I’m not sure how much time I have left, so I need to try to get this out there. The sirens have stopped, but my gut tells me that’s not a good thing. The entrance nearest my post has been sealed and the internal phones are dead. I’m surprised that my personal cell phone still works, but since we’re strictly prohibited from carrying personal devices inside the facility, I’m thinking that they just haven’t gotten around to jamming those frequencies yet. It’s just a matter of time now, and it’s a question of what’s going to stop me first, so I’m going to post as much as I can while I’m still able.

The darkness is getting pretty close now.

My two-way radio isn’t receiving anything but a high-pitched tone, making it impossible for me to use it to reach anyone else. I’ve turned the damned thing off at this point; it was only serving to further rattle my already raw nerves. It’s not like I would expect an answer, anyway. I’m not even sure if anyone’s there to hear me, even if I could get it to work.

I haven’t seen anyone since that checkpoint guard bought it, and that was almost half-an-hour ago.

That was bad. I’ll carry that image with me for the rest of my life, however long that may be.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though.

I need to start at the beginning, so you have some context, whoever “you” are.

For the record, my name is Jeremy Rickman, formerly Chief Petty Officer, US Navy, and more recently a private contractor serving as security for a research post in South Dakota. I always wondered why a government research facility would make use of private contractors, but I’m sure they had their reasons. There were always plenty of Air Force personnel in and out of here, so it’s not like the military wasn’t aware of it.

Anyway, that’s not important. I started working here about a year ago, when a buddy I had shipped out with a few times reached out to me about a job opportunity. High-yield, low-effort type stuff. Since I had recently finished my final tour and gotten my discharge, I was mostly just bumping around, trying to find something to do next.

A couple of phone conversations and cursory interviews later, I found myself on an unmarked C-130 transport, flying into Ellsworth Air Force Base, outside of Rapid City in the middle of the night. From there, I was taken in a windowless HUMVEE for a two-hour ride over rough roads and deposited outside the massive main entrance to the mountain facility, bored right into the rock itself. It was like something out of a movie, but when the pay was this good, I guess anything was on the table.

This has been my home ever since. The contract was for a twenty-four-month stint in this hole. There’s a small community they set up about ten miles away specifically for people who work here, and we’re restricted to these two places during our contract.

No visitors.

No field trips or weekend liberties.

No exceptions.

Okay, so that’s out of the way. Let me tell you how we got here today.

I started my shift earlier tonight at 2200 just like every night, relieving that uptight asshole, Williams. As it so happened, I was running a few minutes late, and he was pretty quick to give me an earful about responsibility and how he was considering reporting me to the “old man”. I barely listened, honestly – I was too focused on that shitty excuse for a mustache he’s been trying to grow for the last six months. You know the type – the same wispy shadow that’s equally at home on the upper lip of a pubescent high schooler or an Italian grandmother.

On a forty-year-old man, it’s laughable.

You’ve gotta know your limits, folks. If you can’t grow one, maybe it’s best to just go with the clean-shaven look instead. Can’t fight mother nature, right?

Shit, I’m getting off-topic again. Sorry, it’s been a chaotic night and I’m trying to calm my nerves. I tend to ramble and wander when I get stressed.

So, like I said, I relieved Williams at 2200. My nights are usually pretty quiet – most of the researchers are already gone for the day and the only folks I tend to encounter are either the mobile sentries making their rounds or the odd research supervisor burning the midnight oil.

Tonight, it was mostly the same for the first couple hours. The only exception that was noteworthy was when Dr. Weissman came through my checkpoint. He’s an older guy – retired Marine, I think – and he’s pleasant enough. We’ve stopped and shot the shit a few times. He always calls me ‘squiddy Rickman’ because of my Navy background, like it’s some sort of title, but he always does it with a friendly grin, so I never took it wrong.

I’m not sure exactly what he does here, other than oversee one of the research teams working on some hush-hush project, but that’s not really different than anyone else, I guess. They don’t tend to tell us guards much of anything. It’s our job to make sure that only authorized personnel are granted entry – we don’t need to know anything else.

It’s probably better that way, honestly.

Anyway, when he came through tonight, he was riding passenger in a covered transport with an Air Force driver at the wheel. The insignia on the driver’s shoulder marked him as a Master Sergeant, though he was wearing an air of self-importance that I thought was a little above his E-7 pay grade. He didn’t meet my eyes and kept his focus straight ahead, like this whole thing was nothing but an inconvenient interruption to him.

As far as Weissman was concerned, I could tell something was up with him – he didn’t have that same friendly demeaner this time. Something seemed to be weighing on him today, so I didn’t bother trying to be chatty.

When I stepped out of my shack and reached the driver door, the driver handed me out an ID and manifest exception document without even bothering to utter a word. Dr Weissman gave me a curt nod and handed his own ID across as well.

