López charged like an unleashed hurricane against the infected abomination, machete in hand, slicing through the air with almost supernatural force. He launched himself at the monster with untamed fury, but his brutal strikes vanished uselessly into the grotesque flesh, as if the steel were no more than a whisper against that abyss of horror.
"López, for the love of all the saints—stop!" Muñoz shouted, his desperate cry swallowed by the guttural roar of the creature.
The beast's pulsating eye radiated a crimson glow that evoked the rage of burning embers, casting cadaverous shadows among the trees. Its second face, a macabre protrusion from its rotting skull, oozed a pestilent miasma heavy with blasphemy. It was an impossible amalgam, a horror that defied all logic: absurdly elongated limbs flailed in spasmodic motions, while its colossal claws tore through trunks as if they were made of paper. Every movement was a symphony of cracking bones and rotting flesh—a monstrous delirium born from the blackest of nightmares.
Binet, gasping under the tension of the moment, gathered enough courage to utter broken words. "This isn't nature's doing… This is the work of forces beyond comprehension—something that defies reason. No disease could ever spawn such an abomination." His words, heavy with terrifying truth, hung in the air like an invisible yoke.
"Silence—and run!" Batista roared, lifting his weapon and aiming fiercely at the pulsating eye. He fired with surgical precision, but the creature, endowed with a twisted and dark intelligence, dodged the shot with the agility of a shadow dancing through dusk. López managed to retreat, but not without receiving a slash that left a gaping wound bleeding like a death sentence.
Muñoz, caught between stupor and horror, reacted with instinctive speed, skillfully interposing himself to save López from a second blow that would've sealed his fate.
The choice was clear—and cruelly inescapable. As López, Regino, Batista, and Muñoz faced the abomination up close, Vidal and the others held the rear, their hopes pinned to a more calculated strategy.
Vidal's suit shimmered beneath the sunlight filtering through the leaves. His visor—a lens polished with near-surgical precision—captured the horror in chilling, exquisite detail. He adjusted the zoom on his M1 Garand rifle with obsessive care, his finger brushing the trigger, awaiting the perfect moment. Before him, the creature danced like a frenzied whirlwind of rotted flesh and splintered bones, thwarting any chance of a clean shot.
"Hold it down!" Vidal barked with commanding authority, never taking his eyes off the pulsating red eye that had become his single, sinister target.
Then Regino, driven by a primal hatred that seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth, hurled himself into combat. His suit creaked with every motion, as if protesting the unleashed wrath of its wearer. Without hesitation, he dodged a treacherous claw and lunged at the creature's neck with a piercing scream—a declaration of war that rang as loud as the beast's own roar. López, wounded but unyielding, joined the assault with iron determination, defying his broken state.
"Regino, for God's sake—stop!" Batista pleaded, his voice thick with desperate disbelief. But Regino, blinded by fury, pressed on—defying all logic and reason, as if his hatred was a weapon more powerful than any steel.
Meanwhile, I worked feverishly on the trap—just seconds from completion. Sweat beaded on my brow, and my hands trembled as I adjusted the final components, knowing a single mistake could be fatal. Beside me, Binet, wounded and gasping, leaned against a tree. His voice, barely audible, reminded us of the cruel side effects of overusing the suits: stiff joints, spasms, disconnection from reality… We were all paying the price of our technological audacity, but we could not falter now.
Duarte, for his part, was consumed by barely restrained desperation. His eyes searched for Taveras, whose corpse lay within sight but unreachable due to the monster's presence. The creature, as if reading his thoughts, blocked his path, roaring with a fury that reverberated through our bones. Duarte teetered between reason and the desperate impulse to charge toward the lifeless body.
From an elevated position, Muñoz tried to get a shot, cursing his inability to find a clear angle. Regino, blinded by visceral rage, kept stepping into his line of fire. Each blow of his suit echoed in the chaos like a discordant war drum. "Move, Regino!" Muñoz urged, but his voice was lost among the struggle and screams.
López, meanwhile, barely pierced the creature's grotesque hide. Still, he did not retreat; his determination lit up his bloodied mask like a beacon.
The air was thick with tension, time seemed frozen, and despair brushed against each of us. Amid it all, the trap was our final hope—a spark of ingenuity that could tip the scale in this battle of flesh, steel, and will.
