Fear, yes, a healthy dose, but something more. Anger. Disgust. Whatever these things really were, to Benjamin "Biggy" Franco they were rats that needed to be exterminated before they could infect him with their filth.
He raised his automatic shotgun and zeroed in as the mob chased the team into a circle at the center of the hall. Franco fired at one of the living shadows as it approached. It dissipated into nothingness, like a cloud of fog blown apart by a wind gust.
Franco checked the others. Wells fired his SCAR-H into the ground, seemingly shooting nothing but blasting away chunks of the floor one after another, all while screaming in outright terror — not panic, not adrenaline — but fear.
Galati stood alongside Campion, both emptying magazines into the mob of attackers but inflicting no casualties.
What Franco saw next confused him to the point that his mind all but short-circuited.
Moss moved toward him, walking among the approaching shadow-things with the infrared scope on his M4 raised to his eye as if searching his surroundings, but not firing at all. In fact, he was saying something. Something very strange.
"No targets! I've got no targets!"
Then things took a turn for the weirder, and Franco saw it all happen just ten feet in front of him.
One of the creatures walked straight into Moss. Just walked into him. No collision, no impact, just slipping right into him like a ghost possessing a body, except Franco saw Moss disappear, his BDUs, his body armor, his weapons … everything enveloped by a living shadow, eliminating any trace of the man and replacing it with a monster.
Then it came for Biggy. Staggering toward him, a warped limb made out of night reaching out with intent to strangle.
The sergeant fired his USAS-12; three blasts in quick succession. This time the shadow collapsed backwards instead of disintegrating.
They can be killed!
No matter how alien the things appeared, they could be killed and Biggy aimed to do just that; to exterminate every last one of the disgusting things.
He fired and fired again, apparently hitting nothing. But when he turned to look across the hall he saw that Pearson was in trouble. Some creature — some version of these walking shadows — had latched on to the soldier's back and was doing to Pearson what Franco had seen one do to Wells: absorbing him, enveloping him, taking his flesh and turning it into something inhuman.
Sergeant Franco ran across the hall with the hope of prying the attacker free, but it was too late; the monster completed the metamorphosis. What should have been a man was now something else.
"Die, you fucking bastard!"
And Franco let his USAS-12 do the work. The shells tore into the creature. It screamed in a surprisingly human voice, even though Franco saw no mouth or eyes or any other features.
That scream was replaced by a warped hiss as the wounded foe staggered about, side to side.
"Franco!"
He raised his shotgun to finish off the target … then he saw Captain Campion approach and raise his sidearm.
"I got this one, get the fuck out of my way," Franco said, pulling his trigger and blasting the creature one last time. At the same instant, a bullet from Campion's pistol slammed into Franco's shoulder. His left arm went limp. First the barrel then the rest of the heavy weapon dropped from his hands.
Campion shot me! What the f—
He never finished the thought. The creature he had shot … the one that took Pearson's body … exploded in a ball of golden flame. A wall of heat came with a blast of concussion that sent Franco falling backwards, splaying across the floor and sliding into the side wall, his body peppered with some kind of shrapnel and blood pouring from the bullet wound to his shoulder.
Franco remained conscious just long enough to hear Campion issue orders.
"Move! We have to move out of here!"
Then Biggy Franco's eyes closed and his mind turned off for a while.
Campion stepped from the folding chair and tugged the rope. The pipe — probably a protective cover for electrical wires — would serve as an adequate anchor.
"That should do the trick," he told Gant.
"Okay, then," Thom said. "It is my turn to go on point."
"Sir?" he and Twiste said in unison.
Campion, however, heard the major's tone, and he also recognized the expression on Gant's face. There would be no talking him out of it, no changing his mind, and the captain thought he knew why. It was apparent from the start that Franco was not happy being sent on point. Why? Well, Captain Campion had long ago given up trying to understand the sergeant. For all his intelligence, Franco seemed a man who let his emotions get the better of him.
Emotion has no place on the battlefield.
"Just keep Captain Twiste here and the V.A.A.D. components safe," Gant said as he reached for the rope. "They are your primary concern. I'll go down first. If all is clear, send down Franco's scout team. If there is a problem, start off for the stairs on the far side."
Despite knowing he had no chance at success, Campion started to try and talk the major out of it, but a new thought pushed away that idea.
Let him go.
Yes, of course, it made sense for Gant to go first. He was the leader, he was important, and there was something else about him … something that set him apart from the others in the unit.
Campion turned away from the elevator shaft and surveyed the corridor. The men were in good position. Yes, there was one soldier — Wells — standing by the secondary corridor that led to the break room near the double doors that opened to the cafeteria. Another man — Salvatore Galati — covered the stairwell, and of course the others — Pearson, Moss, Franco, and, yes, Brandon Twiste, the scientist carrying an equipment bag and trained to operate the V.A.A.D.
A terrible sound — a scream of some sort — reverberated up through the elevator shaft and nearly made Campion jump. Then he realized that he had heard a screech of rusty hinges, probably the elevator roof hatch.
A burst of static crackled in Campion's ear, followed by Major Gant's voice: "We're good."
The equipment must be protected. Get Twiste down there now, everyone else can stay behind for playtime.
Campion motioned for Twiste to go down the rope.
"He said to send the scout team first."
"Get going Doctor," Campion said, putting a hand on Twiste's shoulder and shoving him toward the shaft and the rope. Still Twiste hesitated, standing there with his eyes squinting and his head tilted in what was clearly an expression of confusion.
"I said go; it's playtime."
Campion's words only added to his comrade's confusion, to the point that Twiste physically did as instructed even though his mind obviously struggled with the idea. Of course, Campion sympathized because he was not sure why he had said that, either. It just sort of came to mind.
In fact, he wondered why he felt the urge to send Twiste down against Gant's orders. It made no sense. The hall was secure, but the floor below could be full of danger. That was why the scout team needed to go first … but it made perfect sense for Twiste to go now. For some reason … he could not quite understand.
"Captain Campion, what is your status?"
I honestly don't know, sir.
"Movement!"
Franco's shout focused Campion's mind as his training — instinct, actually — took over.
"Biggy! What have you got?"
"Five meters ahead on the left. In one of those offices."
Campion looked in that direction. His eyes struggled with the contrast between the darkness and a cone of brightness emanating from a half-broken security light. Still, he saw something just inside the door of one of the offices. Someone or something about four to four and a half feet tall. Just a silhouette; an outline of dark standing in a room of dark.