The moment we stepped through the shattered entrance, the darkness swallowed us whole. It wasn't just the absence of light; it was a physical presence, a cold, heavy blanket that clung to our suits. Our flashlights cut weak, trembling beams through the black, illuminating swirling motes of dust that danced like ghosts in the air. The temperature gauge on my wrist display dropped instantly.
"There is something wrong in this building," I whispered into my helmet mic. My voice sounded small, swallowed by the oppressive silence.
No one responded. The comms channel was dead, filled with nothing but the soft hiss of static. The dust storm. It must have hit, severing our link to the Captain and Sarge. We were alone.
We moved forward, our boots echoing on the metal floor. The corridor stretched ahead, featureless and cold. Then, our lights found a door on the left side. It hung from its frame, bent and broken, like it had been forced open from the inside.
Doc stepped closer, his flashlight beam tracing a sign above the entrance. "Вестибюль," he read, his voice tight. "Vestibyul. It means lobby. Or entrance hall."
"Huh? You mean this creepy-ass corridor isn't the entrance?" Bob's voice was laced with confusion.
"Maybe it was an exit path," I offered quietly.
"Maybe you're right, lil boy," Bob replied. The nickname was starting to feel less like an insult and more like a nervous habit.
I didn't answer. I just stepped through the broken doorway, and the breath caught in my throat. It was a cavernous space, a grand hall that seemed to stretch into infinity. In the center, illuminated by our bobbing lights, stood a reception desk. A heavy, closed shutter door loomed behind it on the far wall. And on the desk itself, a single computer monitor glowed with a sickly green light.
It was on.
Doc peeled off to the left, his flashlight sweeping the floor. Bob went right, his movements tense and alert. I walked straight ahead, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I approached the desk, I aimed my flashlight down. There, pooling beneath the reception counter, was a dark, brownish stain.
"Umm, Doc, Bob," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I found some dry blood."
They converged on my position, their lights joining mine, making the old stain seem even more grotesque.
"Well, I'll be damned," Bob muttered. "Look at that, lil boy. You didn't run screaming. I'm impressed."
Doc knelt, his gloved fingers carefully touching the stain. The fabric came away clean. "It's completely desiccated. On the Moon, with no atmosphere, it's impossible to tell how long it's been here. But one thing is clear," he said, his voice grave. "Something very wrong happened in this place."
I couldn't respond. I felt a cold dread seeping into my bones. I turned away from them, drawn to the glowing computer. Just as I reached it, a burst of static erupted in my helmet, followed by a fractured voice.
"Hello-bzzt-team, what-bzzt-find?" It was the Captain, his words barely coherent through the interference.
"Hello, Captain," Doc answered. "We've entered the building. We're in the main lobby. Private discovered a dried bloodstain under the reception desk. I'm sending a photo now."
I was only half-listening. My attention was fixed on the monitor. Lines of Cyrillic text scrolled by. I couldn't read a word of it.
"Private, what do you see on that computer?" the Captain's voice crackled.
"I don't know, Captain. I can't read Russian," I admitted.
"Let me see," Doc said, moving beside me. He scanned the screen for a moment. "It's just a log. A record of personnel who were stationed here. Nothing else."
He paused, his body going rigid. "Wait. Sarge's real name is Robert J. Watson, right? Why is there a 'Watson' family name in this file?"
"How the hell should we know?" Bob snapped. "Maybe it's just some Russian guy with the same last name. Or a half-American. Just drop it! Do you have any useful information?"
Doc ignored him, his gaze fixed on the screen. "No. There's nothing else." He stepped back, but I noticed he left the computer on, its green glow a beacon in the dark.
I looked past the desk. Our lights revealed three more doors at the far end of the hall. "Doc, can you read those signs?" I asked.
He pointed with his beam. "The left one is the Staff Office. The middle one is the Main Office." He paused, his light lingering on the rightmost door. "And the right one... it's an elevator."
"An elevator?" I murmured. "Is there a basement? Or a level above us?" A strange, gnawing feeling twisted in my gut.
"An elevator in a building with no power? That's bullshit!" Bob scoffed.
But he was wrong, and I think he knew it. The computer was on. The siren outside was still pulsing. This building had power. It was alive.
"Captain, which way should we go?" Doc asked.
Silence. Only static.
