CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Germans built six underwater bunkers during WWII. Some of them, are still active" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 31, 2023

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Darkly_Gathers: https://www.reddit.com/user/Darkly_Ga...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

The festival season is Aangbroken, and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to combe On the same to get a waterdict A comfortable luget,

Oh, so, Knus, and Luipartprint Regalarze. Miao! Now, now he'll keep Kim not sure to make over the modder,

just like that that's the dancing the modder man that, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah,

only modder. DROG blithe? Goar for. Find what you need you need to on Amazon.com. I'm at work. This weekend, I'm all moose

I'm not as I'm on thinking. Oh, that dossier that morning off must, I'm all moose if I'm just a little bit of a dayl tournoe I'm on moose if I're not on thinking. Have you it to come up on going to come? Give yourself then a boost

with biocure Maxshot Liquid. Three op-uppending plants magnesium, iceer. An energy booster to make sure to can't get to

can't getllom. Biocure Macshot liquid. Foodingsupplement Recreig by the apotheker Ball shake The secretive mechanisms of the machine Rattle all around us Muted like distant thunder

The six of us are gently rocked Highly conscious of the reverberations It sounds so far away Zimon mutters in his thick Polish accent I lock up at him Kim responds with an uneasy chuckle I was just thinking the same thing. The two smile at each other.

Reassurance, I think. She glances at me, then adjusts her weapon. I reach her hand to my forehead to rub away her thin sheen of sweat. Before embarking on this particular mission, I did not admit to the others the intensity of my claustrophobia. I grimace and look around. at the windowless inner walls of the submarine, and I try not to think about the enormity

of the weight of the water above our heads, the weight growing heavier and heavier by the minute, as we sink deeper and deeper into the depths of the Atlantic. Ten minutes still docking, wobbles a distorted voice through the overhead speaker, accompanied by a dim red light. An unseen cloud of anxiety flows through the caverns, cabin-like gas, and I scratch my jaw, discomfited and unsettled. It reeks in here.

It smells like rank, stale pool water, and sweat. Sweat with metallic undertones. Simon slides off his glasses, then rubs them on the material of his military fatigues, to little success. He mutters something to himself in Polish as he pushes them back up onto his nose. The six of us have very different backgrounds. But what we share is our common station, a NATO barracks at the edge of Germany. Nearly time now, says the man to my left. Blaine, a Scotsman who lives in my quarters. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?

I raise my eyebrows at him and give him a grim half-smile, but no one replies directly. To his left is Rudy, an American keen to tell anyone who will listen about his German heritage, despite having O'Reilly as a last name, which I get some personal amusement from. I'm married to a German myself, a wonderful woman called Nina, but the only actual German natives amongst us this evening are Kim and Mani. Kim's a good friend of Nina's, though we're not actually actually. particularly well acquainted. I see her around the barracks but we don't have much in common. When we speak, we tend to speak about my wife, which aside from the army is our only real point of shared investment. Kim sometimes jokes that she knows Nina better than I do. I'm not sure how I feel about such jokes, but she's nice enough.

beside her is the other German born and bred and that's Manny currently snoozing Manny's an old boy a grandson in fact of one of the men who helped from the installations we're about to visit he's sleeping for now

not sure how he manages it but he's a trooper I look down at my boots and reflect on the objectives at hand. Exit the submarine, enter into the bunker, gather intel, report back. Simple enough, I suppose. But the bunker is one of several. A relic from the Second World War and kindly left behind by the Germans near unreachable at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. There aren't many pictures of these bunkers and of the pictures that do exist. It's difficult to determine scale or size.

But by all accounts, the bunkers are monstrous things. Massive installations of concrete and metal, and God knows what else, spread in a rough half circle around the entrance to the Mediterranean. Earlier today, the Sixthus flew out from Gaila Kirshan, transferred the submarine at the Lysan Naval Base, and it's been a long, miserable ride west from there. Every team that goes to the bunkers reports back the same thing. That there are no major threats.

There's nothing to be found of interest. And since they're causing no environmental damage and pose no strategic threat, NATO might as well leave them be. Operations out into the ocean to destroy and clean up the wreckage are expensive and time-consuming. And let's face it, there's always something more important to deal with and some forgotten concrete halls at the bottom of the sea. Some busy-bosy NATO penpusher must have noticed the bunkers were years overdue a visit, I guess, kicked up a fuss, and so the papers were shuffled and pawns moved around the board.

And here we are. On the way down. Down, into the deep. I try not to think about the tight, metal confines of the submarine. I pray that I'll be afforded more space to move and think and breathe when we're actually inside the bunker. The little red light by the speaker flicks back into life and the jumbled voice comes through once again, this time louder with a whip-like electronic crackling. Five minutes to go, it says as I start with alarm.

Mani is frightened out of his sleep with a gasp and a raspy exclamation. He splutters out a name that I do not recognize, one that means nothing to me. Friedrich, he calls out into the gloom, jumping to his feet in panic. I hear some of the bones in his legs click as he does so. Jesus, Simon mutters, reaching a hand to his chest. Scare the life out of me. The eyes in the submarine regard manny, warily. This is not the first time he has had such an outburst.

Friedrich, Manny mumbles again, looking around the vessel at his fellow passengers, expression glazed, confusion marked across his face. Kim reaches up for his arm. The dreams again, Manny, she asks, gently beckoning him back down. Annie just stares at her for a moment, then relents, slowly sinking back onto the bench, rubbing at the grey around his temples wearily. Yes, apologies. I don't know what comes over me.

They've been getting worse. What was it this time? Kimmy asks him. He shakes his head. It's already fading, but I believe it was similar to before. The people I saw in the dreamscape were none that I've actually met. I do not recall having ever seen them. Not in this life.

In my dream, however, I knew them. I knew them. They were important to me. We were in a field of long grass and there was a young man, Friedrich. He was going to war. Kim chose a cheek a little as she considers this. I don't think I expected him to come back, Manny says quietly as the submarine rumbles. I knew that it was being sent to his death. They're connected to your grandfather, Kim says with self-imposed certainty. I'm sure of it. That's why they're getting worse. Ever since you volunteered to come on the mission, your subconscious knew you'd be getting closer to him. To his place of work.

Load of bull crap. Rudy chimes in, his hair flopping as he leaned forward over his gun. Kim, you've got to stop with this supernatural nonsense. It's all in your mind. Manny. In fact, Kim, you hit the nail on the head just now. It's all in your subconscious, man. Just let it go. It'll be some repressed German guilt or something. He chaps a finger towards Manny and throws his brow. I've said it before and I'll say it again. You aren't guilty of any kind of World War II crimes just because his granddaddy was an SS officer or whatever.

