Area 12 Second Contact

Continuing into the depths

The descent into the stairwell was a descent into a concrete throat, the air growing colder and thinner with every flight. The only light came from the frantic, dancing beams of their weapon-lights, reflecting off the damp, sweating walls.

"Watch the sweep," Miller whispered from point, his voice echoing up the shaft. "Every landing is a blind spot. Check your six."

They were halfway to Level 6 when the silence was murdered. From the darkness above them, the jagged, mechanical shriek of a combustion engine flared to life. It was a chainsaw—unmistakable, hungry, and close.

"Contact rear!" Hudson screamed.

A monstrosity lurched from the shadows of the upper landing. It was a man, or had been, but a massive tire track was crushed across its midsection, his spine twisted at an impossible angle. In place of a right arm, a heavy industrial chainsaw was fused to the bone, the chain spinning in a blur of rusted teeth.

Hudson and Cresser opened fire instantly. The narrow stairwell became a thunderbox of muzzle flashes and deafening reports.

"Headshots! Aim for the brain stem!" Cresser bellowed over the roar of his rifle. "Centre mass is doing nothing! It's all dead weight!"

5.56mm rounds tore into the creature, flaying strips of grey, necrotic flesh from its chest, exposing the yellowed ribs beneath. The construct didn't even flinch. It leaned into the lead storm, its vacant eyes fixed on Hudson. With a sudden, spasmodic lurch, it closed the distance.

The chainsaw arm swung in a wide, whistling arc. The teeth caught Hudson’s shoulder, biting through the ceramic plating of his tactical vest like it was parchment. A fountain of crimson spray erupted, painting the concrete wall in a macabre fan. Hudson let out a strangled, high-pitched scream that was cut short by a wet, bubbling gurgle as blood filled his lungs and spilled from his lips.

"HUDSON!" Frosty roared.

The big machine-gunner shoved past Cresser, slamming the heavy muzzle of his L7A2 directly against the construct’s forehead. He didn't fire a burst; he held the trigger down. The 7.62mm rounds obliterated the creature’s skull in a violent spray of stinking biomatter and curdled blood. But as the head disintegrated, there was a sharp crack-hiss of short-circuiting electronics. Blue sparks showered from the neck stump, and the sound of electronic interference wailed from the creature's chest before it finally slumped.

The chainsaw spun to a sputtering halt, its teeth still buried deep in Hudson's chest, held fast by the wreckage of his ballistic vest. Frosty lunged forward, planting a heavy boot on the construct's chest and kicking the carcass away. It tumbled down the stairs with a metallic clatter.

"Somers! Get up here!" Sheridan yelled, her voice cracking for the first time.

The medic was already there, skidding into the blood. She grabbed Hudson’s vest, gently lowering him to the cold concrete. His eyes were wide, staring at the flickering fluorescent light above, but the light in them was gone. The silence that followed was heavier than the gunfire.

Somers pressed two fingers to Hudson's neck, her hand shaking. After a heartbeat, she reached down, unclipped his dog tags with a metallic clink, and stood up. She wordlessly handed them to Sheridan.

"He's gone, Ma'am," Somers whispered, her voice thick with the dust of the stairwell.

Miller crossed himself in the shadows. Frosty stared at the body, his knuckles white on his weapon. "So long, brother," he muttered, a low growl of grief.

Cresser reached down, his face a mask of grim determination. He unclipped Hudson's remaining ammo pouches and slung the fallen soldier's rifle over his shoulder. "Can't let the gear go to waste," he said, his Black Country accent heavy. "Not if we're going to finish this."

Sheridan looked at the tags in her palm, the cold metal biting into her skin. She looked at her team covered in dust, blood, and the terrifying realization that they were being hunted by things that didn't know how to die.

"Gather yourselves," Sheridan commanded, forcing a steel into her voice she didn't feel. "We don't have the luxury of a wake. We move. Now."

As they continued the descent, the darkness seemed to press closer. Sheridan watched the rhythmic bobbing of Miller’s helmet ahead of her, a single, haunting thought repeating in her mind: Will any of us make it out of here alive?

The Watcher

The monitor flickered with the grainy, high-contrast hum of infrared, casting a sickly greenish-white light across the man’s polished desk. On the screen, the stairwell was a study in monochromatic carnage. The blood sprayed from Hudson’s ruined chest didn't look red in the night-vision feed; it was a dark, viscous grey, pooling around his head like a halo of oil.

The squad had already moved out of the frame, their heat signatures fading into the lower depths of the shaft, leaving behind only the cooling remains of their comrade.

The silence of the office was suddenly punctured by a sound that felt entirely out of place—the sharp, rhythmic jingle of an old-fashioned rotary phone. It was a jaunty, mechanical chime, a cheerful ghost of a bygone era ringing in the heart of a high-tech tomb.

The man didn't flinch. He didn't rush. With a movement as precise and deliberate as a surgeon’s incision, he reached out a manicured hand and lifted the heavy black handset.

"Yes," he murmured. His voice was a flatline—calm, cultured, and devoid of any human resonance.

He leaned back in his leather chair, his silver-framed spectacles catching the glow of the CCTV feed. He listened for a long moment, his head tilted slightly to the side. On the screen, two shadows detached themselves from the darkness of the upper landing. They moved with a heavy, hitching gait—constructs.

They reached Hudson's body. There was no reverence in their movements. They gripped the fallen soldier by his tactical vest and boots, lifting him with the effortless, mindless strength of industrial machinery. As they carried the "raw material" back into the darkness, Hudson’s head lolled back, his lifeless eyes staring into the camera lens for one final, flickering second before being dragged out of frame.

The man on the phone nodded, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

"They are approaching Level 6," he said finally.

There was a faint, crackling response on the other end of the line. He didn't reply. He simply replaced the receiver on its cradle with a soft, final click.

He adjusted his cuffs, smoothed the front of his suit jacket, and returned his gaze to the monitor. He watched the empty stairwell, the only sign of the struggle being the dark grey stain on the concrete. To him, it wasn't a tragedy; it was a successful harvest.

He waited for the next screen to flicker to life—the one that would show Captain Sheridan leading her dwindling flock into the heart of Level 6.