"Captain? Do you copy?" Doc tried again. Nothing.
"The storm must have scrambled our signal completely," I said, my eyes still scanning the shadows. "It's your call, Doc. Where do we go?"
"Just don't make a decision that gets us killed, Mr. Vice-Captain," Bob sneered.
Doc turned his head slowly, his helmet light fixing on Bob. He didn't say a word. He just stared for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then, he pointed a single, gloved finger at the middle door.
"The Main Office will have the most information. Mission records, blueprints, that sort of thing. We start there," Doc said, his tone final.
"Or maybe it's a trap," Bob whispered, a dark chuckle in his voice. "Maybe some killer robot or alien is waiting in there, using the files as bait. And when we walk in... pop! Our heads go flying like champagne corks."
"Shut the FUCK up, Bob!" I shouted, my fear boiling over into rage. "Don't you ever say that again!"
Bob raised his hands in mock surrender, his flashlight beam dancing wildly. "Alright, alright. Calm down, lil boy. I won't say it again."
We approached the Main Office slowly. The door was a slab of metal, seamless and imposing. Doc reached for the handle and pulled. It didn't budge.
"Great. It's locked from the inside," Bob groaned.
"We go to the Staff Office," Doc said without hesitation. He turned and walked away.
We followed, our footsteps echoing in the vast hall. But as we drew near the left-hand door, a sudden, violent sound exploded from within. A harsh, metallic CLANG, like a heavy piece of machinery slamming down. We all froze, our lights trained on the door.
"What the fuck was that?" Bob hissed, his voice barely a whisper.
I raised my AR-15, my finger trembling on the trigger guard. I moved towards the door, my boots feeling like they were made of lead.
"Easy, lil boy," Bob whispered from behind me.
Doc gave me a quick, silent signal with his hand. I nodded. He grabbed the handle, counted down with his fingers...
Three... two... one...
He yanked the door open, and I rushed in, sweeping the room with my weapon-mounted flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a chaotic scene of overturned desks and scattered papers. But what drew my eye was the massive printing machine in the corner.
It was running.
It was chugging away, spitting out page after page of paper, all on its own. The sound of its mechanical rhythm was the only noise in the room. Who had turned it on?
I continued my sweep, Doc and Bob close behind. The room was empty. But then, something dripped onto my visor. I wiped it away with my glove and looked at the smear.
It was red. Fresh.
I looked up. A dark, glistening stain was spreading across the ceiling panels. "Hey... there's blood up there," I whispered. "Fresh blood. I think... somebody was just killed."
My light found a stack of the freshly printed papers. Each one had the same single Russian word, stamped in stark black ink. I saw Bob nudge Doc and point. Doc picked one up, his hand trembling slightly.
"So rude," he muttered. Then he read the word aloud. "Убежать. Ubezhat. It means..." He paused, his voice catching in his throat. "Run."
"Run from what?" Bob asked, his sarcasm gone, replaced by genuine unease.
"How should I know, Bob?" Doc snapped.
We stood there, staring at each other's helmets, our breath loud in the enclosed space. The printing machine continued its relentless rhythm. The air felt thick and unbreathable. A fresh wave of static erupted in our ears.
"Bzzt... Hel-bzzt... team... how-bzzt... going?" It was the Captain again, his voice a ghost in the machine.
"Captain, you're breaking up," Doc reported. "We've cleared the lobby. There are three doors. We tried the Main Office first, but it's locked from the inside. We're now in the Staff Office. We found a running printer, and..."
"We found fresh blood on the ceiling, Captain," Bob interrupted, his voice urgent. "And every piece of paper in this goddamn room is printing the same word: Run."
"Could you... bzzt... photo the... bzzt... room?" the Captain's voice crackled.
"Sure," Bob said. He raised his arm, the camera unit clicking as he captured the scene. The flash froze us all in a stark, white tableau.
"I think we should leave this room. Now," I said, my voice tight. I gestured with my rifle. "This place has nothing we need."
"Hey! Keep that gun pointed at the floor!" Bob barked. "You almost swept me!"
"Sorry," I mumbled, lowering the barrel.
"Private's right," Doc said, already moving towards the door. "This room is a mess. There's nothing here for us. We move to the next door."
"To the useless elevator? Are you insane?!" Bob's voice was shrill.
