The first team from the Facility to make it to the farmhouse came quietly in the night.

They had been on the hunt for over three months now, had extended their search far beyond the state lines of Indiana, through Illinois and Iowa, all the way into Nebraska. Only the occasional, exsanguinated corpse of a deer or other mammal scattered like breadcrumbs let them know that they were headed in the right direction, and even those were starting to rot beyond recognition. Old kills, all of them, done within two weeks of her original escape.

The rest they left to Tom, their tracker.

When a week had passed with no new sightings of her abandoned prey, Tom concluded that the subject had stopped pushing forward and was laying low somewhere. The team had circled back to the last known point of the subject's movement, and had begun to fan out from there.

She would be somewhere isolated, they had figured. Somewhere small enough that even if a few people had gone missing it hadn't hit the major news cycles yet.

So they had spent the last weeks scouting farmhouses, little pockets of human activity among fields and fields of crops. For the most part they found little - one case of infidelity, but nothing of interest to the Facility.

However, the farmhouse they currently approached, known as the McComb household by the locals, was a current subject of town gossip due to the appearance of a certain young female visitor while the lady of the house was out.

The immediate area around the farmhouse provided no cover aside from a few trees in the landscaping around the house itself. The rest of the terrain was made up of flat wheat fields for as far as the eye could see, and so the team had abandoned their transport over a mile out and had proceeded to approach the house in a cautious crouch through the ripening wheat.

There were five of them, spread out just within eyesight of each other, radios all but silenced so that only the smallest whisper could travel through directly into their earpieces.

The tech man sat back in the van, parked just outside the sightline of the house. Thanks to a few drones, despite the enshrouding darkness of the Midwestern night he had heat-sensor visuals on his team, five little red dots slowly moving forward through the graphically mapped-out field on the screens in front of him.

He twisted the earpiece into his left ear and tapped the communications system. The radio crackled lightly into his eardrum.

"Okay team," the tech man began, reading off of a clipboard, "preliminary scouting suggests this house has up to three human occupants at any given time – the father, the mother, and the child. Father is a farmer, out for most of the day. Mother is often gone on long business trips, and is currently on one, not due back for another week or two. The daughter is about 6."

"Shit. I hate it when kids are involved," a recognizable voice interrupted over the radio.

"Well, buckle up, Tamara. So far the subject has shown no inclination to be selective." Tech man looked down at his clipboard again to regain his train of thought. "Oh, right -- occasionally a lady from town will come to watch the daughter, but we have confirmation that she's not around right now. We also got two dogs – collies, trained to guard the house and child."

"Ugh, I hate it when dogs are involved, too," Tamara sighed, and a faint snicker followed her complaint over the static.

"You might say you're in the wrong line of work, there, girlie," came the voice that produced the snicker, Jarmin.

"I never said I cared a lick about adults. Want me to prove it, boyo?" Tamara shot back, and a faint, crackling chorus of chuckles filtered through the comm system.

It was nerves, a ritual of forced levity before whatever storm was about to hit.

Tech man sat forward in the hard seat, peering in confusion at the screen. "I'm getting some movement, another heat signature in the field."

"Talk to us, techie. Where's it coming from?" demanded a new voice--Jones, the field team leader. 

"It's just kinda standing still, at point to all of you, maybe fifty yards out."

Another voice, this a tense whisper: "The dogs?"

"No, it's just one signature, and dogs have already been confirmed to be inside," Tech man replied, chewing his bottom lip.

"What do you recommend, Tech man?" Tamara's voice asked into his ear. 

He sighed in a forceful burst of air, pulling at his collar to loosen it. The static air in the van was starting to get to him. "We have our mission. Can't get spooked now."

"Easy for you to say," Jones huffed through the comm. Then, after a sigh of his own, "Okay, keep low, move forward. Everyone watch your flanks."

"Goddamn wheat. I can't see anything," Tamara's voice grumbled. 

"At least it's not a corn field," -- a snort from Jarmin.

Something blipped on the screen, and Tech man dropped his clipboard with a clatter. "Ah-" he said suddenly, startling everyone, "the signature's gone. Looks like it might have been a fluk--"

An unintelligible gurgle sounded right into his ear, the sound cutting him off and turning his stomach. 

"Shit! What was that? Tech?" Jones's voice cut right through the sickening noises. 

"I don't know what that was--I'm seeing all team signatures where they should be!" Tech man leaned forward over the screens, reaching for the keyboard and trying to maneuver the drones to get a better look around. This was the first time he'd ever felt so blinded from his surveillance position. 

"Pull back and sound off!" Jones commanded, voice tight. "Jones, 1."

"Tamara, 2."

"Kent, 3."

More gurgles filtered through the radio, and Tech man's stomach sank as he struggled to zoom in on each member's position, the red dots slowly becoming human-shaped onscreen as his drones got closer.

"Jarmin, 4."

A cold sweat to broke out along Tech man's spine at the poignant silence that followed.

Jones's voice broke through the radio static. "Jarmin, check your flank. Where's Tom?" 

"I can't see shit through this wheat, man," Jarmin's voice complained, although as Tech man watched, his heat signature began to move toward Tom's position.

"Wait," Tech man said, squinting at the screen. "The heat signature from Tom's position is moving, circling around."

"Tom, buddy, what's your move?" Jones' voice asked.

"Oh shit!" Jarmin's voice called out over the comm, and Tech man watched as Jarmin's dot began to pedal backwards out of formation. Tech man finally zoomed in on the last spot in the formation, where Tom was supposed to be.

"Oh, oh God," he said under his breath, as he realized the mistake he'd made. 

"What is it, talk to us," Jones called, impatience making his voice tense.

