Area 12 - First Contact

 Contact

The final digits of the countdown blurred into zero. With a groan that vibrated through the very bedrock of the facility, the massive bunker door began to retract. The sound was deafening—a tortured screech of metal grinding against metal, a mechanical howl that seemed to tear at the foundations of the earth. Sparks, blue and angry, showered from the hydraulic mechanisms as the colossal slab of reinforced titanium shivered inwards.

As soon as a gap wide enough for a man to pass formed, Sheridan gave a silent, urgent hand signal. "Go! Go! Go!"

Miller, light blazing, was through first, his L85A3 held high. The rest of the squad flowed in behind him, a disciplined wave of combat efficiency.

They found themselves in a long, brightly lit corridor. Or rather, it had been brightly lit. Now, flickering fluorescent panels cast a sickly, uneven light over what appeared to be the first of many silver and glass laboratories. The air conditioning hummed, a deceptively normal sound that only served to highlight the abnormality of everything else.

"Clear left!"

"Clear right!"

"Moving!"

Their whispers were swallowed by the echoing silence of the facility. The pristine white and chrome of the labs were utterly defiled. Glass partitions were shattered, leaving jagged teeth of razor-sharp edges. Equipment lay toppled, wires sparking faintly. And everywhere, on the gleaming silver floors, on the cracked glass, on the pristine lab benches, were piles of discarded, ripped-up clothes—identical to the blue uniform they'd found in the farmhouse—smeared and caked with dark, glistening blood.

Miller stopped dead, his light sweeping over a particularly gruesome heap. "Bloody hell," he muttered, his thick Scottish accent cutting through the tension. "It's a slaughterhouse in here."

"No shit, Sherlock," Frosty replied, his own LMG traversing slowly. "Think they ran out of fresh towels?"

Sheridan ignored the grim banter, her eyes scanning for any sign of movement, any anomaly in the chaos. "Keep moving. Three levels down, same conditions. Maintain spacing. Hudson, eyes high."

They descended through three more levels. Each floor was a carbon copy of the last—desecrated labs, shattered glass, and the horrifying, silent testament of shredded uniforms and widespread bloodstains. The metallic scent was now a constant, nauseating presence.

"Alright, this is beyond a 'missing check-in'," Vance commented, his voice flat, as they moved through another corridor. "This is a full-blown biohazard movie set."

"Except the popcorn's gone stale," Frosty added, trying for a laugh that died in his throat.

Then, they found the first body.

It was a young man, face down, splayed awkwardly in the middle of a corridor. His blue uniform, like the others, was torn, but here the damage was concentrated on his back and legs. Dark, jagged wounds had been ripped into his flesh.

"Hold! Body!" Miller called out, his voice sharp, bringing the squad to an immediate halt.

PFC Katie Somers, the team's medic, moved forward, her combat knife drawn. She knelt beside the corpse, her light illuminating the horrific damage. "Multiple lacerations, Captain. Deep. Looks like... claws, maybe? But some of these edges are too clean, too precise. Like blades. And these… these are consistent with industrial cutters. It’s weird." She glanced up at Sheridan, her face pale.

"No kidding, Somers," Frosty said, aiming his LMG at a dark corner. "So, we're looking for a beast that's also a skilled surgeon with a utility belt?"

"Or a really angry cyborg badger," Hudson added, trying to lighten the mood.

Miller, grimacing, carefully reached out with his gloved hand and flipped the body over.

A collective gasp went through the squad.

The young technician's face was a mask of terror, but it was his eyes that drew their horrified gaze. They were gone. Not gouged or torn, but surgically extracted, leaving empty, perfectly clean sockets.

"Bloody hell," Miller breathed, stepping back slightly.

"Someone took souvenirs," Somers whispered, her medic's dispassion momentarily cracking.

Sheridan moved forward, her tactical pad out. She scanned the technician's thumbprint. The screen flickered, displaying the details.

DANNY TATE. FACILITIES TECHNICIAN. LEVEL 2 CLEARANCE.

"Danny Tate," Sheridan read aloud, her voice tight. "Facilities technician. Means he knows the layout. Maybe the vents."

Just as she was absorbing the information, Frosty’s voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the comms.

"WARNING! DRONE! RIGHT FLANK!"

Every head snapped to the right. There, at the far end of the corridor, partially obscured by an overturned equipment cart, was a wheeled device. It resembled a small, squat R.O.V., but instead of a single camera, it sported multiple articulated lenses that swiveled independently. It was covered in a thick, horrifying coat of dried blood and fresh viscera, making its metallic surface glisten sickly under the red and yellow strobes.

The lenses whirred focusing with unnerving precision. First on Sheridan’s face, then on Frosty’s, almost as if it was studying them.

"Bloody hell, it's R2-D2's evil twin," Frosty muttered, his finger tightening on his trigger.

Miller moved up, stepping past Frosty, his intention clear. "I'll grab the damn thing. See what it's been filming."

But before Miller could close the distance, the drone let out a faint, high-pitched whine. Its wheels spun rapidly, and with a surprising burst of speed, it reversed, vanishing around the corner with a whir of its motors.

"AFTER IT!" Sheridan roared, her earlier discipline breaking as adrenaline surged. "Follow that drone! Go! Go! Go!"

The squad surged forward, the hunt now on. The unknown had shown itself, and for a brief moment, the terror was replaced by the visceral thrill of pursuit. They didn't know what they were chasing, or why it was observing them, but one thing was certain: the game had just begun.