Predator (NSFW)

WARNING: The following post contains horror themes and material that certain readers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.  

"Daddy...?"

The man stared from within the doorway of the freezer room, eyes wide with fear, rifle clutched in trembling hands.

"What the hell have you done...?" he gasped.

It still hurt. Ever since the first bite, it had hurt everywhere, like the inside of his skin was full of biting ants and his bones were stretching. The world was in a mist, and there was a horrible, gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach that yawned wider and wider with every passing moment. But in spite of all this, he struggled to his feet from where he had lain in a pool of his own vomited blood, body shaking not with cold, but with an itching anticipation he couldn't understand. He'd never been a tall boy, everyone said so - but his mind lurched sickeningly as he suddenly found himself towering over the man like a bear sizing up an intruder in its den.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," he whined, slurping past a mouth that overflowed with sticky drool. "I just wanted a bite... I was so hungry..."

Through vision that slid in and out of focus, he saw the man's flabby lips move silently. But everything else was acute and sharp - his feet felt the hard iron beneath his skin, his hair bristled like an agitated hedgehog as the icy air stirred it and his ears twitched at the hum of the generator. A wolf howled, somewhere in the distance, proclaiming his territory for others to know and stay away from. A beetle sensed danger and scurried away beneath the floorboards of the cabin, feet scuffling on the wood. Somewhere else, beyond the veil of what he could perceive, something stirred and opened it's eyes.

Realization came to the man in the five seconds it took for all of that to transpire.

"The meat. Son of a bitch, one of them must have... God damn it, Clyde, why didn't you...?"

"It still hurts, Daddy." The gnawing was becoming a biting, a prickling that was spreading throughout his gut. "And I'm still hungry. Why am I still hungry, Daddy?"

The man snapped his head up. His eyes, piggy as they were, swirled with a mix of emotions - fear, anger, horror, disbelief - all of them palpable in the suddenly iron-sharp air. But then they hardened, as if a horrible conclusion had been reached; one that no sane man in any ordinary circumstance should have reached, but in a circumstance as extraordinary as this was the only lifeline available. A body rendered bulky through years of easy truck driving and beer swilling moved silently back and away from the door frame, and for a moment the sudden, lingering smell of sweat and fat and fear beckoned like a lighthouse in a tempest.

Then the barrel of the gun glinted in the moonlight.

Cold terror, the terror of the wild animal, ran through a part of the mind that, long dormant, was now wide awake.

"...Daddy?"

"Don't worry, son. It'll only hurt for a bit."

"Daddy, don't-"

The first bullet was misaimed, knocked off-course by the kickback of the very weapon it came out of. It struck into the shoulder, splintering bone and ripping flesh, and the world jerked crazily backwards as a scream tore through the air in cadence to the explosion of fiery agony. Claws skidded, seeking purchase on the icy floor beneath, and an oath - "SHIT!" - punctuated the frantic snapping and clicking that came as the man tried to reload as fast as he could. He was a good man with guns - given the chance, he could have probably got a second shot off before his target had the time to move.

It was a chance he never got.

Because blood-smell food-smell was in the air, sniff lick drool on the ground, and suddenly he wasn't Daddy anymore. It was prey, terrified prey reeking of beer and piss and sweat and meat, and just beyond that was the hateful, burning stench of saltpetre and iron from the rifle, still snapped in two and smoking. The pain was gone, the stomach was yawning like a chasm, and the predator was on its feet in an instant as every synapse fired together in a single, primal command, a command that turned the scream into a bellowing roar.

KILL.

The second bullet never fired. The predator lunged, covering the meagre distance before the prey could draw breath. Claws dug into flabby shoulders, knocking the weapon to the ground and piercing the fabric and skin like fish-hooks. Teeth sank into the fleshy throat, cutting off the scream as they crushed the windpipe, tore the veins, crunched the bone, shredded the skin. The prey jerked, kicked once, then fell limp, a rabbit held in the jaws of the beast that had won the chase and taken the single step needed to claim survival - death.

