“Halt,” ordered Sergeant Heller. Corporal Jennings had to strain to hear over the howling wind, despite only being a few metres away. The doors of the hangar were slightly ajar, but there was only blackness inside. Cold sweat ran down his back despite the freezing temperature. They were all in full combat gear, but without a weapon in his hands he felt naked. They spread out to surround the entrance as the big sergeant cautiously approached the door, pressing his back flat against the metal.

  “This is the Colonial Marines. If there’s anyone inside, hold your fire. We’re coming in,” he barked, then spun around and stepped into the black, barely lit by the strobe effect of his shoulder lamp. For a tense second, they waited, but nothing happened. Jennings and the rest of the Marines filed in, forced into single file by the narrow gap. Beyond the beams of their torches there was only pitch blackness, but the areas illuminated by the harsh light showed nothing but blood. Pools of cold, dark red covered the floor, dripping from walls and storage crates.

  “What the hell happened here, Sarge?” muttered Davenport.

  “Okay, Marines, we’ve got casualties to locate. Search in pairs. Lowry, you’re with me. Spread out. If you see something, say something, and see if you can find a damn light switch,” ordered Heller, and the calm authority of his voice reassured the squad.

  “I found the power, brace yourselves,” came a disembodied voice from the darkness. A loud clank followed by a blinding flash forced Jennings to cover his eyes as the heavy-duty overhead lamps flooded the hangar in bright, white light. A few seconds passed as his eyes slowly adjusted, and for the first time he saw the true extent of the carnage. He had never seen so much blood. It was everywhere. A mangled, bloody arm lay on the floor ten feet away, and thirty feet from that, what looked to be someone’s guts were strewn across the concrete. Bullet holes punctured every surface, and countless spent shell casings were scattered across the floor. It had clearly been one hell of a firefight. He took a step backwards and stumbled, looking down to see the limp human leg that had been severed in mid-thigh, still in its fatigues and boot. Bloody human boot prints marked the floor, but what stood out were the other, far larger prints that looked like they had been made with a giant’s bare foot. A foot with five claws…

  “Jesus Christ, Sarge…” said Davenport, his voice breaking.

  “Keep it together, Marines. I still want possible survivors located, and if you encounter the hostile remember the protocol. No aggressive movements,” ordered the sergeant.

  “I don’t see any bodies,” said Jennings as he continued to survey the bloodbath.

  “He’s right, I don’t see any either,” said Molina.

  “Me neither,” added Gonzalez.

  Suddenly, he felt especially vulnerable. It was not that it had taken the bodies, or why, but rather he considered how far it could have gone dragging the bodies of a team of grown men. Fully armoured and armed grown men, and the thought that it might not have gone very far at all made a chill run up his spine, leaving him feeling like every shadow concealed a lurking monster waiting to rip his head from his shoulders.

  There was something else. He had not noticed it at first, but it had been there the whole time, barely audible above the wind and the rough voice of the sarge. A steady, wet, dripping sound. He craned his neck, looking up to the rafters that crisscrossed the underside of the corrugated roof some six or seven metres above them.

  “I don’t think there are any survivors, Sarge,” he said under his breath. Everyone stopped and looked up. Molina blessed himself. Davenport vomited, and no one laughed. Most of them stood frozen in place by the sight of more than a half a dozen bright red, freshly skinned human bodies hanging by their ankles.

  *

  Jennings felt better as he operated the controls of the scissor lift and brought down another pair of bodies. Having a job to focus on took their minds off the horror, and while Sloan’s men were nothing more than a gang of thugs, they were still human beings. Cutting them down felt right. It felt human.

  “Yes, sir,” Heller spoke into his mic. “It’s a massacre. No survivors. No, no sign of the hostile. Wherever it went, it’s not here. Yes, sir, it’s bad. We need transport for…,” he did a quick count. “Nine casualties”.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Eight casualties, sir,” corrected Jennings as the lift brought them back to floor level. “The one at the end there is two halves of the same guy”.

  “Eight causalities,” he corrected into his mic.

  “Hey, we got a survivor. She’s one of us,” an excited voice interrupted as Private Lowry appeared around the corner of a shipping container, half-escorting half-dragging a female Marine.

  “She’s not a Marine,” corrected Jennings as he eyed up the small woman. All of the Marines knew each other by sight, and in the light, he could see her more clearly. Not only did he not recognise her, but the armour she was wearing was two sizes too large. A civilian? Why was she here? And why the hell was she dressed up like a Colonial Marine? The woman kept her eyes low as she continued to mumble something in Spanish.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am, do you understand me? Are you injured?” asked Heller. The woman did not acknowledge him, or any of the other Marines, and instead continued mumbling, or rather chanting, to herself.

