For a brief moment, everything seemed under control.

The containment perimeter was set, drones hovered overhead, and command had already confirmed that the recovery convoy was en route.  

All they needed to do was hold position and wait.

Ed exhaled slowly, scanning the cabin through his scope. The old man had finished splitting wood and was now heading back toward the door, his movements steady, unhurried.  

He disappeared inside.

“Visual lost,” one of the spotters whispered. “No further movement.”

Monna checked her watch. “Mark the time. Let’s see if—”

The sound cut her off.  

A dull, rhythmic thumping came from within the cabin. At first it sounded like footsteps—then like something *crawling.*  

Boards creaked, the air seemed to thicken.

Ed frowned. “You hear that?”

Before anyone could reply, the front door burst open.

People began to spill out.

Not one or two—**dozens.**

They staggered into the open clearing, faces half-lit by the pale light filtering through the fog. Some were dressed like ordinary civilians—workers, hikers, even a child in a red coat.  

But others… weren’t right.

Their eyes were wrong.  

Their movements were wrong.  

One man’s arm bent at an impossible angle; a woman’s neck turned full circle without breaking. Their skin pulsed faintly beneath their clothes, as though something was moving underneath.

The old man reappeared among them, standing at the center of the crowd, his axe resting easily on his shoulder.

“Command,” Monna hissed into her mic. “We’ve got multiple hostiles emerging from the target structure—unknown classification. Request immediate extraction authorization.”

Static.

No response.

She tried again, voice sharper. “Command, do you copy?”

Still nothing—only the crackling hiss of interference.

Ed looked at her, eyes wide. “We’re jammed.”

Monna’s jaw tightened. “No. We’re being *cut off.*”

The old man raised his head.

Even from this distance, Ed could swear the figure’s gaze locked directly on them through the trees.  

Then he smiled—an expression too calm, too knowing.

He lifted his free hand and made a slow, deliberate gesture—beckoning.

The crowd behind him stirred.

They began to walk.

Some stumbled, some crawled, some moved with inhuman grace—but they were all coming *straight toward the ridge.*

“Movement! Movement from the target!” a scout shouted. “We’ve got—oh god, they’re fast—”

“Pull back!” Monna snapped. “Team B, disengage! Fall back to the transport route, now!”

Gunfire cracked through the fog.  

The first burst of rounds hit one of the advancing figures square in the chest—but instead of falling, it simply stopped, straightened, and kept walking.  

Another went down, only to rise again seconds later.

“They’re not dying!” someone shouted.

Monna grabbed Ed by the shoulder. “Rookie, move! We’re leaving!”

He hesitated, glancing toward the clearing. The old man hadn’t moved; he still stood before the cabin, surrounded by his impossible crowd.

Then, slowly, the door behind him began to open again.

Inside the cabin was not darkness. It was *light*—cold, white, endless.  

And within that light, silhouettes moved, dozens more pressing against the threshold like insects trying to escape a nest.

Monna saw it too. “Oh, hell no.”

She yanked Ed by the arm, dragging him down the slope as the first of the “people” began to break into a run—movements jerky, animalistic.

Branches whipped against their faces as they tore through the trees. Radios blared fragments of other teams shouting, panicking, being cut off one by one.

“Team D’s gone dark!”  

“Something’s behind us—”  

“Stay together! Don’t look at—!”

Then only silence.

Ed risked a glance back—and froze.  

Through the trees, he saw them. The figures from the cabin moving like a tide, sprinting without sound. Their eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the drone lights.

“Monna!” he gasped. “They’re gaining!”

She didn’t look back. “Keep running!”

The forest seemed alive with whispers. Every rustle, every snap of a branch carried a voice, fragmented and hollow.

*“Don’t leave us.”*  

*“Stay.”*  

*“Join.”*

Ed’s pulse hammered in his ears. The ground beneath them sloped downward, the fog thickening until it was hard to tell which way was forward.

Then, through the haze, a voice on the radio—cracked, faint, but clear.  

“Containment squad ETA—five minutes. Hold your ground!”

Monna slid behind a fallen log, catching her breath. “We won’t last five.”

The air around them grew colder. The whispering stopped.

Ed peeked over the log.

The clearing was empty.

“Where—where did they go?” he whispered.

Monna’s expression hardened. “They’re not gone. They’re *hunting.*”

She chambered a round, eyes fixed on the shadows. “Welcome to the real work, rookie. This isn’t a capture anymore.”

Somewhere in the mist, a faint laugh echoed—a deep, rasping sound that didn’t belong to the old man.

It came from everywhere at once.

And when Ed looked back toward where the cabin should have been, there was nothing there.

Only the axe, lying alone in the grass.

Still wet with sap—or blood.