Now it wasn't prey anymore, but meat, stinking hot meat, and blood and subcutaneous fat was rich and salty on the tongue. Sniff, crunch, schloop-schloop, watch the head fall away, and where was the best place to start, oh, here it was, around the ribs where the scar from an old knife-wound showed white on the skin. The belly was ripped open crosswise, and then the predator pulled at the steaming entrails, tore at a haunch until it was severed and crunched it, gnawed at the wet liver and split the ribs to get at the heart. There was no order, no thought - it bit here, swallowed there, everything was food, and the whole place was full of the heady smells of meat and blood and fat and shit and-

A wolf howled.

And in the act of pulling out the white, grisly stomach-bag, the predator turned and saw the head, untouched and lying on the floor, trailing spine and tubes. But then suddenly it wasn't the prey or Daddy anymore - it was her head, black hair splayed across the bloody wooden slats, wide eyes staring accusingly from within the face, mouth lolling open in a silent howl for mercy that never came. And the predator dropped the corpse and screamed, a human scream of agony and dread as the cabin shook, creaked, then turned to white frost and black rot that crackled and stank of decay and starvation and-

Stephen woke up with a scream.

For a moment he sat up, eyes wide, panting as the awful memory-turned-nightmare faded from his vision, leaving only the cold horror stirring within him. Then, when his reeling senses finally processed he was in a hotel room, and not the tainted hunting cabin of years past, he collapsed backwards with a groan, unsure if he was supposed to be relieved or frustrated. The sheets beneath his body did little to reassure him, for the fear was still sitting in his stomach like a lump of rancid spam, and he lay there for a while, trembling, still vividly recalling the taste of blood and resisting the urge to retch.

Then an arm curled around his waist like a lifeline.

"Daijoubudesu ka, Stephen-kun?"

Stephen turned his head, and there she was. She wasn't dead, she wasn't a shredded corpse between his teeth, she was right beside him - still half-naked from their earlier romp, her hair an absolute mess. Even with her baggy and weary eyes, she was still like a defiant beacon of joy and energy in the shadows, an easy smile still on her face, and the fear melted away as the blond boy rolled over to face her, paying no mind to the clammy feeling of his own sweaty skin in the warm air of the room.

"Gomen'nasai, Noodle-chan." Ugh, pronunciation was still a little clunky. "Just had a... bad dream."

"Really?" Noodle reached up with the same arm and stroked away some of his damp bangs. "From the way you just screamed, I thought the Xenomorph was after you. Shouldn't have let you stay up and watch that with Murdoc."

Stephen chuckled and shook his head. "No, not that. It's just... It was more of a memory. Something from my childhood I thought I buried away."

The hand cupped his cheek, and it was still amazing how soft it was despite years of holding guns and swords.

"You wanna talk about it?"

For a moment, Stephen hesitated. She was right in front of him, and the whole thing was a weight on his shoulders that he'd let grow too big in the first place, dwelling on it until it had become like the boulder that Sisyphus was doomed to forever push to a mountain peak he'd never reach. Yet a twinkle of his old, anti-social self tried to rise, to guard it and hide it away as he had done in the past, for fear of being rejected and shunned by those who heard the name of wendigo and saw no more than the slavering nightmare of the icy forests. She smelt of cherry blossom and spring water, and for a moment the pleasant, flowery, hold-close-and-hug smell battled with the lingering dream-stench of meat and blood that the predator screamed for in his worst moments.

And then he remembered he was Stephen Tremblay, and that was all she cared about.

"Not yet," he hummed. "Maybe later."

Noodle nodded, smiling.

"I understand."

Stephen smiled back, warmth and relief spreading through his whole being. And when she shuffled towards him beneath the covers, murmured "Stephen-kun wa kawaiidesu~" and graced him with a kiss, that feeling only intensified by a hundredfold. For a moment, his mind floated back to almost the same time last year, when a different boy altogether stood before a tentacled being of another world and watched in nervous trepidation as his fortune was told in knuckle bones and chance...

Thank you, Jonas.

Noodle pulled away and grinned.

"Come on," she purred. "Let's get you measured for your half of our costume, before Murdoc gets any ideas again."

This sounded like a very good idea. And as Stephen sat up in bed and stretched his back into shape again, he didn't even care that his shirt seemed to have gained two extra armholes.