Mani sighed, wearily. He reaches his hand. into a pocket and produces a handkerchief, which he used to dab his forehead. I'm well aware of this, he responds dryly. My grandfather was not in the SS, but I appreciate your passion on this matter. Damn straight, Rudy replies, leaning back in his seat. Blaine and I exchange a look. I can empathize at least a little with Manny's internal struggle, regarding his German grandfather, I mean.

my wife shares his burden, as her own great-grandfather was a colleague of his. They both work together in a close capacity, I am told, or at least that's what the records indicate. Prepare for docking, crackles the voice through the speaker, and for a second or two the light in the submarine falters, shrouding us all in temporary, sickly darkness. I suppress a shudder as we get ready to disembark, and the rumbling all around us wavers intermittently between louder and quieter, louder and quieter. The sounds of the engine rise to the greatest volume since we left the port at Lisbon,

then fade to a soft and steady background murmur. Lane rises to his feet. Let's check this place out then, eh? first bunker. Reckon we'll find anything fun. Zeman joins him, stretching as he does so. I doubt it. They rec on this place every what, ten or so years, and they've never brought back anything interesting. I doubt we'll see any more than a collection of dusty World War II ruins. You don't find that interesting? I ask as I prepared to disembark. morbid sure but not even a little interesting

Zeman makes a noise of disgust and mutters something to himself I find no interest in the droppings of vermin he says and turns away the cynic in me sees Zeman shoot a quick glance at Manny before he does so and this cynical part of me is keen to interpret it with dark thoughts but that would do the man a disservice Zeman is a good fellow, hardworking.

Blaine heads through the narrow inner body of the submarine towards the ladders, and Zeman follows on behind. Behind him goes Rudy, flicking his hair from his face, and he's followed by Kim and Mani. Mani places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a tired smile as he passes me by. I return it, then, with a deep sigh. I say goodbye to this room in the submarine for now. I'm looking forward to a little more space to breathe. One by one we ascend the ladders and out through the circular hatch in the submarine's roof. I allow in a great long full of air as I do so, squinting through the darkness as I fumble for my torch,

switching it on and joining its yellow gold beam with the others. We stand on the cold metal roof of the submarine, half visible, protruding like an iron whale from the black waters below, lapping hungrily at its sides. Ahead of us is a steel rail and a vast concrete platform that extends into shadow. The bunker from the inside has the look of an enormous hangar. Kim taps my shoulder, then gestures up towards the back of the hall. closer to the ceiling, and I follow her gaze and raise my light. Our beams fall upon a colossal eagle carved into a sheet of rock, itself embedded in concrete. The eagle is angular and cold, as it sits proudly upon its logo.

Seaman crosses himself and spits into the water, before taking a few long steps and leaping from the edge of the submarine's roof to the concrete platform, his boots scraping against the side. He hauls himself up with the aid of the steel rail, and we listen to the sounds of his boots against the ground as he looks for the mechanism which will release a bridge for safer passage. He was in the file, so it shouldn't be too hard to find. I glanced down into the water below. The smell of salt is thick in the air.

I am unable to keep from my head the fleeting thought of a sudden slip, of tumbling down into that dark and quietly rippling water, and softness a dark mask to conceal the terror of its icy depths, an unforgiving pull hidden away beneath. I shiver and look away. A few cold moments pass, and with the eventual rattling of gears and springs, a bridge begins to extend from the sight of the sight of.

of the concrete out towards our spot on the sub. Lane tests it first, and then one by one we cross, joining Simon on the platform proper. We begin to cross the floor, making our way towards the gritted double doors at the hall's far end. At present only gloomy rectangles in the distance. I feel very small in here, even as a part of a team of six, I can't help but feel. Insignificant, dwarfed by the intensity of this deserted lair. This is a sick place, many say is in a low voice. His eyes flashed momentarily as a straight beam of light passes across his face.

Do you feel it, Oliver? After a beat, I nod in agreement. There is something wrong here. Something on a level I can't quite grasp. Just yet. I glance up to the eagle as we walk beneath it. This is no passing fancy historical sight. Are you all right? I ask him. Yes, he replies.

For now. I don't know exactly why many volunteered for this mission. He's the only one who volunteered for one thing. The rest of us was simply ordered. I think he pulled some strings and cashed in some favours, convinced the brass he'd be of use, given his knowledge of, an experience in decommissioning warmer German World War II sites and places of... Relevance.

It's true what Kim was saying earlier as well. His grandfather was prominent in World War II. Vanished without a trace one day. There's no reference. record of his death, but he did work down here, at least for a time, that much is known. One of the first recon teams down to this bunker recovered some old files. Mani's grandfather was one of the listed names found within. You reckon we'll find any bodies?

Flane calls back over his shoulder, just a little too loud for the environment. I cringe, but Rudy replies, undeterred. I should think so. I find myself a nice skull to take home as a souvenir. We reach the metal double doors at the end of the hall, and with a look round the group, Lane presses his shoulder against them and forces one open. We slip through the gap in formation, checking down the long, dark corridors that branch out before us and beside us, disappearing into the void on our left and to our right.

No, many says, his voice echoing down between the walls. The reports made no notes of anybody's found, German or otherwise. Whatever they were doing here, they didn't stick around. So then where did they go? Simon ponderes aloud, arcing his weapon around as he steps into a deserted room nearby, perhaps once used for briefings or meetings. They wouldn't have just vanished into the room. thin air. We might see a body, Kim says. The group looks at her. A man was killed during the last

expedition, a soldier, French, I think. Oh yeah, Rudy mutters, rubbing his nose. How'd that happen again? Freak accident, right? That's right, Blaine says. That's what I was talking about, really. Apparently the poor bugger got knocked clean cold by a falling pipe. Might have been a ceiling panel or something actually, but whatever. The report read that he was face down and drowned in a puddle. When the rest of his team found him, they didn't have the capacity to remove the fallen material, so they were forced to just leave him down here. Don't believe who's ever recovered.

Since were the first guys to walk these corridors in over a decade. So they just left him down here, Simon asks. That's cold. Inhumane almost. I don't think they had a choice, sigh. Kim says, nudging his arm. Maybe we'll have to leave you down here. Hey, not funny, he says, but he chuckles as he does so.

I'm not particularly amused myself. To tell the truth, I feel sick. Unless they're hiding it better than we are, it's possible that only many and myself are actually comprehending the weight of the monstrosity of this place. The others haven't really thought about it, I don't think. But we're in one of six bunkers. This particular one is the easiest to reach supposedly, so it's the one that command keeps sending their teams to. But something of this size, something as massive as they. this, hidden away in the darkness at the bottom of the ocean. It's hiding a secret, a terrible,

frightening secret, and I don't even know what it is. The place is cold and chills ripple across my exposed skin as I glance from left to right, peering into the shadows of the open doorways as we walk the length of the central corridor, deeper into the middle of the complex. Strategically, a bunker like this would be better off in the Mediterranean, surely. Shallower waters for easier construction, position between Italy and Libya, for instance, for maximum tactical value. But the Germans took the time and troubled to construct it out here in the Atlantic. And for what? Why would they do this?

