Date: 12:00 PM, April 2, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Noon arrived with a shudder, the core’s walls trembling as the psychic hum flared—“Now… crush…”—a vicious spike that snapped Sarah upright, her M16 in hand, ten rounds left. Kessler jolted awake beside her, grabbing her rifle—five rounds—and the dented grenade, her eyes darting to the screens. Harrington stood at the console, barking into the radio—“Jets, status—bio-ships north, moving!”—as the F-22s’ engines faded east, fuel spent.
Carter, the tech, spun from his station, glasses slipping. “Seismic’s up—Trygon, level 4! Bio-ships shifted—north wall, dropping swarms—gaunts, gargoyles, nodes active!”
Sarah’s head throbbed, the hum roaring—“All… now…” “They’re hitting—everything, north and below!” she yelled, gripping her rifle, the Tyrant’s pulse absent—still west, maybe, but the Trygon loomed close.
“Positions!” Harrington shouted, waving the five soldiers—Rodriguez included—to the hatch, mines armed, rifles up. “North tunnel—traps, then guns. Kessler, Thompson—core’s spine, hold it!”
The floor cracked—Trygon erupted, tendrils snapping, its maw tearing through steel. Rodriguez fired—five rounds, gaunts spilling behind it—ichor sprayed, but it lunged, tail crushing a soldier—Carter’s scream cut short, blood painting the wall. Sarah fired, bursts into its flank—seven rounds left—slowing it, Kessler’s grenade rolling under—boom, flesh shredded, forcing it back.
“Seal it!” Harrington yelled—soldiers dragged plates, welding, but the north wall shook—screens showed gaunts clawing the outer hatch, gargoyles strafing turrets, one sparking dead. The hum snarled—“Break…”—as the hatch buckled, claws piercing through.
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“Traps!” Kessler hit the remote—mines blasted outside, gaunts torn apart, a brief stall. Sarah reloaded—ten rounds scavenged—firing through the slit, dropping three, ichor pooling. Rodriguez lobbed a grenade—exploded at the hatch, gaunts scattering, but the Trygon roared below, seismic spiking—level 3.
“Double hit!” Harrington grabbed a steel bar, swinging at a gaunt breaching the hatch—crack, its skull caved, falling back. “Jets—where’s Pierce?”
Radio static—then Pierce’s voice—“Jets down—two lost, two limping east. Bio-ships north, massing—hold, Cheyenne, we’re dry!”
“Damn it,” Harrington growled, as the Trygon punched up again—floor split, tendrils snagging a soldier, dragging him screaming into the dark. Sarah fired—five rounds—blinding an eye, Kessler’s rifle dry—she drew her pistol, two shots, empty.
The north hatch groaned—gaunts poured in, four soldiers left firing—Rodriguez dropped one, then took a claw to the chest, collapsing, blood gushing. “No!” Sarah yelled, lunging—knife out, slashing the gaunt’s throat, ichor soaking her.
Kessler pulled her back, the core shrinking—three guns now, civilians screaming, medics dragging wounded. Harrington hit the last mine—boom, the hatch cleared, gaunts stalled, but the Trygon rose, half-blind, roaring—psychic weight slamming Sarah—“End…”
“RPG’s gone—grenades!” Harrington shouted—no reply, ammo spent. Sarah gripped her knife, five rounds left, firing—Trygon flinched, retreating under steel and rubble, the hatch holding—barely.
A jet’s roar—late, lone—streaked north, missiles hitting a bio-ship—fire bloomed, tendrils burning, gaunts faltering. The hum weakened—“Pain… later…”—Trygon down, swarm pulling back, bio-ships retreating north again.
Sarah collapsed, knife dripping, Rodriguez’s blood on her boots. Kessler panted beside her—pistol gone, hands empty. Harrington dropped the bar, staring at the screens—three soldiers left, core cracked, bio-ships fading.
“Held,” he rasped. “Jets bought it—again.”
“Barely,” Sarah said, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—no Jake, just the enemy, patient. Three guns, forty civvies, noon’s shadow stretching long.
Harrington nodded, grim. “Rest—scavenge. We’re not out.”
Not yet.
