When John had been ten, his father had taught him how to fight.

They had gone in the backyard and found a clearing near the front of the cornfield. John had started trying to swing wide hooks, throwing heavy fists as hard as he could. His father had easily parried these blows. To John’s shock, his father had slipped a foot behind his own and had pushed him backward while pulling his foot forward. John had fallen backward in bewilderment, the powder-blue sky blurring in front of his eyes as his body landed in the lush grass. Though unhurt, he looked up at his father with confusion and awe. His father had reached his hand down, which John had grabbed.

“The key to fighting,” his father had said while pulling John up from the ground, “is twofold. First, know your enemy. Know their weaknesses. If you’re fighting a large man, know that his weakness and his strength are intertwined: his size. If you can be fast and precise, you can beat him. If you’re fighting a small man, know that his strength is the same as your own. Most importantly, know when to run. Know when a fight isn’t worth fightin’.

“Second, don’t use what I’m about to teach you unless you absolutely need to. No goin’ out in the street and pickin’ fights. This is strictly for self-defense. Your greatest strength is the knowledge that you can defend yourself if you need to – somethin’ the person pickin’ a brawl with you likely won’t know.”

John thought about his father’s words as he rushed through the forest. The rain and the wind seemed to be working together, slashing at his skin with icy strokes, freezing his hair to his head. Behind him, he could hear the monster crashing through the woods, tearing through branches, crunching over fallen trunks and leaves, clawing through mud. John had long before lost his direction; all he could see was a sea of dark, violent rainwater and dying trees. As his heart pounded in his chest, he tried to focus his mind on the situation he was in, on its potential solution.

What would Dad do?

His brain was clouded with cold rain. Thinking was difficult. He could barely even register the dangers ahead of him, let alone formulate a plan of attack.

What would Dad do?

The cold was almost unbearable to deal with. Even though his skin and limbs were numb, he could still feel its effects. Sharp pains shot through the marrow of his bones; his muscles were on fire from overexertion, and he was confident that the dull pain in his foot – the pain that had been present since they had left the house – was a twig lodged in its sole, or a deep cut from a sharp rock. All he could think about was the cold, and the pain, and the creature tearing after him with tireless bloodlust. It was a miracle he had even survived this long; he was confident, when he had dashed off into the woods to distract the red-eyed monster, that it would kill him in a matter of seconds.

What would Dad do?

The question kept returning, echoing through his mind. What would Dad do? It didn’t really matter now. Dad was dead, and that truth was swirling around in his empty stomach, producing an everlasting wave of nausea, one that he kept pushing deeper and deeper in his gut, ignoring it, promising himself he would return to it later.

Think about the lesson.

What was there to think about? He couldn’t fight. He didn’t have a weapon.

Know when to run.

He was already running, already pushing his body to run as fast as it would, praying that he wouldn’t slip on a slick piece of wood, or misjudge a step, or that he wouldn’t get attacked by a snake while he turned backward to see whether the creature was closing in on him. He tried to peer through the darkness, to see what was coming. All he could see was more black sky and dead trees.

He couldn’t keep his sprint up for much longer. His legs were aching with pain and his feet were numb and throbbing as they splashed through the cold mud. Yet, it was behind him still, rushing forward at an inhumane speed, fueled by demonic rage. Every step of John’s grew slower from fatigue, and the monster seemed to speed up and gain ground. He wished he had a weapon – any weapon.

An idea went through his mind as he passed another branch dangling from a damp tree. He looked down at the ground in front of him. While most of the branches were thin and ineffectual, there were also larger, thicker limbs that he could use. If he was precise enough, he could buy himself some time. How much? It was impossible to know.

Fear gripped his heart. A missed attack would equate to his death.

This is what Dad would have done.

With a fluid motion, John rolled in the mud. His shoulders and back seemed to freeze as they plunged through the mud. By a stroke of luck, John managed to grasp a broken branch, the length of his arm and the thickness of his forearm. He used the momentum of the roll to climb to his feet. Then, with the last remnants of his strength, he turned and swung the branch.

It came dashing out the darkness, mouth open, revealing sharp, deadly teeth. Its red eyes were gleaming. Then the branch struck the creature in the face. It screeched, the force of the impact driving it backward. John took his moment, turned, and sprinted forward again, his strength renewed by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. In his mind, he could see his father smiling.

To his shock, he saw the darkness breaking up ahead. As he ran forward, he discovered a small town – no more than a handful of buildings. Above them, gray clouds had gathered.

But in that town, it was not raining.

Sudden pain lanced through his leg, and John went sprawling, splashing face first into the mud. He turned around. Horror gripped him as he saw his left leg – at least, what remained of it. Blood was spurting from a gory stump. Everything below the knee was lying a few feet away in a pool of its own blood. The pain began to climb up his body in steady waves, pushing through his fogged mind and numb body.

The creature crawled onto him, its red eyes staring into his own, the claws on its hands piercing his arms’ flesh. John began to hyperventilate as he realized he couldn’t move, that this was it, that this was the end. Then it opened its mouth. John saw its bloody teeth, its emaciated face, the sharpness of its cheek bones and its rain-slicked gray flesh.

The creature lurched forward and dug its teeth into John’s throat.

Next Chapter: Luis