I scanned both IDs, which came back green, and took a quick look over the document to make sure it was in order, or at least appear that I was doing it. Manifest exceptions are essentially documents telling the security personnel that whatever is concealed in the cargo is classified and not subject to inspection. Basically, it tells me to piss off and mind my own business.

Because everything is so goddamned secretive up here, I don’t really have any way to confirm the validity of it and have to rely on my instinct and the ID of the person transporting it to determine whether it warrants radioing in for verification.

If it was anyone else, I’d probably have done just that, if for no other reason than to piss off the driver, but since I was pretty friendly with the Doc, I let them pass. Not sure if that had anything to do with what happened later, but it’s something that I’ve been turning over in my mind for the last hour or so.

Wondering if I brought this on myself.

Regardless, I handed the IDs and documents back to the driver and entered my code on the keypad inside my shack, lowering the steel barricade and letting them pass. I raised a hand to wave to the Doc, but they took off without another glance in my direction, the roar of the diesel echoing in the hollow air of the tunnel as they traveled deeper into the facility.

I went back inside my shack and sat down at the desk, picking up an old sci-fi novel I’d been lazily working my way through for a while and settling in for what I expected to be a quiet night.

Over the next hour or so, a couple more folks passed through my checkpoint. One was Stevens, one of the mobile sentries making his rounds to all the checkpoints in his electric cart. We didn’t spend much time chatting tonight, since he was already running behind in his rounds, but exchanged a quick greeting and then parted company. The other was this pretty little redhead researcher named Ashley – Ash for short – that was leaving after a long day. We’d been flirting a little over the last few months, though I don’t think she was very serious about it, and I doubted anything would ever come of it, but a fella can still dream, right?

Beyond that, I was alone in corridor 3-F, left to my own devices.

Until the radio squawked on my belt, that is.

“Burst message to all stations. Unauthorized personnel have breached the facility. The specimen storage has been broken into and live subjects have been released. Veterinary staff are working to recover them and return them to their habitats at this time. Intruders have not yet been found. Stay on alert and report any unusual occurrences. End message.”

Intruders? What the hell?

From the sound of it, it was likely some of those animal-rights nutjobs that try to get in every once in a while, to liberate the animal test subjects. Hell, I wasn’t even sure that we had any animals in the facility until the burst message came through. Regardless, I’m surprised they actually made it inside – this place is a fortress.

I don’t have anything against animals, personally. I like dogs. Cats can fuck right off, as far as I’m concerned, but I still wouldn’t want to see one hurt. I don’t like the thought of any of them being used for experimentation, at least on a philosophical level. When you apply that to the real world of medical research, though, the objections become harder to maintain. If a few animals have to be sacrificed to save a little baby from leukemia, the balance becomes pretty easy to justify to me.

What I don’t understand is exactly what these animal-rights extremists expect to accomplish. Do they think that the military will just throw up their hands and let the animals go? Do they think that their actions are going to do anything other than get them thrown in a federal prison for a long, long time?

And that’s if they don’t get shot – these facilities are all highly restricted areas. “Use of lethal force authorized” warning signs litter the area outside the facility, and they’re not fucking around about it. When I took the job, I was issued an M-4 carbine and an M-18 sidearm, with the explicit ROE to stop intruders using any means necessary. I hoped I would never have to use either one, but if I do, it’d be because some asshole criminal forced me to do it, not because I want to.

So, when the burst announcement crackled through my radio, I stepped outside my shack and looked up and down the massive corridor. It was probably thirty feet high and fifty feet across, the smooth rock ceiling dotted with high-lumen lights that lit up the paved floor of the tunnel with a yellowish glow. The entrance to the tunnel was a hundred yards from where I stood, brightly lit and manned by a couple of guards whose job it was to maintain an awareness of anyone approaching the facility. Beyond the mouth of the tunnel was the pitch black of the South Dakotan night, giving the impression I was looking into some endless void. One of the guards stepped out from his checkpoint and gave an uneasy look in my direction – he’d heard the broadcast as well, of course. He raised a hand in silent greeting to me and I returned it before turning away.

The other direction was the heart of the facility, another eighth of a mile in and beyond a gentle curve in the tunnel. I’d never been to the end of the tunnel, but just beyond the curve was the administrative offices, which I visited on a fairly regular basis for routine tasks. Corridor 3-F continues a lot farther than that and slopes downward after you pass the administrative offices before it disappears from sight.

3-F was completely empty now, just a sickly yellow concrete and steel corridor that emanated the occasional echoes of activity from somewhere beyond my sight. Even though this was exactly what I experienced on nearly every shift, that emptiness felt menacing tonight, like the whole place had suddenly held its breath, waiting for something to come out of the shadows.

Another fifteen minutes passed uneventfully before the next message squawked through my radio, startling me out of the stressed focus I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen into.

