The freezer erupted into chaos. The air filled with gunshots and the smell of death. The tall man with the scar fired in controlled bursts, dropping three replicants in quick succession. The stocky man with the Remington worked his bolt with unlikely efficiency, each shot finding its mark with devastating precision.
"To the left!" Dale heard a voice in his head, and followed its order on instinct, swinging his revolver toward another infiltrator, this one wearing Philip-the pharmacist's- face. The thing moved with jerky precision, raising a shotgun—pointing it directly at Javier's back as the young man struggled to open another tank.
Time slowed for Dale. His finger tightened on the trigger. The revolver bucked in his hand. The fake-Philip's head snapped back, blue-black fluid spraying from the exit wound. Its shot went high, tearing a chunk from the ceiling instead of Javier's spine.
"Thanks!" Javier called out, not even turning around, his focus entirely on the controls of the next tank. "Coño, Joder, hijo de... OPEN!" The last hit opening the tank.
Dale felt a fierce grin spread across his face. His entire body tingled with adrenaline. This was what he was made for. Not writing parking tickets or breaking up bar fights. This. The pure, essential struggle of survival.
From behind a stack of crates emerged a figure Dale hadn't noticed before—a pale teenager with jet-black hair hanging over one eye, dressed in all black with silver chains dangling from his belt. The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, his thin frame swimming in an oversized hoodie decorated with some obscure band logo. Despite his youth he was there in the thick of it trying to do his best, and Dale couldn't help but nod appreciatively.
"Move, old man," the teenager encouraged while offering a hand to the older man coming out of the tub next to Dale's, his voice flat with only a hint of rush as he supported the disoriented gentleman. "Exit's that way." He pointed toward a service door half-hidden behind hanging carcasses.
The car mechanic staggered out, stunned and with orange gel still dripping from his clothes, but the teen steadied him with surprising strength. Dale watched as the boy guided Thomas through the door, then returned for the next rescued townsperson—a middle-aged woman Dale recognized as the elementary school principal.
"Javier!" The stocky man shouted, jamming a fresh round into his Remington. Sweat poured down his ruddy face, his left eye squinting even further with tension. "There's too many! We gotta go now!"
More replicants poured through the door, faces Dale recognized from a lifetime in Red Creek. Mrs. Patterson from the library. The Diaz twins from the auto shop. Principal Walters. All moving with that same wrong rhythm, all with eyes that reflected an emptiness within.
"Fuck that Remy! I'm not leaving these people!" Javier shot back, finally getting the lid off another tank. Inside, Reverend Thomas floated in the orange gel, looking more peaceful than Dale had ever seen him.
"You'll die here!" Remy insisted, dropping another replicant with a shot through the chest. "The Commander said to extract the sheriff and go!"
Dale felt an unexpected stab of pride. They'd come specifically for him. Whatever this "Commander" was, he'd prioritized getting him out. A moment later he felt a little bit suspicious of what he wanted from him, but he admitted he owed him one.
A replicant that looked like Linda from the post office rushed directly at Dale, a butcher knife clutched in its hand. Dale fired without thought. The thing staggered but kept coming. He fired again. This time it dropped. If not for the black-blue blood seeping out from them, he might have faltered when killing people he lived his whole life alongside of.
Four shots fired. Two left in the cylinder.
"Javier!" the tall man with the scar shouted, his voice a battlefield bark that cut through the chaos. "You know the plan. The Commander was clear!"
Javier's face twisted with frustration and grief. Dale could see the internal struggle playing out—the need to save everyone warring with whatever orders this mysterious Commander had given.
"Fuck," Javier spat. Then, turning to Dale: "We're getting out. Now."
Dale felt his priorities shift with crystal clarity. Survival first. Questions later. He could come back for the others once he understood what the hell was happening.
The teenager appeared once more, helping the reverend out of the tub. "About time," he muttered, adjusting his hoodie with his free hand. "I told you we didn't have time for a full evac." His eyes, heavily lined with what looked like eyeliner, flicked between Javier and Dale, before snorting and dragging the priest away,
"Lead the way," he said, already moving toward the rear exit Remy was indicating. "I'll cover you."
Dale burst through the service door into the pre-dawn chill, his bare feet stinging against the rough asphalt. The cold air hit his lungs like a sledgehammer after the stale atmosphere of the meat locker. Every sense heightened to painful clarity—the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, the stench of something burning nearby, the dozens of footsteps trampling after him.
The parking lot stretched before him, littered with abandoned vehicles and pools of something dark that Dale hoped was oil. To his right, the massive bulk of the meat-packing plant loomed against the lightening sky, its corrugated metal walls streaked with rust. To his left, a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire separated the facility from the surrounding pine forest. From all over, more and more of Dale's townspeople were running towards them, the distance short enough they could cover it in under a minute.
Twenty feet ahead sat a battered white panel van, its rear doors flung wide open. Inside, a half dozen of Dale's townspeople huddled together, their skin glistening with orange residue, eyes wide with confusion and terror. They looked like newborns, Dale thought—naked, vulnerable, covered in amniotic fluid, thrust into a world they couldn't comprehend.
A massive blonde woman stood braced against the side of the van, a shotgun pressed firmly to her shoulder. Her biceps bulged beneath a tight black t-shirt and armor carrier as she pumped and fired, pumped and fired, each blast dropping another replicant that approached from the direction of the parking lot. Her face showed no fear—only cold, methodical focus. Dale recognized the look from SWAT team members he'd worked with.
"Four more coming out!" Javier shouted from behind Dale.
The blonde woman nodded without looking away from her targets. "Get them in the van. We're late."
