Area 12 - Entry

 Entry 

The descent was a slow, claustrophobic journey into the earth. The tunnel, a smooth concrete throat angling sharply downward, absorbed the sound of their boots. Sgt. Miller, on point, moved with practiced fluidity, the searing white beam of his underbarrel light cutting through the oppressive darkness ahead. The air grew heavier with every meter they descended, and that coppery, abattoir scent clung to the back of their throats, thicker now than at the surface entrance.

"Watch your footing," Miller murmured over the comms, his voice tight. "Floor is slick here. Condensation mixed with… something else."

Sheridan, right behind him, noted the faint, dark smears on the concrete that Miller’s light momentarily highlighted. They weren't condensation.

Eventually, the narrow passage widened, spilling them out into a cavernous underground foyer. It should have been a mundane reception area—there were rows of linked waiting room chairs, a cluster of vending machines, and expensive-looking coffee dispensers in an alcove.

But normal had left the building long ago.

The entire space was bathed in the pulsing, rhythmic beat of emergency lighting. Red strobes fired silently from the high ceiling, washing the room in a sickly, monochromatic blood-red glow. Shadows stretched and snapped back with nauseating regularity.

Dominating the far wall, dwarfing the reception desks, was another blast door. This one made the outer entrance look like a garden gate. It was a massive slab of reinforced titanium and concrete, similar to the primary blast doors at Cheyenne Mountain, designed to withstand a direct nuclear strike.

"Secure the area," Sheridan ordered, her voice cutting through the visual chaos. "Vance, you're up on the main door. Find me a way in."

While the rest of the squad fanned out, checking behind the desks and vending machines, Corporal Vance approached the central security console. A chair lay overturned in front of it. He righted it with a grunt, sat down, and cracked his knuckles before placing his hands on the keyboard. The screen reflected the pulsing red light onto his determined face.

PFC David Hudson, at twenty-two the youngest member of the unit, emerged from a side door marked 'RESTROOMS'. His face was pale beneath the red illumination.

"Captain," Hudson said, his voice slightly unsteady. He held out a gloved hand. "Found this near the sinks. Looks like it was dropped in a hurry."

Sheridan took the lanyard. It was identical in structure to Dr. Stenn's, but the background colour behind the photo was a vibrant crimson. The face smiling out at her was a young brunette woman with cheerful, crinkling eyes that seemed wholly out of place in the throbbing red hell of the foyer.

DR. KELLY WILSON. TECHNICAL DIVISION. LEVEL 4 CLEARANCE.

Sheridan pulled up her tablet, the screen's blue glow warring with the red strobes. "Dr. Kelly Wilson," she confirmed, tapping the roster. "Junior Technician, Server Maintenance. She’s on the list." She handed the ID back to Hudson. "Stow it. Good eyes, Private."

At the console, Vance was typing furiously, lines of code scrolling faster than the eye could follow.

"Got past the first firewall," Vance muttered, sweat beading on his brow under his helmet. "Their ice is thick, but it's brittle. Someone tripped the master alarm, locked everything down hard."

He hit a final series of keystrokes with a flourish. "Open Sesame!"

He slammed the return key.

Instantly, the silent pulsing of the red lights was joined by a jarring auditory assault. A deep, resonant klaxon began to sound—AHOOGA, AHOOGA—echoing painfully off the concrete walls. Simultaneously, banks of intense yellow strobe lights fired up on either side of the massive bunker door, warring with the red and creating a disorienting kaleidoscope of warning colours.

A large digital display above the door flickered to life, glowing an angry amber: T-MINUS 3:00. 2:59. 2:58...

"Three minutes to door cycle," Vance yelled over the siren, spinning in his chair to face Sheridan.

"Vance, get me eyes or ears inside before that door opens," Sheridan commanded, stepping closer to the console. "Try base communications."

Vance nodded and turned back to the keyboard. He typed a command to patch into the internal comms network.

A massive, flashing red banner instantly filled his centre screen:

ACCESS DENIED. CENTRAL SERVER LOCKOUT INITIATED BY: [REDACTED]

"Negative, Captain!" Vance reported, frustration in his voice. "It's a hard lockout from the core. We’re completely deaf to what’s happening on the other side."

The countdown hit 2:30. The klaxon continued its relentless blare.

Sheridan made a sharp chopping motion with her hand. "Alright, stack up! On the door. Now!"

The squad moved instantly, converging on the massive titanium slab, forming a tight tactical stack to the side of the frame. The air was thick with tension, the smell of ozone from the strobes mixing with the underlying metallic stench.

Sheridan stood at the head of the stack, looking at her team. The shifting red and yellow lights made their faces look grim, carved from stone.

"We don't know what's waiting for us when that timer hits zero," she yelled over the din, making eye contact with each of them. "But whatever it is, it went through eighty-four people and locked this place down tight. Stay alert. Heads on a swivel. Trust your gear and trust the man next to you. Let's make this a clean sweep."

The squad responded as one voice, shouting over the sirens. "YES, MA'AM!"

Sheridan turned away from them, facing the colossal door as the timer ticked down past two minutes. She gripped her rifle tightly, her eyes fixed on the hairline seam in the centre of the metal, her mind racing with dark possibilities of what lay beyond the threshold.

The Watcher

Sheridan turned away from them, facing the colossal door as the timer ticked down past two minutes. She gripped her rifle tightly, her eyes fixed on the hairline seam in the centre of the metal, her mind racing with dark possibilities of what lay beyond the threshold.

In a stark, minimalist office, illuminated only by the glow of a large monitor, a man sat perfectly still. His back was to the viewer, but the crisp lines of his tailored suit jacket and the glint of silver-framed spectacles were visible in the dim light. His fingers were steepled, resting lightly on a polished wooden desk.

On the monitor, Sheridan's squad was visible in the foyer of Area 12. The red security strobes painted their figures in stark relief as they moved with practiced military precision. The man watched, unblinking, as Corporal Vance positioned himself at the console, and Sheridan looked over his shoulder.

Then, the yellow strobes ignited on the screen, painting sharp, intersecting lines of light across the image, and the digital countdown above the bunker door began. The man’s gaze remained fixed, his posture unwavering.

He slowly reached for an old-fashioned black rotary phone on his desk. His movements were precise, deliberate. He dialed a short, unhurried number.

"They're in," he said, his voice a low, even murmur, devoid of any emotion.

He listened for a moment, then hung up with a soft click. His eyes immediately returned to the monitor, where the squad was now stacked against the massive door, preparing for entry. The yellow strobes continued to flash, illuminating their tense anticipation. He watched, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head, as if savoring the scene.