Chris pulled himself off the couch and embraced his mother. He kissed her cheek and she returned the gesture, before they both turned to watch the SWAT team approach the grocery store. The men in black moved with military precision, jogging down the dirt road, sticking close to the buildings. If the Chead came out of its trance, no one wanted to be caught in the open. While the creatures looked human, they possessed a terrifying speed, and had the strength to tear full-grown men limb from limb.
As the scene inside the grocery store demonstrated.
Absently, Chris clutched his mother’s arm tighter. The Chead were a curse throughout the Western Allied States, or WAS as many called them, a dark shadow left over from the days of the American War. The first whispers of the creatures had started in 2030, not long after the fall of the United States. They had been dismissed then as a rumor, the new country eager to move on from the decade-long conflict. Attacks had been blamed on resistance fighters in rural communities, who had never fully supported the severance from the United States.
In response, the government had imposed curfews in the affected counties, and sent in the military to quell the unrest. But their measures had done nothing to stem the attacks, and eventually, accounts by survivors had filtered through to the media. Claims surfaced that it was not soldiers behind the butchery, but members of the community. The perpetrators were always different, but the story was the same. One day the assailants were ordinary neighbors or colleagues – the next, monsters capable of tearing their loved ones to pieces.
By the time the first creature was captured, rural communities had suffered almost a decade of terror at the hands of the monstrosities. The government and their media agencies had pointed the blame in every direction, from poor rural police-reporting, to secret operations by the Texans to destabilize the Western Allied States.
On the television, the SWAT team had reached the grocery store and were now gathering outside, their rifles trained on the entrance. One lowered his rifle and stepped towards it, the others covering him from behind. Reaching the door, he stretched out an arm to pull it open.
The Chead didn’t make a sound as it tore through the store windows and barreled into the man. A screech came through the old television speakers as the men scattered before the creature’s ferocity. With one hand, the creature grabbed its victim by the throat and hurled him across the street. The thud as he bounced off a concrete wall was audible over the reporter’s microphone.
The sight of their companion’s untimely demise seemed to snap the other members of the squadron into action. The first pops of gunfire followed, but the Chead was already on the move. It tore across the dirt road, bullets raising dust-clouds around it, and smashed into another squad member. A scream echoed up from the street as man and Chead went down, disappearing into a cloud of dust.
Despite the risk of hitting their comrade, the other members of the SWAT team did not stop firing. The chance of survival once a Chead had its hands on you was zero to none, and no one wanted to risk the creature escaping.
Roaring, the Chead reared up from the dust, then spun as a bullet struck it in the shoulder. Blood blossomed from the wound as it staggered back, its grey eyes wide, flickering with surprise. It reached up and touched a finger to the hole left by the bullet, its brow creasing with confusion.
Then the rest of the men opened fire, and the creature fell.
Chapter 2
Doctor Angela Fallow squinted through the rain-streaked windshield, struggling to catch a glimpse of her subject in the lengthening gloom. A few minutes ago the streetlights had flickered into life, but despite their yellowed glow, shadows still clung to the house across the street. Tall hedges marked the boundary with the neighboring properties, while a white picket fence stood between her car and the old cottage.
Leaning closer to the window, Angela held her breath to keep the glass from fogging, and willed her eyes to pierce the twilight. But beyond the brightly-lit sidewalk, she could see nothing but darkness. Letting out a long sigh, she sat back in her seat. There was no sign of anyone outside the house, no silent shadows slipping closer to the warm light beckoning from the windows.
At least, no sign that could be seen.
Berating her nerves, Angela turned her attention to the touchscreen on her dashboard. She had no wish to see a repeat of the casualties her team had suffered in Sacramento. She cursed as the soft glow of the screen lit the car, before she remembered the tinted windows made it impossible for anyone to see inside.
Angela pursed her lips, studying the charts on the screen one last time. It showed a woman in her early forties. Auburn hair hung around her shoulders and she wore the faintest hint of a smile on her red lips. The smile spread to her cheeks, crinkling the skin around her olive-green eyes.
Margaret Sanders.
Beneath the picture was a description of the woman: height, weight, license number, last known address, school and work history, her current occupation as a college professor, and marital status. The last was listed as widowed with a single child. Her husband had succumbed to cancer almost a decade previously.
Shaking her head, Angela looked again at the woman’s eyes, wondering what could have driven her to this end. She had a house, a son, solid employment as a teacher. Why would she throw it all away when she had so much to lose?
Idly, she wondered whether Mrs. Sanders would have done things differently if given another chance. The smile lines around her eyes were those of a kind soul, and her alleged support of the resistance seemed out of character. It
