Date: 6:00 PM, April 2, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Dusk draped Cheyenne Mountain in a bruised purple, the core’s dim lights flickering as Sarah stood by the hatch, M16 with nine rounds, knife sheathed, the psychic hum surging—“North… now…”—a cold jolt that tightened her grip. Kessler flanked her, rifle down to three rounds, the gaunt claw strapped to her belt like a bayonet, her last grenade wired to the trap. Harrington paced near the console, screens alive—bio-ships loomed north, eight miles out, nodes pulsing, tendrils dropping swarms.
“Movement,” Jenkins called, voice cracking, tablet shaking. “North wall—gaunts, hormagaunts, gargoyles massing. Seismic’s up—Trygon, level 5, climbing!”
Sarah’s head throbbed, the hum roaring—“Strike… all…” “They’re hitting north—Trygon too, synced!” she shouted, rifle up, the Tyrant’s pulse faint—west, still, but the north swarm loomed large.
“Positions!” Harrington barked, waving the three soldiers—Ortiz, Lee, one unnamed—to the hatch, rifles ready, the patched steel trembling. “Traps first—then guns. Kessler, Thompson—hold the core!”
The north hatch shook—claws scraped, gaunts screeching—Kessler hit the grenade tripwire—boom, ichor sprayed, bodies piling, a brief choke. Sarah fired through the slit—six rounds left—dropping two, but the swarm pressed, claws tearing steel. Ortiz lobbed a scavenged grenade—exploded, gaunts shredded, slowing them.
Below, the floor rumbled—Trygon’s roar, level 4 now, tendrils punching up—Jenkins screamed, dragged down, tablet clattering. Sarah fired—four rounds—blinding an eye, ichor gushing, Ortiz sealing the hole with steel, welding fast, sparks flying.
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“North’s breaching!” Lee yelled, rifle dry—he swung it, cracking a gaunt’s skull, but claws slashed his chest, blood spraying—he fell, choking. Harrington grabbed the crowbar, smashing another—crack, it dropped—ordering, “Fall back—inner line!”
Sarah retreated, three rounds left, Kessler beside her—rifle empty, claw out, slashing a gaunt’s throat. The hatch split—gaunts flooded, hormagaunts behind, faster, deadlier—Ortiz fired his last rounds, dropping three, then took a claw to the gut, collapsing, gurgling.
“Two left!” Kessler shouted, as the Trygon roared below—steel buckling, tendrils snaking up again. Sarah fired—two rounds—slowing it, Harrington swinging the crowbar—crack, a tendril snapped, forcing it back.
Screens flared—bio-ships north, closing—gargoyles dove, strafing the outer wall, last turret sparking dead. The hum screamed—“End…”—Sarah’s knees buckled, the swarm relentless, two soldiers gone, one—unnamed—firing his last shot, then tackled, screams cut short.
“Core’s it!” Harrington yelled, dragging Sarah behind a crate—gaunts swarmed, five now, claws gleaming. Kessler slashed—claw sank into a throat, ichor spraying—her rifle a club, smashing another. Sarah fired—one round—gutting a gaunt, then drew her knife, lunging—steel met flesh, a hormagaunt screeching, falling.
A jet’s roar—late, lone—streaked north, missiles hitting a bio-ship—fire bloomed, tendrils burning, gaunts faltering. The Trygon screeched, retreating—seismic dropped, level 6 again. The hum weakened—“Pain… wait…”—north swarm pulling back, bio-ships stalling, eight miles out.
Sarah panted, knife dripping, Kessler beside her—claw red, rifle cracked. Harrington dropped the crowbar, blood on his hands—not his. “One left,” he rasped, eyeing the screens—bio-ships north, Trygon deep, Tyrant west, quiet.
“Me,” Sarah said, one round left, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—no Jake, just the enemy, patient. Ortiz, Lee, Jenkins—gone, forty civvies trembling behind.
Harrington nodded, grim. “Held—dusk’s ours. Rest—scavenge. We’re not dead.”
“Barely,” Kessler muttered, wiping ichor from her face.
Sarah gripped her rifle, dusk’s edge sharp—no win, just survival, scraps left to fight with.