Where did they go? And what exactly did they leave behind? Silence falls across the group. There is no sound but the clamping of our boots. The long low breaths of my comrades echoes round the walls. At the very edge of my hearing, a noise shivers fast down the length of the hall. My heart rate quickens and my ears sharpen. The simple creak of an old structure, I should think,

but it almost sounds like whispering. an almost imperceptible whisper at a very threshold of sound. It's so faint, however, that I decided not to bring it up for fear of looking like an idiot, but I share another pointed look with Kim just beside me. She heard it too. Maybe the others did as well. I glanced to my left as Blaine pulls his mask up and around his nose and mouth. Simon crosses himself and Mani rubs his forehead. I see that it is covered in beads of sweat.

We press on. We'll head to the central room, then we'll split into two teams. Blaine says through his mask. We get this bunker checked out. We reconvene. He's met with murmurs of assent as we pushed through another set of double doors, smaller this time. And then, and then, we're not. step into some kind of lobby. Mani produces a map and unfolds it, and it becomes clear that this lobby will, if we continue, head through the complex's centre. We are halted, however, by the strength of our own sudden awe. We stand in the entrance to a wide room with a high, domed ceiling. The walls around us are covered, much to our surprise, and plaques and paintings, and in the room's middle, is a now dead fountain, the centrepiece of which

is a colossal statue, or series of statues, depending on your perspective. I crane my neck, struck with disbelief. The statue depicts three men of varying age, with expressions solemn and eyes pure white. A long and fish-like serpent carved from the same foundation winds itself, but between and around them, way up towards the ceiling, its jaws wide and teeth sharp. A dark circular symbol can be seen on the foreheads of each of the three men, stark against the relative paleness of their stone skin. De Schwartz-Sone, many mutters, taking a step towards the shadow.

He is hauntingly small by comparison. The black sun, Simon repeats. staring up at the centrepiece with horror. What does it mean? Rudy asks, glancing around the group. And what the hell is this thing anyway? It ain't in the damn report. You'd think at least one of the teams would have mentioned seeing something like this.

The Black Sun was one of the many symbols utilized by the SS. Many replies, still staring up at the great statues. It has been employed by many cultures, but, in this instance, It was the symbol of the Villezburg Castle. He turns to us. The dark home of the German World War II foray into the occult, led by none other than Heinrich Himmler. German occultists?

Rudy responds. Then he puts out a hand and makes a dismissive gesture. No, no, come on. Don't messingly with that suminatural nonsense again. We're dealing with people here. Just ordinary, evil people. He shoots another lock-up to the statue of the three men, and the creature. Well, he falters.

Maybe not that ordinary, but you catch my drift. Seaman grunts and shakes his head. Not ordinary, and not people. This place is the husk for a den of long-dead rats. Look, come on, man. I get you hate them. You aren't alone in this, but open your eyes. Rudy throws an arm out to the statues beside him.

You aren't even a little impressed, or at least, I don't know, curious? Seaman scoffs then walks away, turning his back to the statue as he continues his passage round the perimeter of the room. I take another long look at the statue, then head around on its left-hand side, the opposite to Simon. I come up alongside Blaine, admiring a painting, and I stand beside him. I read a little plaque on the wall, one celebrating a visit made this bunker by Himmler in 1941, and then I consider the painting.

It is housed in a frame of dark, rich wood, which is comprised of a host of grim, swirling colours. The scene, despite its lack of vibrancy, is vivid and powerful. It depicts a churning sea, an enormous feels as if I'm there myself. In a way, I suppose I am, here in this bunker at the bottom of the ocean. The waves are grey and black and tinged with the darkest of blues, frothing angrily as they crows. crash and cascade into and over each other. At the paintings far left is the silhouette of a shadowed city of ruins, protruding faintly from the surging sea and lost behind the spiraling clouds overhead.

I'm vaguely aware of a low conversation taking place between Simon and Kim, somewhere far behind me, but in the moment they are overwhelmed by the impossible roars of these silent waves. A lighthouse stands at the far right of the painting, its beacon and eye, and the flash of painted gold looks out over the storm and casts a lone solemn beam towards the fallen city. The lighthouse, upon closer inspection, is comprised of bodies. Hundreds and hundreds of broken bodies intertwined with torturous new purpose. It's awful, isn't it? Blaine murmurs, and I'm snapped back to reality with a blink.

Yes, I reply after a beat. Glancing down to the little silver tag embedded in the painting's frame. The nine thousand, it's called. Or in English, a thousand. Awful, I repeat. But still, I, Blaine grunts, it's a question. It's a quality painting. There's a pause.

Not something I'd ever hang up in my bloody bedroom, though, personally. I chuckled dryly, and we move on. Our footsteps are heavy against the concrete below. Rudy made a point just now, I say out loud as we walk. Lane waits for me to continue. He said that the statue, this whole room actually, is entirely omitted in the reports. This is meant to be an uninteresting, unassuming lobby.

Instead, it's filled with intricate paintings and giant statues. Why wouldn't this have been mentioned? Seems obvious to me, mate. Plain replies, because despite what Simon says, this stuff is interesting. And when somebody finds something mysterious and interesting, everyone in their grandma wants to come and have a look. He hoists his gun a little higher,

clears his throat. I'm guessing that this was all omitted because the recon teams decided they didn't want people coming down here. I swallow. And why would they do that? Hmm? I ask him rhetorically.

Why wouldn't they want anyone else coming down? Why keep it all so cryptic and silent? Lane shrugs, couldn't say. There's something wrong down here. I mutter. I'm sure. of it. Something very, very wrong. And every part of me hates this place. Aye, Glane says. I've started

feeling a little like that myself. It's getting worse, actually. The deeper in we go. I nod. We're going to find something terrible down here. I finish. But to this, Blaine says nothing. Leaving the statues and the defunct fountain behind, we push through the door. at the hall's opposite end and head through into a long wide room with two simple doors. We are joined by the others. The door on the left has a plaque that reads, Their control arm, and the door on the right is marked only with the same symbol on the foreheads of the stone giants. The black sun.

My stomach turns as a look upon it, and a wave of cold nausea passes through me. My heart rate quickens, and I roll my shoulders, attempting to release some built-up tension. Mani brings a hand up to his head and gasps, and the group turns to him. Mani, Kim says with a concern, are you all right? Mani pats a hand, then steps away, a little closer to the control arm. I keep seeing, he falters. I am seeing in my head what I can only describe as

flashes of memory but the memories are not mine he gestures to the control ram door there is a man in there he says simply Ben looks back at us

a dead man I believe he rubs the side of his forehead and I've also come to believe that I was wrong earlier I no longer think this place is entirely deserted. He points to the door. A man's last memories are held behind that door. He strides towards it.

