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I couldn’t stop my disappointment from distracting me. A swell of heat spread inside me, simmered into convulsions that made my hands tremble. Losing the dog resonated a hollow thud in my head, muting all other sounds. Screw the kill shot. I lowered the carbine a few inches, moving the sight to the shoulder. Was that one alone? I scanned the area with a hunter’s calm. Alone indeed. Exhale. Squeeze.

The thing thrashed backwards against the impact, buzzing and snarling. Its arm hung by mangled sinews. I sighted its other shoulder and repeated the shot. It fell down but quickly regained its footing. Gristle and bone coruscated under black blood pumping from the crater that was its arm.

The aphid crept closer. The torso seemed to float on its double-jointed legs. I sighted between its eyes. Twenty yards. I knew where the kill shot was. But I knew little else about its defenses. Fifteen yards. Could it regrow limbs? Did it need its organs? Joel had won the arguments against capturing and experimenting on one. Ten yards. I lowered my scope, settled on its knee. Time to test some theories. I squeezed the trigger. It squealed and dropped. Then it leveraged its bloody stump and rose on one leg.

Its remaining arm lolled by a string of muscle. I shot it off. The aphid spun around. A pit blossomed on its side. It landed on its back. I closed the distance. Three yards. I aimed at its good leg. A sting of snapping rubber bands rippled through my gut. What the hell was going on with me? I pulled the trigger.

The aphid’s torso lay in a welter of life and limbs. It stretched its jowls. Fleshy bits wormed in the mouth, arranging themselves around the tusk-like tube. The meaty fingers melded to form a sheath for the spear. Perhaps a casing for air-tight suction.

Carbine on my sling, I released a dagger from my forearm sheath and swiped. The aphid’s remaining weapon plopped in the goulash.

I picked up an amputated arm. The aphid’s orbs followed my movements as I flipped the arm back and forth, stretching the pincers and clamping them shut. Rows of sharp barbs jetted in one direction on the forearm. Tiny hairs furred the thin green skin.

Its chest heaved. Sputters purled from its throat. It choked. Something like static pinched my insides. I tossed the arm and kicked its torso, rolling it on its side. Then I crouched next to it.

Blood coursed from the shredded mouth and with it the aroma of rot. I flicked the dagger in front of its face. Its eyes stared. No blinking. No expression. I rubbed my stomach. A vibration sparked under my hand. I gripped the carbine, sat back and rested it over my knees. Would it regrow new limbs or would it bleed out? How long would it take?

The tiny aphid pupil didn’t move. A hum churned inside me. I wiped my palms on my jeans. The hum I felt should’ve been the twinge of mercy. But it wasn’t. I waited.

I opened my eyes against the light penetrating the forest canopy. Blood and decay tainted the warm breeze caressing my shoulder. Shit. I flipped over and met face-to-face with the still breathing aphid. Its wounds had soldered sometime during the night. Black leaking holes were dried and closed. No regrowth. At least not yet.

The aphid’s hanging jaw twitched. I should experiment more, remove some organs, and try to bleed it out. My stomach groaned. Food first. Then weapon cleaning. Then I’d deal with the aphid—

A twig snapped in the scrub across the glade. I lifted the carbine. A blur of tan and black splayed the fronds. I gulped a breath and dropped the gun on its sling.

The dog bounded toward me, tail to the sky, tongue flapping. My knees hit the grass and he licked my hand. I stroked the top of his head, relishing the silken warmth of his coat. A prickle broke out on my spine. Then a strangled buzz from the aphid behind me. The dog scrambled backwards.

“Oh no, wait.” I lunged after him, palm out. When he nudged my hand, I led him away from the bug, scratching and rubbing his ears as we walked.

How was it that he and I survived when so many hadn’t? Was it genetic or environmental? Did some kind of Peter Parker freak exposure make us super? Maybe I watched too many movies. Whatever the reason—survival of the fittest, natural selection—the dog and I survived. The knot of loneliness in my gut loosened, cracked, and the sharp edges fell away.

“I’ll call you Darwin.” A symbol of his unfavorable survival against nature.

He barked and lathered my cheek.

We shared an MRE and I cleaned the carbine and daggers. That done, I perched beside the mutilated aphid, dagger in fist. Then I took a steadying breath and sawed through its neck. It took longer than expected. My stomach twisted and burned. What was happening to me? I wanted to do it. When the neck snapped and the head rolled off, the eyes went flat. The tension in my guts uncoiled.