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Let's play a game.

It's a simple enough game to play. I'm almost positive you've played it before, back when you were younger. It goes by different names, but the concept is the same: hide and remain hidden until the threat passes, then run for all that it's worth to get to a safe zone. The threat would be called the Wolf or the Ghouls in the Graveyard or – simply enough – the Person That Was It. It didn't matter much what you called it back then, though. At that age, you come up with something that sounds scary and sooner or later, you'll play the game again and come up against that threat. Kids love it. Back when I was younger, my friends and I would play it until it became dark and the Wolf threat became Our Mothers.

But back then, there was always some measure of protection. The wolf was never an actual wolf, nor were the ghouls or anything your little six-year-old mind could come up with. Even though they had such fearsome titles and at the end of the day? They were still your friends from your street and they never harmed you, aside from occasionally tackling you to the ground and scraping you up.

You eventually stopped playing games like that. You got too old, or your friends got too old, or you got too busy and wrapped up with other things. Either way, something happened and you forgot all that you learned from playing those games.

Then, you come to a point in your life where you really wish you could remember everything.

I, Samuel Raymer, have come to that point.

* * *

We are all cold. We are all hungry. But, most importantly and probably most prominently, we are all afraid.

They picked off most of the others that we saw wandering around the city a few nights ago. We didn't actually see anything that would visually confirm anything – the specific ones we're fighting don't exactly leave a hell of a lot of stuff as evidence – but we have heard things. Sounds travel far in a quiet city, and the silence only enhances the horror in the screams and the snapping of bones and jaws alike. A part of me wonders if this counts as technical cannibalism. After all, they were once men too. But another part of me says “Don't think of them as men anymore.” Not in my voice; in the General's. “They're monsters. They are animals.” A smirk twisted across his features. “And I do mean that in every aspect of the word.”

When the General first spoke these enigmatic words, none of us knew what he had meant. Now? We're much more enlightened now.

* * *

“What d'you think this was part of?”

I turn around, and the Brit holds up a long white bone. Picked clean of flesh and muscle, bleached by the sun and the rain. Something one might see out in the countryside or in a desert setting, but not in the “civilized” city of Berlin. I grimaced as I looked the thing up and down, then said, “Horse. Or a cow. One of the two, but it looks like a horse.”

“Not human?” The Brit ventures. He drops the bone and it falls to the street with a clatter that would undoubtedly bring attention to anything in the area.

I resist the urge to hit him and scold him for dropping the bone so loudly, and instead say, “It's not human. Too big.”

The Brit falls silent, thinking about this before accepting my answer. He steps over the same pile of rubble I had moments ago and says, “You know, we haven't seen one all day.”

“Good day in my book.” I use the barrel of my gun to prod at a bag in the middle of the road, something left from the days when there were people to flee from the cities. It feels solid, not soft and organic like a body. Good. I kneel down and pick it up gingerly and peer inside.

“D'you think we can go a whole week?”

“Without seeing them?” I ask. I reach into the bag and pull out a sidearm – Walther PPK, with the Nazi eagle on the side. There's some ammo in there; I pull that out and turn to the Brit. “You need a sidearm?”

He shakes his head. “I'm good. But yeah. A whole week without seein' 'em.”

“No.” I shake my head, putting the sidearm and ammo into my own bag. “Definitely not a whole week. That's impossible.”

“Not in some cities.”

I look up again. “What d'you mean? I thought they were pretty evenly distributed throughout Europe...”

The Brit shakes his head. “Nope. Once you get out to some parts of...” His eyes rolled up to the sky, trying to recall the list he was making in his head. “Parts of Russia... Africa and... obviously Great Britain and you'll be alright.”

“This isn't bullshit?”

“I can assure you,” he said, “it's not. My commander said so.”

I raise my eyebrow. “The same commander who committed suicide by tossing himself to them?”

“Well...” The Brit hesitates. “Yes. Same one. But... y'know, before the flu, he was actually pretty sane.”

I roll my eyes. “Brits and sanity. I've never heard of the biggest load of shi--”

“Shh!”

My hand freezes halfway into the bag and the Brit slowly takes out his own sidearm and cocks it. We can't hear anything, not just yet. But we wait for something. Anything.

Then we hear it.

First the growling – so slight it almost melts into the silence. The Brit has sharper senses than I do; he aims his gun behind us and takes his shooting stance, a look of ferocity in his eyes that belies his easy-going nature. His jaws set as his fingers set around the trigger.

