by Lee Stephen
Behind Scott, the other operatives filed in. Boris fell back to the rear with Svetlana upon her return. Ahead, Clarke, Oleg, and Derrick waited; the three of them had taken positions outside of another doorway directly in front of them. The door had long ago been blasted open, and the large metal frame lay on the floor. Scott continued creeping forward, sensing the walls all around him. He felt almost claustrophobic.
Clarke moved through the door, with his three teammates following. Esther stayed close to Scott, gripping her pistol firmly.
“Commander Dostoevsky,” said Scott, stopping and turning, “you and Auric take the rear. Nicolai and Viktor, behind me. I want Sveta and Boris in the middle.” Everyone followed orders. Scott passed through the torn metal doorway—the one Clarke had passed through moments before. When the next room came into view, it was more of the same—damaged ceilings, walls, and floors.
Once again, Clarke and company were stationed ahead of Scott’s team, again at both sides of an open metal door—this one intact. When the captain pulled at the door, a piercing screech hit the air.
“Boris,” Clarke said, “oil this door.”
“Yes, captain.”
Through all the tension, Scott nearly laughed. Oil the door, Boris. Of every operative in the unit, no one was as misunderstood and underappreciated as Boris Evteev. He was as able a technician as Max, minus the cockiness. He worked the Pariah‘s cannon, which was actually Travis’s job. In the rare event that a weapon actually broke, he was usually able to repair it. But even in the midst of a task as intimidating and monumental as Chernobyl, he still managed to come across as unassuming. And to receive the singular job of oiling the doors.
Moments later, Boris returned and took his place next to Svetlana again. Ahead, Clarke opened the door without sound.
“Nice work, Evteev,” Scott said, smirking on the inside. Way to be useful.
“Thank you, lieutenant.”
The building was quiet. The door to the outside world was still relatively close, but soon that would change.
“Next room is identical,” Clarke informed them. “Moving forward.”
That made three rooms, each patterned the same as the one before it, and each reduced to ancient ruin.
“Halt.” They all froze. “We’ve got something,” Clarke said through his comm. “Stairwell in the third room, along the left-hand wall. The west wall. Leading down.”
Scott knew what the captain’s next words would be.
“Brooking, scout the sub level.”
Esther breathed steadily as she made her way slowly through the second metal door, into the third corridor with Clarke. Scott wondered if she’d ever trained for something like this. Surely she must have, but he could see she was afraid.
Clarke wasn’t being a coward, he was using what he had. It made no sense to send half the team down if the sub room was just that—a single room. That would be a waste of both energy and time.
Scott looked back at the outer door. It looked a lot farther away.
“We’re continuing forwards,” Clarke said over the comm. “Remington, assume our previous position by the stairwell. Wait for Brooking’s report, then use your judgment.”
“Yes sir.” Scott couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in Stockholm and Copenhagen. He wondered if the cities were being defended. He wondered if EDEN was winning and wished he could see for himself.
He realized he’d allowed his mind to wander. The battles in Europe might have been important, but here, they were nothing but distractions. Distractions on bug-hunts could kill.
He turned on his ExTracker, but no dots appeared on the grid. It hadn’t worked perfectly in Krasnoyarsk, but he was willing to give it another chance. Esther isn’t an officer, but she could use one of these. She’d know how to handle it responsibly. It was a crime that it wasn’t already standard scout equipment. But most rules were written by people who’d never fought.
Scott and Nicolai arrived at the top of the stairwell, where Scott looked down for the first time. It descended only one floor, where it leveled off and continued straight west. Esther was nowhere to be seen.
As if on cue, the scout’s voice emerged. It quivered slightly. “There’s serious damage to the corridor, from the walls and ceiling. There are a lot of openings. It continues about thirty meters, branching off in numerous directions. No signs of life.” Her breathing grew heavy.
