by Tom Barber
‘Downstairs. You must have just missed him. He took a radio.’
‘Get him up here. Tell him to bring Bailey.’
Weathers nodded, grabbing her radio from the desk. ‘Garcia, get up here.’
Silence.
‘Garcia.’
Silence.
‘Garcia? Respond.’
Silence.
Miller rose without saying a word.
He turned and moved towards the door with his rifle in hand.
Olson and Weathers followed, the two flight recorders on the desk completely forgotten.
Miller reached for the handle and turned it slowly, then eased the door back.
The hallway was empty.
Miller took point, moving forward as the other two followed closely behind.
The quietness of the station was unnerving; Miller moved to the stairs, clearing the floor below.
He descended slowly, waiting for who knew what.
But there was nothing.
He was in the stairwell on 1.
Nothing.
He moved down to the ground floor slowly, Olson and Weathers right behind him.
Nothing.
He glanced back at the other two and put a finger to his lips. He arrived by the door to the garage. Olson grasped the handle and eased the door back as Miller aimed with his M16 203.
They found Garcia.
He was lying beside one of the petrol drums, his weapon and radio dropped beside him, his face a mask of horror.
His body had locked tight, his eyes as wide as Dawson’s and Harrison’s.
Rigid in terror.
Weathers let out a whimper as she saw him, covering her mouth. Olson stared at the dead man in horror.
Miller stepped forward and checked Garcia’s pulse. It was gone.
He’d had a heart attack.
Judging from the expression on his face, it was brought on by fear.
Just like the other two men.
Miller checked around slowly, under the vehicles, every corner, every nook and cranny, but saw nothing else save the bodies of his two guys across the room.
‘How the hell did that happen?’ Olson whispered. ‘We secured the station!’
As realisation dawned, Miller froze.
Then he wheeled around and moved rapidly back towards the pair.
‘Upstairs, now!’ he hissed. ‘Go.’
As they obeyed and hurried for the door, both of them trembling, Miller looked back at Garcia’s frozen, terrified dead body on the floor.
Whatever did that to him was already inside the building.
And they’d just locked themselves in with it.
SIXTEEN
They retreated fast and moved back upstairs into the control room, Miller making sure all the stairwell doors were shut behind them and locking the control room door once they were safely inside.
After it was secured, Miller dragged a heavy piece of machinery from the wall and pushed it against the door, then checked the rest of the room, searching for any other ways in. There was a ventilation duct low down on the wall on his right.
Swinging his rifle over his shoulder, he grabbed hold of a bulky cabinet and pushed it in front of the duct, blocking it off.
Then he swung his rifle back into his hands and clicked the firing selector to full auto.
‘How many ways are there up to the roof?’ he asked Olson sharply, who was standing across the room staring at the door. ‘Olson! How many?’
‘Two,’ he said, pointing to some steel rungs in the corner of the room. ‘The main stairs we used earlier and in here.’
Miller looked at the ladder and hatch.
Anything that came through that way would have the advantage of higher ground, but the drop meant they could only come from that one access point.
Across the room Weathers was trying to load one of the shotguns but didn’t seem to know how. Miller stepped forward, took it from her and quickly slid the shells into the weapon, then pumped the gun and passed it back to her.
He loaded the other and tossed it to Olson, swinging his assault rifle back from his shoulder.
As he did so, he suddenly realised something which he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.
‘Shit! Oh shit!’
‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘Shit! Bailey. She’s downstairs!’
Suddenly, they heard movement from the corridor outside.
They all froze where they stood, Miller in the centre of the room, Weathers to his left, Olson to his right.
Moving as far back across the room as he could, Miller looked down his sights, aiming straight at the door.
Whoever was in the building could only come through the main door or hatch, both of which he’d covered.
He pictured Bailey down in the rec room, completely unprotected and isolated, and cursed himself for being distracted and leaving a comrade in danger.
‘What do we do?’ Olson asked.
Miller put his finger to his lips and kept his eyes on the door, trying to stay calm and keep his heart-rate down.
He checked his watch quickly.
14:01.
14:00.
13:59.
He suddenly realised the windows behind him meant anyone outside could see them and pinpoint their positions in the control room.
‘How do we close those shutters?’ he whispered urgently to Olson, standing ahead of him to his right.
The other man didn’t respond.
‘Olson!’ he hissed.
He didn’t reply.
Instead, he and Weathers twisted their heads simultaneously.
Looking at Miller.
‘Eyes on the door!’ he ordered.
They ignored him.
Continuing to stare at him.
‘People, focus!’
They didn’t react.
Confused, Miller looked at Weathers, then Olson.
He went to speak, but suddenly paused, registering the expression on Olson’s face.
It had changed.
