The Last Marine

The thing that had been Mr. Henderson stumbled through the shattered frame of the window. It was clumsy, its leg catching on the broken sill, sending it sprawling onto the living room carpet amidst a shower of broken glass. It paid no mind to the deep gash its arm had sustained in the entry, the blood welling up dark and thick from the wound. It scrambled to its feet with a twitching, uncoordinated motion, its head snapping towards the sounds coming from the hallway—the sounds of Lily’s frightened crying.

It was a target-lock, pure and absolute. The creature was ignoring the two adult men standing in the room and focusing entirely on the sound of the children.

That was a mistake.

Quinn did not hesitate. He did not think. He moved, closing the distance in three long strides, the heavy iron poker held high. He swung it like an axe, aiming for the head, a killing blow meant to end the threat immediately. But the creature was fast, faster than a man of Henderson’s age and build should have been. It ducked its head at the last possible second, and the hooked end of the poker caught it high on the shoulder with a sickening, fleshy crunch of breaking bone.

The impact drove it to its knees, but it did not cry out in pain. It only let out a low, frustrated hiss, like an animal, and clawed at the poker embedded in its shoulder, trying to dislodge it. Quinn yanked the weapon back with a grunt. The creature lunged forward, not at Quinn, but past him, scrambling on all fours with unnatural speed towards the hallway. It was single-minded in its pursuit of the children.

Quinn stumbled back, repositioning himself between the monster and the path to his family. He blocked the hallway. The creature rose to its full height again, its face a mask of mindless fury. It launched itself at him, arms outstretched, fingers curled into rigid claws.

There was no room for a full swing. Quinn reacted with a different instinct. He thrust the poker forward like a spear, bracing his feet. The pointed end met the creature’s chest with a dull, solid thud, sinking into the soft tissue just below the collarbone. The impact stopped the creature’s momentum, pinning it. The thing gaped, its bloody mouth opening and closing, making a horrible, wet, clicking sound. It did not seem to register the fatal wound. It just kept trying to push forward, its feet scrabbling for purchase on the glass-strewn carpet, its inhuman strength pressing against the iron rod.

Quinn’s arms strained against the force. The muscles in his shoulders and back screamed with the effort of holding the creature at bay. He could smell the coppery scent of its blood and something else, something sour and wrong, the smell of sickness. He looked into its milky, vacant eyes and saw nothing. No soul. No person. Just a machine of hunger and violence.

"Mark!" Quinn grunted, his feet slipping slightly on a piece of glass. "Help me!"