by S. A. Lusher
“Did you ever...”
“With Sergio? No, he was one of those guys who went limp at the sight of me.” She shrugged again.
“If we make it outta here...want to hit up a bar?”
Sharpe grinned. “Hell yeah.” She stood. “Come on, let's get going. The others are going to think we're dead.”
Trent nodded and stood as well, feeling better than he had in a while. They moved over to the hatch, opened it and climbed down.
Chapter 17
–The Core–
Trent hopped off the ladder and looked around, automatically sidestepping to make room for Sharpe. They'd come to a similarly styled underground tunnel as all the others they'd spent the past however long down in. The only difference being that this one ended abruptly behind him and seemed to be extremely barren. Where the other tunnels all supported heat exchanges or piping or power distribution, this was just a tunnel.
“Come on,” Trent murmured, making his way down it.
It extended a ways in the same direction, a couple dozen meters, and he couldn't see anything in there with him. The lighting was decent, at least. Trent heard the reassuring sound of Sharpe at his back, making sure nothing snuck up on them. He tried his radio several more times as they progressed down the passageway.
Nothing. Dead silence and deader air.
They reached the end of the passageway without incident and came into more familiar territory. Pipes and terminals and dark, bloody corridors. Only, as Trent made his way into the thousandth antechamber he'd come so far, he realized that this wasn't like all the miles of corridor he'd tunneled through earlier.
This was worse.
A collection of bodies had been laid out across the ground. They had been ripped limb from limb. There was blood everywhere. In fact, Trent didn't think that four bodies could actually contain that much blood. It seemed to cover every single surface.
“These men died very, very violent deaths,” Sharpe murmured, startling him.
“Shit...yeah, they did. Something new?” he replied.
“We're close to whatever is in charge around here, at least I think it is, so maybe this is its handiwork?”
“Maybe.”
They contemplated the corpses for another few moments, then pressed on, their boots squelching loudly in the blood. Trent felt the pressure of an unseen presence, of eyes, inhuman and probing, watching him. There was a malignancy in its hidden gaze, an ill intent. Trent felt fear ripple through him, forcing his stomach to do a slow roll. The base seemed to have come to life with a dark, awful energy.
The respiration of the heat exchange had become a haunting, uneven hiss, like the breath of some dreaming behemoth. The soft hum of energy had mutated into a dark, disturbing nightmare noise that seemed to make Trent's teeth vibrate and his bones ache. Every shadow seemed to hold something, every vent some kind of presence.
Possibly worst of all was the heartbeat. Trent could hear it regularly now, a malevolent pulse of ominous intent.
They came across more awful death and bloody ruin. More corpses of Dark Ops troops that had tried to take control of the situation and had failed miserably. Trent felt genuine terror shudder through him: how could he and his handful of allies hope to succeed where dozens of highly-trained, well-armed men had failed?
He supposed, (and hoped and prayed), that the only edge they had was that they weren't trying to contain this. They were trying to end it. The further they went, the worse the horror became. They found one man that looked as if he had been swallowed up by a wall. His legs jutted out of solid, unbroken metal. Another man had been cleaved in half and had managed to crawl quite a ways before dying, judging by the blood trail.
In one room, they found nothing but burnt skeletons.
Finally, they managed to locate another ladder that would bring them to the surface of their final destination: Research Three. Trent had little hope that the ground level was any better than the underground, but he hurried up the ladder nonetheless. If he was being honest with himself, underground places had always creeped him out. He hit the hatch at the top and poked his head up, looking around apprehensively.
Nothing awaited him but bloody desolation.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“What? What's wrong?” Sharpe asked from beneath him.
“It's just...a lot more of what was down there,” Trent murmured.
He climbed out the rest of the way and came to stand in an immense room of Cyr design. Nodes of softly glowing technology studded the floor, set at seemingly random intervals. There were easily another two dozen bodies, possibly more, partially obscured by the ankle-level gray mist that clung to the ground.
More blood, more death. It looked like the life had been squeezed out of them. Trent and Sharpe made their way slowly through the fresh necropolis. As they reached the end of the room, moving into a smaller, (though still uncomfortably large) corridor, Trent tried his radio again. This time, he got more static, and there seemed to be a voice, swimming in the sea of white noise. Trent kept waiting for it to resolve into something recognizable, but it never did, instead dying away and leaving him alone once more.
Up ahead, a little ways down the corridor, was a terminal, jutting from the wall like an ugly tumor. The pair moved silently up to it. Sharpe worked it while Trent watched her back, but he could see and hear absolutely nothing around. The only thing that kept them company was a couple of lonely Dark Ops corpses.
A long moment passed as Sharpe worked. Trent couldn't help but feel the monolithic pressure of the unseen Presence, bearing down on him, staring at him like some fallen god, chained up but preparing to break loose and wreak some terrible vengeance. He swallowed, suddenly that much more nervous with the image he had just conjured up in his head. Trent had never been much for imagination, but now he was just scaring himself.