She was going too far. She needed to stop. “Esther, hold,” Scott said, turning to the others. “Commander, take Auric and Svetlana to Brooking’s position. Start a methodical sweep of the lower level.” Dostoevsky and Auric were competent warriors; Svetlana and Esther would be safe with them.
He watched until all three of them had arrived at the bottom of the stairwell. Then they were gone. Nicolai, Viktor, and Boris remained behind Scott. “Romanov take rear. Ryvkin, you’re behind me. Boris, stay in the middle.”
They affirmed and the foursome moved on.
Clarke was not far ahead of them. The captain had apparently waited for Scott and his group before moving ahead any farther. As soon as Scott reached him, he realized why—the pathway was about to divide once again. One route was ahead of them, to climb a single rusty ladder through a hole in the ceiling. Beside them now was an open corridor leading west.
“Lieutenant,” Clarke said, “please lead your team up the ladder to the next floor and investigate. We’ll remain on this floor, following this corridor west.”
Scott was surprised. As perilous as scaling the ladder would be, this level seemed more dangerous. The ladder and the porthole above it were clean, and no holes had been torn in the ceiling. A greater chance of necrilid presence existed where Clarke was going. Scott wondered if that was intentional on the captain’s part or if it was an oversight.
David, Oleg, and Derrick would be with the captain. David and Oleg were capable, but it was time to find out where Derrick stood. He was sure the southerner had never done this before. Demolitionist units didn’t get bug-hunts.
Placing his hands on the ladder, Scott tested its strength. It seemed secure, though it moved slightly as he put weight on it. Just don’t fall apart. Placing his hand on the rim above, he began to hoist himself up.
He wondered for a moment if this was how Becan had felt, slowly crawling through a hole in the ceiling in the Arkansas high school. There was a certain rush about it, but Scott wasn’t afraid.
With only his head sticking through the hole, he looked around. The next level was a large, open room containing dozens of ancient computer consoles, each covered in dust. He looked in every direction. The north, south, and east walls were solid, but the west wall had two branching corridors. Everything leads west, on every level. Each corridor appeared to lead into the complex. Two teams of two. One of them has to have Boris. I’ll take him with me. He didn’t trust the slayers with Boris’s life. He gripped the ladder tighter and prepared to climb all the way through.
Movement! Still propped on the ladder, Scott thought he saw a sudden motion in the room. What was that? From the corner of his eye, he perceived something dark, blurry, flitting across his peripherals. But when he turned, nothing was there.
The atmosphere turned thick. His mind rationalized what he saw. If that were real, I’d have heard something. Claws on the floor. Breathing. Something. This is just paranoia. Necrilids had retractable claws—they could move in almost total silence. Nonetheless, bounding across a room would surely make noise. Now he understood the Irishman’s fear. It was so real he could taste it. Lilan had Becan doing this on just his second mission. That colonel had ice water for blood. Scott slowly flexed his forearms and pulled up the rest of the way. Nothing else moved.
Dostoevsky, Auric, and Svetlana finally reached Esther. She was standing motionless meters before an intersecting corridor that ran north and south. With rigid compliance, she’d followed Scott’s order to stop.
“Brooking, get behind me,” said Dostoevsky. “Sveta, behind me as well. Broll, ta
ke the rear.” The commander warily eyed the intersection. “Everyone, hold.” Assault rifle at the ready, he crept cautiously first to the corners, then to the middle of the intersection. He looked around and said, “Intersection clear.”
Esther and Svetlana approached. Auric stepped backward, watching the rear.
Dostoevsky crouched in the intersection. “Four directions,” he said. “Broll, remain here. Make sure nothing comes back this way. I will take Voronova and Brooking with me down the south corridor. We will see where it goes.”
Auric joined him in the intersection, knelt down, and readied his shotgun.
Dostoevsky didn’t wait. He was already stalking down the south corridor, as Svetlana and Esther followed behind.
“Commander,” Esther whispered, “I can go another route. I can go north, the other way.”
