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INFECTUS

Part 1 — Operation Ice Dagger

PHOENIX INTERNAL BRIEFING MEMORANDUM

CLASSIFIED – OMEGA

DO NOT DUPLICATE – PHOENIX EYES ONLY

TO: Command Directors – West, Central, and East

FROM: Archivist M. LeClair, Department of Containment & Recovery

DATE: October 19, 1997

RE: OPERATION ICE DAGGER / CONTAINMENT ARTIFACT [“INFECTUS”]

STATUS UPDATE & RECOMMENDATION FOR DESTRUCTION

I. BACKGROUND: UNIT 731

During World War II, the Imperial Japanese Army operated a covert biochemical weapons division known as Unit 731, headquartered in Pingfang District, Manchuria. Under the false pretense of water purification research, Unit 731 conducted extensive human experimentation, including:

  • Weaponized disease vectors
  • Live dissection without anesthesia
  • Frostbite testing using prisoners of war
  • Aerosol and waterborne delivery of chemical agents

As Soviet forces advanced into Manchuria in August 1945, Unit 731 personnel initiated a full evacuation and site purge. However, certain materials were preserved for strategic leverage in surrender negotiations with U.S. forces. Among them was a clandestine underground laboratory designated Site 10-Kyokko, which conducted anomalous research.

II. OPERATION ICE DAGGER

Emergency intercepts from residual Japanese command in August 1945 included repeated requests for highly-trained commando units to prevent an unknown catastrophic outbreak. Fragmented transmissions referenced a “breach of nature.” The unit went dark on August 19th, 1945. No further transmissions. Aerial recon flights revealed nothing but stillness—and ice.

This prompted OSS leadership to authorize Operation ICE DAGGER, deploying an elite black-ops team called Task Force Kestrel, under direct orders from General William Donovan.

Task Force Kestrel – Personnel Manifest:

Maj. Calvin Grissom – Commanding Officer, combat strategist, survival specialist

Sgt. Mack “Stitch” DeSoto – Field medic and flamethrower specialist

Lt. Emory “Dust” Lockhart – Explosives and demolition expert, fluent in Japanese and German

Agent Roland Thorne – Intelligence analyst and infiltration specialist

Jael Winterbourne (SOE, British) – Cultural anthropologist and occult researcher; trained paratrooper

Cpl. Eugene “Boxcar” Voss (U.S. Signal Corps) – Field communications and radio specialist, cryptographer, attached last-minute due to transmission anomalies

Their orders:

  • Investigate Site 10-Kyokko
  • Obtain any surviving Axis weapons research
  • Neutralize emerging anomalous threats

Upon insertion into Site 10-Kyokko, the team encountered:

  • Localized extreme cold—subzero blizzards despite summer conditions
  • Environmental anomalies, including: indoor snow, freezing rain, fog as well as various sensory disruptions

A partially functional cryogenic suppression device was identified in the lower facility, later confirmed as KÄLTEFAUST, developed under Projekt K-Einheit by the Nazi Ahnenerbe Division in 1944.

III. KÄLTEFAUST – PROTOTYPE ORIGIN & DEPLOYMENT

Projekt K-Einheit (“Cold Unit”) was a German engineering initiative aimed at developing battlefield temperature-manipulation weapons to disable enemy forces.

There were two prototypes:

Einheit-01 was recovered in the Western theater post-war, now in Phoenix custody following Operation Paperclip.

Einheit-02, equipped with an advanced Overfrost mode, was smuggled to Japan via German submarine, U-234, and installed at Site 10-Kyokko as part of an emergency request to deal with an unknown entity.

Kältefaust’s primary function was to create a focused atmospheric collapse, flash-freezing biological organisms at the molecular level. However, the machine was found damaged. Its instability led to a wide range of complex weather anomalies, both inside and outside the facility.

Kestrel found evidence that the machine was obtained and deployed in a desperate attempt to contain a threat within the facility. That threat had a name. It was scrawled in fractured English and Japanese across a wall near the main lab: INFECTUS.