“Alert. Containment breach in project lab 28. All personnel are required to maintain their posts. Intra-facility movement is now suspended. Quarantine protocols have been executed for sub-levels 5 through 8 and transport corridors 2-C and 4-A. Additional information forthcoming. End message.”

Containment breach?

Quarantine protocols?

What the fuck is going on?

According to what I remembered from my orientation briefing, that sounded nothing but bad. The fact that all movement was now prohibited was even worse. That either meant that whoever had infiltrated the facility was still at large and was considered a high threat risk, or that some bit of nastiness had been released into the environment.

I prayed it was the former. Who knew what sort of shit they were working on out here in the middle of nowhere?

Movement from the entrance of the tunnel caught my attention and I stepped back out of my shack to get a better view, grabbing my rifle from the rack as I passed it.

One of the guards at the entrance checkpoint had moved to the center of the road, his carbine held at low-ready. I couldn’t see the other one, but the sudden appearance of multiple sets of high-intensity headlights made it nearly impossible to discern much of anything. I could hear shouted words being exchanged and then the guard lowered his rifle and stepped off the road. The roar of engines echoed to my ears as the vehicles passed through the entrance and raced in my direction.

I was starting to prepare myself for action when the steel barricade behind me suddenly sprang to life, lowering itself into the road with the whining of electric motors. I only spared a moment’s attention before I glanced over at my console display mounted on the outside of my shack and took note of the blue letters flashing insistently across its surface.

QRT override accepted. Clearance authorized.

I stepped back into the doorway of my shack just as the three up-armored HUMVEES blew past my position, their matte-black paint job only broken by a few white stenciled numbers on their rear hatches. I couldn’t see past the dark tint of their windows, but I knew from the armored troop carrier compartment on the back that there were probably eight men in each.

I moved back out into the corridor, watching their lights diminish as they sped away and rounded the curve, lost to my view. The sounds of the engines moaned back to me like the wail of some eldritch horror from the pit, and I quickly tried to shove that particular image out of my head.

What was the Quick Response Team doing here?

Whatever was going on, it must have been bad – those guys were all ex-special forces – real snake eaters. They had a near mythical status here, and to my knowledge had never been deployed for effect. I’d only ever seen them once before, during a scheduled drill, and even then, they were intimidating as hell and larger-than-life.

Look, during my tours, I’ve had the opportunity to meet and get to know some of the finest SpecOps men in the business. People like to tease the SEALS as being attention-craving celebrities who are only ever one mission away from a best-seller, but let me tell you, all the Teams members I’ve known have been quiet and friendly. They were some of the most honorable, respectful, and stand-up guys you’ll ever meet. They were without a doubt, deadly warriors, but you’d never know it if you were just hanging out with them. Most were real down-to-earth types, just doing their duty for God and country.

These guys, though, were something different, and if they were here, that meant the shit had really hit the fan somewhere, which had me more than a little unnerved.

It was at that moment that my attention was wrenched back from my thoughts as my radio squawked again, this time the automated voice was preceded by a series of tones.

“Alert. Containment breach in Sigma Lab. A general quarantine is now in effect for all facility regions and levels. All personnel are restricted to their current positions. Do not attempt to exit the facility. General containment resources have been deployed at all egress points. Zero-loss protocols have now been implemented. Additional information forthcoming as available. End message.”

I felt my face go cold and my pulse pounded in my temples at this new development. I reached out to steady myself against the checkpoint doorframe. The message repeated twice more before going silent again.

Fuck.

This was bad.

Really fucking bad.

This alert told me that the powers-that-be have now officially considered the entire facility to be compromised in some way and executed a complete lockdown.

Zero-loss protocols. That was another way of saying that they were willing to go to any extreme to ensure that nothing leaves this facility. You know that lethal force thing I was talking about earlier, when I was telling you about their stance on unauthorized intruders?

Yeah, well, that has now been extended to include anyone currently within their quarantine zone, including yours truly.

My thoughts were interrupted as more headlights drew my attention once again to the entrance to the tunnel. This time, however, they were too tall to be HUMVEEs and had stopped their approach well short of the entrance, forming a rough semi-circle outside.

I saw one of the checkpoint guards step out from their shack and raise a hand to the vehicles. I don’t know who it was – they were completely silhouetted by the headlights and I wasn’t even sure who was on shift tonight over there. He took a few steps forward, and I noted that he didn’t have his carbine in-hand this time. He must have said something, because an amplified voice from one of the vehicles’ PA systems answered back. It was too distant for me to make it out, but the insistent tone of the speaker was unmistakable.

The guard then raised his other hand, as if showing he wasn’t armed, and took another step towards the vehicles. I can only imagine that he was trying to convince them that he should be allowed to leave, that he was never technically in the facility. Those are the arguments I would be trying to make if I was him, anyway. The voice barked something again at him, short and emphatic.

