Leaping flames threw flickering shadows across the clearing. We clustered around the fire, hoping for protection more than warmth. Marty said they didn’t understand the threat of fire; it wasn’t much of a weapon. He said we shouldn’t have a fire; it would draw their attention and bring them down on us. We didn’t care; some primal instinct drew us to the flames.

Marty sat in the darkness at the edge of the clearing. He looked ready to spring up the nearest tree. We thought he was scare-mongering.

We sat in silence, a small concession to Marty’s worries. The crackling of the flames and the splitting of the wood filled the air, so loud it seemed like gunfire.

Ash sprang to her feet, straining her ears.

“Did you hear that?”

We didn’t answer. An all-too-familiar low groan oozed into the cold night air. The group scattered. Marty disappeared up his tree. Ash grabbed a flaming branch from the fire. With no hesitation, I broke into a run.

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