Tony

Terrified, Tony studies his surroundings and realizes that, from this moment on, nothing will ever be the same.

It is night. The man is middle-aged, thin, with almost-shaved hair and a thick beard and moustache. He wears a T-shirt and work trousers, all of it filthy. Beneath the heavy soles of his boots, he steps on something repulsive and viscous. He cannot make out what it is.

He looks up. The sky above him is dark and reddish, without stars. Thick orange clouds cover it from one end to the other. Night in this strange place is humid, suffocating, filled with dense fog that limits visibility to a few dozen meters.

Tony turns in a circle. He is surrounded by tall grasses, or what appear to be grasses. He studies one of them more closely and realizes that it is not grass. They are fleshy, spongy structures standing like swollen skins beside a fingernail. They are blood-red and covered by a thin, taut membrane. Dark veins branch beneath that translucent skin.

Tony holds his breath. There are hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Some of the fleshy growths reach his waist. Others rise as high as he does. They extend in every direction until they disappear into the fog. He does not recognize the place; he has never been there. Nevertheless, he came here of his own free will.

Something moves in the darkness. Tony raises the heavy pistol. The effort is difficult; he is tired and weak. He remains motionless. The wind blows hard, driving sand against his face and eyes. The fleshy structures bend beneath the gusts, creak, and then recover their position with a disturbing elasticity.

Something else moves among the surrounding shadows. This time Tony is certain it is not the wind. Something is walking between the fleshy growths. He aims in that direction.

“Come on…”

Nothing. Tony breathes through his mouth. He has few bullets, he knows that without checking.

A seemingly human silhouette appears through the fog. At first, that manages to reassure him a little—only at first. The figure takes one step, then another. Tony makes out a hunched back, arms that are too long, and a head with broad areas completely devoid of hair. A few greasy black locks hang down on either side.

“Don’t come any closer.”

The creature stops. Tony keeps the weapon trained on its chest, his hands trembling. Now he can see it more clearly. Almost no healthy skin remains on its body. Yellow and orange blisters cover its arms, neck, face, and torso. Some are the size of coins; others are much larger. One bursts, and the fluid runs slowly down the blackened skin.

Tony clenches his jaw. The smell reaches him a moment later: putrefaction, wet flesh, and something acidic he cannot identify. The creature tilts its head. Tony steps backward.

“I said don’t come any closer.”

The being leaves the protection of the fleshy growths completely. Its hands open, its fingers curl. It growls.

Tony backs away again until his heels strike one of the fleshy stalks. The structure gives way. He feels something warm and soft behind his legs. He pulls away immediately. The ground is wet too—far too wet.

He lowers his gaze for barely an instant and discovers that his boots are sunk in a dark mixture of mud, blood, and other fluids he does not even want to identify. A movement in front of him forces him to raise the pistol again. The creature is still there, watching him without pause.

Tony then notices something worse. It does not seem to be acting out of hunger alone; it is waiting, enjoying itself. Reddish eyes fill almost the entire blackened sockets. There is fury in them, but also something cold: a deteriorated intelligence that still understands the fear of the man standing before it.

Tony feels a sharp pain in his chest. He lowers his gaze briefly. Three slashes cut across his shirt. The deepest begins near his shoulder and descends toward his waist. The wounds pulse again. They are not fresh, nor are they closed. He grips the pistol more tightly.

A sound comes from his right, then another from his left. Tony does not turn. He keeps his eyes on the first creature, but he is beginning to understand that it is not alone. The fleshy growths part here and there. One silhouette appears, then three, six, ten, more. Tony slowly moves the pistol from side to side. Now there are thirty, perhaps fifty, perhaps many more hidden in the fog.

The collective, sick breathing of the creatures begins to overpower the wind. Tony swallows. He has come too far to die there. He thinks of home, of what he left behind, of the real reason he crossed the deadly desert. Then he aims at the first creature again.

“No.”

The being growls.

“I’m not going to die here.”

The creature crouches. Tony knows what that means. There is nowhere for him to run. He feels the wet fleshy growths behind him; ahead, dozens of diseased bodies wait for his first move. Something bursts among the stalks—one blister, then another. Warm liquid spatters one of Tony’s boots. He does not even look.

The first monster to appear finally leaves its hiding place. For an instant it remains completely still. Tony can hear it breathing. Then he can no longer hear it.

The creature launches itself at him.