Mani? Rudy calls out. Wait! But the man does not. He approaches and grabs the handle, swinging the door outwards into our corridor and shines inside his beam of light. He steps into the room

and we follow him inside. Christ, Blame mutters as we enter. I guess you found your German skull, Rudy. Why don't you go and grab it up? Rudy doesn't respond. He simply looks down at the sight before us. A skeleton surrounded by dust and empty cans

slumped back in a chair against the wall. The bones are wrapped up in the threads of an old German World War II uniform. None of this is supposed to be down here, Rudy says eventually. Why do you command keep all this stuff from us? It's not command, Blame replies, echoing our earlier conversation. It's the recon teams. The recon teams write the reports.

So why omit all this? Rudy says as he throws up his hands. I don't get it. This ain't no ordinary bunker, and I think we've all realized that by now. Kim ignores him. What is it, Mani? She asks, as the man crouches down beside the skeleton. Mani regards the remains of the skeleton.

He looks down to the brown banded book on the desk beside him, and he considers the iron cross on the front of the uniform. A hint of a chain could be seen spilling from one of the front pockets, and Mani reaches over to take hold of it. Hey, should you be doing that? Rudy asks. But many continues, and slowly draws from the uniform a golden locket in the shape of an oak leaf. He turns it over in his hands. I know this man, he says simply,

What do you mean? Kim asks. His name is hands. He has a wife and a young son, a son who was no older than 11 or 12 at his death. I don't suppose he'll be that young anymore. Manny, playing grunts, giving the skeleton's boot a light kick. A cloud of fine white dust burst out into the room. I imagine he looks like his father here. Mani sits the locket on the desk, and Kim reaches out to open it up.

Inside is a picture of a square-jawed soldier with closely cropped hair. Beside him is a woman dressed in the style of the 1930s. the picture in the locket's other half is of a young boy the couple's son by the look of him geez rudy murmurs with dismay looking from the picture to manny and back manny manny how did you know that

manny stands back up with a small grunt his legs creaking as he does and he takes the journal on the desk up into his hands it begins to carefully leaf through the pages. Even though it likely belonged to a monster of a man, it begins. I can never bring myself to be anything but gentle when it comes to books. I was instilled into me a deep respect for the written word. He cautiously turns to the first page and points to the name that has been written in the front margins.

Hans, it read. Yes, Mani says quietly, This is him. Ziman and Blaine have begun to rummage to the room, searching through papers and charts and various records. Most of the files have been emptied, and those that remain seem to detail only the structural side of the complex, aspects of the engineering and the architecture,

though nothing can be found about the purpose of, or meaning behind the intricate statutes. choose in the central lobby. As Kim and Rudy and I talk lowly amongst ourselves, and as Manny begins to read through the journal, Ziman takes a little time to skim through a letter he finds amongst the others, ducked away on a shelf. He snorts and shakes his head, then holds the paper up for us. Look, take a look at this, he says, slapping the paper down onto the desk beside the skeleton. Have a read, he says, before jabbing his finger onto a couple choice lines.

This was written by the German commander of the bunker, he says, by my guess, and it's directed at our little rat hands here. What is it? asks Kim, as she leans over to read. It's a promise, a false promise, that they will return for him. Simmon mutters, I promise that his comrades will come back for him when they're able. From where? Blaine asks, and Simon shrugs. It does not say, does it matter?

It was clearly a lie. He kicks the legs of the skeleton a little harder than Blaine, and the skeleton slumps lower down in its chair with another accompanying cloud of dust. They clearly lied to him. He did his duty like a good little soldier and stayed behind as who, God knows what. And they forgot all about him, and he died alone in his chair at the bottom of the sea. He got off lightly, seeming grimaces and kicks the thigh of the skeleton as hard as he can.

And with a shower of white mist, the skeleton crumbles and collapses into a pile on the floor. For goodness sake, what do you do that for? Rudy splutters and coughs. Idiot. Don't talk to me like that, Simon retorts, then leaves the room shaking his head. Mani waves a hand around his face, dispersing the dust, squinting as he scans the pages of the mysterious journal. Simmons' guess seems to be right, he says, as he turns the pages of the journal. This man's job was to keep the power running.

He was an engineer and was, it would seem, tasked with repairing and maintaining the system, to prioritize where the energy should go. He points to a passage written near the bottom of one of the pages. You can read this, Mani? Rudy asks. To his credit, the journal is written not only in German, but in intricate cursive. Mani nods. Of course. He points again to the passage,

and I do my best to read what is written as Mani continues. Here he begins speaking about a necessary diversion of power and how he dislikes how cold the bunker has become. He also makes references to fixing and repairing. What kind of guy was he? Rudy asks. He was full of pride, Mani says, as he carefully turns the pages. It says he was one of several volunteers for this role. He was happy to do his duty.

It gave him purpose. We are quiet for a moment as Manny turns the pages. Hans expressed in this journal his excitement at being reunited with comrades. That despite the loneliness, he knew that they would return for him when Hall was ready. That he too would see the truth. That he would keep the power going for as long as they needed. Wait, hang on, Blaine interrupts. This guy kept the power on?

For how long? And for what? Why exactly was he keeping this place active? There is a pause, and Blaine looks around the room. Is it still active? To this, of course, we have no answer. That's a good point, though, says Kim. Does it say what the purpose of the bunker is in there, Mani?

Does Hans write about what? why he had to keep the power on, Mani chooses tongue in thought. He flicks through another couple of pages. His writing is somewhat cryptic in that regard. Perhaps he feared that the journal would anger his superiors, a potential breach of state secrets. He writes only that his work, ongoing,

was to protect. He points to a sentence at the bottom of a paragraph. Despite the calligraphyography, The words are quite clear. The 9,000 many reads aloud, and a chill shivers across my body. The festival season is aangbroken, and that betekent, and so, ging Kim to Amazon.com.com.

On look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luch bed, oh, so, knus, and lupart print regalards. Miao! Now, Kim, no worry more to make over the mudder. Just like that dancing the muddermann there. Oh, wait just even. Has he now only mudder on? Oh, yeah, only mudder.

Drowg-blown? Goar for. Find what you knowdick on Amazon.com.com. I made cold eye contact with Blaine. Many, I begin. But the man continues. He grew angry. Many mutters, turning page after page,

scanning them as quickly as he can. Hans, he grows impatient and becomes guilty because of his impatience. He's frustrated, anxious. Yes, here he notes his fear. He expresses true worry for the first time. Worry that they will not return for him before his supplies are exhausted. Mani's eyes dart from left to right across the page. We watch him do so.

I find that my heart has begun to pound. And eventually, Mani turns to the final. entry. Many regards us one by one, then reads the passage aloud. I resent what I have done, Mani reads, and I now question if I have been made a fool, and if my superiors were either unable or unwilling to return. It matters not which is the truth, but they demonstrate the same ends. And besides, it is too late. This is likely to be my last entry. What could have happened?

