CLACK, CLACK, CLACK. Charles and his crew's muddy, filthy boots echoed as they stepped onto the smooth floor.
Surrounded by a group of figures in black combat uniforms, Charles walked forward.
They were now in a massive, empty underground garage, yet not a single car was in sight.
The suffocating feeling in their lungs had eased considerably. It wasn't so much that the symptoms had lessened, but that they were simply getting used to it.
Diary in hand, Charles looked toward Seal at his side.
This was a burly man, standing six-foot-three, with blocks of muscle bulging beneath his gear. He had a broad, square face and steely eyes that radiated toughness from beneath short-cropped hair.
"Are you the Special Task Force? Judging by your gear, you seem well-equipped to handle all kinds of anomalies," Charles asked Seal.
The other man's eyes flashed with a hint of surprise, but he chose not to answer.