IV. INFECTUS

The primary anomaly, later designated INFECTUS, is a polymorphic, nano-crystalline parasitic entity, exhibiting:

  • Perfect mimicry of biological and inanimate structures
  • Rapid bootstrapping of genetic code across multiple species
  • Behavioral intelligence, including voice replication, ambush strategy, and false distress signaling

Recovered Kestrel footage and Jael [SOE] debriefing confirm:

  • Visual distortions, fractal patterns
  • Extreme psychological strain due to infiltration-based paranoia
  • Victims absorbed and repurposed at the cellular level

Entity was successfully flash-frozen after the last three surviving Kestrel members reactivated Kältefaust Overfrost mode, sacrificing themselves in the process. A complete collapse of the substructure occurred, entombing the anomaly under meters of frozen debris.

V. FURTHER CONTAINMENT

INFECTUS was later retrieved and quarantined by Phoenix operatives. It remains sealed within OMEGA-VAULT 6, a maximum quarantine chamber in the Ozark Containment facility GRAYNEST, located under Mark Twain National Forest.

Containment protocols include:

  • Triple-vessel dewar system cooled by liquid helium
  • Electromagnetic isolation field
  • No-network zone: All AI systems removed from the perimeter
  • Automatic and Manual purge systems, with a plasma incineration array

Notable anomaly: Spores have been detected in several exterior access corridors since the last maintenance cycle. Although the spores were detected and neutralized, it’s just a matter of time before a breach occurs.

VI. RECOMMENDATION

It is my professional conclusion that INFECTUS represents an extinction-level threat. All research requests, extraction efforts, or containment upgrades represent an unacceptable risk. Infectus is not a specimen. It is a mistake we buried. It learns and it waits for us to slip-up, make a mistake. I hope this report is a sobering reminder of the potential for harm and loss of property. Even a small, regional outbreak would require a nuclear detonation.

Recommended Action: Immediate Termination.

Utilize Vault 6’s full plasma array and seismic collapse protocol.

Further, let no record of its existence survive. We should do ourselves and humanity a favor—forget about Infectus entirely.

Respectfully submitted,

M. LeClair

Archivist, Department of Containment & Recovery

Phoenix Central Command

Part 2 — Containment Crisis

BLACK ANNEX ADDENDUM // OMEGA-VAULT 6

OPERATION ICE DAGGER: INFECTUS BIOFORM DOSSIER

CLASSIFIED – OMEGA-TIER ACCESS ONLY

DO NOT TRANSMIT – DO NOT REPLICATE – DESTROY AFTER REVIEW

TO: Command Directors – West, Central, and East

FROM: Archivist M. LeClair, Department of Containment & Recovery

DATE: October 22, 1997

SUBJECT: INFECTUS – Addendum to OPERATION ICE DAGGER

SUB-CODE: THETA-ZERO-ONE “INFECTUS” – Bioform Threat Dossier

I. INTRODUCTION

The following dossier represents a classified addendum to the Operation Ice Dagger final brief, provided under Omega-level security clearance. The contents herein are not to be digitally stored, replicated, or referenced in any interdepartmental correspondence.

This material is provided by request of the Tri-Command to clarify the true scope and nature of THETA-ZERO-ONE: INFECTUS, beyond the limited details included in the original mission summary.

The data below has been assembled from:

  • Extensive documentation from Unit 731, Site 10-Kyokko
  • The Jael Winterbourne debrief, conducted 15 days post-recovery
  • Recovered Task Force Kestrel audio logs
  • Internal post-retrieval research conducted between 1945–1996

The documentation details an archaeological dig site in Manchuria at the end of WWII. An artifact of extraterrestrial origin and extreme age was found and transferred to Site 10-Kyokko, one of several Unit 731 biological and chemical warfare sites. There, Unit 731 studied the artifact and subsequently lost containment.

Task Force Kestrel, a team of highly trained OSS operatives, infiltrated the site and neutralized the threat—but at great cost. All but one Kestrel team member died, sacrificing themselves to contain the entity.

It is critical to note: entire research teams, Phoenix branches, and containment divisions were lost in the years following retrieval. This is not exaggeration—it is a matter of historical record.

