They barreled through the icy forest, Martinez and Kyroll pressing their bodies to the limit. The frozen air stung like knives with each breath, cutting into their throats and lungs. Each step was as calculated as possible as they rushed through the thick bows with the dim moonlight glittering overhead.

"Faster," Kyrolll shouted just after the pursuing beasts knocked over several trees, the heavy thooms, roars, and snapping wood timing the creatures' approach.

"No shit," Martinez heaved, struggling to keep pace with Kyroll.

It was unbelievable. Despite Kyroll limping and having just received the flogging of a lifetime, he was still setting the pace for their retreat and not even breaking a sweat. Martinez knew it wasn't because of any preternatural ability of the Aviex because they were almost identical to Humans.

Kyroll was just that much of a stubborn mule. Even with all of those injuries, fractured ribs, and likely inconceivable pain, he still was putting the young Human's abilities to shame.

The last kilometer of the run was undoubtedly the easiest part of the night if you could call fleeing bear-like aliens in the dark, while wounded, in the snow, and covered in a scent that easily attracts them.

Now that the duo reached the winding foothills, the terrain became more unpredictable. The snow and rocks crunched under each football, slowing their dead sprint to an agonizing crawl.

None of this would do; they were moving too slowly, and the enemy was gaining on them too quickly. One of them was more than willing to take a stance to make it back home and protect his family in the only way he knew.

Whipping around, Kyroll aimed up the hillside, hoping to delay the Milurt with some precision fire or at least harass the overly intelligent animal, warning them to keep away. "Keep moving," he yelled as Martinez passed him.

“You had better follow,” Martinez replied, doing as he was told and continued to rush through the verdant pines.

With his fields of fire clear, Kyroll aimed his rifle and peered through the thermal optic. It did not take him long to find his first target: the chilly backdrop and the warm blood flowing through the Milurt made it easy to see them.

Dozens of massive creatures glowed white hot against the vanta black background projected in his scope. The Milurt weaved in and out of the trees, hiding amidst the thicket, roaring their hatred and desire to destroy anything in their path.

With a steady hand, Kyroll curled his finger on the trigger and began to release slack. Slowly but surely, as his breath released, so did the millimeters keeping the rifle’s fury at bay. Once his lungs were empty, he fired.

The old Parucian eight-millimeter rifle gently pushed against his shoulder and clapped like thunder. The slug splattered against the horror, white-hot spawling cascading off the creature's armor-like hide, similar to what one would see when a tank round ricochets off another's armor.

Kyroll knew the rifle had no chance of killing a Milurt unless he managed to get lucky enough to shoot right down its mouth and hit several of its five hearts or sling a few salvos into the creature's soft underbelly.

But from where he was, all he had for targets was the thick hide. Knowing that his rounds might as well be spitballs, he followed up the first shot with three more in quick succession. After the first Milurt ate a few rounds, he switched to another target and repeated the process as quickly as the rifle bolt would allow.

Turning around and dumping the empty twenty-rounder on the deck, Kyroll felt pride swell in his chest, having seen several beasts avert their pursuit, tucking behind hardcover or moving away entirely.

Kyroll knew they would re-engage in a few minutes, but that damn well bought them several minutes they desperately needed.

Casting his gaze through the thicket, Kyroll was glad that Martinez had done as instructed. Only a fleeting glimpse of the Human could be seen through the bows. Kyroll decided to compliment the Human once this was all over.

Kyroll slammed a fresh twenty-rounder into the Magwell and dropped the bolt release.

A damn near orgasmic metallic clang rang out when the round chambered as he took off to catch up with the little hunter.

Careening through the trees, leaping over logs, and swerving through the thicket, Kyroll could not help but crack a wide, vicious grin.

Gods above this was the rush he had missed.

Working as a lumberjack for the last decade might have kept him fit and pockets filled, but that job's supposed dangers were nothing compared to the ecstasy of combat.

No drug could compare to the sheer rush of bounding, maneuvering, concealing, and scanning in the high-speed dance of death, where any heartbeat could be your last. The only thing between you and the reaper punching your time card is a few millimeters and one wrong move.

Kyroll even had Martinez around, who was likely more than willing to help him fire at the Milurt.

Basking in the thrill of finally having something threaten him, Kyroll neglected to remember the most critical part of combat: that you had to be perfect. All the rust he had built up over the years of not flexing his warrior muscles caught up to him in his moment of bliss.

As Kyroll leaped over a patch of bramble, one of the thorny vines reached up and snared his ankle, pulling him to the ground. His broken rib slammed into a protruding rock, causing a wave of agony to crash through him like a tsunami.

