Resist by Tracey Martin Page B

Dumpster, shooting at one of the CYs.
    Kyle reaches me, and I return his gun. “What the hell are those things?” he asks. “They’re not human.”
    â€œNot anymore, no. Get to—”
    I never get to finish my thought because Summer screams. Poking my head above the car, I find her at last. She and Jordan are trapped on the second floor. A CY approaches from their left and two humans from their right. With her bad shoulder, Summer’s not in much position to fight.
    â€œShit.” I spring to my feet and fire in the direction of the men. While they duck from me, Jordan and Summer make a run for it.
    My relief is short-lived as Kyle tugs on my arm. “Sophia!”
    I turn my attention away from the motel as Kyle shoots at someone. It’s too little too late. One of the CYs is racing toward us, feet flying over the snow as if they barely touch it. Kyle’s shots hit it dead in the abdomen, but that’s not enough to slow it down.
    â€œSave your ammo and run,” I yell.
    Kyle clearly sees the wisdom in that because he doesn’t argue. My backpack pounds against me as I take off after him down the street. At three in the morning, the town is devoid of life, but the night is surprisingly bright. The lights from a diner’s sign and the twinkling holiday decorations reflect off the snow. Kyle’s a good runner, and so am I, but even I’ll tire before the CY. We have to get off the street, have to find some way to outmaneuver it because there’s no way to outrun it.
    â€œThis way.” More lights, these from a hardware store, beckon ahead. A large area of the parking lot has been given over to selling live Christmas trees and other holiday supplies, and it’s blocked off with cheap, metal fencing. Easy to climb.
    I pull myself over the top, Kyle right behind. It’s darker in here with lots of shadows cast by the shelves of holiday decorations, and the trees create an artificial forest. The sickly heavy odor of their needles settles in my lungs. Normally I like the scent, but there’s too damn much of it as we shove our way through narrow aisles. No one’s shoveled yet, and the snow reaches my shins.
    â€œListen.” Kyle grabs my wrist, and I pause. I hear nothing. No sound of feet moving through the lot or legs plowing through the snow. “Is it gone?”
    â€œIt’s tracking us, trying to get the jump on us.”
    Which is exactly what I need to do to take it out. CYs are fast. My handgun, like most handguns, is inaccurate at long range. And I have a small target to aim for. I need to get up close and personal without it sensing me.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” Kyle asks.
    I quickly explain my thoughts, and Kyle doesn’t hesitate. “All right then. I’ll distract it.”
    I cringe. That’s what I was afraid he’d say. “I don’t know what’s in the drugs they’re using. If it catches you—”
    â€œHey, I can take a bullet, remember? I can handle drugs.”
    â€œWe don’t know about that.”
    â€œThen I won’t let it hit me.”
    â€œKyle—” But he’s sprinting away before I can even tell him which direction I’ve heard the CY moving in, goading it at the top of his lungs.
    That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for a plan, but it’ll do. Through the trees, a single beam of light flashes, casting weird shadows. The CY has taken Kyle’s bait. I wait a couple seconds, then step lightly after it. My feet sound so loud on the snow, but Kyle is louder.
    I track it tracking him to the edge of the last row. Kyle stands near a display of wreaths. A giant white sign with Merry Christmas written on it hangs from two poles by the main entrance. He’s an easy target against the backdrop.
    Hidden behind a tree, I watch the CY emerge into the clearing with my heart pounding. It’s smart enough to sense a trap, but it also has orders.