II. PHOENIX LOSSES – POST-RETRIEVAL

The initial phase of Infectus study (internally referred to as the “Cold Cell Initiative”) resulted in the following:

  • 43 Phoenix personnel absorbed during the containment breach of Vault 3-C (1947)
  • Termination of monitoring systems due to irreversible data corruption (1948)
  • Full decommissioning of a bio-circuitry wing after the entity mimicked control node architecture and attempted to override purge protocols (1951)
  • Memory compromise in two senior researchers—both became cognitively unstable, claiming they were “not alone in their own thoughts”
  • Complete psychological collapse of Containment Chief Henrick Lozano, who self-immolated inside a sealed vault after stating:

“It’s using my voice now. And my skin… is it my skin? I can’t tell.”

In response, Phoenix established new containment protocols that introduced the following operational precedents:

  • The OMEGA-Vault system
  • The no-computer zone law
  • Triple-phase cryogenic isolation

In short: Infectus changed the way we do containment.

III. BIOFORM CLASSIFICATION – INFECTUS

Codename: INFECTUS

Designation: THETA-ZERO-ONE

Origin: Unknown

First Contact: Pingfang District, Manchuria, 1945

Composition: Polymorphic nano-crystalline structure; semi-organic, semi-mechanical

Dormancy: Estimated millions of years

Growth Phases:

  • Mycelial Tethering – Fiber-thin tendrils seeking life and energy
  • Spore Bloom – Airborne dispersal; mimics snowfall, fog, or ash
  • Mobile Camouflage Phase – Imitation of small organisms (rats, birds, fish, etc.)
  • Complex Mimicry Phase – Perfect simulation of higher lifeforms and inanimate objects
  • Genetic Synthesis – Once sufficient biomass is collected, the entity assembles a colossal polymorphic form using dominant local genetic materials. This is its true form.

Key Abilities:

  • Complete mimicry of any object, animal, or human down to the cellular level
  • Voice and behavioral replication, including emotional nuance
  • Database functionality: At its core, the entity possesses an internal database of genetic and inorganic matter blueprints. The structure contains over 23 million unique species records and 180 million individual genetic entries

I cannot stress enough the importance of this discovery. There is an entire catalog of extinct alien species inside.

Ambush intelligence: Known to reproduce screams or simulate injured humans to lure responders

Sensory & Environmental Cues:

  • Victims report overwhelming cold at the moment of initial contact
  • Can generate high-fidelity sound patterns, including but not limited to: industrial machinery, ambient natural sounds, breathing, digestive noises, animal calls, and human speech. Its mimicry of sound appears limitless

IV. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL COMPONENT

Infectus doesn’t just attack—it studies, then ambushes its prey. It has demonstrated the ability to:

  • Replicate the voices of deceased loved ones to disarm emotional defenses
  • Alter its physical form to simulate wounds or distress
  • Induce paranoia, extreme stress, and sleep disruption

Prolonged exposure to Infectus has been observed to cause:

  • Personality fragmentation
  • Identity erosion
  • Full psychosis

V. STRATEGIC DANGERS

If Infectus escapes current containment, it will not act immediately.

It will study. Learn. Build.

It will appear weak, pitiful, even helpful.

Then it will become us.

Or rather, we will become it—after it takes us over.

Simulations predict a minor containment failure would require sterilization of a 50-mile radius, including all human populations, wildlife, and infrastructure.

An urban outbreak—even in a remote region like the Ozarks—would lead to loss of control within 96 hours, requiring a tactical nuclear detonation. Even then, containment would not be guaranteed.

A full-scale manifestation of its fifth growth stage could initiate a Gray Harvest Event, absorbing enough biomass to achieve planetary-scale mimicry. Earth’s entire biosphere would be lost.

Research suggests this was likely the fate of other worlds before it arrived here.

VI. FINAL STATEMENT

INFECTUS is a mistake we unearthed.

It is not a creature, a virus, or a weapon. It is a cosmic disease—one that outlived its creators and now waits for us to repeat their error.

It is sickness made sentient.

Recommended Action:

  • Initiate Vault 6 full incineration purge
  • Activate seismic collapse protocol
  • Eliminate all surviving documentation—physical or digital
  • Detain and debrief all personnel with exposure exceeding 0.4 cumulative hours
  • Burn the root. Salt the soil. Forget its name. Then move on.

