Astrid Mathieson
The German forest is unnaturally quiet. No birds call. No insects buzz. Just the soft crunch of our boots on fallen leaves and the occasional whisper of wind through ancient pines. We've been tracking the Chimeras for hours, following nothing but old signs and disturbed earth from the GUIDE outpost where they killed everyone.
Then we spot them. Fresh tracks. Deep gouges in the soft soil, still crumbling at the edges. Broken branches with sap that hasn't yet dried.
"They passed through here really recently," I whisper, crouching to examine a tuft of coarse fur caught on a thorny bush.
"Three hundred meters ahead," Ghost murmurs into our comms. He’s hidden high on the ridge to our left. "Movement at the tree line."
My pulse quickens. After hours of hunting, we've finally found them.
I adjust my grip on my rifle, scanning the dense foliage. The weight of the weapon is familiar, comforting even, though I know it will do little more than annoy our prey. My real weapons—the swords on my back—can only be used in very close combat. If I’m going to stop these creatures, it will take a blade through the heart to do it.
"Copy that," Sherlock responds, his voice low and controlled. He moves like a shadow beside me, all precision and deadly focus.
Sherlock and I advance in silence for several minutes.
A branch snaps to our left. I freeze mid-step, every muscle tensing. My finger hovers over the trigger as I slowly pivot toward the sound, raising my rifle to eye level.
The forest holds its breath with me. Nothing moves in the gloom.
My eyes strain against the darkness, picking apart each shadow, each outline of twisted branches. My heartbeat drums in my ears, loud enough that I worry whatever's out there might hear it too.
"There," Sherlock breathes, so quiet I barely hear him.
Through the trees, something massive shifts. A patch of shadow detaches from the darkness, moving with unnatural fluidity.
My breath catches in my throat. A chill races down my spine. This thing—these monsters—have hunted down and slaughtered GUIDE agents. Wiped out multiple teams. And now have massacred an entire outpost. And now we're face to face with one.
We advance carefully, using trees for cover. The creature hasn't noticed us yet, busy with something on the ground. As we draw closer, I see it's feeding—tearing into the carcass of what was once a deer. The weight of my katanas on my back feels suddenly perfect, purposeful. I have my chance. Finally.
The Chimera lifts its head suddenly, and I get my first clear view. Its lion-like body ripples with muscle beneath patchy fur. This nightmare version of a lion with curved ram's horns spiraling from its forehead swings toward us. The snake tail coils and uncoils, its forked tongue tasting the air like a spear ready to strike.
"Ready?" Sherlock whispers.
I nod.
Sherlock fires first, the crack of his rifle shattering the silence. The bullet strikes the Chimera's shoulder, and it roars. The sound vibrates through my bones and sets my teeth on edge. We've merely angered it. Which was the plan. Draw it out, away from the thick of the trees.
But where is the other one?
I fire next, aiming for the eyes. The bullet grazes its face, and the creature charges, moving faster than something so large has any right to. We scatter, diving in opposite directions as it crashes through the space where we stood moments before.
"Ghost!" Sherlock shouts. "We've engaged! Southeast quadrant!"
The Chimera whirls, focusing on Sherlock. I scramble to my feet, firing again to draw its attention. "Over here, you ugly bastard!"
The monster turns toward me, snake tail whipping forward with frightening speed. I dodge, feeling the air displacement as it misses me by inches. The tongue of the snake tail slams into a tree trunk, embedding deeply in the wood. For a moment, the creature is stuck, thrashing to free itself.
"The throat!" I shout to Sherlock. "Go for the lion’s throat!"
He aims and fires three rapid shots. The bullets sink into the flesh instead of bouncing off. The Chimera screams and rips its tail free in a shower of splinters.
A surge of vicious satisfaction runs through me. The throat was the right call. One vulnerable spot is all we need. My mind races, cataloging every movement, every reaction. If we can keep hitting it there, we might actually kill this thing.
Ghost appears from the trees, rifle raised, and empties his magazine into the creature's flank. It barely notices, but it turns its focus to Ghost and roars.
But behind Sherlock, the second Chimera rises from the brush.
