Chapter 69: Chapter 69 - The Trap in The Snow
(Malcolm’s POV)
Ruben slammed the tin line against a birch. The sound was sharp but empty, fading almost immediately into the white around them. The cups clinked once more, thin and pitiful, before the wind swallowed the noise.
"It’s not working," he muttered, breath forming a mist that curled and vanished. "The light’s dying fast. When night hits and that thing’s still out there, we’re dead."
No one spoke. Snow whispered as it fell, soft enough to make the silence heavier.
Then Kyle’s voice broke through it. "I’ll do it," he said, too quickly, too loud for the quiet around them.
Ruben turned, disbelief in his eyes. "You’ll what?"
"I’ll be the bait." Kyle’s tone trembled between fear and resolve. "I’m faster than any of you, more agile. If something goes wrong, I can make it back before it reaches me."
Andrei’s jaw flexed as he glanced at Malcolm, then down at the rope in his hands. "He’s not wrong," he said after a moment, voice flat, almost resigned. "It has to hear a real person. The metal doesn’t fool it."
Ruben stared at him, wide-eyed. "You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll be the bait."
Kyle shook his head. "You’ve got Helena waiting. Andrei’s wounded. Malcolm needs to take the shot."
Andrei said nothing. Ruben just sat down hard in the snow.
Malcolm stood a few feet back, watching Kyle’s face in the gray light. Every hour listening for that clicking in the distance—yet hearing nothing—had worn them down. The silence was worse than the sound. They all knew they had no other choice.
Kyle took the end of the rope and looped it around his waist, fumbling with the knot as Andrei tightened it. "Just in case," Andrei muttered. "Run back here as fast as you can."
"Got it," Kyle said, forcing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
Ruben and Andrei crouched by the anchor, the rope coiled tight in their hands.
Kyle stood alone in the open, snow up to his knees, breath fogging thick in front of him.
Malcolm was a step behind, shotgun raised, eyes locked on the dark tree line.
"Come on, you fucking asshole! I’m right here!" Kyle shouted. His voice cracked, echoing through the woods and fading fast. Nothing answered.
Then the clicking started. Slow at first—like knuckles tapping wood—then faster, closer.
The hunter slipped out from between the trees—gray, slick, half crawling, half gliding through the snow, its head tilted toward the sound.
Kyle froze. His throat closed. His legs wouldn’t move.
"Keep shouting," Malcolm said, calm but sharp, his voice cutting through the quiet.
The creature turned its head toward them, that dead face snapping into focus.
"Come here, you fucker!" Kyle yelled, his voice high and breaking.
The creature crouched low. Snow shifted under its limbs. Its muscles rolled beneath the skin, tight and ready.
The thing moved—first a crawl, then a sprint, dropping to all fours as it tore through the snow straight at him.
"Fuck! It’s coming." Kyle shouted.
Malcolm saw the shoulders bunch. He felt the air change, a pressure building before the spring. His finger tightened on the trigger.
He stopped breathing. The world thinned to the sound of Kyle’s ragged voice in front of him, small and distant, like it came from underwater.
The hunter ran faster.
Malcolm’s heartbeat filled his ears. Every sound seemed separate: the click of ice falling from a branch, the scrape of his own glove against the gun, the slow grind of the creature’s ribs expanding as it drew breath.
It leaped.
Time snapped apart.
The body rose through the fog of its own heat, snow spinning around it in white circles. Malcolm tracked the movement without thinking. The front sight found the space just above its chest. He could see the twitch in its neck, the open jaw, the slick gleam of teeth.
He pulled the trigger.
The blast cracked the air. For a heartbeat he saw the slug tear through the skull and the gray spray that followed.
Then it fell.
The body hit the snow with a heavy, final sound.
Malcolm lowered the gun. The ringing in his ears was the only thing that moved.
"Fuck. I think I peed my pants." He fell backward into the snow, shaking and laughing at the same time, breath coming in short gasps.
Ruben burst out laughing, the sound rough and too loud for the quiet clearing. "You damn idiot," he said, wiping at his eyes. "You actually did it."
Andrei exhaled hard, his shoulders sagging as the tension bled out of him. "Christ, I thought it was going to take his head off."
They all started moving at once. Ruben dropped the rope and trudged through the snow, boots crunching deep. He reached down and grabbed Kyle by the arm, hauling him up with a grin. "You okay, hero?"
Kyle nodded fast, still shaking. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Holy shit, did you see that thing?"
Andrei gave Malcolm a sharp clap on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. "Good shot, man. Clean. Right through the head."
Malcolm managed a small nod. He let them have the moment. Ruben pulled Kyle in for a rough half-hug, still laughing. Andrei actually smiled, teeth flashing against the cold.
For a few breaths, it felt almost normal—men laughing after surviving something they shouldn’t have. The snow kept falling, soft and steady, as if nothing had happened at all.
Malcolm finally lowered the shotgun, letting it hang loose at his side. He looked at the corpse again. The steam rising from the shattered skull twisted in the wind, fading too slowly.
Something in his gut stayed tight. The relief didn’t settle right.
He scanned the treeline, eyes tracing every dark space between the trunks. The woods were quiet again, but not empty. The echo of Kyle’s shouting still lingered, stretching far beyond the clearing.
Ruben moved first, grinning as he wiped snow from his face. "Come on, let’s see the bastard up close."
Andrei followed, breathing hard, the tension slowly fading from his shoulders. "Head’s gone. There’s no way it’s getting back up after that."
Kyle trudged after them, still shaking, still trying to laugh it off. Malcolm came last, shotgun hanging at his side, unease settling in his chest.
They stopped around the body. The snow had turned black where the blood soaked through, the color thick and wrong. Steam rose from the mess where its head used to be.
Ruben nudged it with his boot. "Dead," he said. "Damn thing’s finally dead."
Andrei crouched down. "Look at this. It’s like oil. Is this blood?" He reached out as if to touch it.
Malcolm stepped closer. The smell hit first, heavy with iron and rot, sharp enough to sting his nose. He circled to the other side, eyes narrowing at the body.
Then he saw it.
The skin near its ribs moved. Just slightly. A slow push outward, then a pull back in, steady, deliberate.
For a moment, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then it happened again, stronger this time. The flesh throbbed, faint but alive, like something breathing underneath.
Malcolm’s breath caught. His stomach turned cold.
"Shit," he whispered.
Then he shouted, voice cracking through the cold air, "Get out!"
