We fled the collapsing tunnel, the echoes of that eerie children's song still rattling in our bones. The ground trembled as something ancient stirred beneath, and none of us dared look back.
After what felt like miles of crawling through sewer lines and backup shafts, we emerged into a rusted chamber sealed by a steel bulkhead. The air was thick with mildew and dust, but at least it was still.
Elle collapsed first, gasping. Zeke leaned against the wall, bleeding again. I took one last glance into the dark we had escaped before pulling the door shut behind us.
A faded sign above the arch read:
P-9 REFUGE CHAMBER – EST. 1952
"What is this place?" Elle asked, catching her breath.
"I think…" I ran my fingers across the wall. "It's older than the outbreak. Way older."
The chamber had a table in the center, overturned chairs, and a shelf of weathered crates. Zeke kicked one open, revealing moldy ration packs and rusted canisters labeled in code.
But what caught Elle's eye sat in the far corner—an old leather-bound book.
She picked it up carefully, blowing off the dust.
"Allen," she whispered. "You should see this."
The cover was cracked and etched with an unfamiliar symbol—a sun wrapped in thorns.
Beneath it, written in faded ink:
"THE PASSAGE NETWORK – NATIONAL ESCAPE ROUTES AND REFUGE POINTS."
My heart skipped.
Elle flipped it open. Inside were maps. Hundreds of them. Detailed blueprints of underground tunnel systems—military-grade. Some ran beneath cities. Others tunneled through mountains, deserts, even oceans.
And scrawled in red pen across many pages were survivor notes.
"Safe until 3:22 AM. Then they turned."
"Hideout in Sector 12C. Password: Duskfall."
"She said she could hear the hum before they came."
"If you're reading this… you might be immune."
Zeke leaned over our shoulders. "So there were more people like us. Maybe a lot more."
Elle flipped faster. "Look—here. There's a central command listed. 'Project Morning Star – Hidden Base in Northern Highlands.'"
My finger traced the faded path. It cut through half the country. Across bombed cities and quarantine zones. Through tunnels that hadn't been touched in decades.
"We need to go there," I said.
"We don't even know if it still exists," Zeke countered.
"We don't have a choice."
Elle turned to the final pages of the book. The writing was different—desperate. Uneven.
The person who wrote it had been turning.
"My mind… slipping. My hands. They don't listen. But I remember… Allen."
I blinked. "What?"
Zeke looked at me. "Wait—what the hell?"
"Allen," Elle read aloud. "They kept a child. Said he might be the end. Or the beginning. Blood of flame. Eyes of storm. Made, not born."
A chill ran through my veins.
"That can't be about me," I muttered.
Zeke's voice was low. "Dude… that fire back there? Your freaky connection to those creatures?"
"It's not possible," I said again, but even I didn't believe it anymore.
The room buzzed faintly now. Not from machines—but the book. I could feel it.
A few pages near the back had dried blood smeared across them. Beneath one of the stains was a scribbled final note:
"They lied. It wasn't a cure. It was a door."
Silence.
Then Elle whispered, "They weren't trying to save us. They were trying to open something."
Suddenly, the radio on the desk—long dead—crackled.
Zeke jumped back. "No way."
The speaker hissed. Static bled through.
And then a voice.
Faint. Warped.
"Allen… come home…"
We stared at each other.
The book snapped shut.
And a steel panel on the far wall clicked open, revealing a staircase descending into dark, humming light.
Elle's voice trembled. "Do we follow it?"
I looked at the book. At the passage map.
And finally answered, "We have to. Whatever's down there… it knows me."
---
The stairwell groaned under our weight, every footstep echoing through rusted steel and hollow air. Faint lights blinked along the walls—yellow at first, then red, as if the place was bleeding its last energy into guiding us.
"I hate this," Zeke muttered, his flashlight flickering. "It feels like we're walking into a grave."
Elle clutched the book tight against her chest. Her knuckles were white.
The air grew colder with each step. We passed faded posters on the walls: "REBUILD. RESTORE. REMAIN HUMAN." One was scratched out, the word "HUMAN" replaced with "CONTROLLED."
At the bottom, we found a corridor sealed with a reinforced door. A glowing red scanner blinked to life.
Zeke stepped forward, but the scanner beeped angrily. ACCESS DENIED.
Then I stepped up.
A hiss. A green light. The door unlocked with a mechanical groan.
No one said anything.
The facility beyond was massive.
Rows of broken glass chambers lined the walls. Machines buzzed faintly, barely holding on. Inside some of the pods were skeletons—others still held dried corpses sealed in strange liquid, their eyes open, as if watching.
And in the center…
A terminal.
Elle approached first, powering it up with trembling fingers. The screen lit with a prompt:
PROJECT: GENESIS FLAME
PRIMARY SUBJECT: A-117. STATUS: ACTIVE.
I felt dizzy.
"That's you," Elle whispered. "Allen. You're A-117."
I shook my head. "No. That can't be—"
But I remembered the blood tests at school. The strange way I was never sick. The fire that came when I called it.
Zeke scrolled through logs. His voice cracked as he read.
"Blood harvested from Subject A-117 was used in Mutagen Compound Z. Exposure beyond controlled range results in behavioral degradation and eventual mutation."
Elle's eyes widened. "They used your blood to create the virus."
The screen flickered again.
"Emergency Protocol Engaged. Flame-bearer has awakened. All dormant hosts… activating."
"Wait—what?" Zeke stepped back.
Lights across the chamber blinked to life.
Inside the pods—bodies began twitching.
One by one… they opened their eyes.
Their mouths didn't move.
But in our minds, we heard the same whispering voice:
"Welcome back, Allen."
And then all hell broke loose.
---