Time slipped through our fingers like sand, and the suit's effects became unbearable torment—each movement an act of martyrdom. But just as despair threatened to consume us, a spark of hope emerged in the form of Duarte. His face, hardened with resolve, reflected a contained rage—a fire fed by the loss of his brother. With calculated moves, he slipped through the chaos, using the others as distractions to draw the creature's attention. Each step was an act of lethal precision—a dancer in the shadows of destruction.
Finally, Duarte positioned himself behind the beast. In a bold act, he leapt upon it, driving the claws of his suit into the creature's rotting skull. The needles pierced the corrupt flesh, reaching the brain. The monster froze immediately, as if Duarte had accomplished the unthinkable: dominating its will through mental control. It was a feat that defied all logic, as we had always believed such manipulation impossible on creatures without reason. And yet—there it was, functioning against all odds.
With fierce resolve, Duarte led the creature toward the trap, where Vidal waited, rifle aimed at the pulsating eye. The moment of glory seemed within reach… until the beast began to resist. With renewed strength, it thrashed, fighting Duarte's influence. In a desperate act, Duarte threw himself to the trap's edge, risking his life to keep the monster inside. His sacrifice was enough. In the critical moment, Vidal, with near-inhuman calm, fired. The bullet pierced the creature's eye with surgical precision, ripping a final roar from its throat before its massive figure collapsed—defeated.
The forest fell into an eerie silence, heavy with disbelief and relief. But as the monstrosity fell, the cost of our victory became evident in our bloodied wounds and exhausted faces. We had triumphed, yes—but victory carried a grim warning of horrors yet to come.
The group finally regrouped, battered and weary. Duarte, with near-ritual solemnity, wrapped Taveras' body in a tarp, determined to give him a proper burial. His expression was steel, but his eyes betrayed a deep pain—the pain of a brother unable to accept the loss. Meanwhile, Muñoz tended to Binet and López, who fought not only their wounds but also the toxic effects of the suits.
Regino, for his part, collapsed emotionally. He fell to the ground, and what at first seemed like relief soon became a wrenching lament that echoed through the trees, as if the victory over the beast had torn something from him—something far beyond blood and sweat.
I was there, as always, expectant—condemned to be a mute witness to the horrors that devoured us. I was ashamed to admit it: it's always the same. I am always relegated to the role of spectator in this tragic dance between life and death.
While I drifted into thought, the horror rose once more—towering and inexorable. Behind Regino, the beast lifted itself again, defying all logic, refusing to die despite Vidal's lethal shot. Its mutilated body seemed to pulse with a fury that surpassed the limits of the supernatural. We stood frozen at the sight. No strength remained. No hope to keep fighting.
But then—a flash tore through the gloom, followed by the metallic sound of a shotgun loading. From the very depths of the darkness emerged a figure—an enigmatic presence nearly two meters tall, whose mere existence rivaled the monstrosity we faced. Without hesitation, it lunged at the creature. Its fist—more a force of nature than a human weapon—sank into the monster's skull with such ferocity that it decapitated it in one strike. It wasn't just a blow; the sound rumbled like a cannon—or perhaps something even more devastating.
The forest filled with dense mist, emanating from the enigmatic figure itself, blurring our vision and cloaking us in spectral cold. Its features remained hidden in the gloom, but its power was undeniable—a manifestation of something far beyond our understanding.
Suddenly, Binet's sensor—still barely functional—emitted frantic alarms. More danger loomed. In the distance, red glows identical to the fallen beast's eye pierced the darkness of the woods. A horde of what looked like putrid bears advanced toward us, each step sounding like a macabre symphony that heralded the end.
The mysterious figure wasted no time. It lifted the monster's corpse with a motion that defied logic and tore it in two as if it were mere paper. The air grew electrically tense as we, unable to look away, witnessed something that transcended humanity. The silence of its destruction was more unsettling than any imaginable sound.
Then it spoke, in a coarse, resonant voice laced with a metallic echo that lodged itself in our chests like a distant war drum. Its words were no simple warning—they were an irrevocable sentence:
"Run!"
López, with an urgency that needed no repeating, led the retreat. The desperation in his eyes betrayed the firm tone with which he tried to keep us together. We turned to flee, while the figure—like a storm incarnate—launched itself at the rest of the creatures. Its speed was a blur, its precision beyond imagination. What had been an overwhelming struggle for us became a one-sided massacre under its relentless power.