by Tom Barber
Miller stared at the door, kneeling alone in the dark red light.
He glanced across the room at the dead figure of Olson.
He was a soldier, not a terra-forma.
Then Olson’s voice came back.
‘This is Olson, day 2. No unusual activity and still no explanation from survivor. He’s staying silent, but is following me and my squad everywhere we go. Whatever killed the team here before us sure as hell ain’t here now. If it’s not a virus or disease, we think it must have been a hit and run attack. Lab team on MC1 confirmed COD for the five researchers as heart failure. Out.’
Pause.
Miller kept his eyes on the door.
Olson’s voice came back.
This time, it was very different.
‘This is Captain Olson, day 3. Approximately two hours ago, we lost contact with two of our guys out at Marker B. Sergeants Dawson and Harrison. I went out to check and found them both dead on the lower level from what looked like cardiac arrest. No evidence of what caused it, but each man had an expression of terror on his face. Both were in peak physical condition with no medical issues. I retrieved their weapons and left them as I found them for the lab team. Still no evidence of enemy activity. We’re pretty damn confused right now.’
Pause.
Miller heard quiet talking in the background.
It was Weathers and Garcia.
‘We called in an SOS several hours ago, but no one from MC1 has shown up. It’s just myself, Corporals Weathers, Garcia and Dr Ryan left. We need urgent assistance. Something is very wrong down here.’
Pause.
Click.
‘This is Olson,’ he whispered.’ Rescue has arrived, a team from Delta Force. Two are with me, two checking the rest of the site for enemy activity, the other four out at the Markers doing the same.’
Pause.
Click.
‘Two of the guys have re-joined us. Had an encounter but not able to identify the enemy. Pretty shaken up. No idea what the hell we’re dealing with and rest of team outside aren’t responding. We’ve barricaded ourselves in.’
He paused.
Miller heard hurried whispering in the background, one of the Special Forces soldiers giving orders, another using his radio and trying to raise the rest of their team.
He blinked sweat out of his eyes, the salt stinging, as he listened to the whispered explanations.
‘We hear something.’
Silence.
‘Something’s at the door. We’re ready. Doc, what the hell are you doing?’
Pause.
‘Doc? Oh my-’
Then there was an awful sound, a smash and screeching, someone shouting a war cry as the sound of machine gun fire filled the recording.
It went on for five seconds or so, that awful shriek clearly audible amongst the weapons’ reports.
Then everything went dead.
Miller stared at the device in his hand, replaying it mentally, the real Olson’s voice and warnings echoing in his mind.
He clicked Stop and placed it inside his pocket.
Then suddenly there was a noise from the corridor outside.
Miller swung his rifle up, staring over the steel table, waiting beside the dead.
Olson and his squad were Army Rangers. They’d been sent in as some kind of reconnaissance patrol, disguised as civilians, after all but one member of a team here had been wiped out. Miller realised this Dr Ryan’s body wasn’t here.
The Rangers had all been killed, the same as the Delta Force team who were sent as rescue.
Miller was in deep, deep shit.
Rising, he crept forwards to the door.
He paused two feet from the gap, waiting.
From what he could see, this side of the corridor was empty.
He prepared to move out, ready to shoot anything or anyone that was standing there. He didn’t care who or what it was; he didn’t trust anyone from now on. He’d killed the one in the garage and he’d do the same here without hesitation.
People who’d been here before him had been dying of heart attacks from fear.
He couldn’t hesitate and had to react instantaneously to avoid anything like that happening to him.
He took slow breaths, trying to control his breathing.
Three.
Two.
One.
He swung out into the corridor and rapidly checked either side through the scope, searching for any kind of threat, his finger half-depressed on the trigger, ready to fire.
But then, he heard a familiar voice, which stopped him in his tracks.
He hadn’t heard it since he was an eleven year old boy.
NINETEEN
Standing in the ground floor corridor, so far from Earth, Miller blinked, in shock and disbelief.
‘Will?’ his mother’s voice called.
He stood frozen to the spot, his heart pounding, clenching the trigger guard.
Then he saw her appear in the red light at the end of the corridor.
She was dressed in the same outfit she’d been wearing the last time he saw her all those years ago.
The day she left to go to into the local town and had never come back.
Her dress was cream, a cardigan draped over her shoulders, her dark hair in a bob.
She was standing still, clasping her hands in front of her the way she always used to.
She was smiling.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Since he was a boy, ever since she’d died that day, he’d dreamt about seeing her again.
And in the middle of this nightmare, she was so familiar and comforting.
She looked into his eyes and smiled.
Just for a split-second, his fear receded.
‘Will, it’s me, honey.’
He blinked, watching her.
And she stared walking slowly towards him.
He gritted his teeth, desperately trying to focus.
You’re hundreds of thousands of miles from home, Miller.
That isn’t her.
She died.
