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Red Alert

Writer's picture: James YearyJames Yeary



The caged lightbulb that was welded above the doorway was tinted a deep red had gathered dust for decades—it had probably only glowed once or twice, maybe once in the factory that it was built in, and maybe once during a test of the red alert lockdown system long before he had been stationed here. Stationed was a bit of an exaggeration—it implied that he didn’t have a choice, and those days were passed. Thankfully, his designation was no longer one associated with the United States military. The choice was his, and the pay was now absurdly greater than any enlisted man in the world. His title was no longer associated very closely with a flag or with the policies of men who planned wars and wore expensive suits, he was in more control of things now. His dark Kevlar jacket did not bear a rank insignia, rather a small circular patch of the corporation that paid for his services. He was no longer a grunt, he was a security specialist. A private contractor whose wages still came from the government, but now indirectly, and now at dozens of times the rate.


What the news media and the bleeding-hearts would call that one word…that term that was omnipresent in the back of his mind, a sort of subtle slur—mercenary.


The war hadn’t given that word any relief from its use as a slur for men like him, even though his job description was far from what the average American likely imagined. His new job did not include bombing villages or fighting insurgents. His new job was simply to remain in this spot, below that caged lightbulb—to ensure that no matter what, the metal door behind him remained closed to anyone that could not present a security badge. The only people that were allowed beyond the cold-welded steel of the frame came rather rarely, often wearing white lab coats or canvas jackets, sometimes pushing large carts equipped with medical equipment that he didn’t recognize. In that sense, things here weren’t very different than they had been in the desert—no questions asked. It hadn’t been a particularly hard rule for him to follow then, and it was easy enough to follow now. He’d never been the curious type anyways.


The wall that he leaned against was smooth and clinical, like a hospital from the future. It had been cast from a sleek metal that didn’t reflect much light, a material that was probably labeled in some file far away from here as classified. Because of his lack of curiosity and his loyalty to his country, he didn’t know much about what the government was really doing—he did have friends that would occasionally ask about his work in the military and in private security. Have you seen Area 51? Is the government flying reconstructed UFO’s? Have you heard about MK Ultra? If he had a dollar for every time he’d had MK Ultra explained to him by someone who had expected him to know about it, he would have retired years ago. He knew little about the truth that everyone seemed to be after, but what he did know was that if it ever came to light, they’d all be in for a big disappointment.


Sure, there were experimental aircraft that took off from airstrips without runway lights—they probably accounted for a good portion of the grainy YouTube videos of “UFO’s” spotted over remote areas of the country. There were scientists that tinkered with viruses in test tubes, only because we knew that our enemies were also tinkering with viruses in test tubes, so naturally we had to do the same, just to be safe. Aside from vague things like that, any explosive secrets of the United States government were kept well away from his line of sight, and as far as he was concerned, that was just fine. From the passing hints that he had learned, the truth was simple: there wasn’t much to see.

Adjusting his casual lean against the wall, he glanced down at the automatic rifle that was slung loosely around his neck—it had never been fired, not once. The granular film of Afghan sand and the smoldering scent of gunpowder was absent, a pleasant improvement from his previous weapon. The metal of the barrel and the magazine were cold, a result of the air temperature in the long corridor never rising above 50 degrees or so. It was always that way here, probably some sort of safeguard for whatever was being stored deeper within the complex. Important things always seemed to be stored in cold, dark places…he let himself wonder about that for a long moment. There was nothing else to do, anyways.


The only sound that filled the cool air of the corridor was the low hum of the florescent lights over his head, another feature of places where things were stored. Every warehouse and every storeroom seemed to have them, those long fluorescents with the slightest bit of a blue tint to them, and that long hypnotic humming that almost disappeared once your brain got used to it. Taking a quick glance at his dark military style wristwatch, he felt his eyebrows furrow involuntarily; it wasn’t as late as it felt, there were still two hours to go. The uninitiated wouldn’t know that this was a day shift—the electric hum blanketed the facility 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and apart from that wristwatch, there wasn’t any way to know whether it was day or night here. It was always the same, and unfortunately for him, there weren’t many ways to pass the time apart from letting his thoughts wander. Cell phones were not allowed past the main entrance; they were collected by guards and kept in small plastic bins until the end of the day. He wondered if those guards ever looked at the phones, for kicks.


Maybe they looked at the text messages that silently rolled in while the devices owners were underground and on duty. Maybe they laughed at his wife’s long, grammatically correct messages. Maybe they knew about his affair. At least there was comfort in the fact that no matter what the answer was, he would never know. Still, having his phone here would have made the hours go by much faster, especially considering how quiet it was. This particular shift, he’d only seen one other person since check-in, a scrawny scientist that couldn’t have been older than 27 or so, his hair a frizzy mess and his lab coat several sizes too big for his body. He’d flashed his red ID card and had scurried through the open door and into the dimly lit hallway that lay beyond. Every now and then, when the door was opened, he would take quick passing glance to the other side. The hallway on the other side of the metal door looked exactly the same as it did on this side—just as he would have expected.

The truth was dull, but at that point of his life, he had come to welcome the dull, the expected. In the mountains, he had been told to prepare for the end of his life, that it could come at any moment. And from what he had seen, that had been true. It wouldn’t always come from a source that you’d been taught to expect either; he had known a man that (of all the ways out there) had met his end from the weight of a 500-pound generator. Special forces, over 35 Taliban killed, dozens of covert operations…and squashed like a piece of fruit when the cargo helicopter had fumbled a generator arriving at the base. That thought was something to chew on for moment, wasn’t it? He had been lucky, hadn’t he? He had won, hadn't he? He'd avoided those moments and lived long enough to monetize that luck. All he had to do was stand here for another...let's see. He stole a glance at his wristwatch. Two hours.


