4:00 (A.M.)
My throat was dry, the air was dry. Everything felt parched, like the facility itself had sucked all the moisture out of the world. Sweat poured down my face, my head throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. I reached for the water bottle on my desk, fumbling in the dark. My fingers brushed against it, and I grabbed it, unscrewing the cap with shaky hands.
It only took a couple of seconds to drain the entire bottle. I tossed it back onto the desk, too weak to care where it landed. The plastic clattered against the wood, the sound sharp in the silence.
I felt weak. Drained. My eyelids fluttered, and I drifted off—once, twice, again. Each time, I fought to stay awake, but the exhaustion pulled me under like a riptide.
Between the dazes, I heard it: the alarm.
It boomed through the facility, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in my chest. The lights shifted from their usual harsh white to an eerie blue, casting the room in a cold, unnatural glow. The alarm wasn't unusual—it went off all the time—but never this early. Never at 4:00 A.M.
Muffled footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, heavy and purposeful. Voices shouted, distant but sharp, barking orders like military officers.
"Fall back! Fall back to the lower floors!"
"Stay in formation! Don't break rank!"
I sat up, my heart pounding. The monitor by my bed—the one I'd rigged to watch the hallway—was still on, its screen glowing faintly. I grabbed it, squinting at the grainy footage.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the flickering blue emergency lights. Shadows moved across the screen, too fast to make out clearly. Soldiers, maybe. Or something else.
Then I saw them.
Bodies.
Two soldiers lay sprawled on the floor, their uniforms torn and bloodied. One was face down, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle. The other was on his back, his eyes wide and unseeing, a pool of dark blood spreading beneath him.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. What the hell had happened?
The monitor flickered, the image distorting for a moment before clearing. I glanced down, and my blood turned to ice.
There, at the end of the hallway, was a pair of eyes.
They glowed faintly in the blue light, reflecting like an animal's. But they weren't animal eyes. They were too large, too human.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The creature stepped into view, its form silhouetted against the emergency lights. It was tall—too tall—with a body that seemed both skeletal and muscular at the same time. Its limbs were long and spindly, its movements unnaturally smooth.
And its face…
Its face was wrong. It looked almost human, but stretched and distorted, like someone had tried to sculpt a person out of clay and given up halfway through. The skin was pale, almost translucent, and pulled tight over sharp bones.
Behind it, another figure emerged—a dog. But not a normal dog. This thing was massive, its ribs visible beneath its thin, mangy fur. Its eyes glowed the same unnatural blue as the lights, and its mouth hung open, revealing rows of jagged teeth.
The man—the handler—tilted his head, sniffing the air. Then he turned, his glowing eyes locking onto the monitor.
He saw me.
I dropped the monitor, my hands trembling. The screen cracked, but the image stayed on, the handler's face filling the frame.
The rattling at my door grew louder.
I scrambled off the bed, my mind racing. The reinforced door should hold. It had to. But the handler and his dog were strong—stronger than anything I'd ever seen.
I pressed the button on the wall, activating the extra locks I'd installed. The mechanism whirred, and the door shuddered as the bolts slid into place.
The rattling stopped.
I held my breath, listening. The hallway was silent now, the footsteps and shouts gone. Even the alarm seemed distant, like it was coming from another world.
I crept back to the monitor, my heart pounding. The handler and his dog were gone.
But then I heard it—a soft, wet sound, like something being torn apart.
I glanced at the monitor again, and my stomach turned.
The dog was crouched over one of the soldiers, its jaws working methodically as it tore into the body. The handler stood nearby, watching silently, his glowing eyes scanning the hallway.
Then, a door creaked open.
One of my coworkers—I didn't even know his name—stepped into the hallway, his face pale and confused. He froze, staring at the dog and the handler.
The dog's head snapped up, its ears twitching. It turned, its glowing eyes locking onto the man.
I wanted to scream, to warn him, but my voice caught in my throat.
The dog lunged, its jaws opening too wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth. It clamped down on his throat, and the sound that followed was wet and final.
Blood sprayed across the hallway, painting the walls in crimson. The man didn't even scream.
I looked away, bile rising in my throat. I couldn't watch. But I couldn't look away either.
The handler turned his head toward my door, his glowing eyes narrowing.
I held my breath, my hand hovering over the button to activate the secondary locks.
But he didn't move. He just stood there, his eyes fixed on my door, before disappearing into the darkness.
I collapsed onto the bed, my legs giving out beneath me. My hands were shaking, my mind racing.
The facility wasn't safe. Not even close.
And I was trapped.