"That heat signature circling us ain't Tom," Jarmin called over the comm, only confirming what Tech man was piecing together. Because there on the screen, right where Tom should have been, was a human-shaped heat signature that was slowly fading into the cooler greens and blues of the wheat field.

"Tom's right here at my feet – drained dry." Jarmin's voice cracked and no one could tell if it were him or the radio. 

"Tech," Tamara's voice cut in, firm and steady enough to jolt him into action, "keep talking. Where's that other signature?"

He flew his drones up to get a lay of the field. "It's keeping distance, situated between you and the van," he called, trying to gauge what it was doing. "Looks like it's just sittin---shit! It's gone again!"

"Split up and sound off!" the order was shouted into their ears, followed by the heavy exhale of someone running. "Jones, 1!"

Tech man watched remaining signatures scatter, his team members clearly abandoning their crouches to sprint through the wheat.

Another breathy voice: "Tamara, 2!"

Tech man cut in. "Kent's signature's not moving, don't wait to hear from him."

"Jarmin, you there?" Jones called. 

"Jarmin here--" the voice was cut off by deep, throaty gurgles. 

Tech man slammed his fists into the shoddy surveillance desk. His screen showed only two heat signatures on the move, with one stationary dot being left behind as it cooled to yellow and then to green. The worst to watch, however, was the larger, unmoving red dot that marked two signatures, one of which was rapidly cooling to yellow in time with the gurgles playing directly into his ear. 

"Jones, Tamara, draw back!" he called, surging up from his seat. "We just needed to confirm her location and we damn well have!" He scrambled to the front of the van, abandoning his surveillance and reviving the motor.

A panicked voice in his ear: "She's between us and the van! Tech man, get in here, pull us out!"

He threw the van in reverse, pulling hard on the wheel to turn the clunky vehicle around. He didn't have time to think, could only keep an eye on the heat signatures on the screen through the rearview mirror as he careened toward them.

Wheat crumbled beneath his tires as Tech man floored the accelerator, eyes wild as he tried to find signs of movement in the field. The wheat was only about hip height - short enough that with Jones and Tamara standing upright and running he should be able to see them.

Another gurgled scream came over the comm, and Tech man cursed. But – there, up ahead! Over to his left, a running figure in combat gear. Tech man did his best to maneuver the boxy vehicle so that he swung to a stop with the door facing his only surviving team member.

With a scratch and a clunk, the side door to the van flung open and Tamara climbed in.

"GO!" she shouted, with both feet barely inside.

Tech man threw the van into motion, testing the limits of its pickup and turning radius.

The sound of an automatic rifle blasting bullets into the night almost made him jump out of his skin, and when he looked back through the rearview mirror all he saw were pink tendrils reaching through the darkness toward Tamara, giving her a target to shoot at. 

But the gun simply wasn't enough.

In the blink of an eye, those tendrils skewered his last teammate, piercing through her throat, thigh, and straight through the flexible body armor that covered her chest, ripping through the reinforced fabric like paper. Tamara's body was yanked out the side of the van, skin already sticking to bone in a way Tech man was now familiar with from tracking this monster.

He felt sick, his whole body shaking as he willed the van to move faster, hoping that it would be enough but knowing in his stomach that his chances weren't good. He looked over at the passenger seat, saw Jones's Facility-issued phone dancing against the cushion from the wild ride. 

Still with pedal to the ground, Tech man reached over and snatched the phone. Maybe he wouldn't make it out of this alive, but he sure as hell would let the Facility know so they could come put this rabid bitch down.

He tapped the home screen and barked a mirthless laugh.

After all this, the words "password protected" flashed over the small screen.

He barely had time to look up from the phone when with a thunk the subject landed on front hood of the car. The last thing he saw was an eerie pink shimmer run across the eyes of an expressionless face, which itself was haloed by those horrible pink tendrils that shot straight toward him.

He felt the tendrils tear into him, and as dizziness overcame him he almost smiled. 

He had always hated pink.

------------------

"I just don't get it."

Theodore shook his head over his third cup of coffee that morning. 

He had rushed out of the house at daybreak to investigate the ruckus he had heard the night before, and had returned just a few hours after with a heavy look in his eyes and a tight frown.

Lyly had been up for ages, and to his surprise had made coffee while he was out. She sat at the table, watching him across a the plate of thick, homemade waffles he had prepped to keep his hands occupied while he thought things over. 

It was an impressive pile of waffles, really. If he had learned one thing about his taciturn guest, it was that she could really pack away some food.

He took her close observation of him for interest, so he continued. "I went out this morning and the whole western section of my field has been flattened," he sighed, staring into the warm brown liquid in his cup.

"Y'know, I could have sworn I heard gun shots last night, too. But nothing—no bullets, no blood, just some tire tracks doing donuts across my crop."

Lyly continued to say nothing, a habit that Theodore had grown accustomed to, and even to appreciate when he needed to think out loud like this.

"Must be some local teenagers, out for some fun without a thought for small-time farmers like me who are barely scraping by as it is." He rubbed hand across his face. "It's because of me that Shaun always has to take these long business trips. She tells me it's ok, that she values her career, but I know she misses Charlotte, and Cherry misses her too. I miss her."

Lyly's eyes flickered up, scouring his face in that way she did whenever she was interacting with something new to her. Theodore supposed they'd never really talked about his wife, aside from the occasional mention here or there. He sighed again. 

"Oh, don't mind me. Just a lonely old man pouring out a bad morning on his guest." He looked around the kitchen, frowning, before turning his attention back to this strange young woman who had been his guest for well over a month now. 

"Are you all right, Lyly? You've barely touched your breakfast."

"Ah," she said, finally looking away from his face to her waffles. She studied them with the same intensity she had just bestowed upon him. "I had a lot of snacks last night," she finally admitted.  

She smiled a little, her cheeks almost rosy in the morning light.