If not for his face burying into the rocks and snow, filling his mouth with coarse grit, Kyrolls scream of agony would have eclipsed gunfire.

As he tried to stand, Kroll attempted to call out to Martinez to shoot the Milurt while he caught up, but only another scream escaped his lips. As soon as he put weight on his ankle, it shattered like glass contorting to an unnatural angle, bone popping from the flesh.

Looking ahead, Kyroll could not see a sign of Martinez anywhere near. The Human had likely almost made it to the truck by now.

“Fuck me,” Kyroll muttered, accepting he was alone.

After all of his training, Kyroll would not mope or sit idly by, especially now that his body was in tatters; there was no point in denying reality. He took a deep breath and focused, ignoring his heartbeat thumping in his ears and the fire-like pain erupting from his entire body.

With one arm and his good leg, Kyroll crawled away from the bramble, gaining distance—just enough that he should be able to get one round off when a Milurt arrived.

Aiming with his rifle propped on his knee, Kyroll waited, knowing the end was here. He had written dozens, if not hundreds, of post-mortem commendations with a similar beginning to what he was doing: A lone warrior staying behind and giving it all to fight until his last breath, allowing others to retreat.

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The nearby trees cracked and snapped as the dozen animals flowed down the hillside like an avalanche, all to rip Martinez and him to shreds.

Thinking about the Human, Kyroll chuckled, wholeheartedly understanding how much Humans had changed him. Before meeting Emil or Martinez, Kyroll would have called what he is doing now stupid and a waste of effort.

But somewhere down inside his soul, he knew this was the right thing to do.

Kyroll silently prayed to whatever god would listen to an old, cantankerous monster like himself. He begged that Nelya, Lysa, and even Martinez would live well and that they would understand the only thing he could do for them to make everything alright at this point was to die.

Martinez was a good man who would care for them in his stead.

With no warning, a firm hand gripped Kyrolls' shoulder as Martinez slid in and began to speak: "Don't worry; I’m going to get you out of here."

"What are you doing? Leave me here, you idiot," Kyroll groaned, barely able to speak.

"Not happening," Martinez replied, quickly noting Kyroll's injuries. This task was frustrating in the dark. Martinez would give anything for some night vision or the flashlight he had left at camp.

"No, it is, you idiot," Kyroll barked, trying to push Martinez away and interrupting the Humans' triage.

Martinez angrily shoved Kyroll's hands away and continued his observations, being used to triaging Marines insistent on returning to the fight despite their injuries. Kyroll was similar enough that the standard Doc tough love would do.

What was visible made Martinez’s stomach churn.

Kyrolls foot was touching his calf, and based on his sputtering gags, he likely had a punctured lung. That was bad enough, but Martinez knew there were innumerable more minor wounds he could not see under moonlight alone.

Martinez clicked his tongue, fully accepting that the situation was beyond fubar.

With no real options and Kyroll being moronic and still fighting him, Martinez chose to rely on the good old Doc attitude mentality, and he would do what needed to be done to save the wounded—even if that man did not want to be saved.

"This is going to hurt like hell, so grit your teeth," Martinez began stepping between Kyroll’s legs and squatting.

"Hey, hey, what the fuck are you going to do," Kyroll protested. “I’m a lost cause here.”

"I’m going to save you. Now be a good patient, shut the fuck up, and let me be a Corpsman," Martinez ordered, having had enough of Kyroll’s bullshit about leaving him here.

You usually would never fireman carry someone who has broken ribs; that is just begging for a punctured lung or more than just a mere fracture. But Martinez was alone and did not have the time to make a stretcher or drag sled—so Kyroll would just have to tolerate being manhandled and rushed to the hospital after they were safe.

Being in pain was better than death, after all.

"Go damn it, leave me," Kyroll started but stopped and yelped when Martinez hoisted him over his shoulders like he weighed nothing.

"Stop complaining and let me work," Martinez grumbled, beginning to step off.

“What part of don't, do you not understand?" Kyroll badgered, instinctively pushing a palm into Martinez’s lower back to support it.

"All of it, I'm a goddamn Corpsman. I'm going to save you even if you don't want it,”

Martinez chuckled, stepping over an overturned log.

" We are going to be—" Kyroll began to argue, but Martinez stole his words.

"Slow? Yeah, I know. So do me a favor and shoot back at any of those things that come close. Because I'll tell you this: We're making it home. Nelya and Lysa are waiting—for both of us," Martinez emphasized as he moved from a simple walk to what was almost a jog.