I felt my brow draw low and my eyes narrowed as I realized that the guard was still moving forward slowly, a step at a time, as if he was doing it subconsciously.

“No, you idiot!” I heard myself mutter as my eyes widened, knowing exactly what was about to happen. “Get back to your fucking post!”

But he kept moving, slowly, unthreateningly. The voice on the PA system said one more thing that I couldn’t make out. He was giving him one last chance, I think.

And that’s when the guard broke into a run, making for the gap between two of the vehicles.

He didn’t make it three steps.

Automatic gunfire from heavy bore machine guns erupted, the muzzle flashes from at least three of the vehicles strobing the darkness and the concussion ringing my ears, even more than a hundred yards away.

The guard crumpled like someone had flipped a switch, his momentum sending him into half-tumble for another few feet before coming to a rest as a bloody ball of rags. It’s not like in the movies, folks, where the bad guy stands there doing some sort of jittering dance while rounds are being pumped into his body, especially when you’re talking about .50 caliber slugs ripping out of a Browning M2 at 850 rounds per minute.

It shuts you down like someone just pulled the plug and turns you into hamburger. I had to look away from the smoking carnage that had only a few moments ago been a human being, just scared and trying to save himself.

Dammit. He knew what was going to happen if he tried to run. He knew there was no way he was getting past them, and even if he did, what then? He was in the middle of nowhere – hell, they could have given him a two-minute head start and then still picked him off with the M2s without much trouble.

He had to know that.

We all knew that. So, why the hell had he tried to run?

What did he know?

What was so bad in his mind that a quick death at the hands of Mr. Browning’s progeny was preferable? That question scared me more than anything else in that moment.

When the ringing in my ears began to subside, something else replaced it, from the tunnel behind me.

From the depths of the facility.

I looked back over my shoulder and then turned fully, eyes widening as I watched the tunnel lights in the distance begin to blink off, one by one, growing closer. It didn’t feel like the lights were extinguishing so much as it felt like the darkness was somehow approaching to smother them, rising from the shadowy sub-levels, where all those black-bag experiments were rumored to be happening. The air felt cold all of a sudden, like someone had just opened the door to a walk-in freezer, and I was mildly astonished to see my breath rise in billowy plumes of steam.

That’s when the sirens began to wail from somewhere deep in the mountain, sounding very thin and almost comically overdue at that moment. At the same time, the radio on my belt started emitting a single nonstop tone that I knew would prevent anyone from using them to communicate. I switched the radio off.

There weren’t going to be any more announcements.

We were being cut off, like a doctor amputating a diseased limb to save the rest of the patient. We were collateral damage in whatever the hell went wrong down there, in the bowels of this underground place, and we were going to be erased along with their mistake.

A sudden and bellowing roar from the entrance hit me all at once, the shockwave staggering me forward a step and blowing concrete dust and smoke past me in a furious gale. It was fortunate I had turned away when I did, or the debris from the explosion might have sandblasted my eyes into blindness, leaving me to await my fate as I groped around sightless in this tomb.

Before I even looked, I knew what had happened. I knew the sound of demolition charges – my brother worked at an open-pit copper mine when I was younger, and I’d gone along with him a few times to watch the awesome display of pyrotechnics when they were cutting new lines. The only difference here was the continuing thunder of falling rock and debris as it rained down from the mountain entrance, sealing my only exit.

Then that other sound came again, pulling my eyes back to the direction of the still-looming darkness. The shadows were much closer now, moving inexorably toward me. In the distance, I could just barely make out the sounds of small arms fire, a mix of handgun and rifle rounds. There may have been some shouting and screaming as well, but I can’t be sure.

Overshadowing it all, pushing all other thoughts aside and to the back of my mind, was a low keening sound that flowed along the resounding walls of the tunnel, like a wash of something foul and fetid blowing over me. It was distinctly organic; this was no mechanical sound. But aside from those massive behemoths that roamed the ocean depths, I couldn’t imagine any creature on this planet producing such a tone. It was loud and low – more felt than heard – and it rattled my teeth and vibrated the hairs on my arms when it sang out.

But below that howl were others, wailing shrieks that could almost have been produced by human anatomy, but not quite. They were distant, their attention occupied with others, I thought, now hearing clearly the unmistakable screams of men and women echoing to my ears.

And there are the quieter and more disturbing sounds of movement in the darkness that’s creeping towards me right now; sounds of dragging and sliding and wet breathing from somewhere in that black mass. If I squint my eyes a little, I can almost make out dark shapes hiding just beyond the reach of the light. I feel like, whatever may be there, human eyes were never meant to see it. When they reach me, I’m going to put my handgun to work. The only question is whether I’ll turn it on them or myself first.

What the hell did they do down there?

What doors did they open?

And what came through when they did?