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Thin, spiderweb cracks branched across the glass with every rhythmic slam of the creature's head. Its blackened teeth and necrotic gums pressed tight against the pane; milky eyes stared through Vincent as it gnawed mindlessly at the air.
Vincent's hand fumbled for the screwdriver in his back pocket. He yanked it out with a grunt, jabbing the air in a useless reflex. The creature didn't flinch.
Vincent's gaze drifted to the blood-soaked lanyard around the thing's neck. Whose blood? He didn't want to know. Bryan from Research Wing A didn't seem to care about the stains, or the fact that the back half of his skull was missing.
Bryan smushed his face harder against the cracking glass, snapping his jaw in anticipation. Blood and black bile smeared the view as he hammered his palms against the airlock door. The wet thud-thud-thud was nearly drowned out by the shriek of the overhead alarms.
Overtime—just for some extra cash, Vincent mocked himself.
BANG.
Could get a six-pack. A decent meal.
BANG. BANG.
I could be at home in my goddamn bed!
The alarms reached a crescendo, a final wake-up call. Vincent recoiled from the door and spun toward the wall terminal. He clawed at his memory for the override codes.
172… no. 127… 8? No. 3?
His eyes flickered to the side. Twenty feet away, visible through the final exit door, the full moon hung in the night sky—bright, cold, and taunting. One door stood between him and the air.
Sweat stung his eyes. His hands shook, fingers hovering uselessly over the keys as hazy memories of training flashed by. Don had given him the notebook—the codes were all in the notebook. But the notebook was sitting in his locker, three hallways back in the dark.
A sharp crack drew his eyes back to the airlock. Bryan was making headway; a spiderweb of glass gave way under the creature's weight. Those milky eyes locked onto Vincent with a fresh surge of hunger. The snap of the creature's jaw echoed in the small space, a sound that made Vincent feel the ghostly pressure of teeth ripping into his own throat.
A new alarm blared—lower, more ominous—and the air ducts hissed to life. A thick, crimson gas swirled into the room, pooling around Vincent's ankles like heavy fog. He smashed his fist against the terminal, a guttural scream ripping from his throat.
1728…3?
INCORRECT CODE.
The sound of shattering glass erupted. Bryan was through the first pane, his torso wedged in the frame, growling a deafening, monstrous sound.
Vincent's fingers flew, punching every sequence he could recall as the gas rose to his waist. A slippery filament coated his arms. His skin began to tighten, itching with the intensity of a thousand stings. It felt like dried soap tightening over his skin.
17286.
ACCESS GRANTED. SYSTEM SETTINGS.
A sob of relief broke from Vincent's throat as the menu scrolled up.
The glass groaned again as Bryan forced an arm through the jagged hole, swiping at the air. "Ow!" Vincent buckled. The tingling in his legs turned to a white-hot sear, clawing up his chest. He didn't slow down. He couldn't.
He ripped his lanyard over his head, the cord snagging on his neck. He swiped the card through the reader. As he pulled his hand away, he felt a strange, hot dampness on the back of his neck. He touched it instinctively, only to recoil as his fingers met raw, weeping flesh.
He looked at his hand. His skin was bubbling, rising in angry red blisters that peeled away to reveal the wet, pulsing muscle beneath. The flesh of his forearms began to slide off in clotted clumps, splattering at his feet like heavy rain.
He didn't care. He punched the final command.
The airlock hissed open.
Vincent's face twisted into a grotesque smile. He took one step toward the moon—and his legs gave out. He hit the floor with a wet, heavy thud. His lungs convulsed as if he'd swallowed a gallon of acid. He choked, sputtering, clawing for a single breath of clean air that wouldn't come.
He began to crawl.
The moonlight spread across his face, a cold mercy against his burning, raw nerves. He inched forward, screams bubbling out of his mouth in red sprays. With every movement, the skin on his belly and thighs scraped off against the floor, leaving a glistening trail behind him. The red gas filled the hallway now, staining the white moon a deep, bruised crimson.
Ten feet. Five.
His flayed fingers reached for the cool metal of the exit handle. Before he could grip it, a shadow fell over him.
Boney, grey hands clamped onto Vincent's useless legs, tearing away the remaining strips of skin. Vincent's scream was a wet, choking sound as blood pooled in his windpipe. A hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back so hard his scalp tore free in a sickening pop.
Bryan's rotting teeth brushed against Vincent's cheek. But Vincent didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the moon, imagining the lick of the summer wind, even as the teeth finally sank in.