"Clack Clack"
"Clack Clack"
Footsteps echoed in the empty corridor.
A man in his late twenties walked down the corridor his step steady with an upright posture, his hands in his vest. His neatly parted hair, combed from the right, framed an undeniably handsome face with sharp green eyes, a strong square jaw, high cheekbones, and thin lips pressed into a neutral line.
Yet, beneath his polished appearance, the signs of wear were evident. Deep, heavy circles clung beneath his eyes, a haunting testament to countless sleepless nights. His hairline, though receding, was carefully concealed beneath the strands he had meticulously styled. He carried himself with quiet confidence, but his exhausted gaze betrayed the toll of the burdens he bore.
Reaching the conference room, Ryan pushed open the heavy door. To his surprise, it was empty.
"Looks like I'm the first one here," he thought.
Sighing under his lips, he walked down the aisle and took his seat, leaning on his chair, he waited for the others to arrive. It didn't take long as the room started to fill, low murmur of soldiers speaking.
Thinking about the situation, Ryan stared at his table, his mind turning over the events of the night. But before he could dwell too deeply, a firm hand clasped his shoulder.
A deep, husky voice rumbled in his ear.
"Ha! How are you, Ryan?"
Startled, Ryan turned to see a familiar face. A middle-aged man with a big grin on his face, standing just over six feet, with a hard, angular nose and sharp brown eyes. His short brunette hair was neatly kept, but it did little to hide the long scar that ran from his cheek down to his neck. Despite his rugged appearance, his soft cheeks and easy smirk gave him an air of approachability.
Ryan let out a breath and smirked. "Rob, you always sneak up like that?"
Rob chuckled as Ryan stood up to greet him. They clasped hands briefly before sitting down next to each other in unison, settling in for what was bound to be an important discussion.
"Any idea what's going on?" Ryan muttered, leaning closer.
Rob shook his head. "Hell if I know. But I've never gotten good news at 4:20 AM. Not once." He laughed, the lighthearted remark cutting through the grim tension in the air.
Before Ryan could respond, the muffled sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor. At first, the low murmur of the room drowned them out, but then—
Bang.
The conference room door swung open abruptly, a hand shoving it with urgency.
"Good morning, Captain's. I believe everyone's here." A hurried voice filled the room. "Shall we begin?"
Everyone stood in unison, snapping to attention as they saluted the man who had just entered.
An old man, well into his sixties, walked toward the podium with measured, steady steps. Though his back bore the slight hunch of age, it did little to diminish the quiet authority he carried. His face was etched with deep wrinkles, each line a testament to the years he had endured. Yet, despite the wear of time, his eyes remained sharp—piercing like a blade, bright like a flickering bulb, as if capable of stripping a man bare with a single glance.
Reaching the podium, the old man let his gaze sweep across the room, his sharp eyes reading the expressions of every soldier present.
"Soldiers, take your seats," he commanded.
As one, the room lowered into their chairs, the weight of his presence settling over them.
The old man exhaled slowly. "I see everyone is here. Let's begin." His voice, though steady, carried an unmistakable grimness.
His expression darkened as he continued. "I have something to show you. Start the video."
The lights in the conference room dimmed, shadows creeping into the corners as the projector flickered to life. The atmosphere turned heavy, thick with an unspoken dread.
Suddenly, the light in the conference room dimmed making the atmosphere dark and the video projector started.
The screen flickered, revealing the grainy footage of a joint sector cabin. A man with a full beard sat at his desk, scanning multiple security monitors, eyes flicking between different camera feeds. His posture was rigid, his face unreadable as he checked for any anomalies.
Suddenly, the radio beside him crackled to life.
White noise.
A faint voice came through.
"North Team to HQ."
The bearded man leaned forward, picking up the receiver, his voice tight. "Fleet #07 here, requesting return at Sector Joint #06."
A brief pause.
"Copy. Request granted," the man replied, his tone carrying an edge of unease.
"ETA five minutes. Over and out."
The bearded man placed the radio back down and waited.
The video jumped forward five minutes.
The fleet had not arrived.
Yet, the bearded man didn't panic. Instead, he stood up, unlocked the cabin door, and stepped outside. The footage shifted to the outdoor security camera, showing him swiftly locking the sector gate and activating the perimeter's dark blue security lights. His movements were precise and efficient—done with the ease of a man who had performed this routine countless times.
Once inside again, he settled back into his chair, waiting.
The video jumped another ten minutes.
The man remained seated, but his expression had changed. His features were stiff, his fingers tapping anxiously against the wooden desk. Something wasn't right.
His hand moved toward the satellite phone beside him, about to make a call.
Then—the radio beeped.
A connection request.
His hand froze.
The color drained from his face as he hesitated, staring at the radio as if it had just spoken his name in an empty room. His breathing grew uneven, but he didn't reach for the receiver.
The beeping stopped.
A moment passed. He exhaled, shoulders loosening—
Beep.
The radio came to life again. But this time, it didn't stop. The light on the device flickered erratically, and with an eerie finality, the radio switched on by itself.
The bearded man's hands clenched into fists.
A voice spilled through the speakers, distorted, broken.
"North Team to HQ."
A pause.
"Fleet #07 has arrived at the joint. Requesting entry."
The man's eyes snapped to the security monitor.
The camera feed showed the entrance empty.
Yet, the radio crackled again—this time, louder.
"Hello? Fleet #07 has arrived. Requesting entry."
A heavy knock rang through the radio speaker. Knock. Knock.
The bearded man shivered violently. His breathing had turned ragged, panic setting into his features. His trembling hand finally grabbed the radio cord—and yanked it free. The device went dark, silencing the transmission.
But the voice didn't stop.
The radio speaker hissed, and then—
"Hello... hello... he... lo... h... lo..."
The voice stuttered, warping into a nightmarish jumble of static and human desperation.
"Sa...ve... sen...d... ba..ck.. up.. h..elp.. h..el..p.. p..."
The bearded man's eyes widened in horror. He shot up from his chair, knocking it over as he stumbled toward the door. His fingers grazed the handle, just a few more steps and—
A low, guttural laugh echoed from the radio.
"Hehe..."
The sound was ancient, hollow—wrong.
Everyone in the conference room shuddered, a cold wave washing over them, goosebumps prickling their skin.
In the video, the bearded man's body seized. His knees buckled, and he collapsed face-first onto the floor, his fingers twitching uselessly. His body wouldn't move.
The lights inside the cabin dimmed.
The door, once ajar, began to close.
The security monitor showed the blue lights outside flickering—dimming—dying.
His bloodshot eyes flickered one last time toward the fading glow.
Then—
Darkness.