They were dead. The things I’d seen—unnameable flutterings over the lake, the abomination lumbering into the woods—confirmed it. I couldn’t let them die for nothing.

 Everything happened quickly after that. It’s a blur in my brain, a dreamscape that demands acceptance but can’t quite break through the wall of reality my mind has erected to keep it out.

 Running back up the hill, I fought through my terror and regained a modicum of clear thought. The guys. I had to find the rest of the guys, if any of them were alive to find. I spun three-sixty, again, then found my bearings and raced towards the campsite.

 Our site was empty when I arrived, save for a band of raccoons sniffing at our cooler. I threw my hatchet at them, wanting to kill something, anything, and cackled like a madman as they scurried away. I retrieved my useless weapon, swore I’d study every aspect of gun warfare I could find if I made it out of this forest alive, and saw Brody emerge from the trees.

 He carried a body. Dan’s arms hung loose, his head arched back and swaying in rhythm with Brody’s staggering steps.

I rushed over and helped Brody lower Dan’s slight frame to the ground. Blood coated Brody’s tattooed arms, slicing across skulls and flames to add a dimension of horror to what I had previously considered works of art. His face was passionless, blank.

 Dan’s face was gone. A pulpy red glob of flesh oozed in its place. The whiteness of his skull shone through the shreddings of his face.