come for them.

From his hiding place, Micah moans softly.

“Ssshhh!” Beretta urges. “Calm your mind. Listen for my thoughts.” She snatches her bag as a high-pitched hiss resounds near the door.

Brutish talons scratching on the door propel Beretta towards the nearest open locker opposite Micah’s. She drops her backpack between her feet and pulls violently on the locker door to close it. Its hinges squeak, but it refuses to budge. Insistent strikes at the office door pull her focus, and furious shrieks blend with the poundings. The filing cabinet struggles to withstand the onslaught.

Beretta hooks the locker door with her pickaxe and tugs. Nothing. Letting go of the pickaxe, she claws at her backpack, ripping it open — foodstuffs, water, and candles spill out. Grabbing a candle, she rubs it on the stubborn hinges. The filing cabinet crashes to the floor as the door splinters. Beretta eases the locker door shut.

* * *

A warped shape in human form crashes into the room, landing on the filing cabinet and crushing it. It sniffs, swivelling its head, surveying its surroundings. Then, it steps down one stump-like foot at a time, searching for its prey.

Looking through the locker slits, Beretta focuses on Micah’s sanctuary.

“Be brave, Micah.”

She slowly unhooks her weapon from the locker, but it makes a slight scraping noise, and the creature inches closer towards the sound. She tightens her grip on the handle. The predator nudges the locker, raises its head and emits a susurrating sound. A muffled cry comes from Micah’s locker. The misshapen entity tilts its bulbous head from side to side at the sound, pinpointing the noise. It charges.

“Run!” Beretta bursts from the locker, pickaxe aloft.

The hunter senses an attack mid-charge, but Beretta buries her weapon in its undulating back before it turns. Magenta blood oozes from its wound as it recoils from the initial blow. She pulls the pick free with both hands and pierces the Morphumote’s chest. It slashes at her with its claws, lacerating flesh.

Micah scrambles from his locker on his hands and knees as thrashing noises fill the cabin. Loud office blinds pucker and flatten against the window. Micah spies the invader, flinging his mother to the floor. Stifling a sob, he runs outside, reaches the nearest wood stack, and climbs. Hearing his mother’s screams fuse with the alien’s cries until both reach a crescendo, Micah waits, rocking, hands pressed against his ears to drown out the piercing sounds.

Silence.

Still, Micah waits.

“Micah, it’s over.”

He climbs down and slowly edges his way back to the office. Inside, the table is in pieces. Talon marks and bloody smears crisscross the cobwebbed cream-coloured walls. Caved-in lockers and dislodged roof tiles reflect a battle to the death. Micah stands in the doorway, eyes heavy with tears. A blood pool surrounds the unmoving attacker. Beneath its still form, a human leg protrudes.

“M-m-mom?”

Micah hears a groan and the being moves. Fear grips his face. It shifts again, its lifeless carcass slumping to the side as a blood-soaked Beretta emerges. She looks at her bleeding, slashed arm, only now registering the wound. Micah removes his bandana and offers it to his mom, and she wraps it around her mangled flesh.

Beretta embraces Micah with her good arm. “Don’t worry, son; I’m okay. Now, gather up our stuff; we must go.”

Micah scoops up their supplies and drags the backpack to his mom. Beretta limps to the lifeless enemy and wrenches the gore-ridden pickaxe from its chest.

They make their way to the fence. Behind them, like dominoes, the lights extinguish.