If, as promised, my life was destined to be part of something truly greater, then I would have not been left behind like this and forgotten. I have given everything to the cause, and now the end approaches. I will not be granted a passage to the truth. Maybe I deserve this fate. I once considered de end thousand to be animals. perhaps they still are vermin and of a lower

standing than myself but even if this were true to do what we have done even to animals no animal deserves such torment surely human or otherwise I cannot shut the project down even though it might force

my comrades return I do not know what they face I cannot betray them not now I have come come too far. And so, as this is the path I have chosen, I don't doubt I'll be made accountable for my crimes. Not in this life. If not in this life, then the next. To shut the project down would be to admit that it was all for nothing, and I cannot do this. I must do what I believe

to be right. Manny finishes reading aloud. then closes the journal with a dull thud, placing it back on the desk. Dian Towsend, Kemp repeats, aloud. What could it be? I have a theory or two, Manny begins, but he is again interrupted. Zeman leans around the open doorway, his expression dark. No need, Manny, he says. I believe that I have found it.

He disappears, and he disappears. hurriedly we follow on, leaving the control room behind and catching Ziman up as he passes through the second door, the one marked with a black sun. We step into an enormous room, shrouded and flickering green and watery light. Zimman strides to the room's middle, and his shadow is thrown out long behind him across the floor. Oh, Kim murmurs, a breathing growing shallow. and shallower beside me. Oh no, oh no. My eyes widen, and I take a step forwards,

caught in the clutches of terror. Wayne swears and Rudy does likewise, running across the room to catch up with Zimon. Despite the cold, Mani is now sweating profusely, and I can seem shaking in the corner of my field of vision. But each and every one of us stares at the towering centrepiece of the hall. There is no statue. We stare at a monstrous, translucent box of thick glass,

refracting its green inner light across our faces, across the walls, bizarre and ever-shifting shapes and shards. It bubbles softly, it whers, and pipes overhead creak warily in the darkness. It is a tank of sorts, filled to the brim with an unknown green liquid, and inside, drifting like wraiths, as if caught in the wind, are hundreds and hundreds of bodies. They're nude, warped. Their eyes are completely blank, shimmering green through the liquid. Through the light, their mouths hung open and figs with expressions of shock, or of silent, horror perhaps. Bubbles form across their skin. Many of the drifters have developed tendrils or frills that float behind them like the arms of a jellyfish. I look at the faces behind the glass.

It's difficult to make them all out, but I get the strong impression that some are old and some are young, some are male and some are female. These are people from all walks of life. And here they are, drifting in the shimmering green light of the tank, way down here with us, beneath the waves. The enthousand, many whispers, the tank thrums and whirs, the bodies within drift aimlessly across and around in the fractal green light of the water. Although it won't be water, of course, it'll be something else, some other substance. I step closer to the glass, my heart hammering. I've never seen anything like this before, of course. None of us have.

I peer into the tank. I study as best I can the phases of the corpses within. Oh, are they corpses? I squint. They make me feel ill. The distortion of the glass and the light and the liquid makes it difficult to tell if the people inside are breathing, but they certainly don't appear alive in the traditional sense.

Their expressions are fixed in place. Dark veins have crept up their host's neck and have begun to streak across their faces. Whenever I think I can see a twitch in a muscle or in one of those mutated veins, I am met with a doubt that it was perhaps nothing more than trickery in the light. Watching them all drift by, it makes my head spin.

I release a breath I'd forgotten I was holding, and retreat with a hand on my forehead. This is it, right? Rudy says, turning back to face the group, looking rapidly between us. This is the thousand, the entousand. I think about the painting I saw back in the lobby, and I meet the gaze of Blaine beside me. It's clear his thinking about the same thing. Rudy swears and runs his hand through his hair.

I didn't sign up for this man. Simon unclasps and raises his weapon. He takes a step forward. Hey, hey! Rudy calls as voices rise around the group. Wait, many bellows, his voice cutting through the clamor. An uneasy quiet holds the group in check for a moment And Manny speaks

Let's all just calm down We are trained professionals Act accordingly A frown flickers across his face And he winces Furrowing his brow As sweat begins to leak down past his hair line Manny

Kim says reaching out But Mani gently shakes his head walking towards the tank. What does it do? Kim ponder's aloud, her eyes wide. I mean, what's it for? There was a painting in the room with the statues, I say to her and the group.

It was called The Thousand. It showed a lighthouse made of people looking out over a storm. And there was a city, Lane adds, as we approached the nearest. glass wall of the tank, or at least I think it was. Hard to tell. Ruins really. Dark and broken spires. There was a painting with the same name on the other side of the hall too. See my nads, it showed a ruin from above and the layout of the ruin was the same as the black sun. The alien green light reflects off his glasses and obscures his eyes. The shape was surrounded by six golden eyes.

reach the edge of the glass. A large metal panel had been embedded here, easily taller than myself, and is connected to a series of pipes and mechanisms, many of which feed through the floor. A plaque of golden black has been screwed into the panel. It depicts a faded brown photograph alongside a name, and what appears to be a handprint, alongside a list of details written in German. The name is that of Manny's grandfather, and he reveals this to the group. Damn, Rudy mutters, this is insane.

Playing grunts, I see some resemblance, Mani. Perhaps a little, Mani says, his eyes scanning the information recorded here, though personally, I've always felt I take more after my. my mother's side of the family. He reaches up a hand and places it against the handprint of his grandfather and instantly recoils with a gasp clutching his head. He catches his breath, then furrows his brow looking up at the tank. This thing is an insult to humanity, he grunts, a tumour, almost every fibre of my being wants to see it destroyed. But yet,

There is something else as well. What? Kim asks. What is it? I keep seeing. Many begins, then falters. I keep seeing glimpses of the water. As if I am in there, amongst them. I see myself through the glass.

Distorted, just quick flashes. Simon sucks some air in through his teeth. I think we shut this down. I don't know why it has been kept active for so long. This disgusting secret. What are we even suggesting here? Is many able to see through the eyes of these bodies in the water? Are they alive?

His final word echoes around the room and is lost to the thrum of the old machinery. He clenches his jaw, then repeats himself. I say we shut it down. And I say we shut it down now. the tank was built by the enemies. What more do your people need? You think it's something to be preserved?

He turns and begins the stride around the side of the tank into the watery shadows thrown by the structure's eerie light. Kim hurries after him. Wait, Simon, don't you think we should wait and try to work out what it's for or why it was built? Blaine turns to us. I think I might go back and grab that journal. Couldn't make much sense of it myself, but many can read it.

He might have missed something important. But as he makes to leave, we hear Zeman call his name. Blaine, he shouts back through the darkness. Got another skeleton here. I think it's the one you were talking about. We head over, asked tiny specks in the glow of the green tank. And as we approach Zeman and Kim, we find them standing.

by the side of a skeleton, a skeleton adorned in Western military fatigues and sprawled across the floor. We consider it for a moment. This ain't one of them, obviously, Rudy murmurs, crouching down and running his finger around the collar. He lifts an arm to look at the sleeve. French, he says, this will be the guy from the report. Wait, Kim mutters. No, that can't be right. The report read that he was killed by a fallen pipe right, drowned in a puddle.