“Okay, I've found out where we need to go,” Sharpe said. Trent joined her, staring at the screen. The map before him seemed fairly simple. “All we need to do now is get to the central chamber and hit the final killswitch, whatever that entails.”
“Good, hopefully we'll run into the others along the way. Shit, I really hope we do,” Trent murmured.
They left the terminal and followed the set path towards the center of the facility, where the final killswitch resided. Trent kept waiting for something to leap out at them, a Harvester, a hidden Dark Ops troop, a Spitter, but there was nothing. Research Three seemed utterly abandoned, void of life, save for the Presence that seemed to infect everything. The lighting was dimmer, shadows dwelt at the edges of the corridor they traveled down.
“What do you think our chances are?” Trent heard himself murmur.
“Not good, but then again, they never were really,” Sharpe replied.
“Did you know how dangerous this place was?”
“No. Well, I mean, they didn't tell me anything. Sergio just said, 'Be ready for anything.' I had a feeling, like this place was just waiting for me. It felt bad, like the end, my end. I almost walked, but I've never run from a fight before.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I was hoping that this would be my chance to do something that matters. I guess saving the galaxy matters,” Trent said, chuckling.
“I'm still not clear on that,” Sharpe said.
“Yeah, me neither.” He shrugged. “Guess it doesn't matter.”
They turned a corner and then hesitated as they heard voices. Trent raised his weapon, but as he stared down another lengthy corridor, he lowered it and spied three familiar figures at the other end. All conversation fell away as they saw each other, then they began hurrying down the passageway, meeting halfway, in front of a huge door.
“What the hell happened?” Drake asked.
Trent laughed and hugged him, slapping him hard on the back. “Hit something and crashed. Barely made it to an emergency survival shack, then headed underground. Have you run into anyone or anything yet?”
“No, nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
I think we might be the only living things in this whole fucking building,” Drake replied.
“I wouldn't count on it,” Gideon replied. “Thinking like that lets you relax, and then that's when they jump out and get you.”
“I don't think I could relax in this place,” Trevor said.
“I don't think anyone could,” Trent replied.
They all turned then and faced the large doorway they had come to stand in front of. For a long moment, nobody spoke.
“Is this it?” Drake asked finally, his voice heavy and leaden.
“Yep,” Trevor murmured.
“And you know what to do?” Trent asked.
“...for the most part.”
They all turned to look at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Gideon asked.
“It means...that I have a rough idea of what to do, but I won't be absolutely sure until I'm actually where I need to be. Which is at a Cyr light terminal in this next room,” Trevor murmured sheepishly. The others stared at him for a long moment.
Trent sighed. “Fine, let's go.”
They opened the door.
Trent had been mentally and physically preparing himself for the battle of a lifetime. He expected to see wall-to-wall Harvesters, every surface covered in Spitters, an army of Fiends, or maybe some brand new horror ready to kill then in a fresh and unique way. Instead, he received the exact opposite. There was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The next room was immense, so tall that the ceiling was lost in darkness. It was broad, the sides of it extending away from them to the left and right. But it wasn't very long. The front of the room was a scant few dozen meters away. The wall was made of some strange gray material that was almost see-through, almost translucent, but not quite. Something seemed to be moving, like a vague shape hidden mostly in shadow, shifting sluggishly, as though in a restless dream. Whatever it was, it was massive, a titanic behemoth.
“Is that it?” Sharpe whispered.
“I think so, I think that's The Presence,” Trent murmured.
He studied it as they cautiously moved across the empty room, making for a terminal that seemed to be constructed of silver metal and bright white light. Trent kept trying to get some kind of mental image, some vague guess of what the thing contained behind the wall might look like, but he had literally no idea.
Only that it was huge.
“Okay,” Trevor said very softly, coming to the terminal. He began to cautiously poke at it, hitting unfamiliar symbols painted in light.
Time passed in fragments that seemed swollen. What should have been seconds puffed up and seemed to contain, instead, whole minutes. Trent, Sharpe, Drake and Gideon looked around, expecting the worst at any moment. There were doors along the walls, other entrances, but they all remained firmly closed.
“Oh fuck,” Trevor groaned.
“What?!” Trent snapped, turning around.
“I've figured out how to do it, and it means I have to die.”
Trent blinked in surprise. The others looked at him.
“What?” Drake asked.
“I'm the only one who knows how to do this and I can't sit here and explain it to anyone else anyway. I don't think we have the time. And once I initiate the process, it's basically instantaneous. And...worst of all, once I actually start the process, I get the feeling that this thing isn't going to just let me keep going. It takes a little bit, about ten minutes, I'm going to need someone watching my back or I'll get killed.”
“What if it just...kills you?” Trent asked. “I mean, the Presence?”
Trevor glanced up at it. “I don't think it can, not directly, anyway. I think it's still waking up...or trapped, or whatever. It has some measure of control over the area, but not enough to actually put a stop to me.”
“So...do we draw straws?” Drake asked.
“I'll stay,” Gideon and Sharpe said at the same time. They both glanced at each other, then laughed.
“No, it should be me,” Trent said.
“Fuck that,” Drake replied.
