Bitter Cold by J. Joseph Wright

swirled and bubbled.
    McCullah’s wry smile turned flat. Still staring at her, his eyes became enormous, lids opening beyond what should have been humanly possible. He looked down, and at the same time, tried to lift his left foot. The dark ooze held tight, refusing him any movement. Not even an inch. He looked up at her again, perplexed, like he thought for a second maybe she had something to do with it. Then he convulsed. She guessed from pain, though he seemed to be the type of guy who would never admit to such weakness. Guys like McCullah, she’d met a million of them. They’d go into surgery and refuse anesthesia, just to prove their masculinity. But this time was different. An acrid, steaming, scalding, smoldering pool of blackness had him in its clutches, a living bear trap clamping down on his ankles, forcing him into involuntary spasms.
    “What the hell is this!” he pointed his pistol straight down. “What the— AHHHHH! ”
    He shot twice. His gun had a silencer, so it made only tiny concussion noises. Then he unleashed a rapid fire, changing his aim, circling his body with bullets. Each time he pulled the trigger, misty bits of black ricocheted onto his chest and arms. The dark scatter hit his jacket and hissed and popped, eating into the heavy polyester outer lining, exposing the cotton insulation. He swiped at his chest and sleeves, trying to rub away the corrosive stuff. Some of it did come off, but it stuck to his hand instead of falling to the ground. Trembling, staring at his palm, he inhaled deep then shrieked a second time, shedding all of his former arrogance.
    Yelling for his partner, Armstrong came bounding with large, unnatural steps, nearly falling forward a few times. Then his eyes got wide. Swinging his arms, he slid to a stop, staring blankly.
    “McCullah? What’s going on?”
    Uttering a weakened, throaty moan, McCullah turned to his associate, holding his palm for the man to see. April didn’t have to see it. She saw the reaction on Armstrong’s face. She smelled it, though. Charred human flesh. Her stomach folded in on itself. She swallowed down a sudden surge of bile. Armstrong stood still, a statue, frozen in horrified silence.
    McCullah faced April again. A crunching noise turned her stomach. She almost felt it in her own bones, the crackling, the grinding. McCullah’s face went ghostly pale in the diffused moonlight, snowflakes still showering down as he trembled. With one great swishing sound, the man shrank in height by a foot, sliding to his knees. His chest heaved forward and his eyes rolled back.
    “Uhhh!” he reached for the blackness with his partially decomposed hand, flesh sliding off bone, more of the scorched-meat stench invading April’s senses.
    McCullah snapped to attention, standing still, staring into space. The man looked thousands of miles away, maybe in some hot, humid place where the palm trees and the naked breasts swayed in the gentle breeze. She could see it in his gaze. He’d gone to his safe place. He tilted his head and almost smiled. Then the embryo of a grin faded as he gritted his clenched teeth.
    The voracious creature in the snow quivered almost as if happy. It seemed to delight in the taste of McCullah’s flesh, seemed to grow more animated, more energized. April made another observation. As she watched the monster eat the man alive, she noticed it get bigger. It digested his feet and ankles, and grew a few inches in circumference.
    Another hollow crunch. McCullah sank again, this time to his hips. The force brought his momentum forward. He fell flat on his face into the dark pool.
    Bubbling, popping, steaming, sizzling. His skin cooked like bacon thrown on a scorching skillet. He screamed again, his cries muffled by the blackness. It crept wherever the snowflakes fell, crisscrossing his thick winter jacket, his heavy denim jeans, his exposed skin. Everything it touched, it ate. It devastated his clothes, melting them into a grayish liquid.