Kyroll did not argue, not because Martinez was right about saving him and who was waiting at the far end; no, the little Hunter just decided to adjust key role again, driving his shoulder into his fractured ribs, causing him to cut any argument short.

Just as they reached the edge of the small clearing Kyroll had fallen in, one of the Milurt burst through the treeline, snarling as it searched for the oil soaking Martinez’s arm. Without missing a beat, Kyroll gestured the rifle roughly in the creature's direction and sent out a salvo of rounds.

Several managed to strike the target and deterred it from following. But just before Kyroll updated Martinez on what was happening, another burst forth from another angle and nearly barreled into them as he fired several more rounds, its maw only centimeters away from clamping down on Martinez.

“That sounded close,” Martinez gasped. “Is all good back there?”

“Don’t worry about it, just run faster,” Kyroll yelled.

“Easy for you to say!” Martinez shouted as he listened to the man's instructions.

The rest of the run to the truck was very much the same. Milurt came within arms' reach, and Kyroll barely managed to keep the animals at bay. While Martinez tucked them in and around the trees, avoiding thicket and ice slicks, he only stumbled and nearly ate it a few dozen times.

Martinez had not slowed in the slightest as he pushed every fiber of himself to save the man who was planning on killing him.

By the time they reached the truck, Kyroll was down to his last magazine, and the sound of the Milurt had lowered in intensity.

“Toss me in the bed,” Kyroll shouted as he dumped the last of his magazine into one of the Milurt just a few feet behind them.

In a motion that was not graceful by any stretch of the imagination, Martinez slid on the ice and rolled Kyroll into the bed. The old man landed with a heavy thud and a pained groan, having fallen right on top of the ammo can filled with magazines. At least he knew where they were and could reload, as painful as that was.

Rolling himself into the truck's cab, Martinez frantically searched for the keys. After a few moments of overturning everything, he realized that Kyroll had them.

“I need the ke–” Martinez started, sticking his torso out of the truck to look back at Kyroll, but was stopped when one of the Milurt slammed into the side of the cab, snapping Martinez’s arm in half between the door and frame.

Martinez’s roar of agony was overwhelmed by the sounds of shattering glass and crunching metal. Thankfully, Martinez had winced; otherwise, the razor-sharp glass shards serating his face would have surely blinded him.

The impact caused the truck to list and nearly roll onto its side. But it just barely maintained its center of gravity and slammed back to the ground, rattling both Martinez and Kyrolls brains like eggs.

Though he was rattled, Kyroll levered himself back up to the bed's side, propped the rifle to its side like a gunnel, and fired at the creature before it entirely recovered. “Say that again Doc?”

“I need the keys,” Martinez yelled, fishing his mangled arm from the swinging door.

Kyroll abated his gunfire momentarily, reaching into his pocket for the keys. Thank god they were still in there. As he turned to hand the keys over, a Milurt slammed into the cab, its massive head not quite fitting through the window.

From Martinez’s point of view, the Milurt's split lips lapped and searched for him inside the cab, its thick drool falling onto his lap while he laid flat to avoid its maw.

Kyroll shoved his rifle through the broken rear window, muzzle thumping the Milurt in the eye. It exploded with blood and viscera before Kyroll ran the trigger like a man possessed, draining his entire magazine into its head.

To both his and Martinez’s surprise, the Milurt jerked and grunted in pain as the rounds dug through its thick skull and buried in its brain. It spasmed and thrashed, trying to escape the window, but it was too late.

The massive animal breathed his last as Kyrolls bolt locked back.

Not having time to celebrate the little victory, Kyroll threw the keys inside, landing them on Martinez’s chest. “Drive!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Martinez groaned before he slammed the keys into the ignition and started the truck.

The old engine roared to life, and the wheels squealed while Martinez slammed his foot on the gas. The truck lurched forward, tossing Kyroll against the bed like a ragdoll, having not been braced for the movement.

As they pulled away, the Milurt's corpse fell free from the window, letting Matinez sit fully upright as they drove down the old icy road and away from the animals that Kyroll kept firing at until they could no longer be seen or heard.

After Martinez had driven several kilometers and had slowed down, Kyroll stuck his head into the cab, “You alright, Doc?”

“My arm is fucked,” Martinez replied, tilting his head to the left, toward his fractured arm. “You?”

“Nothing you did not see already,” Kyroll replied before pausing momentarily and smirking. “Thanks for not leaving me back there.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my job. Besides, you had the keys.”