The choice was a blade at his throat.
Above, the skylight glass cracking beneath the scout's relentless blows. Across the room, the groan of twisting metal from the massive garage door. He couldn't defend both.
The instincts of a man raised by the forest warned him about threats from above. Height was power. An attack from there was nearly impossible to counter.
He decided.
The skylight was the priority.
He looked up, gauging the height. Too high to reach. He'd have to climb. His eyes locked onto a heavy drill press—a tower of cast iron. If he mounted it—
KERR-CHUNK!
Not glass breaking.
A metal lock, thick as a forearm, being ripped from its bolts.
The sound came from the garage door.
A second of silence.
Then, with the groan of protesting steel, the corrugated door began to rise. Not fast. Inch by inch, forced upward from the outside by the combined strength of several creatures. A ribbon of purple light appeared along the floor, widening slowly.
The scout on the roof stopped ramming.
It didn't need to anymore.
Arthur saw the trap snap shut with dreadful clarity. The threat above had never been the true assault. It was a distraction—to split his attention, to force his gaze upward while the real gate of hell opened.
The door rose to waist height.
Then stopped.
And beneath it, they entered.
The scouts.
Three of them slid inside like gray serpents, bodies low, the patterns along their flanks pulsing with a sickly orange glow. They made no sound. They simply dispersed through the workshop, moving with chilling fluidity between the machines.
At the same instant, the rooftop scout—its task complete—dropped through the broken skylight, landing silently atop a tall press. It crouched there, a gray silhouette against purple light, watching from above.
Four of them.
The horde at the breached wall remained silent, observing.
They had loosed the hounds.
The tactical hunt had begun.
Arthur stood exposed at the center of the room.
The first scout, to his left, burst forward—not in a direct charge, but in a flanking maneuver, using a heavy metal workbench as cover. A second mirrored it on his right, vanishing behind a lathe.
They were circling him.
Using the workshop itself as their weapon.
Instinct took over.
He threw himself backward, placing the enormous hydraulic press—a mountain of steel and pistons—between himself and the first two attackers. He found himself in a narrow corridor, the press on one side, a wall of hanging tools on the other.
One scout appeared at the far end.
It didn't attack.
It simply stood there, head low, orange-lit eyes gleaming in the gloom.
Studying him.
A predator idling, waiting for error.
Arthur knew a full axe swing would be too slow against these things. In the confined space, it would be an invitation for a swift strike at his flank.
The scout ahead took a slow step.
A feint.
Claws scraped against metal beside him.
Arthur spun.
The second scout was climbing the side of the press itself, using bolts and protrusions as handholds. It was about to drop on him from above.
No hesitation.
He didn't use the blade.
He smashed the back of the axe into the creature's skull—a short, brutal blow. The monster loosed a low shriek and fell, but landed on its feet, retreating out of range.
The instant he turned back, the first scout attacked.
It shot down the corridor, lightning-fast, jaws opening—not to bite, but to spit.
A stream of thick, dark liquid splashed at Arthur's feet.
Where it struck, the concrete hissed and smoked, dissolving into a bubbling slurry.
Acid.
Arthur recoiled, chemical stench scorching his nostrils.
He was trapped.
The beast he'd struck was recovering. The acid-spitter blocked his only exit. Above, the fourth watched—waiting for the perfect moment.
This wasn't a fight.
It was an execution.
A fury born of absolute lack of options surged through him. If he was going to die, it would be on his terms.
With a roar, he charged the scout blocking the corridor.
He didn't swing the axe.
He held it like a battering ram, steel head forward, and slammed into the creature.
Caught off guard by the suicidal rush, the scout was hurled backward. Arthur stumbled but kept driving, using his weight to pin the monster against a heavy lathe.
It thrashed, claws raking the air, tearing into his uninjured arm.
He ignored it.
He jammed the axe head against its chest, trapping it in place, and with his free hand seized the creature's jaw, wrenching it backward with a sickening snap.
He pulled away, leaving it writhing on the floor.
But the brief victory had a price.
While he was occupied, the second scout—the one he had struck in the head—attacked from behind.
It didn't aim high.
It went low.
An explosion of pain detonated in the back of his right thigh. Jaws clamped down like a bear trap, teeth punching through muscle to bone.
He screamed—rage and agony fused—and collapsed to his knees. His right leg failed beneath him.
He twisted on the floor, swinging the axe wildly. The blade clipped the creature's flank—a shallow cut that drew a shriek and forced it back.
But the damage was done.
He tried to stand.
His right leg refused.
He dragged himself backward with his good arm until his back struck the cold steel base of the press.
Cornered.
Wounded.
Bleeding from two places.
The remaining scouts—the one that had retreated and the silent observer that had finally descended from its perch—advanced slowly.
No hurry.
The prey was injured. Crippled.
The struggle was over.
They stopped several feet away, side by side, skeletal silhouettes against the purple light spilling beneath the garage door. Their tails swayed lazily. The patterns along their bodies pulsed faintly.
Arthur looked at them, the axe heavy across his lap.
He looked at his ruined leg. At the blood pooling across the concrete floor.
He looked at the silent horde outside.
He had fought.
He had bled.
He had survived longer than anyone should have.
But the steel labyrinth had taken its price.
The hunt was over.
He was no longer the threat.
He was, once again, only meat.
And the hounds had come to feed.