Torches swept the underbrush in Nikale Wood, slicing the dim light. Twenty officers and hunters pushed forward in groups of three or five, rifles gripped tight, boots snapping twigs and crunching wet leaves. Schools shut early, dubbing it a holiday. Media vans hulked beyond the tape, cameras hoisted, lenses snagging every flicker in the shadows.
The soil squelched underfoot, soaked from the rain. Police had rigged a rough camp there—tents sagging, generators humming low. Murmurs rose and fell, boots scraping dry leaves and sticks, shattering the hush. But as groups ventured deeper, voices dropped, steps softened, as a air of terror wrapping them like damp mist.
They clutched their guns closer, chins lifting with forced grit, breaths steady against the dark. Torch beams splashed wild across the trunks, shadows leaping. Branches moving in the cold night wind, swaying like they staring at them because, they killed there silent sleep.
At the camp's edge, floodlights buzzed. Walkie-talkies hissed: "Nothing here, over." Chief Inspector Gwilym Hughes—Harlan to his men—stood by the map table, lighting a cigarette with a shaky flick. He inhaled deep, eyes scanning the trees. "Where is that damn animal? Search in every corner. We are only leaving when we find it. Those fucking media are hyping it so much that half of the city police are wandering in this fucking forest to find a fucking bear."
Antony shifted beside him at the camp far back from the search, gripping his rifle tighter. "It must be a bear or something."
Harlan nodded once, jaw clenching as he crushed the cigarette under his boot. "Whatever it is, those biologists are only going to get it dead. I am going to kill it."
Gunshots cracked from the woods. Walkies buzzed: "Sir, sir, code 111, a group of five is missing, no responses. Sir, we got blood all around, only blood, sir."
Harlan's hand froze on the walkie. "Fuck, what's happening? Send men there."
The team shoved through branches to the blood—dark pools soaking the mud. Crimson splattered everywhere, trees streaked red, bark cracked and thirsty, like it'd sucked the blood dry. One officer wiped his cheek, stared at the sticky smear on his glove, breath catching. He tilted his head up slow. Bodies hung from branches, ripped wide, limbs flopping loose—like twisted Christmas baubles on a slaughter tree. Blood dripped steady, plipping onto leaves, warm flecks hitting their boots.
"What in the fucking hell," Sebe muttered, stepping back, his rifle dropping an inch.
"Oh, my god, Jimmy." Justin stumbled forward, hands reaching up, then pressing to his mouth as his knees buckled.
"Get on your feet," Sebe snapped, grabbing Justin's arm, pulling him steady.
Harlan's walkie crackled: "What the hell is happening? Answer me."
A voice answered, flat: "Sir, they are all dead."
"What, all of them?" Harlan gripped the walkie harder, knuckles white.
"Yes sir."
Harlan bent forward, pinching the bridge of his nose, breath coming short. He snapped upright. "Did you find it?"
"We are looking for it, sir."
A torch beam caught the branches. "Look at the tree branch."
Antony leaned in. "Sir, the media is pushing in."
"Tell them to get out of there or I am going to kill them! All our men are dead, fucking dead," Harlan barked, waving his free hand sharply at the tape line.
Antony's eyes widened. "What?"
"Sir, we found it in a tree branch, staring at us. It's... it's like a human-formed monster."
The thing crouched above—human shape twisted wrong, bat-like face stretched long, red eyes fixed down. Fangs glinted.
One officer raised his rifle. "Fire…."
"Kill that son of a bitch," Harlan yelled, drawing his own gun.
Bullets tore the air. The monster flinched with each hit, black blood spraying, but It was like a mere pinprick for him, then leaped branch to branch,shaking the whole forest. screeching once before vanishing deep into the trees.
The men chased a few steps, then stopped, chests heaving.
Sebe's teeth ground together, fists balling at his sides. "I am going to kill that thing."
"Retreat, I said, retreat!" Harlan ordered.
Justin sank to the ground, knees in the blood, rocking forward with his head in his hands. "Shit shit shit."
"Get those fucking helicopters out," Harlan said, slamming the walkie on the car.
Antony paused, then nodded. "Our comrades are gone, but we need permission from the higher-ups to use those, even if the police get killed."
"Antony, get the fucking helicopters and the machine guns."
Antony's shoulders squared. "Yes, sir."
Two helicopters lifted off, blades chopping the air, lights sweeping the thick canopy. They circled till day break, finding nothing.
Sunrise hit the hills, warming the bloodied ground. Harlan knelt by the bagged remains, gloved fingers tracing a tear in the canvas. He punched the patrol car door, dent buckling the metal, then wiped his eyes quick with his sleeve. "How the hell am I going to show these pieces of them to their families?"
The media pressed closer. "They've got the story, and the whole city is scared. Many of them are trying to blame it on a lab, and many of them are blaming the police for not taking precautions."
In his apartment, Jack sat frozen on the sofa, Lizy asleep on his lap. The TV showed the bodies, the lights, Harlan's face. Jack's fingers tightened on the remote until it snapped in his grip. He stared, eyes rimming red, a tear slipping down his cheek as he pulled Lizy closer.