Second, panting. Too human to be called 'dog-like'. The sound of jaws, strong as metal traps, snapping and gnashing. The growls become louder and overly long claws click against the street. I stand up slowly, hands shaking as I take out the Walther and its ammo and begin to load it. Pray to God I can get the gun ready in time...

A dog staggers out of an alleyway. Well... not quite. It looks sort of like a dog and acts sort of like a dog, sure. But it's bigger than any dog I've ever seen – I'm almost certain that, if I wanted to, I could ride it. Looks wrong to be a dog, too. Wrong body type, I mean; it's closer to a hyena than a dog's body, I guess. Its movements are far too deliberate and planned to be a dog's.

It's what we've been waiting for all day long.

It turns its head away from us first, sniffing. Its head snaps back to glare directly at us and even from here I can see its eyes. Bright yellow.

Its jaws part in an almost-smile, a perverted bastardization of the real thing, before starting towards us. Spit falls from its jaws and onto the road, and I almost expect it to burn a hole in the stones. A low growl emanates from its maw, escalating into a challenging yowl as its hackles raise at the sight of the gun. It hesitates, tail switching back and forth as it debates whether or not it should attack... No, it's not debating. It's a goddamned animal, Sam. It's an animal. it doesn't reason, it doesn't bargain and it certainly doesn't debate.

But why do I get the feeling it is?

The yowl dies down, but the hackles remain raised. It takes another step forward, and the Brit fires.

A spray of blood from the creature's shoulder, and it yowls again – this time in anger and pain. Before the Brit can cock and fire again, it bounds forwards and lunges. Time slows as the Brit yells and the false dog pins him to the ground. I turn and run, listening to the Brit's screams as I duck into an abandoned store and cram myself behind the counter. I hear the Brit screaming before being abruptly cut off, a soft wet ripping sound replacing it. I wince. It got him, too.

I load the Walther fully, my hands shaking and forcing down bile. I've seen so much worse than this, and I know that. But I still want to vomit when I hear them feeding.

* * *

“Sure, they used to be human.”

I remember a conversation I had with my General a few days ago.

“They used to be human. They used to have friends and family and all that shit. But now? Everything is determined by pack hierarchy. They follow the alpha--” He pulls out a yellowed photo of the German leader, Adolf Hitler, before taking out a matchbox. He pulls out a match and strikes it, then begins to burn the photograph. The smell of burning plastic fills the air, and I wrinkle my nose as he continues, “-- and no one else.”

He throws the photograph into the fire, the edges starting to crumple into themselves and blacken. “I heard they were guards. Part of the Einsatzgruppen, I think, so they were used to killing. Worked at the camps and all that. Then their own scientists started to contort them into something else.”

Something else is right.

“I've heard that they can still turn back into what they were, but they aren't the same. No one ever is, if one of their scientists gets their hands on you.”

* * *

Glass crunches under boots.

Oh, shit. It's in here.

A mirror at the other side of the counter lets me know what it is now. A man stands in the doorway, wearing the tattered rags of an SS officer's black dress uniform with the barely sewn-on collar tab saying he was low-level. A thug given too much power and authority. His broad hands grip the sides of the threshold, fingers slightly curved like claws. His face and the hairline of his bright blonde hair are drenched with blood, bright yellow eyes a stark contrast to all the gore. Yep, it's the same one.

Glass crunches under boots as the man staggers into the room. One of his feet slide out from under him, and he yelps as he scrambles to right himself, cursing once he regains his balance. I watch him in the mirror, looking for any sort of weaknesses... and immediately, I've found one.

The mask of gore can't hide it. He's sick, very sick. His bright yellow eyes are dull, unfocused as a bead of sweat cuts a small path down his forehead and down his nose. His sides heave with the effort of breathing and standing upright, and for the first time I notice him shaking. He walks right up to the counter, sniffing here and there casually until he stops. I freeze, watching the mirror wordlessly and my grip tightens on the Walther.

Finally, after what seems like forever, the man yells in frustration and kicks weakly at the counter – I hear and feel his foot connect with the front of it. Still growling to himself, I watch as he leaves and wait for silence to return.

Once it has, I stand up and slowly walk to the door and peer out.

The man staggers down the road, slowly dropping to his knees as he walks and turns into the dog that attacked the Brit before. Just as I thought.

* * *

That's all there is to it. Hide and remain hidden until the threat passes, then run for all that it's worth to get to a safe zone. Just a simple children's game, except for one violent and perverted twist.

My name is Samuel Raymer, and I've won the game.

For now.