After several seconds, Dostoevsky answered. “Very well. Go north. We will all stay in one another’s view.”
She stepped away.
“She is brave,” the commander commented once Esther was out of earshot.
Svetlana did not reply.
Back by Scott’s team, Nicolai scaled the ladder. The twitchy slayer was the last one to climb up, as Scott, Viktor, and Boris waited. They pressed their backs to the east wall, leaving the hallways on the west wall in plain view.
“Romanov, Ryvkin, check the left hall,” said Scott. “Boris, come with me down the right. Watch for holes in the ceiling. If you smell anything, say something quick.” They affirmed.
Motioning to Boris, Scott moved to the right hallway and approached the edge of the wall. After glancing around the corner to ensure its safety, he crept around it. “Stay behind me, Boris. No matter what.”
Boris breathed heavily behind him. “Yes. I stay behind you. All the time.”
Dostoevsky and Svetlana were halfway down the south hall on the lower level when Clarke’s voice came over the comm. “All teams, hold.”
Both of them froze.
“We’ve got a hole in the ceiling on our level. It doesn’t look Old Era. Remington, watch your position—it’s nearest to you.”
“Affirmative,” Scott answered through the comm.
Despite the frigid cold of the structure, sweat drops dripped down Svetlana’s face. From behind her visor, she stared at the commander.
“Continuing forward,” said Dostoevsky.
Auric’s voice suddenly cut through. “Commander…I do not know for certain, but I am looking down west corridor and I think I saw something.”
Dostoevsky continued moving ahead. “You must be more specific.”
“It was like a movement, very fast. Like it was shadow. Far ahead, but I cannot be sure. Maybe it was trick of vision. I wanted you to know.”
“Which way did it go?”
“Across an intersection far ahead. It was traveling north.”
Esther spoke up. “I’ve heard nothing on my end. Are you sure to the north?”
“That is what it looked. It was there when I blinked. I do not know.”
“Commander,” said Esther, “I’d like to regroup.”
Dostoevsky stopped. Far ahead of him, the corridor turned. “It could have been trick of vision, as he said. Continue to go forward.”
“Yuri…” Svetlana whispered behind him.
Esther spoke again. The waver in her voice was growing heavier. “I know I said I could go alone, sir, but…”
Svetlana touched Dostoevsky’s arm. “We should not leave her by herself.”
“…I’m not sure I want to move ahead now,” finished the scout.
Dostoevsky motioned Svetlana away. “Go back to Auric. I will go ahead alone.”
For the first time since returning to Novosibirsk, Svetlana looked at Dostoevsky with urgency and concern. “No!” she whispered. “Come back with us, please. We will do this together.”
“We are less than five meters from the turn, Sveta. I must see what is around it—”
Auric interrupted. “I just saw it again. Again, it appeared, then went north. There is something there.”
“I’m falling back,” Esther said. “I have to fall back. I’m not staying here.”
“I am here, Esther,” Auric answered her. “Come to me.”
Svetlana tugged on Dostoevsky’s arm. “Please, Yuri. I beg of you, please. No one should go alone.”
His eyes lingered on the corner ahead. Finally, he muttered, “As you wish. Go. I am behind you.”
“Thank you, Yuri.”
Nodding a single time, the commander remained facing the south corner. Instead of approaching it, however, he carefully backed away.
Captain Clarke and his team had passed through several rooms, most of which housed lockers and tables. Various ancient instruments—gas masks, dosimeters, field instruments—were strewn about in disarray.
“Tell me, Jurgen,” Clarke asked, “how did your first bug-hunt feel?” The captain continued to move forward, hitting corners hard when he reached them.
David mirrored the captain’s every action. “It felt a lot like this.”
Behind them, Derrick and Oleg covered the rear.
“But we didn’t see a hole in the ceiling first,” David went on. “We smelled human flesh.”
Derrick’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
“Then we saw blood on the walls. Then we saw the corpse.”
“Aw, shoot.”
