Squirrels are creepy. Some people think they're cute, fluffy little rodents that eat acorns, race up and down trees, and hang around all over the city. But I'm telling you. Their eyes are always watching. They're always nervous. And if you were a nut, they wouldn't hesitate to bust your head open and suck out your brains.

Once, I found one with its body crushed on the street. It was still blinking, hind legs twitching erratically. Its brown fur was matted with blood. Bushy tail curled up. And then another car sped right through, the tires rolled over it, and the squirrel's head gushed. Like a berry under a boot. Its tail flicked several times before going still.

This squirrel, the giant one staring me down in the woods, would not be run over by a car. I think it could run into a car and damage the car.

I take a step back, the rain crashing just a few inches behind me. I could dive right into the storm, I think. Squirrels probably hate rain, right? Or is that cats? Besides, what would it even want with me? I didn't do anything to it. I don't have any food!

As soon as my sneaker sinks into the snow, the squirrel darts forward, rushing through the snow like I'd stolen all its winter food supply. It's the size of a bear. Its head is enormous, the eyes glaring and unblinking, the buckteeth, each as big as a sheet of printer paper. Muscular legs ending in long, razor-sharp claws cut through the snow with ease as it races toward me.

All I have is the knife. It won't be enough. I don't even manage a scream as I try to run into the storm, nearly tripping as I get free of the snow. I leap out of the snowy woods, instantly pummeled by heavy rain, and try to will my exhausted legs to run.

I hope the storm deters it. The cloak gets soaked quickly, and it's weighing me down. I slip and slide on grass, splashing through the mud. It's almost as bad as moving through snow. The rain and wind are relentless as another flash of lightning illuminates the world. I'm too afraid to stop. Too afraid to take off the cloak. But I need to. Maybe I can throw the cloak at the creature and run far enough to vanish into the storm. And then it's on me.

A vicious squeaking explodes right behind me; it knocks into my back, sending me sprawling forward on my face. A mouthful of dirt and wet grass, and I can't even turn over. The squirrel's clawing at the cloak. Its rodent face sniffs my wet hair, screeching and chattering, and then something sharp finds my face, and I scream. Its teeth scrape my cheekbones; the squirrel cuts right through my face. That notification appears again in my head.

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Then fades away. Its claws scratch my back through the cloak as it tries to get a handle on me. Its weight pins me to the ground, and I'm struggling desperately to turn over, swallowing mud and wet grass.

I manage to free my knife hand, but I can't get an angle. Trying to stab something behind my back isn't easy, especially with the cloak getting in the way, and the rain only makes things worse. My cheek burns from the wound. I think I’m going to be sick.

The squirrel screeches in my face. Lightning flashes, revealing its blood-stained teeth. And it's going to crack my head open. I just know it. I can almost feel it happening. Then thunder seems to split the sky into pieces; a rolling, smashing sound so loud that it shocks the squirrel. I manage to twist my body and jam the knife into the white fur of its abdomen.

All that does is make the squirrel angrier. It twitches violently and knocks the knife away, and then it bites me. Its teeth slide right through, impaling my forearm. Its large dark eyes are right next to my face as it tries to yank my arm off my shoulder.

Blood is everywhere. Splattering me as the squirrel shakes my body. But the rain is coming down so hard it all feels the same. Extremely wet. It's the first real thing I've felt in months.

Screaming, I struggle hard, trying to yank my arm free. The squirrel only digs in tighter, clawing my hand and shoulder and trying to bite through my bone. But as soon as its claws touch me directly, that strange message bursts into my head again.

Yes! I scream silently. Yes. Whatever that is. Acquire. Acquire. Acquire!

The squirrel stops. One second, it’s a violent crazed mess of fur and blood, the next, it’s motionless. Its breath is hot on my face. Its vicious eyes turn almost gentle, sleepy; its nose and whiskers stop twitching. Its jaws relax, but its teeth are still skewered through my arm.

I'm lying on my side in the grass, in agony, choking on adrenaline. Blood runs down my pale arms, mixing with the rain till it spreads all over, but the squirrel stops attacking. Its eyes go out of focus like it’s in a daze. A strange tickling sensation runs up my mess of an arm, the sensation throbbing in the torn muscle around my teeth. It's like pins and needles, or like someone's scratching my bones and messing with my nerves. Another notification comes up.

The squirrel blinks. Its nose twitches and its arms slip. Then it makes a high-pitched squealing sound, like I'm the one that disturbed its sleep and it's my fault its teeth are stuck in my arm. Arctic Squirrel, though? I guess it's like what Polar Bears are to Black Bears, ferocious and evolved for winter climate, and... oh my god, it's trying to claw my face again.

I try to slap it away with my other hand, angry now that I didn't take the chance to get my arm free. Pain lashes up to my shoulder like a whip, and I scream back in the stupid squirrel's face. I scream as loudly as I can, and that's when I notice the other prompt in my head.