Who goes there (again)?

Chapter 1 -- The Thing in the snow

A man fled across Alaska carrying the Thing inside him. This man was called MacReady.

He had been taken – or infected, the terms were not clear to him – by the Thing the night before, when he and his now deceased companions exploded their research station in an attempt to eliminate the damned creature. Now, it was his task to stop it from taking full control over him, to stop it from changing him into a Thing; how he would do that, however, was something that he did not know.

Yet.

Because MacReady knew this: the invader was able to have full control from his friend's organism, imitating them perfectly. In his case, however, something was off. He could feel the contagion possessing him little by little, piece by piece, but, at the same time, he could also discern something as a weakness regarding the Thing. As if it was not that easy to infect him. So, Macready moved on, pressing his feet against the vast, surrounding snow.

MacReady was a murderer, just as the Thing itself. First it was Clark: an impulse and, until certain point, an act of self-defense, even though Clark wasn't infected at all. But Childs was another story. What made MacReady do it? The fear of Childs being the Thing? Or the fear that Childs already suspected of him? And those were not the only questions: the man that chopped Childs head off was MacReady, or a MacReady already influenced by the alien?

He stopped.

He could feel it taking form inside him, moving his bowels, taking a trip throughout his whole organism. MacReady almost took his glove off to see if his hand was in the same shape as Bennings' the day before, the day his friend was attacked. But, as for now, he didn't want to do it. What he could, and what he should do, was this: destroy himself. Destroy himself in a way that the Thing would die alongside with him.

MacReady roared a strident, sharp yell just as that thought occurred to him. It was the Thing, defending itself.

He wasn't sure if a gun or a knife would do the job. And, anyway, he hadn't any of those with him. If he died, would the creature find another host to imitate amid all the snow? Hard to say, risky to try. There was only one option left: to freeze.

He took all of his clothes off. Ripped them apart so there was no way out. He stood there, seated. Hoping that the cold would be faster than the Thing.