FRESH MEAT TO GRIND

[SLAYER LOG - DAY 1, NEURO-5]

The heavy, treaded sole of a Marine's boot planted flat between my shoulder blades and shoved.

I didn't even have time to scream. I lost my grip on the polished metal of the drop carrier and plummeted into the humid night, hitting the dirt hard enough to knock the breath straight out of my lungs. Above me, the thrusters roared, framing the Marine's sneer as he looked down at me from the cargo bay.

"Get the hell off the carrier, cook boy! Head west and scan your ZS-33 for your assignment!"

The carrier hovered above me, kicking up a storm of dust that left me choking under three massive, full moons. My wrist violently vibrated. The ZS-33 implant was already fused to my muscle tissue, its blue interface glowing above my forearm. I wasn't just a petty criminal anymore. I had lost the Federation's twisted lottery. I was a Slayer now, and the timer flashing in the dark made it painfully clear: hunt the Spawn, or the neuro-toxin sitting in my veins would do the job for them.

The judge had read my options off a small screen next to his gavel. Serve my years in an overcrowded correctional facility, or take whichever hellscape planet needed bodies to fight the Spawn.

Guess which one I got?

The drop wasn't high, but it hurt. The small clearing was dimly lit, and for once I'd caught a break: all three of Neuro-5's moons were full. As I struggled to my feet, still short of breath, I looked up at the Marine. He wore the same look of contempt they all did. Two weeks of boot camp had covered basic training, firearm drills, the bare minimum of wilderness survival, and a rundown of our Slayer kit: a standard 9mm pistol, a few stimulant injections, a backpack with three rations, two extra clips, and the ZS-33.

A small device the size of a wristwatch, buried deep in the muscle. It monitored my location, my vitals, and, most importantly to the Federation, my Spawn kills.

Say one tried to hide, serving out the sentence without ever killing a Spawn? They'd thought about that. Say you slow-walked it, killing the bare minimum? They'd thought about that too. Go six months without a kill and the ZS-33 pumped its lethal neuro-toxin through your veins, a painful death from what I had heard.

You either died by the Spawn or by the Federation.

I gave the Marine a look of pure desperation, hoping to catch a flicker of humanity or even pity. I would gladly take either. The Marines tasked with training Slayers loathed us for it. To them, we were lower than scum, criminals who didn't deserve to wear the uniform even for two weeks.

He wasn't budging, just a contemptuous glance. "WEST! Use the ZS-33 as a compass, it even lists your destination! AvonTech figured most of you idiots don't know a thing about navigation! Spawn activity is hot in this zone, so start running your scrawny ass over there real fast!"

"They taught us that in training!" I yelled back, right as the carrier's thrusters roared to full blast, lifting it away. It felt like screaming underwater. My comeback was lost in the noise, and he looked down at me, confused, as if I were speaking gibberish.

His lips were moving, but I couldn't make out a word. I just assumed he'd called me a scumbag again. There was nothing left to do but watch the carrier bank and rocket back toward orbit, abandoning me on Neuro-5. Back during our so-called training, the Marines had laughed and placed bets that I'd be one of the first to die in this batch of Slayers.

I hung my head for a moment, my legs trembling. I have to pull myself together! I looked down at the implant display to see the compass and a small blip marking my target. I needed to head west.

I started to run as fast as my soft, skinny legs could carry me. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up the pace for long, but this was a Spawn-heavy zone. That was exactly why a fort was located relatively close by. I just had to hope I could make it there.

Before long, a sharp ache bloomed in my ribs. I slowed down at the edge of the clearing, coming to a stop before a dense treeline. Thank God for the moons. The Marines hadn't even been kind enough to issue us flashlights.

The forest ahead was dimly lit, not a complete dark void of god-knows-what, and I took a small breath at that. I checked the display again, confirming that the path to the fort cut straight through the woods.

"You've got this, Bash," I said to myself, taking a tentative first step while waiting for the dull ache in my side to subside.

The trees were thick, their bark slick with moss. Neuro-5 was a humid, almost swamp-like world, a detail I'd gleaned from a few quick searches before being shipped out.

Once the pain in my side faded, I picked up the pace into a light jog, keeping my eyes sharp to dodge the hanging branches ahead. Then a loud hiss erupted to my left.