Respectfully,

M. LeClair

Archivist, Department of Containment & Recovery

PHOENIX CENTRAL COMMAND

***

PHOENIX COMMAND MEMORANDUM

RE: INFECTUS – COMMAND RESPONSE TO DESTRUCTION RECOMMENDATION

CLASSIFIED – OMEGA PRIORITY

PHX-CMD-RSP-247A

TO: Archivist M. LeClair

FROM: Deputy Director Alan R. Graile

Phoenix Eastern Command – Oversight Division

DATE: October 27, 1997

RE: CONTAINMENT ARTIFACT “INFECTUS” – STATUS OVERRIDE

Archivist LeClair,

Your concerns regarding containment artifact THETA-ZERO-ONE (“INFECTUS”) have been reviewed and acknowledged. Your thorough documentation—including the Black Annex Addendum to Operation Ice Dagger—has been filed accordingly.

Please be advised: while your recommendation for full incineration and structural collapse of Vault 6 is noted, it is disapproved.

The continued containment, analysis, and application of THETA-ZERO-ONE now fall under Project EIDOLON, a cross-divisional directive governed by the Viridian Island Research Complex.

Effective immediately:

All materials, field data, and personnel associated with THETA-ZERO-ONE are to be transferred to Viridian Island under maximum-security escort.

Your department will oversee all containment and transport preparations.

Any required resources are to be submitted via Priority Channel 9. They will be provided without delay. Your operational budget is considered unrestricted.

You are to cease all further inquiry into this matter unless specifically summoned for audit or testimony.

Let us be clear: while your work is valued, the scope of this artifact’s potential exceeds your department and clearance authority.

You were assigned to document the past.

We are tasked with shaping the future.

Should you continue to voice opposition to this directive, your access privileges will be reviewed and may be revoked.

The world is changing, Archivist.

We intend to meet it prepared.

All Hail Columbia.

— D. Director A. R. Graile

Phoenix Eastern Command – Oversight Division

***

VIRIDIAN ISLAND RESEARCH COMPLEX

Internal Memorandum – Eyes Only

CLASSIFIED – OMEGA

VIR-COMM-ALERT-77D

TO: Deputy Director Alan R. Graile, Phoenix Eastern Command

FROM: Dr. Emilia R. Voss, Director of Operations, Viridian Island, Oceanus Division

DATE: November 3, 1997

RE: Incoming Artifact Transfer – THETA-ZERO-ONE

Deputy Director Graile,

We have received the classified cargo manifest scheduled for arrival at Viridian Island under Dimensional Isolation Protocol V-I-44. After a thorough review of the submitted biological and incident dossiers—particularly the Black Annex Addendum compiled by Archivist LeClair—I am compelled to formally state:

We are not prepared to accept this.

Our current secure storage modules were designed for passive materials and theoretical phase anomalies, not for an active, polymorphic, sentient biocrystal with a documented history of containment breaches, cross-domain mimicry, and cognitive contamination.

Let me be absolutely clear:

INFECTUS is not a curiosity to be stored. It is weaponized extinction.

And I strongly recommend that it not be housed at Viridian Island.

We are a physics-forward facility. We study and build portals. None of our personnel are trained to handle an organism that can infect a floor tile or become an undetectable copy of a person.

You are asking us to place this entity into a dimensional buffer—a space not fully observable, not fully testable—and expect it to remain dormant.

You are betting that it will stay asleep inside a box that was never designed to hold a nightmare.

I urge you to reconsider.

Infectus belongs in permanent cryogenic stasis, not in proximity to a functioning aperture array capable of transdomain transmission.

I understand this directive comes from above. I understand resistance may result in reassignment—or worse. But you asked for our cooperation.

This is our response.

If anything goes wrong, there won’t be time to contain it.

The best we’ll be able to do is warn the mainland before we’re gone.

