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wooden fence posts, ground getting steeper, the protective vest tight tight, tight, around my chest, my legs heavy, my arms heavy, the family photo and blessed rosary safe inside and just a few feet more and—
    I fall flat on my face.
    I can’t move. My MOLLE vest and all its pouches, loops, and hooks has caught on old bailing wire that was wrapped around the fence posts. The more I pull forward, the more the wire pulls back—and the more I risk the fence posts springing free, snapping back and giving away my position.
    Damn it to hell!
    I stop, breathe, then slowly start to pull the wire off each individual snag on my vest and gear, focusing on quietly pulling the wire off, and then holding it so that it slides gently back into place without springing violently—and obviously—back.
    A piece of wire snaps back, catching me in the face, surprising me so that I slide back some, my M-10 falling free, and I—.
    Roll over. Look up.
    Creeper standing right over me.

CHAPTER FIVE

    I freeze.
    Stay frozen.
    Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe. Pretend to be a stone.
    The main arthropod is right overhead. The two claws are in motion, rotating, like separate dog heads, sniffing and sniffing for their prey. The faint whir of machinery working inside the Creeper.
    I’m a dead man. That’s all she wrote.
    I have a sudden urge to piss my pants.
    Instead I roll, scramble, roll and grab the barrel of my Colt. I keep my head down and instead of running down the slope, I run uphill, whispering “oh God, oh God, oh God” as I push myself underneath the Creeper.
    No other choice.
    Going the other way means I’ll be scorched flesh in a manner of seconds. This way, at least, I have a chance, as small as it is.
    I bend over low, run run run, my Kevlar helmet scraping a couple of times on the Creeper’s underside, the Colt M-10 in my hands, and I’m out on the other side, breathing through my mouth so I don’t pass out from the cinnamon stench.
    Just when I think I’m going to make it, I’m slammed in my back and go airborne.

    I hit hard on the opposite slope, dirt in my mouth and eyes, left ankle hurting like hell, and I tumble, roll, and fall, landing on my back, the chin strap from my helmet digging so hard into my throat it chokes me.
    The clicking noise is louder, accompanied by a harsh buzzing. I sit up, pushing myself with my left hand, seeing the Creeper flick around, knowing one of its rear legs had kicked out and caught me. The two claws are up rotating and a bright flash and hissing sound bursts out from the weapon claw, as a wide-beamed flame zips over head, catching the top of the wrecked cottage and a nearby birch tree, sparks and flames boiling over.
    Can’t find my Colt.
    Can’t find my Colt.
    I race back as the Creeper is now facing me and damn it, I’m almost close enough for a good firing solution, but I can’t find my Colt.
    The Creeper crawls down the slope—I pull out my Beretta, useless, but better than sitting and waiting to get scorched. I bring up my pistol and there’s a flash of fur and barking, and damn me, it’s Thor!
    The lunatic dog knows from his training he’s not supposed to get close to a Creeper, but he’s running right among the Creeper’s metal legs, barking and snapping. As the two claws and main arthropod lower, I holster my Beretta, get up and run, then trip and fall, and I see I’ve fallen over my Colt.
    Weapon in cold, shaking hands.
    Looking back, gauging the distance.
    Not quite there.
    Damn!
    I trot some more, get behind the wreckage of the destroyed house, more flames erupt overhead, heat baking my back and neck, and the barking stops, and I turn, drop to one knee.
    Still not there! The damn alien is low to the ground, and—
    Thor races through, the brave little bastard, dodging around the Creeper’s legs, and it moves and rises up and the M-10 feels invincible in my hands.
    Bring it up and through the iron sights, see the Creeper standing still, rotating its two