I skidded to a halt and peered into the woods, briefly locking eyes with something lurking in the shadows. The moment it shifted, it moved with the horrific speed characteristic of a Spawn.

"No, no, no, definitely don't want this!" I yelled, sprinting blindly through the thickets.

Prickly thorns snagged and tore at the exposed skin of my forearms. There was no free armor or tactical wear for Slayers; those resources were saved for actual Marines. All I could do was run as the shallow cuts began to bleed. Spawn could smell blood, even in tiny amounts, and for whatever reason they craved human blood above all else.

I chanced a quick look back over my shoulder. It was keeping pace in the distance, its four legs squirming with sickening speed. The sharp cramp flared in my ribs again, my calves tightening to the point of seizing, and my chest heaved for air as I pushed myself to keep moving.

I looked forward, but there was no end to this forest in sight. No opening to a clearing, just a relentless wall of dense trees, thorny thickets, and low bushes. I chanced one more glance over my shoulder and felt my stomach drop. The creature wasn't just keeping pace with ease anymore; it was gaining on me.

"This isn't good, not good at all!"

Now that it was closer, its coarse scales and elongated head came into focus. Its torso was coated in a slick, glistening substance. Maybe Spawn sweated, too? I didn't know enough about their biology to care, not when it was already closing in.

I tried to push myself even harder, but as I glanced back, my heart slammed into my throat. It was only feet away now, its four spindly legs moving with the creepy, jointed precision of a mantis, the tendrils surrounding its mouth flailing wildly in the air, trembling with grotesque excitement.

It was within striking distance.

I reached down with a trembling hand, fumbling blindly for the holster at my hip to unclip the standard-issue Tark 9mm. My palms were slick with sweat, and the gun felt cold and heavy in my grip, like an anchor. Two weeks of basic firearm drills hadn't prepared me for the sheer panic of a ravenous predator bearing down on me.

I didn't dare stop to aim. I swung the barrel behind me and squeezed the trigger.

And missed.

I fired again. The muzzle flash bloomed wide. The shot struck nothing but air. My foot caught on an exposed root, sending me crashing face-first into the humid dirt. The Tark slipped from my sweaty grip, landing just out of reach. All my practice shooting cans in a colony alleyway had vanished the second that elongated, scale-covered head locked onto me.

I scrambled backward, my chest heaving. The broodie crouched low, its jointed legs coiling like springs. Those dark, burnt-orange orbs locked onto me, hungry and hollow.

The Spawn opened its mouth in a violent screech, ear-ringing and piercing, as I army-crawled through the dirt, straining every muscle to reach the Tark. It would probably wrap those slimy tentacles around my throat and choke the life out of me. Basham Anderson, age twenty-one when he passed. Died from a Spawn within thirty minutes of serving his sentence. What a pathetic, terrible way to die.

All I could do was silently curse everything that had led to this moment: the sting operation some snitch broker ran to catch people just trying to help someone they cared about, the government orphanage that taught me zero life skills outside of being a short-order cook, and the mountain of garbage luck that landed me under three full moons on a humid swamp planet called Neuro-5.

My fingers finally brushed the cold metal. I wrapped my hand around the grip, my index finger trembling uncontrollably against the trigger.

"What are you waiting for?! Do it already!" I screamed at it.

I wasn't sure if Spawn understood human language. They certainly hadn't covered alien linguistics in training. They'd shown us holos of the species we were most likely to encounter, mostly the gruesome ways they preferred to kill you.

I swung the barrel up blindly and pulled the trigger.

The Tark kicked hard against my palm. The creature shrieked, a deafening wail cut short as sickly green blood splashed across my face. Its heavy, jointed carcass slammed into the dirt, twitching inches from my boots. My heart hammered against my ribs, but before I could even catch my breath, a sharp, electric vibration shot up my forearm. The ZS-33 flared to life, projecting a pale blue HUD directly into the dark air.

[NOTIFICATION: KILL CONFIRMED]

[SPAWN TYPE: BROOD]

[+8 SLAYER CREDITS ADDED TO BALANCE]

[+12 EXPERIENCE GAINED]

I watched the floating numbers. It didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a corporate receipt. I had no idea what the credits or experience were for, but as a new distance readout hummed beneath the compass, a flicker of hope sparked in my chest. That single kill had bought me at least six months of breathing.

