[TRANSMISSION: 611-E - THE FLAME BENEATH]
CLASSIFICATION: HIGHEST RESTRICTION
_____________________
Signal Status: Classified / Large-scale disruption
Status: Active - Ongoing Monitoring
Notes: Multi-operator analysis required. Disturbing phenomena persist. Evidence of advanced weaponry confirmed.
Surveillance Image: 611-H
Source: 2730
8:31
The colonists scrambled to grab their loved ones, water, anything they could carry. Chaos struck like a storm, overtaking their desperate rush to safety. The PA system bellowed instructions, herding them like panicked ants toward the boarding gates. “Slower and elderly passengers, please move to the sides. All members will board.”
But frantic interruptions from handheld radios added confusion. “Sources vary. The information keeps changing; 20, maybe 30 ICBMs detected. Some over the Pacific, some over the Arctic. Seek shelter immediately. Targets unknown. Timing unknown. Sources vary. The information….”
As the last of the boarders filtered through scanners, the gates sealed, and the vessel quickly left Seattle, submerging itself upon embarking. There was no time to spare. Within minutes, a lingering neon backdrop lit up the sky, peppered with endless shards of ruin.
Insulated by miles of oceanic waters were the colonists who narrowly escaped their own genocide. Colony 606 was built to perfection; impenetrable walls, air and water filtration systems designed to last over 300 years. Waste management, pressurized food preservation storage, a gym, recreation center, every detail accounted for. AI-generated guides were programmed to meet the needs of at least 10 generations, tailored to serve them with precision.
The vessel moved slowly, methodically, anchoring itself in the most remote coordinates of the Pacific trench, remaining there for generations, until the machines rendered the surface habitable again.
**
Somewhere far from the sea and its swallowed secrets, another kind of quiet had taken hold.
Dusk fell quietly over a remote countryside cabin, miles away from a bustling marketplace. Inside sat its inhabitants, an unassuming couple with few cares for the outside world, further insulated by a recent outbreak of a puzzling disease.
Prior to the pestilence, they seldom worried about anything beyond the surrounding hills. Life was simple, until tonight, when something threatened to interrupt their dinner.
They sat quietly at a homemade dining table. The man gulped down a swig of warm moonshine, all the while stuffing his mouth with home-grown vegetables. His wife sat across from him, thoroughly enjoying her own bowl. Subsistence farming was standard, and with a high yield this week, their plates were full. A nice piece of roasted meat would have added a salacious touch, but nothing trapped that week was safe to eat.
Their utensils, although rudimentary, looked like something out of the Museum of Natural History. An ornately carved wooden ladle bore the man’s initials, FD. From what anyone could tell, it had one use: scooping moonshine into his sturdy stone mug. His wife studied his every move, giggling at his mannerisms and gentle handling of the ladle. He’d stop munching for a moment, give her that look, subtly telling her he was catching up on the inside joke, and let out a snicker of his own. Dinner was sacred: filled with laughter, knowing glances, and very few words between mouthfuls.
His attention to preservation and flawlessness always made her smile. Her attention to housekeeping did the same for him. Last month, she trapped more meat than they could store, taking the rest to market. But the tide of the unknown virus had just started rising. Word traveled slowly, but the virus quickly. Within hours of learning of it, it had infiltrated their town. None of the men or women of science had answers. Nor were they immune—no one was. The only cure to date was to rest and quarantine.
Still, the couple was strong, not yet holding life’s decisions in captivity because of age. Midway through dinner, the woman stood up gracefully. She pulled a heavy tray of spices off a makeshift shelf. Her mother’s initials, GZ, were carved in the middle. Despite her weak, twiggy legs, she moved swiftly. That is, until she noticed something scurrying in the dimly lit corner.
She froze. Slowly, she set the tray down, her gaze locked on the darkness. A grave silence spilled through the cabin, crippling the otherwise healthy couple. Her husband stopped chewing. There were no alarms, no instructions, no one to help. Survivalist instinct emanated from her stillness. A routine dinner quickly turned into a quest to save one another, on their own, armed only with the tools they used to prepare their meals.
She pointed to the unlit corner, growing darker by the minute. He wrapped his fingers around a long spear and cautiously moved toward the unknown creature. She motioned firmly, begging him to be careful.
Before he could make his move, the visitor scurried across the dirt floor, taking refuge in another darkened corner. A cold stare terrorized the couple into a neon green glow, lighting up the entire dwelling. The visitor shook in horror at the ungodly sight. Beads of sweat formed in the creases of his forehead, slowly becoming drops pouring down the sides of his face.
They saw their opportunity. She threw the heavy tray at him, forcing him to block it. With his head unguarded, her husband swung the spear, landing a perfect shot. Blood sprayed across the wall, leaving both to gasp in horror and become as close to self-combustible as possible. The temperature in the room quickly rose to 102°, but dread loomed.
The visitor staggered, blinded by his own blood, clawing at his uniform in desperation. But it was to no avail. The room was filled with pungent odors, a scorching heat, a frightful flare.
The woman grabbed the stone mug and crashed it down onto the back of his head, splitting his skull cleanly in half. Both breathed a sigh of relief, but it was temporary. They had to act quickly. The virus, if carried, would assuredly spread, even in the heat. If it had, they were doomed.
The man bathed his hands in what was left of the moonshine and retrieved a knife. Blood was unavoidable. Still, he started with the uniform. They proceeded to flip the visitor’s naked body over, examining its torso. There were no signs of the virus, but they couldn’t be too cautious; they had to persevere.
She nodded in approval as he drove the knife through Corporal Lance Sheffield’s lifeless body and carried it over to the glowing green flame in the cooking area. He toasted the corporal for no more than 30 seconds. The fresh blood, it was widely believed, would help build up their immunity to the virus. His thick, strong bones, although comparatively tiny, would help strengthen their bones. The rest of him would provide them with a much-needed source of protein on a night when the hearty vegetables were now strewn across the floor and no longer edible.
The battle was won, but it would be short-lived. Soon, the colonists would come in masses, most of them carrying the virus, ready to rebuild. The unwelcoming hosts will vanish, along with their innocence. Not by the genocidal weapons their ancestors once forged, but by something equally devastating. Once this race of humble, incandescent beings is gone, the colonists will rebuild again—utensils, dwellings, and their own traps.
END TRANSMISSION