Date: 6:30 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  Sarah jolted awake, the bunk’s steel frame creaking under her as the psychic hum surged—a sharp, insistent pull that dragged her from a dream of Jake, his voice pleading through static. She sat up, breath ragged, the knife still clutched in her hand. The barracks were dim, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, soldiers and civilians stirring in restless sleep. Kessler snored softly across the aisle, her pistol tucked under her pillow.

  The clock on the wall read 6:30 AM—less than an hour’s rest, but her body buzzed, wired by the hum. It wasn’t just noise now—words formed, faint, fractured: “Sarah… closer… see…” Jake’s voice, warped but his, tugging at her core. She rubbed her eyes, fighting the ache, the guilt. Was he calling her, or was it a trap?

  Footsteps echoed—Captain Vasquez, his scarred face grim, weaving through the bunks. “Thompson,” he said, voice low. “Up. Harrington wants you—command, now.”

  She nodded, slipping the knife into her belt, boots hitting the floor. “Trouble?”

  “Always,” he said, leading her out. The hall’s cold concrete swallowed sound, doors lining the walls—armories, med bays, sealed labs. Soldiers passed, some saluting Vasquez, others eyeing her—civilian, outsider, blood-stained. The hum pulsed, Jake’s whisper sharpening: “Under… deep…”

  The command room was a hive—screens flickering, officers shouting over radios, maps redder than before. Harrington stood at the center, arms crossed, staring at a live feed—Denver, burning, bio-ships swarming, tendrils raking skyscrapers. He turned as they entered, eyes locking on Sarah. “You’re linked,” he said, no preamble. “Your brother—cult’s talking through him?”

  She froze, then nodded. “Yeah. Keeps… showing up, in my head. Just now—‘closer,’ ‘deep.’ Mean anything?”

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  “Maybe,” he said, tapping a console. A tech pulled up a schematic—Cheyenne’s tunnels, sprawling under the mountain, layers of steel and stone. “Complex goes down twenty levels—bunkers, labs, old Cold War stash. Sealed some off years ago—security risks. Last hour, seismic sensors tripped—movement, deep.”

  Vasquez frowned. “Cult?”

  “Or worse,” Harrington said. “Hybrids could’ve tunneled in—years, quiet-like. Your link, Thompson—might be a beacon. They’re here, or coming.”

  Sarah’s stomach twisted. “You think Jake’s telling them where I am?”

  “Possible,” he said, voice hard. “Or he’s bait. Either way, we’re checking it. Vasquez, take a squad—level 18, where the tremors hit. Thompson, you’re with ‘em.”

  “Me?” She stepped back. “I’m no soldier—”

  “You’re the antenna,” he cut in. “If he’s talking, you’ll hear it first. Kessler’s going too—rested enough. Gear up—armory’s next door.”

  Vasquez nodded, waving her out. She followed, mind racing—Jake, a lure, pulling her down. The armory was a quick stop—Vasquez handed her a pistol, 9mm, and a vest, heavy but snug. Kessler joined, bleary but alert, slinging a rifle. “Heard the brief,” she said. “You okay with this?”

  “No,” Sarah admitted, checking the pistol’s mag. “But if he’s down there…”

  “Yeah.” Kessler clapped her shoulder. “Stick close.”

  The squad—six, including Vasquez—descended in a rattling elevator, steel groaning as it dropped. Level 18 opened to a dark corridor, air stale, lights flickering. Dust coated the floor, but fresh tracks cut through—clawed, uneven. The hum spiked, Jake’s voice clear now: “Sarah… here… see me…”

  She gripped the pistol, whispering, “He’s close.”

  Vasquez signaled—two ahead, two behind, Sarah and Kessler center. They moved, boots silent, past sealed doors and rusted pipes. A screech echoed—high, alien—then silence. The tracks led to a blast door, half-ajar, claw marks gouging the steel.

  “Ambush spot,” Kessler muttered, rifle up.

  Vasquez nodded, peering through. “Something’s in there—heat signatures, faint.” He waved them in, slow.

  The chamber beyond was vast—old lab, shelves toppled, glass shattered. Shadows shifted, and Sarah’s breath caught—figures, hunched, four-eyed, hybrids—five, maybe more—crouching among the wreckage. One turned, face half-Jake, half-monster, and the hum roared: “Found you…”

  “Contact!” Vasquez yelled, as claws lunged from the dark.