Chapter Two: The Wrong Shape
276 Words
Panic slammed into Marcus's chest. He whipped around, planning to sprint for the back emergency exit, but stopped dead in his tracks.
The old man from three rows up was standing in the aisle.
Except he wasn't an old man anymore.
His hunched posture had straightened violently, his spine popping like firecrackers. His skin—previously wrinkled and pale—was now gray, translucent, and peeling away in long, slimy strips like wet paper. Beneath it, a slick, muscle-bound frame was expanding, his clothes tearing away into shreds.
The creature’s jaw unhinged, stretching open wider than any human mouth had a right to go, revealing rows of needle-sharp, translucent teeth dripping with clear saliva.
It’s not human. None of them are, Marcus’s brain screamed.
The shape-shifter lunged.
Marcus dove to the side, throwing himself hard against the emergency exit lever. With a desperate heave, he slammed his weight into the metal bar. The door blew open, and Marcus tumbled out onto the gravel shoulder, scraping his elbows raw on the sharp stones.
He didn't look back. He scrambled to his feet and bolted straight into the pitch-black wall of the pine forest.
Branches whipped across his face, tearing at his skin and snagging his hoodie. Behind him, a high-pitched, screeching roar ripped through the night—a sound like tearing metal and human vocal cords mixed together.
He plunged deeper into the trees, the ground uneven and slick with rotting pine needles. Every shadow looked like a shifting limb; every snap of a twig sounded like something heavy and fast closing the distance behind him.
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