Flight, Fight, or Freeze

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

It was a strange turn of events with the world now ‌uninhabited besides this lonely, once-abandoned cabin. These four wooden walls protected one of the last living humans, a pitiful being cowering in a corner, no doubt.

Scron didn’t expect to be exposed to the elements on a Winter’s night, peering at the dim light flickering in a cabin window… a life to snuff out. Ending humanity would surely have him promoted into the ranks of the Armada’s invading units. Being a scout was challenging. He was an invader, but he wasn’t a heartless monster. He had neighbours and friends that he even considered nominating for the farming pool, but he couldn’t be that selfish. Death was a better outcome for those he cared for.

Scron wrinkled his antennae and folded them back toward his spine, sparing his sensory organs from the blistering chill. His tough, leathery skin was like a rock, thickening and hardening in the cold to protect him. His home planet was warm, and their ships were toasty. Being stranded in Canada for twenty years was hell. Taking on the form of a human helped, but he still struggled. The only thing that got him through the Winter was Ms. Anderson’s stew. Bless her heart, the old lady didn’t know how to season anything well, and it suited Scron perfectly.

The being trudged toward the cabin. High above, the winds howled through the tall trees. If Scron looked up, he could see the treetops swaying. The planet was putting up a fight, but barely a breeze infiltrated the base of the forest where Scron walked. Even if a blizzard hit, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could stop him.

As he approached the wooden cabin, Scron could smell the salty sweat and hear the shallow breathing of the lone occupant. His body shuddered at the briny tang, one of the most repulsive things about humankind to Scron; they were walking salt bags.

The human’s last moments arrived as Scron faced the front door. Death equaled promotion. It should have been that simple, but as Scron moved forward, he felt an invisible force punch back at him, blocking his entrance.

Breathless and irritated, Scron’s beady eyes searched through the dark for what attacked him, only to find the culprit at his feet. A thick line of table salt encircled the cabin, plus a symbol drawn in salt on the front step, and a charm to ward away spirits hung at the door, and garlic bulbs decorated the windows and eaves, plus the doorknob was glittering silver.

Frustrated, Scron stepped back to reassess his situation.

Clearly, the universe was not kind to him tonight. A rare survivor of humanity was one of the most superstitious of their kind. Only an inconvenience, truthfully, but an annoyance. 

Eying the white crystallised mineral, Scron sat on the forest floor, folding his legs into the cavities beneath his ribs, tucking into a ball ready for a war of attrition.

That salt was effectively a barrier forbidding his entry into the cabin. If Scron had lips, he would smile. He could last weeks without food, but the human won’t. During that time, Scron was sure it would rain and wash away that pesky barrier.

Even tucked into a hard-shelled ball, Scron was as large as a boulder which, with just a little momentum, would squash the cabin’s inhabitant. Men did not find his eyes upon searching his pinched face; they were tiny little voids of black which seemed to shift and slide across his face, so eye contact was impossible. His antennae were the most vulnerable part of his body, but the most dangerous. They were so sharp that with a mere twitch, he could lacerate a human into a bloody mess.

The salty flesh-bag in the cabin panicked after spotting the looming dark figure perched outside his front door. Hurried footsteps, pounding heartbeat, skin slick with sweat underneath the warm jackets - Scron could sense it all.

The flight, fight, or freeze responses were universal. Humans could do any of the three, but most fled. This one was the same, and Scron couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They never stood a chance, after all. Scron gave credit to where it was due, though. They lasted three days before the Khelgan Armada dominated them. They did not even fire their primitive nuclear technology, in the end. Three days is an impressive feat, as far as Scron was concerned. An experienced scout, he had assimilated into a variety of species and cultures, impersonated the life-forms for a time, then watched their downfall come invasion day. Three days was a record.

Little did he expect, but three days quickly turned into six. The cabin’s occupant refused to flee, so the beastly boulder-thing remained at the front door for days, hardly bothered by the chill, the dark nights, or the sleepless hours. Resting in a stasis, Scron waited for another eight days, realising the last living human was the most prepared for the Khelgan assault.

Hour by hour, a dreadful feeling gripped Scron. Death equaled promotion, but not if it took this long. The human refused flight, but he also didn’t seem to freeze. The man thrived within those four walls, hardly cowering, but waiting as patiently as Scron. Potential months’ worth of supplies were in that cabin. The planet would already be stripped of its resources and the Armada gone by then!

On a dreary, grey day, Scron finally uncurled his long sticky limbs and stretched his antenna high above his head. The salt line had thinned over time, but was still intact. As quietly as his heavy body would allow, Scron retreated into the trees, a pair of round eyes watching him as he departed. Those first three days were chaotic. The Khelgan creatures were still ‌unknown (it was only luck the human chose salt as a protection). Under cover of the trees, the scout transformed. Hard shell deteriorated into a soft skin, eyes nested into the middle of the face above a dished nose and pink lips, and antennae split into hundreds of tiny keratin slivers of hair falling about the fleshy face. Muscle oozed into fat, weedy arms became plump, and claws retracted into flat fingernails. Scron shuddered, cringing back his disgust at the squishy form he held for two decades while living in human society. 

Jennifer, his name was. From Jennifer’s mouth ripped an unearthly scream, a blood-curdling shriek of terror.

“Help! Somebody help me!” her panic echoed through the forest. “No - No!”

Her naked body launched forward, racing through the trees toward the cabin. The scrub whipped at her bare legs, welts and scrapes quickly marred her pink, soft skin. Her little lungs quickly worked up into hyperventilation, rasping in and out in short, quick succession.

The cabin came into view, the smoky nub of a candle in the grimy window, garlic dangling from the eaves. A shadow appeared from behind the windows.

“Help me! It’s going to kill me! Please, it is so close - ah!” Jennifer tripped, scrambling to find her feet again, tears streaming from her bright blue eyes. 

The cabin door swung open with a bang as the man threw it into the wall, racing down the front steps with a gun in hand, eyes wild with fear and adrenaline as he searched the woods for the alien. His rough, gloved hands gripped Jennifer’s arms, dragging her up to her feet. 

“Hurry, into the cabin - it was just -” The words died on his lips as Jennifer froze in place, immovable despite all his efforts. “Listen to me, it will be back soon. You need to come with me.”

The man tugged on her arm, his breath puffing out like fog, terror building in his chest as the woman refused to move. She was in shock, he thought, but then she gripped his wrist with unnatural strength, and she raised her head to reveal black orbs in place of the blue eyes she once had.

Her brown hair twisted and spiralled into two long pieces which hardened and sharpened, raising high above her head into the form of antennae. The sharp weapons seemed to float a moment, and the magical moment Scron was waiting for happened: the man froze. 

Shortly after, the man died. The cabin was abandoned once again, and forever would be.