Overton took several gulps from his canteen, letting the warm water glide down his throat. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said, and tore open an energy bar.

The floor of the train groaned and creaked as the electric engine flared to life. He slipped his helmet back on and closed his eyes, chewing the last bit of chocolate before resting his helmeted head on the glass window. By the time the train had reached full speed, he was asleep.

The creature’s mandibles split and its head darted forward, straining the Spider’s thin neck as it lunged for Timothy. Oddly, in that moment of terror and confusion, he fixated on the waft of breath coming from the thing’s gaping mouth. It was odorless.

Ever since he was a child, he had imagined what monsters would be like. He thought they would have the most disgusting, raunchiest breath possible, the scent of death and decay rolling off their tongues. It was a prerequisite for dungeon-dwelling beasts.

In the moment before his death, he realized this was no make-believe monster. It was a real, honest-to-God alien life-form, so different from anything his youthful brain had ever created. He didn’t have time to comprehend what that meant, if anything.

There wasn’t much pain, just a short, hot explosion behind his eyes as the creature sank its sharp teeth into his head. Timothy’s legs folded beneath his limp body. The other Organic rushed up behind its friend and lunged with several of its claws, raising the man’s corpse into the air. They began spinning him into a blue web.

By the time Bouma and Emanuel arrived, Timothy was already covered in the glowing substance. Bouma sprinted down the passageway with his pulse rifle clanging against the shoulder of his armor.

He halted several yards away, skidding to a dead stop as his mind grasped the gravity of the situation. A slew of eyeballs stared back at him. The Spiders both tilted their heads and let out high pitched shrieks.

“Run! Take the kids and hide!” Bouma managed to scream over the intermittent screeching of the monsters.

He resisted the urge to check whether Emanuel, Holly, and the children were following his orders. Instead, he did what he was trained to do: neutralize the threat.

With one swift motion, he raised the barrel of his rifle, steadied his breathing the best he could, and squeezed down on the trigger. He knew he had little chance of lowering their shields without an electromagnetic concussion grenade, but he had no choice.

To his surprise, the rounds tore into the creatures’ flesh, sending limbs and grotesque eyeballs in all directions. The exploding bodies splattered the walls with glowing blue blood, like a drunken artist spray-painting with glitter.