Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language and violence.
Five men run through the still night. The sent of freshly fallen rain still hangs heavily in the air, though it had stopped raining a long time ago; even before the men had set one foot in the forest, when they were a group of twenty-five. Their feet slip on the wet leafs and mud, which is dry on the outer most layer only, like a thin layer of frosting on cake. The trees are unusually still; tall, yet having deep sloping arches that almost touch the ground. No sound dares slice through the tree's, witchy fingers; minus the sole expectation of a lonely cricket looking for a mate. They have been running in the ghastly woods for a while now. The air is still moist, even though the air left no trace of mist. To the men it feels more like swimming than running. The moisture weighing heavily on their shoulders.
The tree's deep arches loom in the velvet night, their witchy fingers seeming to wait for one of the men to silently fall into its dark embrace.
And I bet you are, you bastards! Thinks the leader of the somber men.
A cramp works its way up the leader's calf, sending pain as sharp as the kiss of a blade up and down his calf muscles. No, I won't give in...I won't give in to this pain!
A pricing scream interrupts the leader's thoughts. He quickly turns around, moving like a liquid shadow, all pain forgotten. He and his men start shooting their guns towards the short lived scream. The lighting-like crack of the guns puts an end to the lonely cricket's calls.
The guns of the men are as light as a feather, with only a firm push into their arm muscles. They end up shooting at nothing. The reminder of the leader's men also saw nothing. But their leader, who's eyes are far sharper, did indeed, see something. At the corner of his prospective he saw a fleeting shadow.
The leader than alters his cold eyes to his fallen man. The sight is enough to send shivers of fear down his spine. The fallen man has a deep cut going from his chest, all the way down to his groin, and into three more feet of deeply gutted dirt. The cut is flanked by two other cuts, set close together, each cut no thicker than a crescent moon.
The leader is glad that the night covers the gutted man from his sight.
At least his death was quick, a voice inside him whispers. He nods once in agreement to his voice, and starts running with the rest of his men again.
The thing that's killing them is just playing with them. But it is careful, because the toy can bite, and one bite from the toy can kill it. It has been killing off the leader's men of twenty-five. Every half an minute the thing makes a kill, each kill lasting precisely five seconds. Each kill it makes is very carefully calculated. The leader shivers, wondering how quickly the thing can kill them if it wasn't being so careful.
Five minutes later; another scream.
More bullets shoot into the night, aiming to kill the monster.
Only to end up as another fail.
Another man dead.
This deadly game commence until, kill by kill, only the leader is left.
Fears runs through his blood. He unloads his gun to empty it of used bullets, then he lodes it again with shaky fingers. Some bullets scatter to the ground in his haste to reload the deadly weapon. But the fallen bullets are the least of his worries.
Sensing something very close by that makes the hair on the nip of his neck raise, he looks up. The thing looms over him, looking more shadow than beast. Even though he can't see well in the veiling night, he can tell the thing is seven feet tall. Its huge body a mountain of broad, coiled, muscle; a forest of dark fur. The thing's low, heavy pants sends the smell of hot dog-like breath into the leader's nose, causing it to shrivel up.
Without warning, the thing lunges.
The leader doesn't even have time to raise his gun an inch. The thing moves with too much deadly grace.
Before he knows what to expect, the thing had racked his chest and down to his belly with its deadly claws. The only thing saving the leader from total death being the gun. The thing's claws, though as powerful as all its kind, merely scraps the gun, making the noise of claws scarping against metal.
Screams from the leader fills the night.
Slicing through the trees.
His pain being worst than he ever experiance before.
But, even among the pain.
Among the blood that spews from his chest wound, like fresh lave bursting froth from a volcano.
Through the blurring of his vision.
He manages to raise his gun.
Aim it at the unholy beast.
And pull the trigger.
The beast roars in pain, fleeing into the night.
The leader smiles through his own blood, and knows no more.