Area 12 Blackwood Farm

Blackwood Farm 

The air inside the farmhouse was colder than the air outside, thick with the smell of damp plaster and undisturbed dust.

"Clear left," Frosty whispered, his voice muffled by his balaclava, his large frame moving with surprising lightness.

"Clear right," Sgt. Miller replied. His weapon-mounted light sliced through the gloom, illuminating dancing dust motes. The farmhouse was a shell. Bare walls, floorboards stripped of carpets, a fireplace choked with decades of soot. It was a stage set meant to be viewed from a distance, never entered.

Miller moved toward the centre of the room, his boots crunching softly on grit. He paused, tilting his rifle downwards.

"Frosty. Hold up."

Frosty stopped instantly, scanning their six before turning. "What have you got? Booby trap?"

"Negative," Miller murmured, crouching low. The sharp beam of his light highlighted a disturbance in the thick gray blanket covering the floorboards. "Footprints. Muddy ones. Not old dust."

He traced the path with his light. They led away from the front door, straight toward the narrow, unlit stairwell at the back of the cottage.

"Someone was in a hurry," Frosty noted, seeing the smeared heel marks. "Didn't bother wiping their feet."

"Let's see where they went. On me."

Miller took the lead, placing his feet carefully on the edges of the stairs to minimize squeaking. The wood groaned under their combined weight anyway, complaining in the heavy silence. They reached the cramped upper landing. There were two doors, both ajar. Miller nudged the first one open with his barrel an empty room, just bare studs and insulation. He moved to the second door. He pushed it open and immediately froze in the doorway, his rifle raised, his body rigid.

Frosty, sensing the sudden tension, moved quickly around Miller’s left shoulder, his LMG up and ready. "Contact? Miller, talk to me."

Then he saw it.

In the centre of the small bedroom, illuminated harshly by their overlapping lights, was a dark, glistening stain on the floorboards. It was a congealed, tacky puddle that had turned the colour of rust at the edges. Sitting right in the middle of the drying blood was a heap of dark blue fabric. It was a uniform. But it wasn't just discarded; it was shredded. The thick cotton twill had been torn apart with ferocious force, seams ripped open, fabric hanging in ribbons.

"Jesus," Frosty breathed, lowering his aim slightly. "That's a lot of blood, mate. No body?"

"No body," Miller said, his voice tight. He stepped gingerly around the edge of the stain, keeping his weapon trained on the empty corners of the room. He reached the pile of rags and crouched down, using the barrel of his rifle to prod the mess.

Something plastic clattered against the wood.

Miller reached into the shredded fabric with a gloved hand and pulled out a lanyard. The plastic ID pouch was smeared thick with crimson, but the hard plastic card inside had survived. He wiped it on his thigh, smearing the blood just enough to read the bold white letters against a blue background.

AREA 12 RESEARCH FACILITY. LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE.

Next to the text was a photo of a mild-mannered man in spectacles, smiling nervously. The name below the photo was partially obscured, but legible.

"Dr. Ezra Stenn," Miller read aloud.

Frosty keyed his radio mic, the click sharp in the silent room. "Boss, this is Frosty. We've got a situation in the farmhouse, upper level."

Sheridan's voice crackled back instantly, clear despite the interference. "Go ahead, Frosty. Define situation."

"We found a uniform. Tore to pieces, Ma'am. Significant blood loss on the deck. No body, no hostiles."

There was a beat of silence on the line. "Any identification?"

"Affirmative," Miller cut in. "ID badge for a Dr. Ezra Stenn. Level 5."

Outside at the sheepfold, Jane Sheridan cursed under her breath. She pulled her tactical tablet from her vest pouch, her thumb scrolling rapidly through the manifest Colonel Richards had uploaded.

Staff List... Science Division... S... Stenn, Ezra. Senior Bio-Geneticist.

"He's on the list," Jane said into the mic, her voice hardening into command tone. "Get out of there. Now. Rejoin the squad at the entrance. Bring the ID."

"Roger that. Moving," Frosty replied.

A few minutes later, the two soldiers jogged out of the farmhouse, their breath pluming in the cold air as they crossed the sloping field to the stone sheepfold. The rest of the team was deployed in a defensive perimeter around the disguised entrance. Miller approached Sheridan and wordlessly handed her the blood-streaked lanyard. She took it, looking at the mild face of Dr. Stenn, then at the dried blood caked around the edges of the plastic holder.

"It wasn't a neat kill, Captain," Miller said quietly. "Whatever tore that uniform off him was angry."

"Vance," Sheridan said, pocketing the ID without looking away from the heavy timber door of the sheepfold. "Open it."

Corporal Vance nodded. He finished bypassing the final security protocol on his hacking deck and hit execute.

"Breaching in three... two... one."

A deep, subterranean thrum vibrated through the ground beneath their boots. It was followed by the loud, echoing CLANK of massive magnetic locks disengaging, a sound like a hammer striking an anvil deep underground. Slowly, agonizingly, the entire back wall of the stone sheepfold—which was actually reinforced steel clad in local slate—began to groan inward on massive hydraulic hinges. As the seal broke, a blast of pressurized air rushed out to meet them. It didn't smell like the damp earth of the Lake District. It smelled stale, recycled, and sharply metallic, like old pennies and ozone, carrying with it a faint, underlying scent that made the hair on Sheridan’s arms stand up.

The smell of a butcher's shop that had been left unlocked.