Chapter 1
The man wipes the hot sweat away from his brow, his bloodied knuckles knocking softly against his green helmet. He reloads the machine gun for what must’ve been the 1,284th time. By now, the motion has become a part of him, extending its crimson branches and roots deep into his brain, hooking into it––fusing with it. He doesn’t even need his eyes to do it anymore, but he has already lost them when he first was stranded here. His radio goes off.
“MacReady, can you hear me? Over.”
“Yes, sir. Over.”
“Listen, I’m still looking out for you, alright? Over.”
“Hell yeah, sir. Thank you. Do you see any more of them? Over.”
“Not at the moment. But don’t worry––I’m always at the old binoculars, always searching for signs of them. Over.” “Thank you, sir. Over.” “No problem. Over.”
“Say… You don’t happen to know when you guys will be able to send reinforcements here, right? Over.”
“Soon. Soon. Listen: I’ve been fighting all month for that, alright? But hey, you’re not doing bad at all for a one man army. Over.”
“I’m flattered, sir. Over.”
“Don’t be, MacReady. The truth is never flattering. Over and out.”
“I need supplies-” The person on the other side has long ago stopped listening. Fifteen minutes go by, the radio comes to life again. “Mac, get to your station. Turn forty degrees to the left. We’ve spotted the enemy. Over.” MacReady does as he is told, stumbling blindly to his station and swiveling as far as the man on the radio tells him to. His fingers are like the conductors of an orchestra, expertly running over his weapon. Firing and firing off into the emerald haze of the forest, his symphony is violent and beautiful, explosive and precise. Silence. Not even the clink of a shell casing against the rocks and twigs beneath him can be heard. The trees make no sound, even after being mowed through by steel. But MacReady knows that he’s hit his target. Somehow. “Very good. You’ve always been a fine marksman, you know that? Over.”
“Thank you, sir. Those bastards are getting quieter. Without you, I wouldn’t have heard them. Over.” “The Koreans are a wily bunch. Don’t worry, though. I’ve got you covered. Over and out.” A heron, somewhere above the trees, it shrilly calls out. MacReady imagines its wings, white as a winter sky and about as long as his arms. It’s a pity he won’t see it ever again, he reckons. But he’ll always have the man on the radio for his eyes. Always. The sun begins to set, swollen and flaming with ghostly plasma. The boiling air is finally succeeded by the chill of night.
The radio goes off again. “Mac, look out! Eighty degrees to the left!” The air is as still as it’ll ever be. There are mountains in the distance, tinted a shade of moody blue without the sun. On them are no encampments. There is no snap of fallen leaves and branches. No low whisper in an alien language. MacReady fires anyways, conducting his symphony in the dead of night. And he plays beautifully. All around him, trees are razed by his infectious spree of bullets and hate. Over and over he fires, efficiently reloading for but the briefest of moments, before the music starts anew. “Good job, soldier. Over.”
“I think I’ve earned those God damn reinforcements and supplies,” MacReady sighs, out of breath and dripping with freezing sweat. His hands are skeletal and unearthly in the moonlight. “Over.”
“Soon. Soon. Don’t push it, soldier. Over.” The Koreans must be getting quieter. They even die quiet. Not even the sound of their cries–– the sound of their bodies hitting the floor–– can be heard. A heron calls out in the distance again. It’s funny, MacReady thinks. They even die quiet. I wonder why that is.