  “Sir, we’ve got a survivor. Looks to be a civilian, made up as a Marine,” Heller gripped his mic as he spoke into it. “No, sir, I cannot explain that. She doesn’t appear to be hurt but she’s in shock. Non-communicative. Yessir.” He took his hand off his mic and addressed the squad. “Med team is on their way. They’ll take her and the bodies. Gonzalez, Molina, get those last two cut down. Davenport, Jennings, start bagging them. Lowry, stay with the woman. Just keep an eye on her. What’s she saying?”

  "She keeps saying ‘El diablo vino por ellas,’” said Molina, looking uncomfortable.

  “In English, Private,” growled Heller.

  “The Devil came for them,” said Jennings.

  “And here I thought it might have been something to worry about,” said Lowry with a humourless laugh, shaking his head.

  “Knock it off,” barked Heller. “Everyone, get to work. We’re out of here in five minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jennings nodded and stepped off the lift. He was glad for the change from cutting the bodies down. That had been especially difficult and unpleasant. Putting them in the makeshift bags was almost a relief in comparison. He exchanged a glance with Davenport, who had gone pale. He had been on the first trip up the scissor lift.

  “Let’s get this over with. You get the feet, I’ll get the shoulders,” said Jennings as he laid out the open tarp before walking around to the head end. Working his gloved hands under the armpits of the skinless corpse, he wondered if holding the ankles would have been less nauseating. He nodded to Davenport.

  “Three, two, one…”

  With a heave the skinless body coughed and convulsed, spitting a mouthful of blood before shaking violently. Wide, lidless eyes staring right into his. Davenport immediately dropped his end and stumbled back in horror.

  “Jesus Christ, he’s alive. Dear God, this son of a bitch is still alive!”

  *

  Sweat dripped from his forehead as Sanchez burst into Sloan’s office. The merc had been pacing back and forth with a cigarette, and looked up just in time to catch a right hook that knocked him to the floor.

  “Get up!” barked Sanchez. “Get up, you son of a bitch”. He was ready to hit him again. His nails dug into his palms as he fought the urge to do so. Angry as he was, he was not about to punch a man while he was down. Sloan shot him a cold look, and wiped the blood from his mouth before rising to his feet and tucking his shirt in, regaining a measure of composure.

  “Eight men. Eight men, Sloan. Goddammit, I told you what would happen. What the hell were you thinking?” he bellowed before pausing to catch his breath. The door was still open, and he turned to close it while Sloan lit a fresh cigarette, taking a deep, long drag.

  “Give me one of those,” he demanded, gesturing with his fingers. Sloan lit another and handed it to him as he paced back and forth.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” said Sloan.

  “I quit, twenty-five goddamn years ago,” he spat. “But recent events are making me restart some old bad habits.” He took long draw, holding it for a second before exhaling, allowing it to calm his nerves. A long silence passed between the two. Sloan sat leaning against the desk while he took another draw, and it was he who spoke first.

  “I haven’t been able to get consistent reports. What happened to my men?”

  “Seven are dead. Doc McTaggart tells me the eighth is in an induced coma, and probably won’t make it through the night. Based on what she told me about his injuries, that sounds like a goddamn mercy.”

  Sloan looked at the floor and took another drag.

  “It knows our blood now. Now it’s not going to leave,” he shook his head in frustration and disgust, and Sloan did not say anything. “There was something else,” he said quietly. “A survivor. A woman.”

  This time Sloan did look up. He would have been a good poker player, thought Sanchez. A real good one, but he wasn’t that good. He could not quite conceal the look of genuine concern on his face.

  “Yeah, you didn’t see that one coming, did you? She’s not a Marine, and I’m willing to bet my pension she’s not one of the civilian staff, either. I know for a fact she’s not one of Doctor Yau’s, and all of yours are male. That doesn’t leave many options now, does it? Doctor Cotillard is examining her just now. As soon as he gives the all clear, we’re taking her into protective custody for debrief, and I bet she has a lot of interesting things to say. Whatever you and Team Frankenstein are up to in there, I bet it’s illegal as all hell, and I’m about to find out what it is. When I do, you’re all going to prison.”

  The lights in the office turned deep red and an alarm began to wail, and he felt a deep rumble through his feet.

  What now, he thought as he pushed past Sloan and pressed the comm on his desk, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “Sanchez to Command, report.”

  “Sir, we have a breach, something just tore a three-metre hole in an outer wall.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “Delta Wing, sir.”