Blaine and I take a step back. And we cast the beams of our torches around the surrounding area. A few of the beams are raised to the high ceiling above. There is no sign above of any disconnected piping or panelling, nor is there any sign of something having fallen. Aside from the skeleton it's side, the ground is unmarked. There is also no logical place from which a puddle might have formed

or from where such a puddle might have leaped. This guy wasn't killed by no falling debris, Rudy says. Take a look at this, guys. He lifts his torch and the light falls across the skeleton's head. It illuminates a single hole, the size of a bullet, in the back of the surface of the skull. skeleton's skull.

Shot in the back of the head. Zeman murmurs, anger rising in the back of his voice. All right, enough of this, he shouts, standing straight up. Enough, enough of this ridiculous murder mystery. He chaps a finger towards the tank. That thing makes me sick, and I'm shutting it down now. He takes his weapon in hand and strides past the skeleton back. towards the tank.

Hey, hold on, Kim says, reaching out for his sleeve, but he shrugs her off. Rudy positions himself in the man's way. For God's sake, man, just calm down. What the hell's the matter with you? Got a screw loose or something. What would you know of this? Simon snorts, trying to shove his way past. You don't understand a thing, no matter how much you try to pretend to.

And what exactly is that supposed to mean, huh? Rudy challenges his voice raising. Wayne attempts to get between them as an argument breaks out, leaving Manny and myself beside the skeleton. We look at each other. There are all manners of curiosity in that plaque, he says to me, after a beat, alongside my grandfather's picture and his name.

It listed his blood type, other statistics that I cannot discern the meaning of. relating, I believe, to activity in different parts of the brain. Mani, I say to him, rubbing my jaw. Please, be frank with me. Do you know what this is? Do you know what these bunkers are for? Mani shakes his head.

I do not, but I'm groan in confidence that the people inside the tank are alive. I believe that the dreams of which I'm cursed. Well, this might be a long shot, but I think they might come from the drifters inside the tank. Goose bumps ripple across my skin. So what do we do? I ask. Is someone right? Do we try shut it down?

I think we have no choice, many replies. So how do we do it? I ask him. The guy who wrote the journal said even he couldn't do it. I believe that the fellow in the control room was constrained mentally, Oliver. Mani says to me, not physically, and we have access to technology they did not. Controlled explosives for one thing. We can't use an explosive, Mani, I tell him.

We have no idea what the stuff in the tank even is. If we use too much and we break the glass. Of course, of course, Mani interrupts. I'm not a fool. There will be a way to open the paneling. There is a power keeping them locked up shut. How can you tell? There was a light coming through the cracks,

but there was no keyhole nor slots for screws. I think there may be some kind of magnet keeping the panel connected to the body of the tank, or at least something on the inside. So all we need is a way to open the panel, have a look inside. And even as I say the words, I notice for the first time the position that the skeleton beneath us is actually in.

He sprawled across the ground, yes, but he was clearly heading in a certain direction, off to the side, towards the great pipes at the room's edge. I raise my torch and I step around the poor forgotten soldier, walking in the direction that he'd been heading before he was shot. Manny accompanies me and at the very edges of the room nestled between two enormous pipes and rattling with a faint whir. It's some kind of ancient power box, a generator of sorts, and this thing actually has a door locked up tight. I look at Manny and he nods and takes a step back. I raise my weapon and fire two quick, careful. shots into the door side. It cracks open, and the sounds of the argument behind us cease at once.

The hell are you guys doing? Rudy calls over. And after a smattering of boots and cold concrete, we are joined by some of the others. All right, good. Now, hold on a moment. Many says, as he pulls open the busted door with a clank, examining the inside of the generator. I've seen machines like this before in my career, not unidentical of course, but similar enough.

Just give me a moment. We're shooting these things now, Simon shouts over. He remains across the hall, bathed and green as he stands by the tank. So much for waiting and using caution, I guess. Why don't we just blow the hell out of this thing? Look, perhaps we're all getting carried away, Wayne cuts in. Are we actually considering destroying the tank? We don't know what it is.

Now, I don't know why the previous Rekong teams decided to keep it a secret, but they obviously knew something we didn't. Perhaps we spent a little more time looking around at least. We should report this, Kim says. Let's just get the hell out of here and tell command everything we know. Got it, Mani mutters to himself, as he makes a decision, then reaches out and flicks a switch. He unplugs a cord,

then pulls down on a lever on the right-hand side. There is a low-grown that rumbles throughout the bunker. The green light flickers momentarily, and with a cloud of dust and a metallic clattering, I see the silhouettes of several panels falling from the side of the tank. Now, Mani says,

rubbing some dark grease from his hands, Let's take a look at what we're working with here As Blaine suggests There is clearly more to learn about this place We take a slow and measured approach to this We have no idea what we're working with So we consider every juncture with caution We cannot rule out simply giving a full report to command

But there must be a reason As to why we've never heard about all this before He looks between us From Blaine to Kim to Rudy and myself Now, I have some theories regarding the people in the tank. I catch a movement in the corner of my eye, and I see the silhouette of Zeman working hurriedly away in the freshly exposed inner mechanisms of the great green tank, formerly hidden behind the panel. Hey, I mutter, then a little louder.

Hey, Zeman, what are you doing? Zeman does not respond. he simply slams something into place and then makes a break for it. He hurries over to us, his expression hidden in shadow. Simon, King begins, as a low beeping becomes suddenly audible. Simon, she repeats a little more urgently. What have you done? The man comes into view, and as the shadows swim across his face

and the reflected green flashes over his eyes, I catch a glimpse of his expression. A wide, manic grin, eyes wide and fierce. He tilts his head as he runs and presses a finger against the ear closest to the tank. What follows is the sound of an explosion, loud and sharp and clear, cutting through the murmur and whir of the bunker like a blade, shadows of metal and rubber and God knows what else. burst with a sudden force from the place that Zimmon was tinkering,

and the green of the tank begins to falter. I grimace and wince as a low ring begins to chime in my ears. I bush my way past the man and run towards the front of the tank. The entire panel, with a picture of Mani's grandfather, and the information alongside, has been blown to shreds. Staring into the dark hole that Zimman has blown, in the mechanism of the tanks. Filter?

