The moment Neville's fingers closed around the dead creature's wrist, its skin burned against his palm—not with heat, but with something unnatural, like static electricity humming beneath leathery flesh. The stench hit him full-force now, sewer stench.
"Jesus Christ," Rodriguez gagged, hefting the corpse's other arm over his shoulder. The thing was lighter than it looked, its bones hollow like a bird's, but the way its limbs twitched post-mortem made Neville's stomach turn.
"Move, move!" Javier barked, covering their six with his rifle as they backtracked toward the base. The treeline rustled—not from wind, but from something scurrying just out of sight.
Then the radio crackled.
"Bravo 3-2, this is Ironhold Command—report status, over."
Rodriguez keyed his mic, breath ragged. "Command, we've got—shit, I don't know what these things are. Five hostiles engaged and neutralized. Bringing one back for—"
A screech cut through the night.
