Chapter 3

Caleb's left leg was a mess of cooling, sticky heat. The blood had completely dyed the denim of his jeans a deep, sickening crimson from the midriff down to his boot. Every step toward the split boulder felt like dragging a lead weight through thick mud, the gash on his thigh screaming with a rhythmic, pulsing agony that matched the hammering of his heart. He was forty meters ahead of the beast, a distance that felt like miles given his limp. The demon dog was already recovering, its six stubbly legs churning the dirt as it repositioned itself. Caleb didn't look back. He focused on the granite slab ahead—a massive rock split down the center by some ancient frost heave, creating a narrow, jagged V-shape just wide enough for a man to squeeze through, but too tight for a broad-shouldered predator to maneuver. He reached the stone, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches. He spun around, pressing his back against the rough lichen of the boulder, his fingers white-knuckled around the grip of his hatchet. The weight of the tool was the only thing anchoring him to reality. The demon dog skidded to a halt twenty paces away, its crocodile-like maw dripping strings of black-tinged saliva. It lowered its head, the rows of teeth gnashing with a sound like breaking stones. It was waiting, calculating the distance for a final pounce. Caleb's vision blurred at the edges. He couldn't wait for it to decide. He reached down with his free hand, fumbling blindly until his fingers closed around a jagged piece of loose granite. "COME GET IT, PIECE-OF-SHIT DOG!" Caleb roared, his voice cracking under the strain of his lungs. He hurled the rock. It was a clumsy throw, but it struck the monster square on its bony snout. The demon dog didn't yelp. It let out a guttural, wet hiss and launched itself forward. It covered the ground in a blur of gray flesh and bone, its six legs working in a terrifying, synchronized gallop. Caleb waited, counting the heartbeats, watching the gap close: ten meters, five, three. At three meters, the monster leaped. Caleb threw himself to the side, ignoring the white-hot flare of pain in his injured leg. He rolled against the sharp edge of the split boulder, tucking his shoulder in. The demon dog's momentum was too great to check. As Caleb moved, a stray claw from the beast's trailing limb lashed out, catching him across the calf. The new gash sent a fresh jolt of electricity through his nervous system, but he didn't stop. The monster slammed into the split in the rock. Its heavy front shoulders and ribcage wedged deep into the narrow crevice. The bone-plate armor of its head scraped against the granite with a screeching metallic ring. It was stuck, its middle legs kicking uselessly against the stone while its rear legs struggled to find purchase on the loose dirt. Caleb scrambled to his feet, his left leg nearly buckling. He didn't give the thing a second to breathe. He stepped behind the trapped creature, raising the hatchet high above his head. He swung with every ounce of desperate strength he had left. The blade, seemingly weightless in the air but hitting with the force of a sledgehammer, buried itself deep into the monster's spine just behind the neck. There was a sickening *crunch* of vertebrae. The demon dog let out a sound that wasn't a growl or a bark, but a high-pitched, whistling shriek of air escaping a punctured lung. Its entire body arched violently. The rear half of the beast began to thrash with mindless, reptilian intensity. Caleb tried to pull the hatchet free for a second strike, but the monster's sudden, convulsive heave caught him off guard. A heavy, muscular haunch slammed into his stomach like a swinging log. The air left Caleb's lungs in a single, silent burst. He was thrown backward, his boots sliding through the dirt until he hit the ground hard. His fingers spasmed, and the hatchet flew from his hand, sliding across the grass and disappearing into a patch of tall weeds. Caleb lay on his back, gasping, staring up at the two suns that mocked him from the sky. His stomach felt like it had been crushed, and his vision was swimming in dark spots. A few feet away, the demon dog was still wedged in the rock, but it was dying hard. Its back legs were twitching in erratic circles, digging deep trenches in the earth, and the sound of its labored, wet breathing filled the glade. He couldn't leave it alive. If it got loose, he was dead. If he sat here and bled out, he was dead. "Move," he hissed to himself, the word tasting like copper. "Move, damn it." He rolled onto his stomach, crawling toward where he had seen the hatchet land. His hands shook as he parted the stalks of grass. There—the dull glint of the metal head. He grabbed the handle, the familiar weight returning a sliver of focus to his mind. Caleb used the boulder to pull himself upright. He hobbled back to the trapped, spasming creature. It was no longer a predator; it was a mass of failing meat and broken bone. He didn't look at its eyes. He raised the hatchet and brought it down on the base of the skull. Then again. And again. He kept swinging until the thrashing stopped. He kept swinging until the whistling breath fell silent. He kept swinging until his arms felt like they were made of water and the hatchet was coated in a thick, dark gore that didn't look entirely like blood. The demonling was dead. Caleb stood over the carcass, his chest heaving. The silence of the woods rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. He wiped a smear of blood from his forehead, only to realize his hand was covered in it. He looked down at himself. Between the midriff gash and the new wound on his calf, he was losing far too much fluid. The adrenaline was beginning to ebb, replaced by a cold, hollow shivering that started in his bones. He had to get back to the camp. The trip back took less than half a minute of actual walking, but to Caleb, it felt like an eternity of stumbling through a dream. Every time his left foot hit the ground, a fresh wave of nausea rolled over him. The campsite was a vision of ruin. The fire pit had been kicked apart, embers scattered and cold. Their gear was shredded—sleeping bags torn to ribbons, coolers smashed open with the contents trampled into the dirt. The camper was still standing next to the car, but it looked like it had been through a war. Deep dents marred the aluminum siding, and one of the windows was shattered, the glass glittering on the ground like diamonds in the grass. The door hung slightly ajar, swaying in a breeze Caleb couldn't feel. "Guys?" he called out. His voice was a pathetic croak, barely audible over the rustle of the trees. "Are you there?" He limped toward the camper, his hand pressed firmly against the wound in his side to keep his guts in place. The silence of the camp was different from the silence of the woods—it was the silence of a grave. "Chloe?" he tried again, his voice subdued, fearful of what the lack of an answer meant. "Chloe Sterling? Anyone?" He reached the door of the camper and leaned his weight against the frame. He pushed it open and peered into the dim interior. The small living space was tossed; cushions were on the floor, and a cabinet had been ripped from the wall, but there was no sign of his friends. No bodies, no struggle—just emptiness. Caleb stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his blood-soaked boots. He needed the first aid kit. He needed to stop the leaking before the world turned completely black. He gripped the edge of the small kitchenette table, his head spinning. The car was just outside. The kit was in the trunk. He just had to turn around and get it. But as he tried to pivot, the floor seemed to tilt at a forty-five-degree angle. The camper was empty, and the woods outside were full of things that were no longer dogs. Caleb sank onto the bench, his breath rattling in his throat, staring at the door he no longer had the strength to close. ════════════════════════════════════════