One-man tents sat in a semi-circle around a modest fire. Next to the blue one, a fishing pole rested against a big rucksack, the tacklebox on the ground beside it. A folding stool sat near the entrance to the OD green army surplus pup tent.

Socks were hung from a low branch. A cooler was suspended between two trees with a length of paracord. Two other trees supported a hammock.

Several pickup trucks were parked on the other side of the fire. In them, many guns, along with a good supply of ammunition.

The calm voice recited a poem, (Seek not the fruit of those distant places, sweet and dripping. Abandon those temples of hoses and vats, of stagnant misery. For we stalk the dark places. Our prizes are the salvation of nations.)

[Where did the hunters go?] the charming voice asked.

The calm voice told us of the tracks it sensed, the soles of heavy boots. We focused in that direction. After a few moments something was felt, something primitive, a reveling in the return to a low and simple state. We went toward that purity.

A trail, little more than a thin line worn in the grass, a winding path made of rocky dirt. We followed it, staying well off to one side. The crunching sounds they made as they walked were like thunderclaps in the still night. Animals focused their attention on the path.

Six men strode along in a loose line. Each wore camo and boots. Over the green puzzle pieces of their blouses, vests with many pouches. One wore a ball cap in the same forest pattern as his clothes. Another had an olive drab patrol cap on his head. Hunting rifles were slung across their backs, along with small packs.

All six were nearing middle age. And they were all in good shape, more than fit for a long hike. We sensed stern faces, which were occasionally broken by grins or smirks.

The smell of this world’s version of blood. The party carried fresh deer meat in their packs.

As they picked their way down the rocky, uneven trail, they chatted about the many faults of their wives, as well as the failings of the local government.

The one at the front looked around as they walked. He said nothing, but he scanned the forest cautiously. The cause of this alertness was no doubt the silence. Our presences had rendered the wildlife still and mute.

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We found a sturdy looking tree, one with heavy branches hanging over the path. The conversation changed.

“He’s gotten people to regularly attend that I’ve only seen in there on Easter.”

“I don’t know. He scares me a little.”

“What?”

“That kid scares me. The way that he talks. Something,” he struggled to find the correct word, “mesmerizing about it.”

“He’s charismatic, that’s all.”

Another joined the dialog, “Young and charismatic. A true believer, at least from what I have seen. We need people like him.”

“The last thing that we need is a cult.”

“A cult might be fun!” the last in line exclaimed, the tone meant to lighten the mood.

“Not the kind of cult that that kid would start. And then that maniac would show up.”

“You really think that John did what they say that he did?”

“That, and much more.”

“Hey, he solved the problem, right?”

“I’ll give him that. He sure as hell solved that particular problem.”

We dropped, landing in the center of the line. The nearest two were quickly dispatched. Blood sprayed. Men cried out in shock.

We moved up the line. The second man from the front tripped in his haste, was eviscerated as he fell. The man at the front of the precession stared in wide eyed horror as we closed in on him.

We sliced off his hands, stepped past him. Seizing him, we lifted him so that his feet dangled just off of the ground. Then we began to work our way back down the trail. The second to last in line had shouldered his weapon. In his sights he only saw twin jets of blood, the pale face of a screaming friend.

The barrel waved around as we approached, calmly at first, becoming more and more frantic as we closed in. Behind him, the final hunter was moving around erratically, tugging at something on his chest. When we reached striking distance, he fired.

The bullet whizzed past the human shield’s left ear. The shooter worked to chamber another round. His screams remained unchanged. We cast the hostage aside, running a claw across his throat as we did so. The hunter managed to get the rifle back into position before we were able to grab ahold of the barrel. The next round went toward the heavens. We reduced the shooter to blood-soaked shreds.

The last in line was still desperately trying to unsling his rifle. His expression held no emotion other than fear. A blind panic had taken hold. Beyond the terror, there was only instinct. That primal drive had no other words to tell him besides “shoot.”

{Please, allow me to help you,} the twisted voice said in a polite tone, willing our lips to move so that it was spoken aloud.

We reached out, took hold of the sling. It was ripped away easily. Pulling the weapon over his shoulder, we grabbed the rifle, spun it around so that the barrel faced him. A gentle squeeze of the trigger, just like how that television program had showed us. A little hole in his forehead, a much larger one in the back.

We grabbed the dead men’s genitals, subjected them to the metamorphosis. They would sire fine scouts. Now we just needed to find hosts.