The world erupted in a flash of white-hot fire.
A deafening WHOOSH roared up from below as the flare met the oil, a sound that was less of a band and more of the entire world catching in fire at once. A wave of searing heat blasted Alex in the face, forcing him to fall back from the trapdoor and shield his eyes. The tower screamed, a high-pitched shriek of metal protesting the sudden, violent change in temperature.
Through the ringing in his ears, Alex heard another sound—a piercing, unearthly wail of pure agony. It was a sound that would be carved into his memory forever. He scrambled back to the opening and peered down into the inferno he had created.
The staircase was a roaring pillar of orange and yellow flame. And caught within it, thrashing and writhing, was the creature. It was a silhouette of black against the fire, its long limbs flailing as the flames consumed it. The shriek cut off abruptly as it lost its grip on the steel and plummeted in the darkness below. Alex heard a sickening, heavy thud as it hit the forest floor.
For a heartbeat, all he felt was a dizzying sense of victory. He had done it. He had won.
The victory was short-lived. The fire he'd created was now his new enemy. Flames licked hungrily at the edges of the trapdoor opening, and thick, black oily smoke began to pour into the small cabin, chocking him. The wooden floor around the opening was already starting to smolder.
"Alex! The fire! What's happening?" Elara's panicked voice crackled from the radio.
"It worked," he coughed, his lungs burning. "But the tower's on fire."
He couldn't let it burn. This tower was the only thing standing between him and the wilderness. He slammed the trapdoor shut, cutting off the main column of flames, but the floor around it was already glowing a dull red. He looked around wildly. He had no fire extinguisher.
He grabbed the five-gallon jug of drinking water from the corner—his entire supply and unscrewed the cap. He began desperately splashing the water onto the smoldering floorboards, hissing clouds of steam filling the already smoky room. He worked frantically, his mind numb with a single purpose: stop the fire. He poured and stomped, his boots stamping out the small stubborn embers that refused to die.
After what felt like an eternity, the last of the glowing red faded. The immediate danger was over. The cabin was a wreck. The air thick with the acrid smell of smoke and burnt kerosene. The floor was blackened, water-logged mess. But it was standing. He was alive.
He collapsed against the far wall, his body trembling, his throat raw. He coughed until his chest ached, great, heaving racks that brought up black phlegm.
"Alex? Are you there? Please answer me," Elara pleaded, her voice a thin thread of hope.
He crawled to the radio. "I'm here," he rasped. "I'm okay. The fire's out. I think... I think it's over. I think it's dead."
He wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it. He had seen it fall, engulfed in flames. Nothing could have survived that.
He laid on the floor, listening to Elara's soft, reassuring words, the adrenaline slowly draining from his body, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. The quiet returned, broken only by the crackle of the radio and the faint, sad groan of the heat-warped steel from the staircase outside.
And then another sound reached him from the forest floor below.
It was not the sound of something dead.
It was a low, guttural groan, bubbling with a pain so deep it seemed to shake the very ground. It was followed by the sound of something heavy, broken, dragging itself across the forest floor.
Alex's blood ran cold. A wave of absolute horror washed over him, more powerful than any fear he had felt before. He had emptied his water supply. He had nearly burned down his own shelter. He had used his last flare. And he hadn't killed it.
It had survived. And down in the darkness, wounded and enraged, it was starting to heal.