Respectfully,

Dr. Emilia R. Voss

Director of Operations

Viridian Island Research Complex, Oceanus Division

***

AUDIO TRANSCRIPT

Recorded by facility sensors and compiled for Phoenix Eastern Command

November 3, 1997 – 21:47 Local Time

Location: Dr. Emilia Voss’s Private Office, Sub-Level 19

VOSS (on phone): He’s out of his fucking mind.

[silence on the other end]

VOSS: Did you read the same memo I did?

“Dimensional storage”? I don’t need to remind you that “storage” implies inanimate objects—not something that’s actively rewriting matter on a subcellular level.

DR. EZRA CALLEN (voice-only):

It gets better. He wants it housed in Annex C. Just a reminder—that’s the same array where we had the breach last quarter.

VOSS: Oh, excellent. Let’s just throw an end-of-the-world party there. Maybe set up a gift shop across from it too!

[pause]

Sorry. The gallows humor’s just… how I deal with the horror of all this.

CALLEN: I know. I feel the same.

We’re prepping the containment area in Lab Seven now. Triple-layer cryogenics, active magneto-suspension—just like the protocols say. It’s the best we can do on short notice.

But Emilia… this is bad.

Like “call your lawyer and write your will” bad.

VOSS (pacing): Worse than bad.

This thing learns. That’s what LeClair’s report says. Mimics everything. Organic, synthetic, psychological patterns… voice, memory, emotion.

It makes you think it’s your brother.

Your favorite book.

The voice in your head telling you you’re safe.

If we make just one mistake—we’re fucked.

CALLEN: Yeah.

It’s not just mimicry.

This could trigger the end.

And I mean THE END.

The kind of end where everyone’s dead and no one’s left to wonder what happened—or how it happened so fast.

[brief silence]

CALLEN (softly): I’ve got people threatening to quit.

Kerrigan locked herself in the biosuit chamber when she found out what was coming.

I don’t blame her.

But don’t worry.

I’ll take care of it.

VOSS (dryly): Well, tell her to pace her breakdown.

We’re all in this together—and we’ve got a monster to babysit.

[sound of a cabinet opening, a bottle being retrieved]

[Voss pours herself a drink—Lagavulin. No hesitation.]

CALLEN: You know this was supposed to be a particle harmonic lab, right?

String theory. Gravitational edge modeling. Maybe even earn us a Nobel if we got lucky.

Now we’re a goddamn prison.

VOSS: We’re not a prison, Ezra.

We’re a gamble—and a bad one at that. One with long-ass odds.

And we’re stuck.

We have to comply.

CALLEN: Comply or die.

So this is self-preservation now.

I’ll let the rest of my team know they’re in for some long hours.

[Voss pauses. Swirls the glass.]

VOSS: Thanks, Ezra.

I’ll make sure everyone gets a little extra stipend for the overtime.

I know it’s not much, considering.

God help us.

CUT TO:

A blinking light on the island’s southern docking bay monitor.

TRANSFER: THETA-ZERO-ONE — EN ROUTE

ETA: 08:19 HOURS

PART 3 — The Viridian Incident

Yesterday, 9:23 PM.

Everything on the surface of Viridian Island was blasted flat and incinerated by a 50-kiloton airburst—delivered by a Tomahawk cruise missile, courtesy of the United States Navy.

It was the beginning of the end of the world.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—an Army general and thirty-five-year veteran of three wars—had been so shaken by the footage from Viridian that he bypassed protocol and ordered the strike himself.

Ordinarily, this kind of action required the President’s direct authorization. But there was no time.

What he saw wasn’t a threat to national security.

It was a threat to the species.

Whatever was loose on that island could end humanity faster than all the weapons in the U.S. arsenal combined.

He would deal with the fallout—political, moral, and literal—later.

For now, he bowed his head and whispered a prayer for the hundreds of good men and women he had just condemned.

***

Twenty minutes earlier…

Marie Wong barely made it out of the lab before the reinforced glass doors slammed shut behind her.

Klaxons still howled in her ears. The brightness of the hallway fluorescents stabbed at her vision.

The thing had grabbed her arm. She’d torn free before it got a solid grip—but the others hadn’t been so lucky.

She had to get out.

She had to warn someone.

My God, she thought. What if it got out?

Could it get out?

