Date: 7:15 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The elevator doors slid open to chaos—level one’s command center a storm of shouts and flashing alarms. Sarah stumbled out, M16 slick with sweat, Kessler and Vasquez beside her, bloodied but upright. The psychic hum roared—“Rise… devour…”—a tidal wave in her skull, the Trygon’s hunger pulsing from below. The floor trembled, cracks spidering up the walls as Harrington barked orders over the din.

  “Demo teams—blow the lower levels, now!” he yelled, slamming a fist on the console. Screens showed level 10—gaunts swarming, the Trygon coiling through rubble, its claws tearing steel like paper. Soldiers manned barricades outside the room, rifles chattering, holding a thinning line.

  Vasquez limped forward, shotgun dangling. “Level 18’s gone—Trygon punched up, brought a swarm. Lost half the squad.”

  Harrington’s eyes flicked to Sarah. “Your link?”

  “It’s not Jake anymore,” she said, voice tight. “Just… hunger. It’s coming—fast.”

  A tech—pale, glasses fogged—spun from his station. “Charges are live, sir—levels 15 to 20 wired. Seismic’s spiking—detonate now, or it’s through!”

  “Do it,” Harrington snapped, no hesitation. “Seal it.”

  The tech punched a code—red lights flared, a countdown ticking: 30 seconds. The room shook harder, a guttural roar echoing up the shaft, claws scraping metal below. Sarah gripped her rifle, the hum a scream now—“Too late…”—as if the Trygon knew.

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  “Brace!” Kessler yelled, shoving Sarah behind a desk. Vasquez dropped beside them, clutching his side, blood seeping through his vest. The countdown hit zero—a deafening boom rocked the mountain, the floor bucking, dust choking the air. Screens blinked out, static swallowing the feeds as the lower levels collapsed, a thunderous cascade of stone and steel.

  Silence fell, heavy, broken by coughing and groans. Sarah peered up—lights flickered, the command room intact, but cracks laced the ceiling. Harrington stood, brushing debris from his uniform, staring at the blank screens. “Status?”

  The tech coughed, typing fast. “Levels 15 to 20 gone—seismic’s flat. Trygon’s buried, swarm too, maybe. Upper tunnels holding—for now.”

  “For now,” Vasquez muttered, wincing as he stood. “That thing’s tough—could dig out.”

  Harrington nodded, grim. “Bio-ships are still topside—west wall’s taking hits. We bought time, not safety.” He turned to Sarah. “Your head—anything?”

  She closed her eyes, sifting through the hum—fainter, muddled, but alive. “It’s… quiet. Not gone. Like it’s waiting.” No Jake, just that primal pulse, deep, patient.

  “Regroup,” Harrington said. “Vasquez, Kessler—med bay, patch up. Thompson, stick here. We’re blind below—your link’s our early warning.”

  Kessler clapped Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re tougher than you look.” She limped off with Vasquez, leaving Sarah with the general.

  He handed her a canteen—water, cold, grounding. “Cult’s deeper than we knew,” he said, voice low. “This mountain’s a tomb if we don’t hold. Your brother—still a factor?”

  “Maybe,” she said, sipping, the hum twitching—Jake’s echo, faint, buried. “Lost him down there—or something like him. I’ll know if he’s back.”

  “Good.” Harrington turned to the map—red swallowing blue, bio-ships circling closer. “Rest, but stay sharp. We’re not done.”

  She nodded, sinking into a chair, rifle across her lap. The room buzzed—soldiers reinforcing doors, techs rebooting systems—but the mountain felt hollow, its pulse unsteady. The Trygon was down, not out, and the sky above promised more.

  Sarah closed her eyes, the hum a whisper now—“Waiting…”—and gripped the rifle tighter. Time was a luxury they didn’t have.