The Applicant

Chris let out a long sigh as he settled into the worn-out sofa, then cursed as a broken spring stabbed him in the backside. Wriggling sideways to avoid it, he reached for the remote, only to realize it had been left beside the television. Muttering under his breath, he climbed back to his feet, retrieved the remote, flicked on the television, and finally collapsed back into the sofa. This time he was careful to avoid the broken spring.

He closed his eyes as the blue glow of the television lit the living room. The shriek of commercials followed, but he barely had the energy to be annoyed. He was still at school, but he'd had to take on an afternoon job at the construction site down the road to help his mother make ends meet. Even with the extra income, they were struggling. His only hope was passing the entrance exams for the California State University and winning a scholarship. Otherwise, he would have to beg his supervisor for an apprenticeship.

"Another attack was reported today from the rural town of Julian." A reporter's voice broke through the stream of adverts, announcing the start of the six o'clock news.

Chris's ears perked up and he looked quickly at the television. Images flashed across the screen of an old mining town, its dusty dirt roads and rundown buildings looking unchanged since the 1900's. A row of horse-drawn carriages lined the street, their owners standing alongside them.

It was a common sight in the rural counties of the Western Allied States. The divide between rural and urban communities had grown in the thirty years since California, Oregon and Washington had declared their independence from the United States. Today, there were few citizens in the countryside able to afford luxuries such as cars and televisions.

"We're just receiving word that the police have arrived on the scene," the reporter continued.

On the television, a black van with the letters SWAT painted on the side had just pulled up. The rear doors swung open, and a squad of black-garbed riot police leapt out. They gathered around the van and then strode on past the carriages. Dust swirled around them, but they moved without hesitation, the camera following them at a distance.

The image changed as the police moved around a corner into an empty street. The new camera angle looked down at the police from the rooftop of a nearby building. It followed the SWAT unit as they split into two groups and spread out along the street, rifles at the ready.

Then the camera panned down the street and refocused on the broken window of a grocery store. The camera zoomed, revealing the nightmare inside the store.

Chris swallowed as images straight from a horror film flashed across the television. The remnants of the store lay scattered across the linoleum floor, the contents of broken cans and wine bottles staining the ground red. Pieces of humanity were scattered amongst the wreckage, torn arms and shattered legs lying apart from their motionless owners. Chris's stomach twisted as he looked into the eyes of the dead and saw the terror of their final moments reflected back at him.

Finally the camera tilted and panned to the sole survivor of the carnage. The man stood amidst the wreckage of the store, blood streaking his face and arms, staining his shirt red. His head was bowed, and the only sign of life was the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders. The camera zoomed in on his face, revealing cold grey eyes. They stared at the ground, blank and lifeless.

Struggling to contain the meagre contents of his stomach, Chris looked away.

"The Chead is thought to have awakened at around sixteen hundred hours," the reporter was saying now, drawing Chris back to the screen. "Special forces have cleared the immediate area and are now preparing to engage with the creature."

"Two hours." Chris jumped up as a woman's voice came from behind him.

He spun on his heel, then relaxed as his mother walked in from the kitchen. "I thought you had a night class!" he gasped.

His mother shook her head, a slight smile touching her face. "We finished early." She shrugged, then waved at the television. "They've been standing around for two hours. Watching that thing. Some of those people were still alive when it all started. They might have been saved. Would have, if they'd been somebody important."

Chris pulled himself off the couch and embraced his mother. He kissed her cheek and she returned the gesture, before they both turned to watch the SWAT team approach the grocery store. The men in black moved with military precision, jogging down the dirt road, sticking close to the buildings. If the Chead came out of its trance, no one wanted to be caught in the open. While the creatures looked human, they possessed a terrifying speed, and had the strength to tear full-grown men limb from limb.

As the scene inside the grocery store demonstrated.

Absently, Chris clutched his mother's arm tighter. The Chead were a curse throughout the Western Allied States, or WAS as many called them, a dark shadow left over from the days of the American War. The first whispers of the creatures had started in 2030, not long after the fall of the United States. They had been dismissed then as a rumor, the new country eager to move on from the decade-long conflict. Attacks had been blamed on resistance fighters in rural communities, who had never fully supported the severance from the United States.

In response, the government had imposed curfews in the affected counties, and sent in the military to quell the unrest. But their measures had done nothing to stem the attacks, and eventually, accounts by survivors had filtered through to the media. Claims surfaced that it was not soldiers behind the butchery, but members of the community. The perpetrators were always different, but the story was the same. One day the assailants were ordinary neighbors or colleagues – the next, monsters capable of tearing their loved ones to pieces.

By the time the first creature was captured, rural communities had suffered almost a decade of terror at the hands of the monstrosities. The government and their media agencies had pointed the blame in every direction, from poor rural police-reporting, to secret operations by the Texans to destabilize the Western Allied States.

On the television, the SWAT team had reached the grocery store and were now gathering outside, their rifles trained on the entrance. One lowered his rifle and stepped towards it, the others covering him from behind. Reaching the door, he stretched out an arm to pull it open.

The Chead didn't make a sound as it tore through the store windows and barreled into the man. A screech came through the old television speakers as the men scattered before the creature's ferocity. With one hand, the creature grabbed its victim by the throat and hurled him across the street. The thud as he bounced off a concrete wall was audible over the reporter's microphone.

The sight of their companion's untimely demise seemed to snap the other members of the squadron into action. The first pops of gunfire followed, but the Chead was already on the move. It tore across the dirt road, bullets raising dust-clouds around it, and smashed into another squad member. A scream echoed up from the street as man and Chead went down, disappearing into a cloud of dust.

Despite the risk of hitting their comrade, the other members of the SWAT team did not stop firing. The chance of survival once a Chead had its hands on you was zero to none, and no one wanted to risk the creature escaping.

Roaring, the Chead reared up from the dust, then spun as a bullet struck it in the shoulder. Blood blossomed from the wound as it staggered back, its grey eyes wide, flickering with surprise. It reached up and touched a finger to the hole left by the bullet, its brow creasing with confusion.

Then the rest of the men opened fire, and the creature fell.