Date: 8:00 PM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  Night cloaked Cheyenne Mountain in a shroud of quiet, the core’s flickering lights casting long shadows over the battered defenders. Sarah sat on a cot near the armory, her M16 propped against a crate, freshly loaded—fifteen rounds, a small mercy from the dusk drop. The psychic hum had softened to a murmur—“Rest… rebuild…”—the Tyranids licking their wounds, the Hive Tyrant and Trygon stalled beyond reach. Her body sagged, exhaustion gnawing, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  Kessler sprawled across from her, boots off, chewing a protein bar from an MRE—her rifle within arm’s reach, a grenade tucked beside her like a pillow. Seven soldiers milled nearby, cleaning weapons or sipping water, their voices low, faces hollow but alive. Civilians slept in a corner—fifty now, medics weaving through, stitching the day’s toll.

  Harrington entered, his uniform torn but posture rigid, a radio clipped to his belt. “Jets pulled back—east wing’s fueling ‘em,” he said, voice gravelly. “Bio-ships are static—twelve miles out, nodes rebuilding slow. Seismic’s flat—Trygon’s deep, Tyrant’s west. We’ve got hours, maybe.”

  “Hours,” Kessler echoed, swallowing. “Enough to breathe—not much else.”

  “Enough,” Harrington said, dropping a crate—med kits, bandages, a few mags. “Rest, rearm—core’s sealed, traps reset. They’ll hit at dawn, my bet.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Sarah rubbed her neck, the hum twitching—“Watch…”—a predator’s patience. “They’re waiting—planning something. Feels… heavier.” Jake’s echo flickered—“Sarah…”—soft, human, then gone. She clenched her fist, shoving it down.

  Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “Your link—still sharp?”

  “Yeah,” she said, voice low. “No Jake—just them. Picking their shot.”

  “Good,” he nodded. “Sleep if you can—need you alert.” He turned to Kessler. “You too—core’s yours if I’m out.”

  Kessler smirked, faint. “Aye, sir. Won’t let the scribbler die yet.”

  Harrington grunted, moving off to check a screen—drone feed, bio-ships pulsing in the dark, a distant menace. Sarah leaned back, staring at the ceiling—cracks snaked across it, a map of their fight. “You think we’ll make it?” she asked, quiet.

  Kessler shrugged, tossing the wrapper aside. “Made it this far—dumb luck, guts, jets. Dawn’s a coin toss—heads we hold, tails we’re meat.”

  “Poetic,” Sarah said, a dry laugh escaping—the first in days. She pulled the knife from her belt, tracing its edge—Vasquez’s blood, Rodriguez’s stand, all etched in it. “Lost too many for a toss.”

  “Yeah,” Kessler said, softer. “Vasquez—bastard went out swinging. Nguyen too. Keeps us here.” She tapped her rifle. “You’re still kicking—means something.”

  “Jake’s why,” Sarah admitted, the hum a dull ache. “If he’s out there—real him—I’m finding him. After.”

  Kessler nodded, no argument—just understanding, rare and unspoken. “Rest then—can’t hunt ghosts dead.”

  Sarah lay back, the cot creaking, knife beside her. The core hummed—soldiers’ murmurs, a kid’s faint sob, the distant thrum of jets patrolling east. Her eyes closed, the hum fading—“Soon…”—Tyranids waiting, but so was she. Dawn loomed, a reckoning deferred, not dodged.

  Sleep took her, fitful, the mountain’s pulse her lullaby—fragile, but holding.