Dale's attention shifted to the driver's seat, where a slender Asian man hunched low, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. Each time a shotgun blast rang out, he flinched violently, eyes squeezed shut. The man was terrified—a civilian, not a soldier—yet here he was.
"Move your ass!" The blonde woman's voice cut through Dale's observations. Another replicant dropped to her shotgun, this one wearing the face of Dale's barber. "We've got to go, before-"
Her words were cut short when she noticed something on the roof—a silhouette against the lightening sky. Not human. A bulbous head too large for its body. Spindly limbs. A crimson suit that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
Her face drained of color. "Cephalod," she yelled, the word falling from her lips like a death sentence.
The creature raised one thin arm. Dale watched, transfixed with horror, as the blonde woman's body went rigid. The shotgun clattered from her hands. Her back arched unnaturally, muscles seizing. A thin line of blood trickled from her nose as her eyes rolled back into her head.
"AMBER!" Javier screamed.
To the right! On the roof! Shoot it! Shoot the bastard NOW!
The voice thundered in Dale's mind, commanding and desperate. Dale's head snapped toward the rooftop, his revolver rising automatically.
Then his hand jerked back.
Not of his own volition. Not under his control. His arm swung around, muscles operating on someone else's orders. The revolver pressed hard against his own temple. Cold metal bit into his skin.
Terror flooded Dale's system, pure and electric. His finger tightened on the trigger against his will. His own body had become a puppet, his mind trapped inside, screaming in silent protest.
One pound of pressure away from death.
The scarred man lunged, his reflexes impossibly fast. His calloused hand clamped around Dale's wrist, yanking the revolver away from his temple just as Dale's finger completed its betrayal. The gun discharged with a deafening crack, the bullet whizzing past Dale's ear close enough that he felt its heat.
"It's in your head!" the scarred man shouted, wrestling for control of the weapon. "Fight it!"
The stocky man raised his Remington, cycling rounds toward the Cephalod but none hit the target bullets punched into the concrete around the creature, sending chips of masonry flying. It retreated, that massive head ducking behind an air conditioning unit.
An electric whine cut through the chaos. Dale's eyes tracked to the van, where a drone, no bigger than a dinner plate, shot upward on four propellers from the passenger seat. Its central camera swiveled, locked onto the rooftop, and accelerated directly toward the hidden Cephaloid.
"Cover!" Javier shouted, tackling Dale to the ground. The scarred man threw himself over both of them, his weight driving the air from Dale's lungs.
The world turned white.
The drone detonated with the force of a a pound of home made explosive, sending shrapnel and alien viscera raining down across the parking lot. The shockwave rolled over them, hot and powerful, carrying the stench of ozone and something else, revoltingly sweet and sour.
Dale's ears rang. His vision swam. Yet through the disorientation came a sudden, blessed relief—the alien pressure in his mind vanished. His body was his own again.
"Did we get it?" the stocky man asked, his voice sounding distant through the ringing.
Javier peeled himself off Dale, scanning the rooftop. "Direct hit. Blue mist everywhere."
"Hell yeah! Welcome to Texas asshole!" The scarred man cheered with a bloody grin.
Amber, the blonde woman, was regaining consciousness, supported by the teenager. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, her muscular frame wracked with tremors.
"We need to go," she managed, her voice raw.
In the few seconds of distraction, the replicants had cut most of the distance, and would be on them in less than ten seconds.
"Into the van! NOW!" Javier roared, grabbing Dale's arm and physically dragging him toward the open doors.
Dale moved on autopilot, his mind still reeling from the violation. The feeling of his own finger tightening on the trigger. The absolute certainty that he was about to die, betrayed by his own body.
"South exit..." Javier muttered while looking in the air, as if he was listening to someone else's voice. "Chang! Circle around to the south exit! Everyone in the van now!"
The Asian driver nodded frantically, throwing the vehicle into reverse. The engine roared as he executed a tight turn, repositioning toward the loading bay.
"Move! Move!" the scarred man barked, waving everyone toward the vehicle with his rifle barrel.
Dale clambered into the crowded van, the stench of fear and orange preservative gel overwhelming in the enclosed space. Bodies pressed against him from all sides—cold, wet, trembling. Someone's elbow dug into his ribs. A woman sobbed quietly near his ear.
The scarred man slid into the passenger seat, his movements fluid and practiced. He braced his rifle against the window frame, scanning methodically for threats.
Chang floored the accelerator. The van shot forward, bouncing over uneven concrete as they rounded the corner toward the loading bay. Dale's head smacked against the wall, sending stars across his vision.
As they entered the loading bay, Chang slowed briefly. The teenager lunged for the side door, shoving it open before Dale could grab him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dale yelled, but the kid was already out, moving with surprising speed toward a support column.
Dale watched through the open door as the teenager pulled something from his hoodie—a small device with blinking lights. Explosives. The kid slapped it against the column and rapidly punched a code into its keypad. Dale's stomach clenched. They were going to destroy the building—and everyone still trapped inside it.
"Thirty seconds," the teenager announced, sprinting back and leaping into the van.
Chang didn't hesitate. He drove straight through the cavernous loading bay, threading between forklifts and pallets with surprising skill for someone so terrified. The exit appeared ahead—a chain-link gate leading to open terrain. Or more precisely a hole that had been cut into it.
The van bounced violently over rough ground, each impact sending pain through Dale's bruised ribs. He gripped the seat beneath him, knuckles white with tension.
Through the rear window, Dale watched the building grow smaller. His throat tightened. People were still in there. His people.
The explosion came in waves. First the windows blew out. Then the walls collapsed. Finally, the entire structure imploded in a cloud of dust and debris.
Dale's chest ached with failure. He'd left them behind. The oath he'd sworn as sheriff felt hollow now.
You'll save more next time, the voice promised in his head. We're just getting started.