Oleg, who had been silent up to that point, finally spoke. “Perhaps we should all be quiet, yes?”
Clarke slipped around another corner. David did the same. Only when the new halls were visibly cleared did David respond. “It doesn’t matter if we’re quiet or not. They already know we’re here.”
Svetlana was the first to meet Auric and Esther. “What did you see?” she asked Auric.
“I only saw it for a second, twice the same thing. Just a shadow that disappears to the right. But it could have been nothing.”
Dostoevsky finally joined them.
“We should tell the captain,” Svetlana said to him. “So he knows what Auric saw.”
“Nothing has been confirmed,” the commander said. “He thought he saw something dark. Everything is dark here, even with tcvs—I have already seen movement several times. But I know it is not really there.”
“We still should say something.”
“What will we say? That we saw shadows in the distance? None of us have heard a single thing.”
Suddenly, as if on cue, a human voice wailed. It came from directly beyond the corner Auric had been watching. It was a female voice—a voice in pure agony.
All four of them froze. The hair on the backs of their necks stood on end, as chill bumps exploded on their arms. The wail lasted for several seconds before fading away.
Svetlana reached for her belt. “There is someone alive.”
Dostoevsky listened, but no further sound came. He addressed Auric without looking. “Broll, did that come from where you saw something move?”
“Yes.”
The sound came a second time—a drawn-out, tortured moan. Then it was gone.
“It is definitely from the right, around that far corner,” Svetlana said as she prepared her medical kit in one hand and pistol in the other. “We must go, quickly.”
Dostoevsky readied his weapon. Auric did the same. But neither they, nor Esther, took a step forward.
Svetlana turned to Dostoevsky. “Yuri, if we do not hurry, this woman may die. This is why we are here. We must at least try to save her.”
Dostoevsky focused down the corridor again. “Auric, stay here. Sveta, Esther, stay directly behind me. We move slowly.” He turned to Svetlana again. “Let us go.”
Nodding her head confidently, Svetlana stood at the ready. When Dostoevsky moved, she mirrored his pace.
Two other intersections preceded the one from which the scream had come. Leaping into the first one, the commander pivoted his assault rifle in every direction.
The woman wailed again.
The chilling cry was louder; they were noticeably closer.
Svetlana stayed low, her handgun poised and her eyes focused ahead. “I may need time to work on her. Esther, can you hold one direction if Yuri holds the other?”
“Yes.”
“I do not know what condition she will be in. It may not be good to look at. Just watch the hall.”
“I said yes, didn’t I?”
They approached the second intersection—the final one between them and the woman. Dostoevsky secured it, and they were one turn away. The woman wailed again; now she was around the very next corner. The tortured pain of her voice reverberated along the corridor walls, just as it had time and time before.
Esther suddenly slowed, right behind Dostoevsky and Svetlana. “Wait, wait! Everyone freeze!” They all stopped in their tracks.
Esther’s muscles were tensed. She stared straight ahead, hardly breathing. “It’s always the same.”
Dostoevsky looked at her oddly.
“Every time she screams. It’s always the same.”
For several seconds, not an operative moved. Only their breathing made noise. Suddenly Dostoevsky gasped in realization. Grabbing Svetlana, he yanked her behind him.
She stumbled but maintained her balance. “Yuri, what are you doing?”
“That is not a woman screaming,” he answered, aiming at the corner ahead.
From around the next corner, the voice wailed once again—lingering for several moments then fading away.
With Svetlana and Esther behind him, Dostoevsky hurriedly backed away from the corner, forcing the two women back farther.
“I do not understand,” Svetlana said.
“Your woman is dead,” said Dostoevsky. “That is the last sound she made. We are being lured.”
Suddenly, a new sound came from the corner. It was not the voice of a woman, but it was trying to be. It was a series of whimpers and moans. It was unmistakably alien.
Something skittered in the opposite direction.
“Auric,” said Dostoevsky through the comm, “look around you. There is more than—”