She sprinted for the elevator. When it finally arrived, she slapped the button for the ground floor.

The ride took five minutes.

It felt like fifty.

Adrenaline surged through her, clouding her thoughts. She shivered uncontrollably, arms wrapped tight across her chest.

The elevator doors slid open.

A wall of military police stood waiting, rifles raised.

“Step out of the elevator!” one barked. “Slowly!”

Marie obeyed, hands up.

“Check her.”

One of the MPs broke from the line, weapon lowered. He approached her cautiously, scanning her up and down.

To her surprise, there were no marks on her arm. She could have sworn it had drawn blood—hadn’t it?

The MP pulled a scanner from a pouch on his thigh. She tried to glimpse the screen, but the data meant nothing to her—just pulsing colors and glyphs.

“She’s clean,” the MP said.

“Alright,” the lead officer replied. “Get her outside. Wait for the Marines.”

***

Marie climbed the steps of a matte-gray school bus—normally used to ferry personnel around the island on a timed schedule.

Outside, muffled shouting and thudding boots echoed between houses as nearby neighborhoods received unexpected Marine Corps visits.

She passed a heavily armed Marine posted at the front, avoided the gazes of the others onboard, and made her way to the rear.

When she could go no farther, she slid into a seat by herself.

She felt feverish and cold—like the flu had hit her all at once. Sweat broke across her skin, and she began to shiver.

The spot on her arm where the thing had grabbed her started to itch. She scratched at it absent-mindedly.

The sensation was off—like pressing on your face while still numb from Novocaine.

A few minutes later, the bus door closed and they began to move. It stopped again in a residential sector, where Marines escorted more civilians from their homes—ready for war, judging by their posture and gear.

A man and his wife boarded and took the seats across from Marie.

He looked composed.

She looked like she was falling apart.

“What’s happening, Gary?” the woman asked, voice trembling.

“Something’s not right,” he said. He pulled her close and rested his forehead against hers.

“They said there’s been some kind of containment breach.”

“Containment breach?” someone echoed.

Marie recognized the voice—it was Tom Flannery, a neighbor and colleague from a sister department.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Flannery said. “We do high-energy physics here. If there was a real breach, we’d be getting the debriefing from Saint Peter.”

The bus filled rapidly. The doors sealed. The interior lights went dark.

They moved again—stop-and-start, then fast. Marie had no idea where they were headed, but she guessed helicopters. That’s how she’d arrived on Viridian last year.

As dusk gave way to darkness, tension thickened in the bus. Armed Marines stood like statues at the front. The whispering started—fragmented, desperate.

“I’m Diane,” the woman across from her said, attempting a strained smile. “This is my husband, Gary.”

“Marie,” she croaked.

“Oh, sweetie…” Diane leaned forward, concern etched into her features. “You don’t look good.”

“I’m okay,” Marie whispered. “Just a little scared.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” someone whispered.

Marie stiffened. “What—did you…?”

Diane and Gary looked at her, confused.

“Never mind,” she muttered.

“I think it might be that new project down on Twenty-One,” someone whispered from the dark.

“Yeah,” said another voice. “Hey, Marie—you work down there. What’s going on?”

All eyes shifted toward her. Moonlight glinted on her sweat-slick skin. Her face was frozen in a silent panic.

“I… I’m just an admin assistant,” she said. “Barely got out. Something… came through. I… everyone…”

Her voice cracked. She covered her face and began to cry.

“Came through?” Gary asked. “Came through what?”

Marie looked up, wild-eyed. “I don’t know. A circle of light. They kept turning it on and off. They called it a quantum… quantum something.”

“Quantum?” said Gary. “Quantum what—computer?”

“Dimension,” she said. “It had ‘dimension’ in the name.”

“Wait. Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Flannery. “You guys have a dimensional gate or something down there?!”

“I don’t know!” she snapped—then softened, trying to breathe. “I don’t know. I saw something. It came out. They turned it on, and something…”

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes widened, caught in the memory.

“This is not good,” Gary muttered, clearly wanting to say more—but the bus jerked to a sudden stop.

They had reached the shoreline.

