I can’t do it.
       You can.
       No, I can’t.
       Robert, you can.
       No, you don’t understand, I really can’t.
       ...
       What?!
       Robert—
       Oh, alright!

       The shot echoed away into the darkness. Deep, livid darkness. Through his sight Robert watched the wisps of fog curling, most likely not even realizing just what it was that had disturbed them.  Slowly he lowered his rifle, touched the com pack strapped to his shoulder and activated his diaphram mic.
       Hit confirmed, over. His voice was gravel, thick and distorted. He had to work to make himself understood.
       Negative. Target is still moving Kipper.
       What?
       Robert ‘Kipper’ Kiplinger brought the SMG 40 back to his shoulder and refocused his eye down the barrel of the sight. Cold, green light sparkled over the revealing surface of his eye. Somewhere close by his ears detected the sound of crying. Maybe a passerby. Maybe an onlooker. God forbid family.
       The cold starch truth stretched out before him; the — inert form, heavy rise and fall of the chest, fluttering, struggling appendages. He’d missed the kill shot.
       He dialed in on the little girl. Curling his fingers over the barrel of the scope until he could see the pretty flowered pattern of her dress. She was starting to rise.
       Robert racked another round into the chamber. Checked the wind. Fired.
       A pin prick of a black hole opened high on her forehead, just above the still startled expression in her eyes.
       Robert shifted his gaze. He hadn’t signed on for this.
       Kill?
       He knew without looking his message was sent.
       ...
       Negative. Target is still hot. Repeat. Target is still moving.
       Robert opened his eyes, smeared the condensation from the lense of the sight and peered through again.
       She was still standing. Eyes only slight less startled. They appeared to move in orbit about the extremities of their sockets. Not quite sure what they were looking for. Of course not, she ha a hole the size of a flowerpot where the back of her head used to be.
       ... pop... pop
       Robert watched her jerk as the shots took her. One up high, just clipping the shoulder blade, the other lower, center mass. He’d forgotten to check the wind.
       She raised a hand, rubbed at the tiny mark that stretched out from her shoulder, and fell to the ground.
       Robert let the barrel drop with a sigh. Sweat ran into his eyes and he wiped it away. He was shaking.
       Confirm.
       ...
       Kipper, where is the target? Repeat, where is....
       Something heavy landed on his back. Hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs. Before he could get his gun up she was clawing at him. Going for the throat. The eyes. He ripped loose a T-blade and went for her eyes, but she was already there, the blade ground down on an inch of flesh, shattered bone, ended dead into the palm of her hand. She didn’t even scream. They never did.
       He let go and she punched him. His nose broke. A spray of foam. The little girl let out a triumphant snarl and increased her frenzy.
       Her nails were claws and she was digging at him. He used his arms to block his face and she was all to happy to take out her rage on the unprotected memebers. Blood flowed and Robert blocked out the pan.
       He got his leg up between them, shoved up and over, like they taught him in the army, followed her with his own flip and pin.
       Somehow a foot slipped through and sne groined him. Robert face twisted. Stars and patterns danced. He fought to keep concious.
       He could still feel his arms gripping her arms, caught in the pin. She was twisting underneath him, fighting, and god she was strong. And slippery.  The blood covered her body. Running freely in a way that seemed impossible. It was everywhere. Running in a current from the wound in her abdomen, only slightly from the one in face. The shoulder wound was only a small red blossom.
       Searing pain as fangs slid into the tendons of wrist. Robert let out a bark of pain that was more primal than real.  The pain pulled him back and he used the moment of startling clarity to ram his skull into her face.
       Something crunched and something else splattered. The little girl screamed, then found her way free of him.
       Robert lurched climbing his way upward. He ended with a knife in his hand. Blood running through the corner of one eye.
       She was gone. The branches still swaying where she’d shoved them aside.
       Command. Hostile engaged. Fleeing on foot. Should I follow?
       ...
       Command?
       ...
       Becky?

       Static coughed from his ear bud, not quite right. Robert reached for his radio and realized it was in pieces. Parts of the casing lay scattered over the wet forest carpet. Bits of wire and plastic hung from his shoulder harness.
       Robert locked his rifle safely in it’s case. Out of the moisture. The SMG was useless for personal combat. He un-clipped the SRG from his belt. Loaded the mag. Cocked the rail and caught the pre loaded bullet as soon as it met the air. One slid from the clip into the chamber. He turned out his light. Let his eyes adjust.
       The van was seven klicks away. He’d had to hike his way through the forest to stay of the cemetery road. If he cornered the little girl on the way, fine. If not, Becky could tell him what to do now.
       He slid the SMG and it’s case around to his back, settled on his pack of provisions and darted forward, face covered.

       She wasn’t hiding in the brush outside his cover. He kept his eyes open . Darting left and right. Always alert. Wherever she was, she was out there. She wasn’t just going to let him get away.