[DISTANCE: 440 YDS]

I pushed myself into a light jog, watching the number tick down with every step.

A sudden surge of adrenaline washed away the fatigue, and I picked up the pace, sprinting through the woods and cutting through every clearing I could find like I was navigating some twisted obstacle course. All that mattered was staying in motion, pressing forward for sheer survival.

Then, through the dense foliage ahead, something caught my eye. A paved path.

It had to be the main trail leading to the fort. If only the Federation had taken the time to clear out the drop zone, too. Ignoring the dull ache hammering against my ribs and the sweat pouring down my forehead, I pushed hard toward the open ground.

"I'm going to make it, I'm actually going to make it!" I shouted in a burst of reckless joy.

Huge mistake.

A chorus of Spawn shrieks erupted from the treeline behind me. My triumphant yell had alerted every hunting pack in the area. I glanced back over my shoulder, frantically counting the shadows darting through the brush: four more creatures identical to the one that had tried to eat my face off.

"You have to be kidding me!"

My boots slammed onto the paved trail. Small, low-profile lampposts dimly illuminated the path ahead. I hauled ass toward them, chancing a quick look down at the ZS-33 screen: 395 YDS. It felt like I'd been running for an eternity, though in reality, I hadn't run this hard since before I was locked up.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the Spawn pouring onto the pavement right behind me. I hustled, pushing through the agony in my chest and keeping my eyes locked on the trail. I was running because my life depended on it, and because I knew I didn't have four more lucky shots left in my Tark.

Suddenly, my ears perked up. The sound of distant laughter echoed through the night, followed by a cluster of floodlights breaking through the treeline ahead.

A makeshift barricade of stacked sandbags blocked the road, and standing behind it were a handful of men, drinking what looked like canned beer and having a grand old time.

I was about to ruin their night.

"SPAWN!" I screamed.

They didn't budge, just kept laughing as I barreled toward them. I started waving my arms wildly like a lunatic, trying to signal that I wasn't alone, that four ravenous Spawn were practically riding my heels.

"SPAWN! SPAWN!"

One of them finally turned my way, his cheerful grin instantly vanishing. He barked something to his buddies, and their easy grins fell too as the gravity of the situation hit them.

"Hurry the hell up!" one yelled, frantically waving me in.

If only I had another gear to shift into. Behind me, the ear-splitting shrieks grew louder, their jointed legs clicking against the asphalt in a frantic, rapid-fire cadence.

The men raised their rifles. I didn't recognize the models, but every one of them was aimed straight at me. My head spun with a sudden, terrifying thought. Are they going to shoot through me? It wasn't like the Federation gave us a detailed handbook on base security protocols.

"Hurry the hell up!" another shouted at me.

As I closed the distance, their faces came into focus. A few looked cool and locked in, seasoned veterans who had probably seen a panicked new Slayer drag a horde to their doorstep a dozen times before. A couple of the others looked far less confident, their eyes wide and white with fear.

"GET DOWN! NOW!" a hoarse voice boomed over the noise. It came from a massive guy with broad shoulders and tattooed arms, wearing a metal chest rig over a cut-off shirt. "Get the hell down!"

I threw my body forward, diving onto the hard pavement yet again. The second my chest hit the ground, the night erupted in blinding muzzle flashes.

A hail of gunfire roared so close over my head I could feel the heat of the muzzle flashes. The deafening, rhythmic thud of automatic fire mixed with the electric buzzsaw shriek of a submachine gun. The sound vibrated right through the asphalt into my teeth. Above me, the Spawn were torn to shreds. Their ear-splitting shrieks became wet, bubbling gurgles as hot brass casings rained down, bouncing off my shoulders and back until the dense woods fell dead quiet.

After a few tense moments, the firing ceased. I peeked up from the pavement, keeping my head low. The Slayers still had their rifles trained on the treeline, smoke curling from their barrels. The large guy with the tattoos was carefully scanning the dark woods, his eyes locked on the brush.

"Is it clear?" I cried out, my voice cracking.

"It's clear," he called back, lowering his rifle slightly. "Get on up here, fresh meat."