Seventh by Heath Pfaff

hoods. 
                I staggered backwards, right into one of the robed figures.  It didn't even budge as I hit it.  I looked to my side to see Hobbes standing there, unmoving, his face staring grimly ahead at the disemboweled officer. 
                "He is coming.  Find him, James.  FIND HIM AND BRING HIM BACK TO US!"  The disemboweled officer collapsed to the ground, convulsing in a pile of his own guts and gore. 
                "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."  I heard myself saying, and realized I'd been repeating the word for some time.  Hands grabbed my arms, and I looked down to see black scaled claws, semi-humanoid in appearance, wrapped tightly around my biceps.  Dark spots waved through my vision again, and my knees began to buckle.
                "He waits..."  A rumbling voice growled from behind me.  As I felt myself being lifted, the words, as well as whatever demonic thing gave them voice, faded to nothingness with the rest of reality. 
     
     
     
                I didn't come back to consciousness gradually, as one normally finds themselves coming awake after a sleep.  I simply found myself aware that I was leaning against a bulkhead, breathing heavily as cold sweat trickled down my face.  The room I was in was completely dark but for the now-familiar sight of a pulsing red emergency beacon.  I recognized it immediately as my room, the tiny area with nothing more than a desk, a bed, a closet and a chair.  There was now one notable difference, however, from the last time I had been here.  Hobbes was sitting on the edge of my bed, his impassive gaze locked on my own. 
                "How the fuck did we get back in here?"  I asked, dispersing with any attempt to pretend I knew what was happening.  "We were just in the comfort center not moments ago."  I pushed myself off the wall and stifled a wave of nausea.  My guts felt empty and cold, as though I’d been the one gutted by the strange officer’s knife, and then the empty cavity filled with ice.
                I saw Hobbes’ mouth open to speak, but the room returned to blackness and it seemed eerily like his voice floated at me through pure darkness. 
                "Don't you remember?"  He asked.  The red light pulsed back on, and I thought for a moment in that strange lighting I could see a splash of black-looking liquid covering one half of Hobbes' head and face.
                "Are you alright, Hobbes?  Did you get injured?"  I asked, suddenly concerned.  How long had I blacked out this time?  What had happened?  Hobbes’ tale of the slowly moving shadow that had killed his platoon invaded my thoughts, and panic briefly threatened to overtake me.
                "No, I'm not alright, James.  You killed me."  His voice was so cold, so impassive.  My heart fluttered in my chest. 
                "I... No, I don't know what you're talking about."  I tripped over the words.  "I wouldn't do that, besides, you're talking to me so you're clearly not dead!"
                "Aww, did poor 'cadet' Wright forget what he did?"  Hobbes' voice had taken on a condescending, mocking tone.  "It's so easy to forget when you don't want to remember, isn’t it?" 
                "Stop it, Hobbes.  Shit, you're scaring the hell out of me!  Just tell me what's going on, stop fucking around."  I demanded, positive that Hobbes was somehow messing with me.  I hadn't killed anyone.  Even in my roughest days of training I'd never even given anyone more than a bruise.    
                I heard Hobbes get up from my bed, even though I couldn't see him because the room had gone dark again.  When the light blinked back on again he was standing about a foot away from me, which was honestly as far apart as we could get in the limited floor space of the small room.  From this angle I could see him more clearly, and what I