Beyond a sparse line of palm trees, three Navy hovercraft loomed on the sand—hulking, melted-looking shapes with twin circular fans mounted at their sterns.

“Cool!” Flannery said, eyes wide. “I’ve always wanted to ride in a hovercraft.”

“LCAC, sir,” said the Marine at the front of the bus.

At least that’s what Marie thought she heard.

“Right, right,” Flannery nodded. “Landing Craft Air Cushion. L.C.A.C.”

The Marine said nothing, but nodded once.

***

The U.S. Navy’s assault hovercraft loomed like dark silhouettes against the shimmering Pacific.

Circles of artificial light danced across the sand—cast by handheld flashlights wielded by flight-suited men in headsets, each tethered by long comm cords to mobile consoles nearby.

Passengers were ordered off the bus and directed toward the waiting LCACs.

Gary took Diane’s hand and led her across the narrow beach at a stumbling jog, heading for the nearest ramp. Marie followed close behind.

On the deck of the lead hovercraft sat a large, gray, metal container—bolted down with thick cargo chains. Three open doors lined its front, each manned by a Marine.

The group was divided into three columns and ushered in—most went willingly. Those who hesitated received quiet encouragement from the armed escorts.

Inside, each corridor resembled the hold of a military transport plane: long rows of nylon webbing for seats, bolted to both walls beneath dull fluorescent lights. The overhead fixtures were cylindrical, explosion-proof, and bathed everything in a sickly greenish hue.

By chance or design, Marie, Diane, and Gary were placed in the same compartment. Gary and Diane took seats near the far end, beside what looked like the only window. Marie sat directly across from them.

There were small observation windows at either end of the container, but none along the walls—just a few rectangular cut-outs connecting the adjacent sections. If you stood, you could see through them into the other compartments.

A tinny but pleasant-sounding female voice came over the PA:

“Standby. We’re Oscar Mike. Going feet wet.”

A pause.

“I mean—we’re moving out. Trip should only take about ten minutes. For your safety, please remain seated until instructed otherwise.”

Outside, Marie heard the high whine of turbines spooling up.

The LCAC’s massive air skirt inflated, lifting the craft and kicking up roiling clouds of sand and mist.

Diane clutched Gary’s hand, her breaths rapid, eyes darting.

“Hey…” Gary said gently. “We’re going to be fine.”

“I’m just a little… claustrophobic,” she said, glancing around the tight interior.

“Look.” He pointed toward the door at the opposite end. “See? There’s plenty of room.”

Diane followed his gesture. She exhaled and nodded, visibly trying to calm herself.

Gary and Diane were holding it together—barely. Others weren’t. Across the aisle, couples whispered fiercely. A few passengers had to be physically settled by nearby Marines, who didn’t seem particularly happy about the assignment either.

The container sealed. The LCAC pushed off.

Through the rear-facing window, Marie watched Viridian Island shrink against the moonlit sky—just a jagged silhouette fading into the sea.

Two other hovercraft fell in line behind them, their blocky shapes joining the convoy.

Then—

Everything is fine. Don’t worry.

The whisper wasn’t in the cabin.

Marie stiffened.

Who— she began, but stopped herself.

Who are you?

I have been called many things, the voice said.

But my true name is INFECTUS. You may call me… friend.

You are not my friend, Marie thought. What… what are you?

I am time—come across the eons. Come to help you. Let me help you.

“I don’t need your help!” Marie snapped.

Diane looked over, startled. “Everything okay, sweetie?”

Marie hesitated, then nodded and looked away.

Ten minutes passed. The passengers tilted as the LCAC began to slow.

She wasn’t sure if they were docking or simply turning, but the shift in motion was unmistakable.

The PA crackled again.

“Okay everyone,” said the same woman. “We’re docking at the ship. Apologies for packing you in like sardines, but it was the fastest way to get you out of harm’s way. Once aboard, we’ll get you assigned bunks and something to eat.”

Her tone lightened—cheerful, almost absurd.

“On behalf of the United States Navy and Marine Corps, thank you for riding with us today. The crew of the U.S.S. Highland welcomes you aboard! The Highland is a San Antonio-class amphibious—”

A different voice cut in, sharp and annoyed: “Give me that.”