I'm not sure what it is, but looking inside at the steadily grinding gears, the deflating pumps and the leaking ooze and grease and fluid. It's like looking into the open wound of a monstrous dying animal. I retreat,

looking up in shockers from this fresh wound. A dark, thick sludge begins to leak into the glowing green water, Manny gasps aloud and collapses to his knees, holding his head. Kim rushes to his side, as the rest of us watch the sludge disperse and blow out like a slow, toxic cloud throughout the water. The drifting souls, it seems to me that they try their best to avoid it for as long as they can, in the manner that a jellyfish might try to avoid a beam of light, in its slow and meandering way.

but one by one they are enveloped and the green liquid turned steadily grey and then black I watch in horror as the hundreds upon hundreds of bodies

begin to melt they lose whatever sense of orientation they might have once possessed they are washed against each other and where they touch they dissolve there's no other word

for it. Pieces begin to break away, sinking slowly and sickening to the base of the tank, where they are gradually lost to the darkness. I hear a scream and I wheel around. Kim clutches to Manny as the guy begins to shake. Manny? Blaine asks, squatting down to grab the man's shoulder. Manny! Simmon watches on, his grin now gone. He has paled, and I can see his chest rising and falling as he looks at our seasoned comrade. Mani opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead comes only a rasping breath. Clear liquid begins to pour from his eyes, liquid that turns quickly gray, then red. It pours over his uniform, staining it and splashing across the floor. His eyes roll up into his head.

And seconds later, the seizing stops. He slumps to the concrete ground, utterly lifeless, and just like that. He's gone. Mani? Blaine shakes the dead man's shoulder. Rudy crouches down behind him. They test his breathing, but there is no response. Damn!

Rudy shouts, jumping to his feet. What the hell have you done? done, Zeman? What have you done? Zeman only shakes his head, stuttering. No, that's not possible. How could these things be connected? You acted too soon, idiot! Plain barks, shoving Zeman in the chest.

What the hell are we supposed to do now? Manich, I mutter, looking down at the body of my friend. One minute, he was more or less just fine. I guess. And now he's dead. He's done. A terrible groan rises from the black sewage-like tank before us, and the hairs rise up across the back of my neck.

I look up to it and realize that despite the decay that now seeps through the tank, the glittering green light is not entirely gone. I can still see traces of it above us, reflecting faintly against the edges of some of the pipes. I can see it tinging the edges of the great steel girders and beams that support the ceiling. I can still see more light, I say to the group. What if there's another tank? Another tank?

Rudy splutters. Oliver, Manny is dead. Who gives a damn? We got to get out of here. But I ignore him. Heart pounding. I stride round the edge of the tank. I ignore the cause of the others

as I head deeper and deeper into the gloom, towards a slither of that same green light, spilling through a crack in the far wall. This hall, it seems, goes further than we had anticipated. The illusions formed by the flickering shadows distorted our perceptions of the distance. Hey! Comes a voice from behind me.

along with quick, heavy steps. Hey! It's Blaine, and he takes a breath as he catches up to me, striding alongside. You're right, he asks. Sure, I reply grimly, head spinning. Where are you going? he asks me. And I gesture to the slither of green light through the crack at the room's opposite side. What the?

He notices it for the first time. Oh, damn, what do you think it is? I don't want to think about it, I reply as I stride on. The shadows rippling around me like the water of the accursed tank. I clenched my fists. I just need to see. I need to see it for myself. I hear the pounding of footsteps behind us.

Rudy calls for us, but still I march onwards, through the dark and secretive haze to the crack at the back of the hall. Another door. Doors, doors, doors. I shove right through it and the echo of the creaking metal scratches painfully through the air. I step out onto a gridded steel walkway, suspended high above a long, wide floor way below. The floor extends into the far distance, and I can't. cannot see the back wall.

My boots clang against the steel as I walk to the edge. The fall to the floor below is blocked by a sturdy guardrail. I take in the view and with a long, low breath, the cold, stale air in my lungs is gradually released. To my left and embedded in the concrete of the wall and very partially obscured by enormous steel beams supporting the roof is a colossal stone monolith. The thing is ancient, cracked and heavily water damaged. Across its body, however, are visible a collection of long-forgotten glyphs and symbols.

This thing is far older than this bunker. Far, far older. That much is obvious. Perhaps by hundreds or thousands of years. I could not say for sure. Was it transported here, perhaps? Or is the bunker built around it? Six, enormous and disembodied eyes are carved under the top of the monolith.

And in the middle, stacked almost like a totem pole, are a series of crude faces. Outlines, really, with eyes and mouths. The only real additional features are lined. carved around the outside edges of their eyes. Wrinkles or crow's feet, if you will. The face at the top has a multitude of wrinkles. Beneath this face, a long series of markings, like veins or roots, have been carved, and they creep down to connect to the face below.

This face is more angular. The wrinkles beside the eyes are fewer, and it too has root-like veins, and as with the others they slither down to the face below. The lowermost face is the roundest. It has no wrinkles besides its eyes. And below this final face are more incomprehensible glyphs, a series of symbols that mean nothing to me, unknown shapes and twisted signs.

Blaine steps up to the railing and puts a hand upon it. He gives them on Liff only a perfunctory glance. Jeez, he says as he looks out over the scene below. We are joined by Rudy and Zimann. Below us at regular intervals and extending away into the gloom are more of the same tanks. Great green glass boxes, connected via pipes, all whirring and hissing, fall to the brim with drifting souls. There must be hundreds,

hundreds upon hundreds of these monstrous devices, perhaps even. One thousand, Blaine mutters. He points to a plaque embedded in a control panel to our right. It reads, The N thousand. The N thousand, Rudy repeats quietly. so it didn't refer to the people in the tank. He falters and Zeman finishes his sentence.

It refers to the tanks. We consider this in silence. And a long, low whisper echoes from the tanks and down the hall towards us. Below the plaque of the Nthousand is a passage written in German. I take a step towards it. and scan my eyes across the words.

From Vatasum Son, Lut for Blut, it reads, and I read it aloud in English. From father to son, blood for blood, I pledge my soul, and I will open the eyes of the souls of my lineage.

We will guide the way for the fatherland and our place in eternity. As I read these words, It is almost as if I can hear them repeated back to me, spoken proudly from the hearts of rows of devotees, stark in their dark uniforms against the cold, pale walls behind, standing tall in the shadow of the trio of statues, ringed by Leviathan himself. Vision is fleeting and passes as quickly as it came. There is a heavy silence that follows, a sense.

silence filled by the flow of the groans and size of the tanks below. Of de nine thousand, Zimmon walks past me. His boots clank against the metal as he heads towards the console to our right. I don't fail to notice the presence of a large box, similar to the one that many disabled, connected to the controls. Zimmon, stop! Plain orders, but Zimmon does not. He turns to us

And I see his face Is streaked with tears The atmosphere Freezes around us Into my horror He raises his gun Please Put your weapons down

He says What the Zimant Blaine cuts in Adjusting his grip So as to better take hold of his gun But Zimmin rattles his own And suddenly shouts

his voice like a bell ringing through the darkness. Put your weapons down. He bellows. Now, slow. Any motion that I deem dangerous and I will fire. Rudy takes a step forwards. Zimmon, what the hell's gotten into you? Just...

