Date: 1:00 PM, April 2, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
The core was a slaughterhouse—blood pooled where Rodriguez had fallen, gaunt corpses slumped against the breached hatch, the Trygon’s ichor seeping through cracked steel below. Sarah stood, M16 down to five rounds, knife sheathed, the psychic hum a low drone—“Heal… wait…”—the Tyranids retreating to lick wounds, their patience a blade hanging overhead. Her hands shook, Rodriguez’s last gasp echoing—another name, another weight.
Kessler crouched near the hatch, scavenging—three rounds pried from a dead gaunt’s claw, her pistol empty, face smeared with dust and blood—not hers. Three soldiers survived—Harrington’s last, bandaging cuts, sorting scraps: a dented mag, six rounds total, a cracked flashlight. Civilians—forty—huddled in the rear, medics stitching wounds, a child’s sob cutting the silence.
Harrington leaned on the console, screens dim—bio-ships north, twelve miles out, nodes pulsing slow, the lone F-22 limping east. “Tally,” he rasped, voice worn to gravel, waving a surviving tech—Jenkins, shaky, replacing Carter—over.
Jenkins tapped a tablet, voice thin. “Three combat-ready—us here. Eight wounded, critical’s up to twelve. Civvies—forty, five lost in the breach. Ammo—nine rounds, one grenade scavenged. Power’s at 35%, backup’s failing.”
“Jets?” Sarah asked, wiping ichor from her sleeve, the hum steady—“Watch…”
“East’s dry,” Jenkins said. “Pierce radioed—F-22’s out, no more drops. Bio-ships north, massing—Trygon’s level 6, seismic low. Tyrant’s west, quiet.”
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Harrington’s jaw tightened. “Noon gutted us—Rodriguez, two more. Core’s a sieve—held by spit and luck.” He turned to Sarah. “Your link?”
She nodded, the hum a pulse—“Build…” “They’re resting—nodes spawning, slow. Trygon’s deep, Tyrant’s waiting—hurt, but alive.” Jake’s echo stayed silent, a void she pushed aside—later, not now.
“Good,” Harrington said, grabbing a crowbar from a crate. “Scavenge—outer tunnels, anything—ammo, steel, power cells. Kessler, Thompson—lead it. Jenkins, traps—rig what’s left.”
Kessler stood, pocketing the rounds. “Blood and scraps—let’s move.” Sarah grabbed her rifle, following—three soldiers trailed, rifles near-empty, eyes hollow but set.
The north tunnel was a wreck—gaunt limbs, shattered crates, blood drying in streaks. Sarah pried a panel—wires, sparking, a power cell cracked but live—handing it to a soldier, Ortiz. Kessler kicked a corpse, finding a mag—four rounds—tossing it to Sarah. “Better than nothing,” she said, dry.
Ortiz salvaged a med kit—torn, half-used—while another soldier, Lee, dragged steel scraps, heavy but weldable. Sarah’s hum twitched—“Stir…”—her head snapping up. “They’re waking—not close, but moving.”
“Figures,” Kessler muttered, prying a gaunt claw—sharp, a makeshift blade. “Keeps us sharp.”
They hauled back—power cell, mag, steel, claw—dumping it in the core. Jenkins wired the cell, lights steadying—40% power—while Ortiz patched the hatch, welding scraps tight. Kessler set the grenade on a tripwire—last trap, fragile but live.
Harrington watched, crowbar down. “Good—restock med bay, rest ‘til dusk. Bio-ships north’s a new angle—watch it.”
Sarah sank onto a cot, rifle beside her, the four rounds slotted in—nine now. A civilian—a woman, graying hair—handed her water, eyes red but steady. “Thanks,” Sarah said, drinking, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Tyranids patient, nodes growing.
Kessler sat, claw in hand, testing its edge. “Three guns, scraps—hell of a tally.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, knife out, tracing Rodriguez’s blood—faint now, a ghost. “Held—barely.”
Harrington stood at the screens—bio-ships north, a shadow stretching. “Dusk’s next,” he said, low. “We’re still here.”
Sarah gripped her rifle, the hum a steady beat—no Jake, just the fight. Dusk loomed—a survivor’s scrap, not a win.