And so had the atmosphere.
SEVENTEEN
Miller stood very still.
Olson and Weathers kept staring straight at him, their faces expressionless.
Their gaze unblinking.
And suddenly menacing.
Neither looked scared anymore.
Something started pounding on the control room door. Miller glanced at the door, then back at Olson and Weathers.
Suddenly, the pair both opened their mouths and a painfully high-pitched screech came out.
As Miller winced, he realised he’d heard the sound before.
When they’d suddenly found Keller out on the plain and slammed on the brakes.
Miller’s blood ran as cold as ice.
He stared back at them in dawning horror and took an instinctive step backwards, hitting the desk, the shrill, ear-splitting sound reverberating through his head and around the room.
‘What the hell?’
They kept their eyes trained on him in an unblinking stare, continuing to screech, which was accompanied by the sound of increased hammering at the door as something tried to batter its way in.
Whatever was out there started screeching too in response.
Olson stepped towards Miller, who swung his rifle from the door, pointing it directly at him.
‘Back up! Back the hell up!’
Realising he was cornered by the suddenly hostile, screaming pair, Miller remembered the truck parked below.
He swung round and fired at one of the windows, shattering it as the hammering on the main door intensified.
He spun back just as Olson went for him.
With responses honed by years of combat, Miller reacted fast, kicking him back hard in the chest.
Weathers came at him too at incredible speed but he smashed her in the face with the rifle, knocking her off her feet.
Turning, he jumped onto the desktop and leapt through the smashed window out into the night.
He’d remembered the position of the Dodge accurately enough and landed feet first on the edge of the roof immediately below. Although it absorbed some of the force of his fall, the impact caused him to bounce off, landing hard in the dust as the screeching continued from above.
He climbed rapidly to his feet, aiming up at the space from where he’d just jumped, then turned and looked at the darkness behind him, suddenly feeling totally exposed, vulnerable and confused.
Whatever he’d been expecting, it sure as hell hadn’t ever been anything like this.
He couldn’t think about it right now; he had to get back inside. Bailey was still in there, and he needed to get behind cover and give himself a chance to think.
He ran back towards the station and smashed his shoulder into the garage door beside the metal grille, but it didn’t budge.
He stepped back and gave it a three round burst.
The bullets destroyed the lock and half the handle. Miller kicked it open and ducked back inside the station, grabbing a heavy toolbox and dragging it in front of the door to hold it shut.
He stood still for a moment, sucking in huge breaths, his adrenaline through the roof, his mind spinning.
Apart from the bodies of Haas, Rodriguez and Garcia, he was alone in the dark garage, the only noise the sound of his ragged breathing, the place quiet.
He looked around, sweat stinging his eyes, fighting the sudden overwhelming fear and confusion that was threatening to consume him.
He trained his weapon on the door he’d just broken through, waiting for something to burst through after him.
But nothing happened.
Then he realised that noise upstairs had suddenly stopped.
With his rifle in the aim, he backed away from the door, his nerves on a knife edge. As he stepped backwards, he accidently knocked against something, wincing as he made noise. He turned and saw it was one of the petrol drums, Garcia’s frozen petrified body beside it.
Turning back, Miller aimed his rifle at the closed door leading to the ground floor corridor.
He needed to get Bailey out of the rec room and figure out what the hell was going on.
He took two steps forward, still waiting for the slightest hint of movement from the door to his left that he’d wedged shut.
He never saw Garcia start to move behind him.
Miller took another step forward, focusing on the door.
Garcia rose silently to his feet.
And started to move towards Miller.
Miller sensed something at the last second, a whisper of sound behind him; he spun and fired the M16 203 simultaneously, his training kicking in instinctively, shouting as he did so.
Whatever the hell it was took the gunfire full on and fell back, screeching as the bullets ripped into it.
It came to a halt by the wall and stopped moving, having taken the burst of fire.
Miller took huge breaths as he stared at it. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The man had been dead from a heart attack.
Suddenly, the power went off.
The building was plunged into darkness.
Miller fought rising panic, keeping his rifle on Garcia’s corpse as he looked down the infrared scope, making sure it wasn’t coming back to life.
The emergency back-up lighting in the building automatically kicked in, but it was low and red, not bright and white, making whatever already felt like a nightmare actually become one.
Miller felt his heart thumping, his chest pounding as he stepped back from the dead thing against the wall.
It had been just an arm’s length from him before he’d turned and fired.
He needed to get out of here and narrow the angles of attack.
He had no idea how many of these things there were.
Or what they were.
Tearing his eyes from the dead shape against the wall, Miller moved towards the ground floor door. He headed up the three stairs and then turned, leaning with his back against the wall.
He hit the button and the door slid up, the stairwell beyond dark red.