Zimmon swings around his gun, cocks it. I will not ask again. Rudy winces. He curses under his breath. but he does as he is asked. As the rest of us remain motionless, Rudy carefully unstraps his weapon and slowly lows it to the ground.

Zimmons eyes are fixed on his every movement. Once he has done this, Zimman gestures to Blaine and then to myself, and the two of us do likewise and place our weapons on the ground. I'm sorry, Ziman mutters. before stepping towards us. And with a few sweeping motions with his feet,

he kicks the guns off the side of the platform, where they fall into the shadowed concrete far below with a clatter. What the hell's gotten into you, Zemin? Blaine asks. You couldn't have known that what you were going to do would kill Manny. You acted bloody recklessly, but it's not your fault Manny's dead. But we've got to just stop for a second to process this, right, mate? Work out what it all means.

We're clearly dealing with something way beyond our pay grade here. You're not thinking straight. I have to shut this thing down. Now, Zimman tells us. I realize that this is something that I must do. The nine thousand, I need to shut the whole thing down. Rudy tries to cut in again, as Zimman speaks over him.

They are alive in those tanks. The man says, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands. They're alive. Mani was connected to them, right? He could see their dreams. He was connected to the tank through the sins of his grandfather. His whole family line is cursed, and that's not my fault. It's not. It's theirs. Simon throws out a hand and gestures to the bunker as a whole. He rubs a hand across his brow, and in the corner of my eye, I see a small, subtle motion from Rudy. Without moving my head, I look his way, and following his deliberate glances, I notice that the man still has a pistol, attached to the back of his belt, and out of Zimmons' direct line of sight. Rudy gives me a pointed look, and I nod, almost imperceptibly. Just don't do anything stupid, I tried to transmit to him, though whether he is. interprets this or not, it is difficult to say.

Zimman continues, These tanks are the products of the enemy. What cruel promise do they serve exactly? Nothing that will benefit humanity. I am sure of it. The people are trapped. I have no doubts in perpetual suffering. So the cages in which they are held need to be shut down immediately.

And this is something I'm going to do. I took a look in that box that Manny disconnected. I can work out how to finish this. Zeman, I chime in, raising my head. The tank he destroyed was, as you said yourself, connected to Mani. There's something horrible about the way these tanks work. This mantra, the... the connections. I've heard of various images flashed through my head.

Three statues, the black sun, the terrible painting and the concrete hall. I see the ruined city in the waves. and the shining eye. I shoot a glance over the monolith embedded in the wall to our left at the veins and roots that connect the faces. I repeat the words on the plaque. From father to son, blood for blood, I pledge my soul and I'll open my eyes to the souls of my lineage. We will guide the way for the fatherland and our place in eternity. My throat has gone death dry, but I continue. Simon, what if what you did killed Mani's son as well?

What about his brother? Does the man have any cousins? How far does this thing go? And even as I speak, a terrible cold thought strikes deep into my core. I think of Nina, my wife. And I think of her heritage. Mani worked alongside Nina's great-grandfather. Was he too involved in this project?

I turned to look out over the rail and down at the tanks below. Is a picture of Nina's great-grandfather marked into one of these tanks, alongside a handprint and a blood sample, and God knows what else? I feel the blood drained from my face, and my line of reasoning falters. My words die in my mouth. Zeman scoffs. What are a few lives when weighed against this, Oliver? He shouts back.

This is sick. This is the work of rats. Blaine tries to speak again. Just don't be rash, Simon. The previous recon teams chose not to report on this. They left the tanks unharmed. Shouldn't we at least consider their reasoning? Take a little time to think as a group.

But you don't get it, Blaine. Simon chokes. That's exactly. the point. He mutters quietly to himself in Polish for a moment and wiped his eyes beneath his glasses. If I dither and delay, then my mind might be changed. I might be swayed to a decision that goes entirely against my moral compass. If every single recant team before us left the thousand standing, then logic suggests we'll do the same, right? Right? But... But I can't. I just can't. It's not right, so I have to shut it all down before something changes my mind.

Once it's done, it's done. Simmons starts frambling. He bases up and down. He spits over the rail. The energy in his voice renewed. Whatever it is, whatever it's for, it's done. It ends here. And he spins on his heel and strides to the master console.

He fires a series of bullets into the box and tears the metal. door from its hinges. Zimon, wait! Blaine roars. As a ringing echoes in our ears, there is a sudden clamour and then a sharp, fiery burst. One final bullet

is released from its chamber. I swear in jump in shock as a hole appears in the back of Zimmon's head. A cloud of blood erupts through his forehead and splatters across

the console. He collapses at once, all motion control instantly lost as he slumps against the controls, collapsing ungracefully onto the ground, where he twitches and lays still as blood pools steadily across the metal and drips and leaks down through the metal grates. My chest rises and falls, adrenaline coursing through me. I turn to Rudy. in utter disbelief that he would resort to such drastic measures so recklessly. But I am shocked to see that Rudy's pistol remains firmly in his belt, his hand poised beside it, as if preparing to draw. But the pistol nonetheless remains affixed.

Rudy looks at me, then past me, and I turn around to follow his gaze. And there, in the doorway, Is Kim, she stands, cold and silent in the darkness, her features illuminated in that ghostly green, jaw clenched and eyes fierce, in her hand is a rifle. She slowly lowers it back down, and she releases a long, calm breath with clouds around her face in the cold. Solemely, we retreat back to the main lobby.

There is a sickness here that much is plain. Our minds are not working as they're supposed to. It is as long as we can bear in the shadows of such evil, and we eventually decide as a group to leave the nine thousand operational. We do not know if this makes us heroes or villains or neither, but we just don't know the true extent to which these machines are connected to the people back home. It is not a decision that fills me with pride. We have no idea to what purpose the tank's continued existence supports.

Besides the hints given by some vague and cryptic clues, we do not know why they were built. We do not know what happened to the people who worked here. And we do not know where they went. nor how exactly we would find them if we wanted to. But what we do know is that both Manny and Zimman died the same way as the fallen French soldier. The report will read that they suffered tragic accidents,

crushed by fallen debris. We can't have command sending sizable task forces down here. Not yet. anything could happen and as it has been proven the balance is the delicate one if command learn the truth then the power is taken resolutely

out of our hands we'll have no say in what happens next and what happens next could be monstrous our official reports will note that the bunker is dangerous when disturbed that lives will be put at risk if attempts are made to form only decommission and deconstruct it.

But with that being said, the bunker, as per our exploration, is otherwise a non-threat and is of no particular interest, no need to send any more recon teams down any time soon. That's for sure. The bunkers are better off left alone. We judge back to the dock of the submarine in silence. To me, it comes down to one simple fact. I can't risk losing Nina, so the machines will stay operational, and the thousand will continue to drift, hidden away in the dark,

at the bottom of the sea.