Date: 7:00 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The command room vibrated, a low rumble rolling up from the mountain’s core as Sarah stumbled in behind Vasquez and Kessler. Harrington spun from his maps, barking orders—“Seal level 18, C4, double-time!”—soldiers scrambling, their boots echoing off concrete. The screens flickered, red blips surging west—bio-ships tightening their net—while seismic sensors flashed warnings: movement, deep, growing.

  Sarah’s head throbbed, the psychic hum shifting—not Jake now, but a guttural pulse, alien, vast. She gripped her pistol, still warm from the lair, ichor staining her sleeve. “Something’s coming,” she said, voice steady despite the shake in her hands. “Bigger than hybrids.”

  Harrington’s gaze snapped to her. “Your link?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “Not him anymore—something… hungry.”

  Vasquez, arm bandaged rough, checked his rifle. “Nest wasn’t the end—tunnel went deeper. Could be a bioform, heavy. Tyrant, maybe worse.”

  “Worse?” Kessler muttered, slinging her M4. “Lost two down there—barely scratched ‘em.”

  Harrington tapped a console, pulling up the schematic—level 18 glowed red, tremors spiking below, down to sealed Cold War vaults, uncharted now. “Cult’s been digging—years, quiet. Could’ve woken something—or brought it in.” He grabbed a radio. “Demo team, status!”

  “Charges set,” crackled back. “Pulling out—tremors messing with the timers—” A scream cut through, then static.

  “Damn it,” Harrington growled, slamming the radio down. “Lost ‘em. Vasquez, Kessler, Thompson—gear up, level 10 checkpoint. We’re locking this down ourselves.”

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  Sarah hesitated. “I’m no—”

  “You’re in,” he cut her off. “Linked or not, you’ve seen it—know it. Move.”

  They armed fast—Sarah swapping her pistol for an M16, Kessler grabbing extra mags, Vasquez hefting a shotgun despite his wound. The elevator ride down was silent, steel creaking, the hum swelling into a roar—“Feed… rise…”—not words, just intent, crushing her mind. She gritted her teeth, focusing on the rifle’s weight.

  Level 10 opened to a barricade—sandbags, turrets, a dozen soldiers, faces pale but set. A sergeant—Lopez—saluted Vasquez. “Tremors hit five minutes ago—level 18’s sealed, but something’s punching up. Seismic’s off the charts.”

  A thud shook the floor, dust sifting from the ceiling. The hum spiked, and Sarah staggered, vision blurring—a cavern, deep, a massive shape stirring, chitin gleaming. “It’s below,” she gasped. “Big—moving fast.”

  “Positions!” Vasquez yelled, soldiers manning turrets, rifles up. Kessler shoved Sarah behind a crate, her M4 ready. The thud came again—closer, rhythmic—then a crack split the wall, concrete splintering as claws—huge, serrated—tore through.

  A bioform erupted—a Trygon, snake-like, armored, its maw a nightmare of teeth and tendrils. Soldiers opened fire, bullets sparking off its hide, turrets roaring—tracers lit the dark, but it barreled forward, crushing a turret, its tail lashing a soldier into the wall with a wet crunch.

  Sarah fired, bursts hitting its flank—useless, like shooting stone. Kessler lobbed a grenade—it exploded under its belly, ichor spraying, slowing it. Vasquez charged, shotgun blasting its face—point-blank, shells ripping tendrils—until it swiped, hurling him back, crashing into crates.

  “Fall back!” Lopez screamed, as gaunts poured from the breach—dozens, scuttling, claws gleaming. Sarah retreated, firing, dropping two, but the Trygon lunged, its psychic roar buckling her—“Consume…”—Jake’s echo gone, just hunger now.

  Kessler grabbed her, dragging her toward the elevator as soldiers fell—Lopez torn apart, others swarmed. Vasquez staggered up, firing, buying time. The doors shut, the car jolting up, screeches fading below.

  Sarah panted, rifle shaking. “It’s climbing—won’t stop.”

  Kessler nodded, grim. “Level one—Harrington’s gotta blow the tunnels.”

  Vasquez coughed, blood flecking his lips. “If we’re lucky.”

  The elevator pinged—level one—but the hum roared, the mountain trembling. Luck was running thin.