You know she died.
She walked closer, keeping her eyes on him.
Smiling.
He’d dreamt about being able to see her one last time and say goodbye. His knuckles were white around the grip of the assault rifle.
He clenched his teeth, stepping back and away from her as she moved ever closer, coming down the dark red corridor towards him.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said, softly, staring into his eyes.
That isn’t her, Miller! his mind screamed.
Kill her!
She was getting closer and closer, closing him down.
‘Come here, honey,’ she said.
Kill her, Miller.
Kill her!
Miller shouted in torment and fired, the muzzle flash lighting up the dark corridor as he unleashed the assault rifle.
Whatever was imitating his mother jerked out of the line of fire, moving at lightning speed.
Miller emptied the clip trying to hit it, but the thing moved too fast, like quicksilver. Without a split-second hesitation, he switched and fired the 203, hitting the shade of his mother just as it suddenly lunged at him, much as Olson had upstairs.
The impact of the grenade smashed it back down the corridor; Miller was thrown backwards too, the wind knocked out of him from the sudden explosion.
He quickly dragged himself back to his feet, his ears ringing, and looked down the corridor.
It was down the other end, thrashing in the fire and screeching, the fire sirens in the building going off and the alarm lights flashing in the corridor.
Miller backed away then turned and ran towards the door to the stairs.
He hit the button but the door didn’t lift.
He tried it again then dipped his shoulder and started ramming the door, the shrieking still coming from the wounded creature behind him.
Despite being hit and on fire, it was mov
ing down the corridor towards him again.
And the door was stuck fast.
‘C’mon!’ he shouted in frustration.
He slammed his hand against the button again and the circuitry kicked in, the door finally sliding up.
He ducked through and quickly sealed it shut behind him just as the being slammed into the door the other side. It was still calling his name in his mother’s voice, now terrifyingly distorted as it mixed with screams and shrieks.
As the thing thumped against the door, the fire alarms wailing all over the building, Miller took a step back from the doorframe.
He stood still for a moment, his heart pounding as he got his breath back, making sure the panel didn’t open.
He stared at the door for a few seconds longer, then turned and sprinted up a level to 1.
TWENTY
Racing up the stairs, Miller stopped beside the closed door for the 1st floor corridor with his back to the wall and tried the button.
It wasn’t locked and the panel slid up easily this time, the calling and shrieking continuing from the floor below.
This corridor had the same lighting as downstairs, red and dim, making Miller feel as if he was in a living hell.
The lights were flashing now from the fire alarm, the sirens sounding loudly, adding to the nightmare.
Miller swung out and looked down the scope then swore.
It was smashed from the explosion downstairs. He couldn’t use it.
Swearing silently in frustration, Miller ripped it off the weapon and placed it on the floor, keeping the rifle in his shoulder, another grenade already locked and loaded inside the launcher. He had two left, one in the pipe and one left on a pouch on his BDUs.
The lighting on this floor was broken and only went three quarters of the way down the corridor, leaving the last quarter shrouded in darkness.
He looked down the long corridor, taking sharp breaths, his collar drenched in sweat, terror spiking through his body.
He hadn’t given any detail about his mother to who he’d thought was Olson other than that she’d died when he was a kid, but she’d appeared just as he remembered her.
Whatever these beings were, they could see into those parts of his mind and replicate what they found.
And it had almost worked; the shock of seeing her had paralysed him and she’d almost been on him before he’d fired and shot it, but not before he’d seen her fingers extend into long, razor-like talons that would rip him apart in seconds.
Miller blinked sweat out of his eyes, and glanced at his watch.
8:32.
8:31.
8:30.
His heart was pounding so hard it felt as it was going to burst out of his fatigues.
He crept on down the empty corridor.
He had to get Bailey from the rec room and he couldn’t get down the ground floor from the side with that thing down there.
Then he stopped mid-stride.
The door down the other end of the corridor suddenly slid up.
Miller took a step back, keeping the sights of the rifle aimed at the darkness.
Given the busted lights at that end, he couldn’t see anything.
The flashing alarms and the sirens were still going off around him, but they seemed to quiet as he focused down the corridor.
Then he caught a glimpse of something in the darkness.
It was a flash, just a hint of movement.
He stepped back, sweating.
Something was down there.
He focused on the darkness, but then something happened.
He started to gasp for air.
Panicking, he felt as if he was suffocating and was trapped, unable to move his body. It was the same sensation he’d had once before, when he was a kid playing in a sand tunnel which had collapsed on him, burying him.
Rescue had only just got him out in time and he’d had nightmares ever since about being buried alive.
In that empty corridor, he felt his oxygen cutting off and sand packed against his body, the granules running into his mouth as he gasped for air.
He tried to move but his body was stuck, jammed tight with non-existent sand.
He suddenly heard his own voice from earlier in one of his conversations with Olson. In my world, vulnerability gets you killed.