“No, listen, Drake-”
“No, goddamnit!” Drake snapped suddenly, grabbing Trent by the front of his suit. “If we've got a chance to get out of here, we should fucking take it! Just because you feel like you're a fucking failure or something doesn't mean you have to throw your goddamn life away! I am not heading back out into the galaxy without you, you fucking asshole.”
Trent was silent for a long moment. “Why can't we both stay?” he asked.
“It's my job,” Sharpe replied firmly, garnering their attention. “I came out here to deal with this, ultimately. This thing can't get out.”
“And, well, if I'm being honest, I think there are probably worse ways to go,” Gideon said. “I don't mind being vaporized saving the galaxy. Good way to make your mark.”
“No-” Trent began, but Drake cut him off.
“Thank you, we'll have a drink to remember you,” he said.
Gideon smiled and nodded. Sharpe began checking her weapon.
“Come here,” Trevor said quietly. “I'll show you the way out.”
Slowly, with leaden heels, Trent and Drake came over to the terminal. A holographic map of the area popped up. Trevor quickly outlined the most efficient route to the exit that would take them nearest to the exterior landing pad and the Dark Ops ship. Trent felt numb, but also experienced a thin hope that it was at least still there.
“Once I start, you've got about ten minutes to get the hell out of here,” Trevor said.
“Cutting it kind of close,” Drake murmured.
“Yeah, but that's the way it goes. But...well, listen. You need to kind of stick around and make sure the job gets done. Trust me, you'll know it when you see it. But if more than ten minutes goes by and this place isn't vaporized....then you need to...I don't know. Do something else.”
“Like what?” Trent asked.
“I don't know...fuck. How to do it is in the central database.”
“Here,” Sharpe said, passing him an infoclip. “Everything we had was in there. The instructions should be in there. Figure it out, then come back and finish the job.”
“All right,” Trent said. He hesitated, then lifted his hand. Sharpe stared at it for a moment, then reached up and grabbed it, squeezed hard. Trent squeezed back. It was an old merc gesture, the closest thing they had to solidarity. “Good meeting you.”
“You too,” Sharpe said tightly.
Trent grabbed Gideon's hand and squeezed, then, after a moment's hesitation, did the same with Trevor. Even if he was a corporate dog, he was giving it all up without hesitation. Drake looked like he was about to do the same, but opted to hug the thin technician instead. They all said goodbye in their own way.
“Come on, let's go,” Trent said, turning.
He and Drake made their way back out to the corridor. They didn't look back. It would have been somehow insulting.
As the pair began running down the corridor, they heard the awful sounds of the base coming to life around them.
Trent knew that this next part wouldn't be easy.
Chapter 18
–The End–
Every opening, every door, every hatch, every vent, began birthing horrors.
Trent and Drake had managed to jog a dozen meters before they found themselves surrounded by all manner of madness given form. Everything they had encountered so far was coming for them with teeth and claws and ill intent.
The pair of mercenaries didn't miss a beat as they shouldered their rifles, kept on running and switched to the full auto function. Triggers were squeezed and twin streams of lead shrieked out at high velocities. Trent sighted a Harvester and blew the top of its skull away in a spray of bullets, then turned the deadly barrage onto a pair of Fiends, spraying the area with their dark blood and then finishing off the magazine by putting holes in a Spitter.
“This is going to be a problem!” Trent shouted, reloading.
“I managed to hang
onto a pair of grenades, you got any?” Drake replied.
“No, none.”
“Shit. Okay, get ready, going to blow a hole in their ranks.” Drake was already priming the grenades. As soon as he finished the sentence he tossed them ahead, into the thickest cluster of enemies in between them and their goal.
Trent squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. There were a pair of sharp explosions that were mostly muffled by the sheer amount of enemies. Bodies flew in every direction. Trent and Drake pushed their advantage, emptying their magazines into the survivors stumbling about, putting down anything in their way.
A moment later they were at the end of the corridor, through the doorway there and into another room, one step closer to escape. Drake seemed to have picked up something of an understanding of the light pads and their symbols, enough to hit the one that closed and locked the door behind them. Trent began putting down the things that stood between them and their next doorway, but was immensely grateful for the relative peace that had fallen.
“Won't hold for long,” Drake growled as he joined Trent.
They crossed the room, cut down a half-dozen Harvesters and got to the other door. Opening it, they found themselves in more familiar territory. No longer were they inside the Cyr building, but instead had come to a small complex of rooms and corridors that had been built onto the side of the structure. Something about the familiarity of the structure released a tiny fragment of stress from Trent.
The pair hurried down the more reasonably-sized corridor they'd come to after locking the door behind them. Trent reviewed the rest of the path in his head. It was extremely simple. All they had to do was get through this corridor and the room beyond it, and they'd be outside, to the landing pads and, hopefully, their salvation.
They reached the first door and came into a lobby that was suspiciously empty. Trent hurried over to the door while Drake made sure nothing popped in uninvited. He hit the access button and was rewarded with an unhappy chirp. He cursed sharply and hit the button again, and once more after receiving a similar response.