Feeling the realization of that wait resurface in his mind, he thought of possible ways to pass the remaining time. There were always his cigarettes, tucked into his lower pocket, not far from the 9 mm. sidearm that hung off his right hip—but that was the last-ditch timewaster. He hadn’t quite reached that level of boredom yet…maybe in an hour or so. He would have his last stick of gum first…that would take up half an hour or so before it lost its flavor. Removing the packet from his other pocket, he popped the stick into his mouth, the orange tang a refreshing distraction from the emptiness of the corridor. He took a deep breath, satisfied for the moment.


The first vibration that rolled through the metal walls was almost slight enough to go unnoticed, but he’d developed a feel for detecting them over the years—the Taliban liked to start mortar attacks at sunset and would often fire a few distant rounds to dial in their sighting, before turning the weapons on their enemies. Those first rounds would barely register to the senses but were a clear warning of an incoming attack to men that had some experience in country. It could’ve been another one of those wheeled carts coming down the hallway—he straightened his posture and glanced down the corridor, expecting a group to emerge. Another tremor worked its way through the facility, this time more prominent and hung there for longer; the vibration caused some of the bolts beneath his boots to buzz for a brief second. As far as he could have guessed, there were no weapons tests happening beyond the door—all of the equipment he’d seen moving in and out of this place were medical. Then again, he’d only worked this facility for eight weeks. Heavy construction deeper underground, maybe?


The next sound that hit his ears radiated upwards from somewhere below him, but it didn’t sound anything like any weapon or machine that he knew of. It was a screaming groan that was drawn out and modulated strangely…the only thing he could think of was the sound of a locomotive blaring its whistle before crashing. Another vibration rocked the air, this one almost causing him to lose balance. That had to be some kind of explosion, he thought to himself. The small two-way radio that was affixed to his Kevlar armor was in his hand and keyed easily.


“Level 3, this is Level 4, main hallway. Are you reading?” he rushed out into the miniature microphone, his eyes glued to the heavy door. The voice that came back was clear and calm.


“Level 3, I’m reading you. Go ahead.” It responded.


“I’m getting some vibrations here outside the main entrance to the lower facility, I don’t know if they’re using some sort of heavy equipment down there? I just wanted to check in, the lower levels are on their own frequency."


A long pause filled the air. Another vibration shook the floor beneath him.


“…copy that.” The voice said, the radio waves now crackling with static. “Level 1 is gonna call down to 5 and see what’s up.”


“Copy, thanks.” He responded, feeling his heart begin to pick up pace a bit.


He took a step back from the doorway, his gaze snapping from side to side, reminding himself how thick the metal was and how strong its integrity would likely be if this was some kind of explosion or equipment failure. That was when those trusty florescent lights began to flicker, before snapping the corridor into complete darkness. He fumbled for the military flashlight that was affixed to the side of his weapon, the beam of white light erupting and spilling onto the metal door in a wide cone. He reflexively lowered himself down onto one knee, raising the barrel of the automatic weapon in the general direction of the doorway. With his free hand, he keyed the radio again.


“All levels, this is Level 4, main hallway. We have a power failure here…any word?” The radio hissed in response, a distorted shriek of interference blazing through the speaker.


“All levels, this is Level 4. Come in.”


The moment his thumb left the key, more warped interference jammed itself into the air. He twisted the plastic knob almost all the way counter-clockwise, turning the volume of the static down to a minimum. What if the scientists came to the other side of the door? He would have to be the one to open it from this side. What if this was a biohazard event? Was he even allowed to let them out? They could be contaminated, right? Another tremor shook the pitch black air of the corridor, this one more powerful than all the rest had been, and much, much closer. He was nearly knocked off of his kneeling stance. What in god’s name was happening, he thought.


Bang. Bang bang bang.

He flinched, instantly identifying the noise from somewhere on the other side of the door. Gunshots. Several of them. He gripped his weapon and pointed it directly at the center of the entryway, his thumb finding the safety switch and slowly pressing it downwards in a soft click. Was it a terrorist attack? A series of bombs set off, and now an active shooter situation. That was it, wasn’t it? They’d been getting bold these last few years, it made sense. But how could they have found such a remote facility? Another jolt shook the hallway, but this one was different—it was mechanical.


The caged lightbulb burst into a ruby distress beacon, sending the corridor into a dim scarlet saturation that was hellish and surreal. The alarm that blared through hidden speakers was deafening, a fast strobing pulse of relentless noise that made him grimace and seemed to pierce straight through his head.


The vibrations were back now, but they were different. Closer together…closer to the door. The mercenary did not know that in less than one minute, he would no longer be alive. He did not know that the long, grammatically correct text messages from his wife would go unanswered, suspended in electronic limbo. He did not know what had been unleashed, and he did not know what it was capable of. It was because of that ignorance that he stayed exactly where he was, as he had first been trained to do all those years ago on Parris Island. He stayed where he was and he staged the metal trigger, ready for anything.


One of the last things that he was able to wonder about were the vibrations—they weren’t explosions, and they weren’t heavy machinery.


They were footsteps.


And now, from the other side of the massive metal door, he heard the sound of the thing that would kill him in a matter of moments. It was broad and powerful, and echoed through the workings of the secret base that would become a ruin by sunset tonight.


It was an otherworldly, monstrous roar.





To Be Continued




Photo Credits: Kyle Glenn (title image), CactusVP (ending image)

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