The mountain tunnel was steep, narrow, and suffocatingly dark. I kept climbing, hands digging into the cold, damp walls of the conduit that once channeled rainwater from the summit to the sanatorium below. Built halfway up the mountain, the place had relied on this tunnel for water. But the deeper I went, the more I doubted that its purpose was so simple.
Who would carve such a massive structure—nearly 1,000 feet in elevation—just to divert water? And in that era?
Was it really just for water?
That thought alone chilled me.
I didn't know how long I had been crawling. My flashlight flickered, the beam thinning, threatening to leave me blind. My body screamed for rest. The faceless ones—whatever they were—could have scuttled up this shaft without pause, I was sure. But me? I was just a man. A soldier. The first of Raptor Team, maybe. But still a man.
After six grueling hours, the incline finally began to level out. I could stand upright again, although every muscle protested. My flashlight gave out completely, plunging me into pure black. Water sloshed beneath my boots—shallow at first, then rising. It crept over my ankles. My knees. I held my weapon above the surface, each step forward echoing loud in the vast silence.
Somewhere, it had to end.
The air was rank—thick with algae and rot. The stagnant water reeked of mold and death, but at least it began to recede. I trudged on, mile after mile. The tunnel angled upward again, but gently. And then—I saw it. A soft glow ahead. Natural light. An exit.
I stopped. Leaned against the wall. Rolled my neck and shoulders, stiff from hours of tension. My rifle never wavered. I knew better than to expect peace outside.
The light grew stronger with every step. My eyes ached from the sudden brightness after so long in the dark. Squinting, I ducked low and crept out of the mouth of the tunnel—
Only to be slammed flat by something heavy.
My mind blanked. Pain bloomed across my back like fire. Before I could react, something landed in front of me—a withered, gray-skinned creature. Faceless. Just like the others.
It held a massive boulder, at least 330 pounds by the look of it, overhead with arms no thicker than my wrist. Its head turned, that horrific mouthless face aimed right at me. A wet, guttural snarl tore from its throat.
I rolled.
The boulder crashed down where I had lain seconds before, shaking the earth.
I opened fire.
But something inside me twisted. My throat clenched. Bile surged. I vomited—violently. Then, without warning, I soiled myself.
I didn't have time to be embarrassed. I squeezed the trigger, unloading a full burst into the creature at point-blank range. Its torso split open. It staggered, flailed—then dropped.
I stared at the ruin I had made. Gagged again. Nothing came but acid.
I slumped forward, breathing hard, my body failing me. Behind my blurred vision, I imagined more of them, crawling down from the ridge. Panic flared. I jolted upright, wiping my mouth, tasting blood. My back screamed in agony.
That hit—whatever it was—had done damage. Serious damage.
I leaned on the tunnel wall. Moved slowly. My pack was torn, soaked, and heavy. My fingers were numb.
I dared not move too fast. If I was wrong—if my spine had truly been fractured—I might never stand again.
The thought chilled me.
So I stood still. Trembling. Waiting.
And wondering what the hell I'd walked into.