He pictured all the bodies he’d found dead from cardiac arrest and the looks on their face.
These things could imitate people he loved.
That meant they could also materialise your worst nightmares.
Looking at the darkness down the corridor, locked in position, he knew he was about to pass out.
Choking for air, he glanced down and saw his M203 was aimed up and ahead.
Using all his strength, he pulled the trigger.
The grenade hit the roof at the beginning of the dark part of the corridor.
The explosion set the far end of the corridor on fire and Miller was suddenly knocked back by the force of the blast, instantly freed from the sensation of being trapped in the sand.
The corridor was suddenly filled with alarms and that awful ear-splitting screech.
Sucking in oxygen, Miller staggered back to his feet and saw something screaming and thrashing down the other end, on fire from the blast.
He reloaded with another grenade as fast as he could, as the flames licked and crackled, and fired again into the flames. Given the speed at which the nightmare was moving, he only hit the door beyond it, but the apparition let out an ear-splitting screech as the grenade exploded on impact and once again filled that end of the corridor with fire. The fire alarms and lights continued to go off just as they’d done inside the cabin of Miller’s shot-down transport hours ago.
As it thrashed and burned, it scurried back down the corridor and disappeared through the open door.
The panel slid down behind it and the screeching became muffled.
Alone and taking deep breaths, the sensation of being buried alive completely gone, Miller stared at the empty corridor, the fire casting just his silhouette.
If he was going to get Bailey, he’d have to go up and around.
Edging backwards, he ducked out into Stairwell B, the sirens, alarm lights and crackling fire filling the corridor as he hit the button and sealed the door behind him.
TWENTY ONE
Miller knew all about fear. Back in Basic training, they’d done classes on the physical aspects of it and how debilitating it could be for a soldier in combat.
The first thing you have to do is recognise it exists, the drill sergeant had said. That does not make you a pussy.
Fear is like any other enemy, he had emphasised.
It can be confronted.
And it can be defeated.
As he stole up the stairs to the 2nd floor in Stairwell B and then checked his watch again, Miller took steadying breaths, fighting the instinct to freeze up and remember what he’d been taught.
In strenuous situations, the body starts releasing large amounts of adrenaline. It puts you in a state of alert and your heart-rate rises, pumping you up and preparing you to perform at your physical peak.
However, this state of alert can affect a person’s ability to think.
The higher the level of stress, the less rational the thinking.
The drill sergeant had explained that at 115 beats per minute, fine motor skills begin to deteriorate.
At 145 bpm, gross motor skills followed.
And above 175 was Condition Black. Tunnel vision, freezing, vomiting, loss of bladder control.
Basically, a person went catatonic with fear.
Any higher than this and cardiac arrest would occur. A person would literally die of fright, giving themselves a heart attack, which is exactly what had happened to the team who’d first been based here as well as Olson’s squad of Rangers.
Standing there alone, hundreds of thousands of miles from that classroom in Georgia, Miller forced himself to focus on the sergeant’s advice, trying to think cle
arly over the blaring fire alarms and the fear of what he would have to confront next.
Manage your heart rate.
Inhale through the nose, out through the mouth.
He did that, trying to stop his hands from shaking, bringing himself back down, focusing on what had happened and what he now knew.
Olson and his four-man team had been an Army Ranger team sent in to find out what happened after the team posted here had stopped responding. All but one had been found dead, and the survivor, Ryan, wasn’t saying shit.
When Olson and his team had taken over and lost Harrison and Dawson, they’d been totally spooked and called for back-up. The Delta Force team despatched to deal with the situation had been massacred too, one of them shooting the Spartans down by accidentally firing a rocket as he tried to key in the self-destruct whilst under attack.
To bring him to that point alone would have taken something completely overwhelming; they didn’t scare easy.
The Special Forces guys must have flown in assuming they were confronting a human enemy.
They would have been confronted with something they never could have expected and were totally unprepared for.
Whatever these beings were, they could tap into your innermost thoughts, see your dreams as well as your fears then use them against you, literally scaring you to death or disabling you long enough for them to do it themselves.
That’s how they must have taken out the Delta Force team, men who were trained for any eventuality.
He pictured them retreating inside the ship, all their weapons on the door, taking up defensive positions and ready to destroy the enemy.
Then suddenly, their wives and kids appear through the gap.
That split-second hesitation would be enough for all of them to be killed.
He breathed in through his nose, out through the mouth. Whatever they were and wherever they came from, these beings were killing machines.
So why the hell hadn’t they taken him out earlier?
He thought back to Olson, Weathers and Garcia studying him, asking him what to do, the incessant questions from Olson, meekly following his orders and observing his behaviour. The fake Garcia’s terrified frozen body, Olson and Weathers watching how Miller reacted to it, what defensive procedures he took as they retreated to the control room.