by Matthew R. Davis
You wake suddenly in a cramped, shadowy tunnel, and the cold weight in your hands is an automatic weapon. Before you can wonder where or why, an inhuman screech echoes nearby. Something alive, but so, so wrong. And now, very close, a very human scream, the deafening chatter of gunfire. Then that insane cry again. Many cries, peeling from countless misshapen mouths.
The shooting and screaming stops.
Shaking, you raise the gun and feel for the trigger. Screeching shadows dance off the walls and come for you. Now you scream and shoot until the shooting and screaming stops.
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