"No. I'm not," Doc replied coolly.
"Whatever," Bob grumbled.
We practically fled the room. The air in the lobby felt marginally cleaner, but the darkness still pressed in. We moved towards the elevator door on the right, our flashlights stabbing at the shadows. As I swept my light down the long corridor we had first entered from, I froze.
There, in the darkness, at the very edge of my light's reach, a figure stood. A mannequin. It was leaning out from behind the corner of the corridor, its blank, featureless face turned directly towards us. Its posture was one of unnatural curiosity, as if it had been watching us the whole time.
"We've arrived," Doc announced, his voice jolting me back.
I jumped, a strangled yelp escaping my lips.
"What the hell?!" Bob shouted, his light snapping to my face, making me wince. "Why are you screaming?!"
I pointed a shaky finger down the corridor. "That... that mannequin! I just saw it. It scared me."
Both their lights joined mine, illuminating the figure. It stood perfectly still, its plastic skin seeming to absorb the light. "Damn," Bob whispered. "Since when is there a mannequin on the Moon? That's... not right."
"Guys, focus," Doc said, his voice sharp. "We're here."
Bob and I tore our eyes away from the unsettling figure and joined him at the elevator door. It was a heavy metal grate, similar to the one we had blown open.
"Why don't you just open it yourself?" Bob asked Doc, his impatience returning.
"Shut up, Bob," Doc replied.
He turned to me. "Private, open the door. And give me your handgun." He held out his gloved hand. "Two armed people are better than one."
I unholstered my sidearm and handed it to him, my hands feeling clumsy. Then, I grabbed the handle of the grate and heaved. It slid open with a shrieking protest. I peered inside and almost stumbled backward.
The elevator shaft was a black, bottomless pit. The car itself was gone. All that remained was a narrow emergency ladder bolted to the far wall, descending into the abyss.
"I guess the elevator's at the bottom," I said, my voice hollow. "It must have fallen." I pointed my light down, but the beam was swallowed by the darkness after a few dozen meters.
"Seriously? I am not climbing down that!" Bob declared.
I looked up, tracing the ladder. It too disappeared into the darkness above, but the rungs were broken and twisted just a few meters up. "We can only go down," I said.
"Damn. This doesn't look convincing," Doc murmured, peering over the edge.
"This is definitely 'Made in Abyss'," Bob muttered, a weak attempt at a joke.
Before anyone could respond, a sound erupted from behind us. It came from the Main Office. A deafening, rhythmic BOOM. The sound of something huge and impossibly strong trying to batter its way through the locked door.
BOOM.
The echo reverberated through the lobby, shaking the floor beneath our feet. The banging grew louder, more frantic, more violent. It was the sound of escape.
It was the sound of something getting out.
We exchanged one look—no words, just sheer, primal terror—and the decision was made in an instant. We scrambled for the ladder. Doc went first, then Bob. I followed, my hands slipping on the cold metal rungs. The sound of the pounding door grew fainter as we descended, but it never stopped. It echoed down the shaft, chasing us into the dark.
I saw a sign on the wall as we climbed down. A faded number: -50m.
But I couldn't focus. All I could think about was what was behind that door.
Finally, our boots hit solid ground. The shattered remains of the elevator car lay crumpled beneath us, a twisted cage of metal. We stepped onto its roof, our lights revealing the carnage within.
"Don't look, Private," Doc said quickly, but it was too late. I had already opened the emergency hatch on the roof of the car.
My flashlight beam fell into the interior, illuminating a scene of absolute horror. Bodies. Men and women, their spacesuits torn open, their frozen corpses mangled and broken. Their organs were scattered, a grotesque still-life in the pale light. My scream echoed up the shaft, raw and primal.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Bob shouted, his voice filled with shock and rage. "WHAT IS IT?!"
"Hey, Private, what's going on?!" Doc demanded.
I couldn't speak. I could only point. Doc looked, and his face went pale behind his visor. He quickly slammed the hatch shut, muttering a prayer under his breath.
"Let's go," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "We continue."
He didn't say another word. Bob was speechless. And I was left with the image of the dead, their empty eyes staring up from the iron tomb.
We had run from the mannequin. We had run from the sound. But I had a horrible feeling that the real nightmare was only just beginning.