A cry dies in Moore’s throat, while she looks at a tiny mouth equipped with fangs that is opening longitudinally and is giving a shrill sound. At the same time, rough and slender appendages as tiny as toothpicks burst from everywhere, bending with small pops to produce rough joints and hardening in segmented legs with which the little creature moves uncertainly on the table surface. A blackish compound eye emerges from a pseudo-pod that sprouted sideways, and it seems to look at the scene around it like a periscope. Then, with a flick, the creature moves, running on asymmetric limbs, progressing awkwardly toward the woman, who backs away terrified when…
With a quick gesture Ivanov heads the beak of the Bunsen burner on the little monster, setting it on fire. The tiny being shakes, trying to avoid the flame while its flesh sizzles and gets smaller in size. Like a balloon that collapses, it shortly becomes a small patch of burnt organic matter.
The soldier Vasquez, who kept staying in the background until then, merely casually monitoring the two scientists, observed the scene. An incredulous and bewildered look is stamped on his face.
Moore and Ivanov look each other, the woman terrified by the knowledge that the story of the Russian might really not be the lie that she secretly hoped it was.
“My God”, she stammers. “This means that…”
“The boy isn’t human anymore, and we can say the same thing for the wounded soldier”, replies the man, while collecting the charred remains of the creature with tweezers, and dropping them into the container with the corrosive solution.
Vasquez approaches the two with suspicion, his face is pale as he tries to get into contact with the two soldiers guarding Ahmed’s cell. “They don’t respond, dammit! Neither Major Macready!”
“Let’s hurry”, says Moore. “Take us to the room where you hold the boy!”
The soldier won’t be asked twice. The three walk out of the soundproof lab and run through the two long corridors that separate them from the room where they hope to find Ahmed.
When they reach the door they notice the absence of the two guards. They turn the corner of the corridor to look inside the room through the side window.
Their bewilderment is equal to the anguish and terror they feel when, turned the corner, they face a gruesome scene. The observation window is broken from the inside. On the ground and on the walls are large splashes of blood and whitish mucus. There is no trace of the guards that were standing there.
HELICOPTER CRASH SITE
Men in bio-hazard suits work frantically around the carcass of the CH-47. The flames swirl violently, producing a thick dark pillar of smoke.
The nervous voices of the men mix with the noise of the CO2 fire-extinguishers’ jets struggling against the roaring flames.
The aircraft crashed for no apparent reason, about two thirds of the distance between the location of the plane disaster and the US base. No messages, no requests for assistance. The military found it quickly by the smoke rising from the burning wreckage.
They take a good dozen minutes to extinguish the fire. Once done, the soldiers must wait until the temperature drops down to tolerable limits. The area is fogg y because of the haze generated by the fire extinguishers, which disappears slowly despite the heat of the daylight.
The helicopter has broken into two main pieces, which had dug deep furrows in the sand. One of the big propeller blades pops out from the side of a low dune, distant one hundred meters.
The aircraft’s tail appears emptied; the crates with the equipment and other objects are strewn on the ground, scattered over a wide radius.
The shape of the cabin is practically intact. A few sharp blades along the edge are the remnant of the windshield, now crumbled. Everything is charred.
The spectacle before the rescuers, as the fog clears, leaves no doubt about the causes that led to this new tragedy. The interior looks like it came from a grotesque version of a painting by Salvador Dali. The plastic parts are melted and deformed, making a sort of caricature of their original appearance. However, this is not what fills the witnesses of the scene with a silent dismay.
They can clearly see the bodies of two men at the controls. From the face of one of them it is still possible to recognize the pilot of the aircraft. The man’s mouth is frozen in an expression of anguish and pain. His chest is raised as a careened sternum, and a gash in the suit shows the snarling face of a creature that should not exist. The other body is unrecognizable and disfigured. It has three arms, one of which pops out from the right side of the basin and is horribly distorted. The neck is bent backward and stretched, to fade into a huge amorphous and bulbous mass, that holds together both the unfortunate passengers. Bizarre shapes appear on its surface… Distorted faces, human clumsy-looking limbs, aberrant appendages that resemble parts of an insect and unrecognizable structures that seem to blend the kingdoms of nature.
“…Matt Serum, medical unit, said the helicopter was carrying part of the recovered remains, and six of our soldiers, including Waters, the medical officer”, says one of the soldiers, holding back the urge to vomit. “No communication, no SOS.”
His words, however, don’t reach the conscious sphere of Macready. Thoughtful and absent, he looks at the scene through the visor of his bio-hazard suit.
Ironside is next to him, a mixture of conflicting emotions stirring on his face. “What is the current situation at the site of the crash of the Boeing?”, he asks the soldier.
“Men have almost finished loading the remains on one of the trucks, they should…”
“NO!”, Ironside interrupts him abruptly. “Contact them immediately, order them to incinerate anything that can burn. Make sure that no trace is left of the bodies, then make sure that the soldiers haste to go back to the base as soon as possible. No one must be left alone, tell them to move in groups of three people.”
The soldier seems to falter, throwing quick glances at Major Macready, as if awaiting confirmation of the newly received orders.
“This is an order, for Christ’s sake!”, adds Ironside raising his voice. The soldier moves away, when another marine, coming from the vehicle with TLC instrumentation, approaches running, turning to Macready.
“Sir, sergeant Jennings is on line. He asked to speak to you, he says it’s urgent.”
No reply.
“Sir!”, the marine raises his voice, to call to mind the Major. This one turns slowly towards him, his eyes have a faraway look, as if staring at another portion of the universe from an infinite distance.
Without a word, Macready walks towards the military communications vehicle that is about thirty meters ahead, shortly followed by Ironside.
USA BASE CNT222
The door leading to the cafeteria and the recreational area on the second level of the base slide to its side, revealing a back-lit curvy figure.
“A-ha, that’s a good one!”
Constantine Delgado steps out, smiling to an exchange of jokes with the cleaners who are working near two vending machines. The woman crosses the threshold holding a big plastic cup of dark and fragrant coffee, she heads to the left, toward the elevator.
The base is strangely silent. Almost all the military personnel is at work somewhere on the desert surface. The only people left inside are those busy in the warehouse, the cleaners, those guarding the armory, the plants technicians and a few others. The empty and lifeless corridors seem almost surreal.
A cigarette on the surface is what it takes… She thinks while walking toward the elevator.
The cabin is open and there’s a man inside, fiddling with the controls. He wears a bio-hazard protective suit, his face is hidden by a mask with a dark visor. The woman is just a couple of meters from the opening and hints a hello to the figure inside, which ignores her and keeps pressing the buttons repeatedly. Delgado doesn’t have time to make another step because the sliding doors close, leaving her at the floor.