Area 12 Arrival at the Gate

 Arrival

The Merlin’s rotors had barely begun their retreat into the gray Cumbrian sky before the silence of the Lake District rushed in to fill the void. It wasn’t a peaceful silence; it was heavy, like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums.

The team stood in the muddy yard of "Blackwood Farm," a cluster of dilapidated stone buildings that looked perfectly ordinary to any hiker—provided that hiker didn't notice the reinforced steel under the rotting wood or the hidden sensors in the drystone walls.

Corporal Spike "Frosty" Frost shifted the weight of his L7A2 light machine gun, the bipod clinking softly against his tactical vest. He scanned the treeline, his breath misting in the damp air.

"Captain," Frosty whispered, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. "It’s too quiet. Even for the fells."

Jane Sheridan paused, her hands shifting her rifle into a ready pose. She tilted her head, listening. Usually, even in the dead of winter, there was the distant bleat of a sheep, the rustle of a scavenger in the gorse, or the cry of a crow. Today, there was only the low, mournful moan of the wind whipping through the valley.

"You're right," Jane murmured, her brow furrowing. The blue and red highlights in her hair seemed duller under the oppressive overcast sky. "No birds. No insects. Nothing."

She turned to her team, her eyes sharp. "Frosty, Miller—check the farmhouse. If it’s as empty as it looks, meet us at the sheepfold. Move."

As the two soldiers peeled off toward the primary residence, Jane led the remaining five toward a low-slung stone structure further up the slope. To a casual observer, it was a shelter for livestock. To those with a Level 5 clearance, it was the entrance of Area 12.

When they reached the "sheepfold," Jane’s hand tightened on her rifle. The external guard post—a small stone kiosk that should have been manned by a two-man security detail 24/7—was abandoned. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the small desk inside, a thin layer of gray mold beginning to claim the crust. A lukewarm mug of tea sat beside it, the surface coated in a fine film of dust.

"Vance," Jane commanded, gesturing toward the heavy iron-studded door at the back of the shed. "Get on that main door. See if the magnetic locks are still powered."

Corporal Vance knelt by the keypad, his fingers dancing over a portable hacking deck. "Power is fluctuating, Ma'am. It’s like the grid is gasping for air."

Jane stepped over to a small, recessed terminal hidden behind a loose stone. She punched in her override code, her heart hammering a slow, steady rhythm against her ribs. She was trying to tap into the CCTV feed on the internal side of the airlock—to see what was waiting for them behind the steel.

The screen flickered with static. A jagged line of white noise tore across the monitor, followed by a brief, distorted image of a corridor bathed in emergency red strobes. Then, the screen went pitch black. NO SIGNAL blinked in a mocking, sickly green font.

"Camera's dead. Or someone killed it," Jane whispered. She looked at the heavy door, then back at the desolate, silent hills. A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the Cumbrian wind traced its way down her spine.

"I don't like this," she muttered to herself. "Vance, tell me you’ve got that door open. I don't want to be standing out here in the open anymore."