The Shuddering

screamed, Run!
    Balling his hands up into fists, his left hand sticky with gore, he released a primal yell and ran. The trees whizzed by him. For amoment he felt incredible—as though he could outsprint anyone, any thing . His adrenaline numbed the pain, the fear. It numbed the terror and pushed him forward, away from home but inexorably toward it. If he could outrun these bastards, he’d eventually get there.
    His feet flew behind him as he leaned forward, leading with his head, a constant stumble as his legs failed to keep up with his body. Catching a shoulder on a tree, he grunted in pain but kept on, knowing that stopping would seal his fate, knowing that those things—those savages—were waiting for him to give up.
    Fuck them , he thought. Fuck them, whatever they are.
    But after a minute of his running flat out, that sense of invincibility began to fade. His pace slowed. His legs grew heavy. His heart thudded in his ears. He could hardly breathe, the glacial air burning the lining of his lungs. No , he thought. Get back to her. Get back home. But his legs stopped working. His knees went rubbery. His mind screamed, Keep going , but his body was spent. He ducked behind a tree as the snapping of branches echoed all around him. Jamming his shoulder blades against the trunk, he tried to make himself as small as he could, his bottom lip trembling, his vision going wavy with defeat. The longer he stood there, the more silent the woods became. That horrible, unified, groaning growl had faded. The trees failed to shake, and eventually the crack of branches ceased. The forest went ghostly quiet.
    Opening his eyes, he dared to peek around the side of the pine at his back.
    Nothing.
    Could they really be gone?
    He blinked, his arm burning with pain. It was impossible. He knew he hadn’t outrun them. The one that had darted toward him was faster than anything he’d ever seen, running so fast it seemed to glide over the snow. Maybe they found something else ,he thought. Something else to devour. Something else to kill. Because that was what they were doing out here—hunting. At least that was the story. That was what his father had said.
    He was afraid to move, sure it was a trap, but he couldn’t stay there long. His arm felt as if it were on fire. The blood that had overtaken the inside of his sleeve was seeping out from around his cuff, rolling down the inside of his palm, dripping onto the colorless ground cover next to his boot. If he didn’t bleed to death, they’d smell him and come back. He had to move.
    So he moved.
    And crashed into the chest of a beast.
    It had been waiting for him, utterly silent in its stance, its lips pulled back into a sneer, exposing a collection of jagged teeth in a maw that opened impossibly wide. He didn’t have time to take in the horrifying view, hardly had half a second to take a backward step as it flared its nostrils, ready to strike.
    It leaped.
    Don screamed as he fell backward, the beast’s teeth sinking into the side of his neck. Pain bloomed beneath his jaw, simultaneously hot and cold. He struggled, beating the creature above him with his fists, kicking his legs, bucking to free himself. The thing growled, a foul gurgle rasping from the back of its throat. And then it shook its head like a dog, tearing flesh, snapping tendons. It pulled away, mouth full of soft tissue oozing blood onto the snow.
    Don gasped for air, his eyes wide as he watched the demon chew a piece of him, throwing its head back and swallowing the meat that was missing from his neck. Letting his head fall backward, he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, and imagined himself back in his kitchen, back in front of Jenny as she kissed the tip of his nose. He pictured her hands, soft despite their years. He sucked in a breath of cold air and smelled vanilla. She was always bakingsomething, her cakes and cookies making their tiny two-bedroom cottage forever smell of a five-star bakery. She loved music, always humming Bob Dylan and the Beatles beneath her breath. Don could hear her singing in the startling quiet that surrounded him now, humming just beneath the weakening rattle of his lungs.
    “You think I haven’t seen worse than you?” he croaked, the sound of his own voice sending a shock wave up his spine. He sounded rough, inhuman. “You ugly son of a bitch.” Attempting to stand, he had to pause. Vertigo rocked him back and forth. Something warm filled his throat. He coughed, and blood bubbled