He took a cautious step inside and cleared up and around him.
Nothing there.
He glanced over his shoulder and made sure Garcia’s body was still where it had fallen.
Closing the door behind him, Miller approached the second door leading to the ground floor.
Stepping to one side, his back against the wall, he checked his watch, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
12:25.
12:24.
He took a deep breath and hit the button beside him.
The doorway slid up.
He gritted his teeth and swung out to confront anything that could be in the dark-red corridor.
EIGHTEEN
The hallway was long, dark red and empty.
Miller scanned every corner with his rifle, silently willing the ship to arrive early ahead of schedule.
As he took a step forward, his mind worked at a relentless pace, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened and what he was dealing with here.
In all his years out here, he’d never encountered anything like this.
No one had, as far as he knew.
Olson and Weathers had suddenly turned on him, their need for guidance and support vanishing in an instant.
Then that chilling, ear-splitting shriek which sounded like some kind of call.
Then they’d both tried to attack him and Garcia, or whatever Garcia was, had come back to life and almost killed him.
He blinked, focusing on the infrared scope and the corridor in front of him.
Alone in the red lighting, he headed down the corridor, the only sound his snatched breathing.
He paused, glancing to his right, and saw the door to the kitchen was closed.
He’d never gone in there before.
Whatever Olson was, he’d stopped him from going down earlier when Miller asked him about chow. He’d said no one went in there outside of meal-times.
Yet when he’d found Bailey alone in the rec room, Weathers had reappeared and said she’d gone to get some food.
Clearing ahead and behind him, Miller quietly pushed the button and the panel door slid up.
He glanced to the right and saw there was something blocking the entrance, just inside the door, a heavy table turned on its side. It had been half-pushed back, providing just enough room to enter.
Keeping his rifle aimed straight ahead, Miller eased himself into the room, stepping around the blockade.
When he made it the other side, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The kitchen was stainless steel, metallic and clean.
There were a number of dead bodies across the room, lying in pools of blood.
The dark red light made it look like a scene from a horror movie.
There had obviously been an attempt to blockade the door but it had been unsuccessful. He saw evidence of some machine gun fire, shell casings on the floor, bullet holes on the walls and the faintest smell of cordite still lingering in the air.
Across the room, another long steel table had been overturned, and Miller saw bodies either side.
He stepped forward slowly. He saw four figures in black slumped on the ground either side of the table, their faces daubed with camo paint.
All four had suffered horrific injuries.
The rest of the Special Forces team.
Between them, he saw three other bodies, dressed in the same overalls the team upstairs had been wearing, the upper half wrapped around the waist in a knot, an old t-shirt covering their torsos.
Olson, Weathers and Garcia.
The real Olson, Weathers and Garcia.
This Olson had marks across his face and chest, but Weathers and Garcia looked petrified, the same as Dawson and Harrison, no marks on them, dead from cardiac arrest that could only have been brought on by overwhelming stress and fear.
He suddenly thought back to Olson’s clumsy driving out on th
e plains.
The missed days on the calendar in the rec room, which had been meticulously filled out until then.
The half-completed survey on the clipboard upstairs.
And Olson’s body here with half the Special Forces team, barricaded in and with the signs of a major fight inside the room.
Miller took a step forward, looking at the aftermath of the bloodbath. The seven dead bodies had clearly taken up a defensive position, the door the only access point, but they’d been destroyed anyway.
As he turned away, he spotted a black object lying on the floor beside Olson, half-hidden under one of the kitchen units. Stepping over Garcia and a Special Forces soldier’s body, his boots leaving prints in the blood, he reached down and picked the item up.
The device was a small voice recorder, one of the old school ones.
Miller knew terra-formas and outliers like Olson were encouraged to keep logs. Checking the door again, Miller double-pressed a small disc on the recorder.
In seconds, it was ready.
He hit Play.
Miller held it close to his ear, kneeling behind the table beside the dead. There was scratching silence on the recording.
Then he heard a familiar voice.
‘First report dated March 26th 2113.This is Captain Nick Olson, United States Army Rangers. My five-man squad has been despatched to #94 when scientific team on site failed to respond to communication from MC1 for past seventy two hours.’
Pause.
March 26th 2113.
Three days ago.
‘We arrived to find five terra-formas dead from what looked like cardiac arrest with one survivor. No signs of violence on the bodies and surviving member is too traumatised to speak. All five dead went back with the transport that brought us here to be examined by lab team back on base; we kept the survivor with us in hope he will start talking. We’re performing on-site clean up and have occupied the station disguised as civilians as ordered. No evidence of enemy presence or a reason for their sudden deaths so far. Hopefully, the survivor, Dr Adam Ryan, will be able to give us some information soon.’
