Boots Over Blood

The boots echoed in the halls, each moving up and down in unison, a march that kept rhythm in each soldier's ears. Eleven, four, nine, seven, six, all numbers slapped onto the backs of the soldiers that marched, bright red numbers that told each other who they were. They were all fodder for the research facility, weren't they? That's what Private Agapov thought, his eyes trailing down from the back of each soldier's head to their numbers: cattle branding.

The hall stretched seemingly endlessly, repeating doors and lights—each one six and three meters away from the other, sounds of music or growls slipping underneath the gaps and mixing almost rhythmically with the boots. Eleven, four, nine, seven, six, each soldier staring blankly beyond; their eyes stay forward, watching each other's backs. Private Agapov hung back as the numbers continued to repeat in his mind, the captain remaining at the front, a few soldiers in between, and then himself at the back. It was nothing more than protocol, a routine march throughout the research facility. Eyes stared ahead, keeping rhythm, a well-oiled machine that kept them moving.

They continued—forward, onward, step by step, never looking back, never pausing. Eleven, four, nine, seven, six, the Private watched them step. His eyes only darted away momentarily, the open door catching his eye. The inside was dark, but the glint of blood was still visible with the lights from the outside. Metal pierced Private Agapov's nose, stabbing into his mouth and leaving such a bitter taste, a bitter smell, and a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Scraping, scratching, that's what he could hear. He looked back to the team, seeing them continue to march: Eleven, four, nine, seven…
Seven? Wait, that wasn't right. Agapov counted again as he moved to catch up with his team.
Eleven, four, nine, seven.
Again. Eleven, four, nine, seven.
Where was Six?
Where was the captain?
"Captain?" Agapov called, but there was nothing. The soldiers weren't marching anymore. The boots weren't moving up and down. There was no sound except for the scratching and claws that scraped against the metal.

The red lights flashed without warning as the alarms blared; something had escaped, something much more dangerous than they could handle as a single team. The men looked up—if their eyes dropped, whatever it was would also take them. Private Agapov was frozen, his blood running cold. Blood started to leak from the ventilation shaft above, each crimson drop only furthering the small pool that grew with every moment.

Men started to disappear within an instant. Eleven grabbed and dragged into the vents. Four turned into a bloody mass of gore as the creature finally left. Nine and Seven were torn apart with what almost seemed like manic glee from the beast that caused the alarms to blare.
Boots.
Boots.
Private Agapov's boots crashed down the hall and through the blood that pooled beneath the open vents.
Oh. God. He could hear the laughter. He could hear the sound of his dead comrade's laughter bounce off the walls—that wasn't right; they were all screaming just moments ago.

Don't.
Don't.
Don't think about the sound.
Don't.
Don't.
Don't listen to the cracking bones and tearing muscles.

The mantra pounded in his head like a hammer hitting a nail—a constant rhythm that slammed into his skull with every footstep. Boots moved up and down, crashing into the floor as the private's body crashed into the walls of twisting hallways. He knew guns wouldn't work—the only way to survive was to run and hope that whatever was in control helped Private Agapov get to the electrical field that could finally disorient it.

The laughs continued to echo, getting closer and further almost simultaneously. The walls closed in and warped around the panicking soldier. He had to think of something else—anything but the laughter and the warping environment to keep himself from going insane by simply running from whatever that thing was.

He thought he was safe---that the electric field was close---but his blood turned to ice as he turned the corner. There was the face of the creature that killed his team; broad, cold, unblinking eyes stared through Agapov, barely moving as it stared at him. Its arms clinging to the sides of the wall as its claws dug into the metal---a sickening screech that made the soldier's teeth rattle. Agapov's legs buckled as he fell backward; gravity pressed down on him as he tried to breathe, and Agapov's eyes were locked on the being in front of him, almost as if they were held hostage.

While human, its face was wrong. Its smile was too broad, and its skin stretched in a way that Agapov could only imagine horrifically painful. Behind its eyes, nothing was behind them but a predatory hunger that chilled the soldier to his very core. Agapov saw fur on the thing's neck as it stretched outward, its elongated limbs slowly prowling closer. Another quiet giggle erupted from its mouth—a final victorious mockery of its catch.

Before Private Agapov could even scream, he felt a gush of wind blow past his face, and suddenly, that thing was so close. Its unmoving gaze trained on him, its breath hot against his skin---A harsh wheeze through its ever-gritted teeth. Agapov knew that deep down, it didn't move anything but its head, its neck stretching, and the fur bristling, the sound almost hidden under the blaring alarms---almost. He could still hear skin stretching to its breaking point like a rubber band stretched too thin, all about to snap.

God—it was all too much. It locked his body to the floor as he stared ahead at the creature that had turned his team into a mass pile of gore. A wounded mouse staring at the cat as it prepared to pounce.
The grin finally shifted, but only for the creature's maw to open at last. But not to speak, not to laugh as it had done before---this time, a hunger erupted from the thing's throat. Something primal. It was over before Agapov could process the saliva dripping from its tongue or the rotten stench that permeated the air as its jaw popped open. He was just one more bloody stain before too long.