Several Marines chuckled. The tension didn’t break—it just shifted.

***

A bright light pierced the compartment, flooding everything in white.

For a moment, it felt like a spotlight had been turned on from outside—blinding, unnatural.

Marie shielded her eyes. The beam shifted downward, crawling across the floor like a searchlight on a slow arc.

She imagined a crane lifting the source, hoisting it toward the sky.

Then—

A sharp, metallic pop.

A single syllable of violence:

PING!—amplified to deafening levels.

The hovercraft jolted hard. Everything inside lurched down and sideways. People cried out as heads collided. The LCAC bounced twice, the engine’s pitch spiked, then settled again into its steady roar.

Marie stood unsteadily and turned to the window.

Outside, a massive fireball was blooming over Viridian Island—spherical, yellow-orange, impossibly wide.

Her brain couldn’t register it.

It didn’t look real.

She’d only ever seen mushroom clouds in old documentaries or science fiction films. This wasn’t cinematic—it was wrong. Too bright. Too complete.

It broke something inside her.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “What the hell is happening?”

“What is it?” Diane asked.

“Let me see!” someone shouted from behind. A rough shove sent Marie tumbling back into her seat. She fell against the man beside her, both of them pressed against the wall as people swarmed the window.

“They… they nuked it!” someone yelled. “Oh my god! It’s the end of the world!”

“Everyone sit the fuck down!”

A Marine had drawn his sidearm, arms locked and aimed at the growing chaos.

Other Marines rose, weapons drawn, barking orders.

It didn’t take long. Fear—military fear—restored order. The crowd retreated to their seats, shaken and silent.

But Marie was already gone.

Her vision tunneled. Bright sparks danced at the edge of her sight.

A static roar swelled in her ears.

Then she slumped forward.

Her clothes were drenched with sweat. Her hands clenched into rigid claws, spasming in tight jerks—like a machine shorting out.

“Dear lord,” Diane gasped. She scrambled across the aisle, instincts overriding fear.

Gary turned just in time to see Marie’s head rise.

Her eyes had vanished.

There were only sockets—voids of inky black.

“You are not my friend,” she said.

But it wasn’t her voice.

Then her head split.

Not like bone breaking, but like a flower blooming wrong—petals of skin peeling outward in fractal layers.

Beneath the flesh: a spiraling mass of black coils, slick and geometric, folding in on themselves like living machinery.

Gary and Diane didn’t move.

They couldn’t.

There was no scream. No last words.

Only silence—and the shape of something ancient stepping into the world.

***

Roughly twenty Navy personnel in blue coveralls and hardhats marshaled the hovercraft into the Highland’s aft well deck.

From the gangways above the massive open ramp—still lowered into the Pacific—they had a clear view of the incoming LCACs.

Those carrying radios shouted excitedly about the view.

Some took pictures with their phones.

The mushroom cloud behind the hovercrafts cast an otherworldly glow over the scene.

Photos of LCACs docking in a well deck were nothing new.

But with a nuclear explosion in the background?

Nobody would believe it wasn’t Photoshopped.

The awe didn’t last long.

Gunshots—muffled but unmistakable—echoed from inside the personnel container.

Then came the screams.

Not human.

Moments later, the pilot and co-pilot burst from the flight deck, wading onto the half-submerged platform like men fleeing a sinking ship.

They didn’t shut down the engines.

They didn’t speak.

They just jumped off the ramp—and swam.

Above, radio chatter turned frantic.

Supervisors were called.

Warnings relayed.

Within minutes, the Highland sent an encrypted message to Command:

Compromised.

Then the door on the container opened—and black smoke billowed out, thick and choking.

A Marine stumbled through it—blood-soaked, coughing, her sidearm gripped in one shaking hand.

It wasn’t her blood.

She backed away from the opening, firing into the darkness.

When the shots failed to land—or matter—she holstered her weapon and pulled two grenades from her rig.

Pins popped.

She tossed both.

The twin explosions rocked the deck. The container’s door blew clear off its hinges.

A sound rose from within—layered and impossibly deep.

Not a roar.

Not a scream.

Something between a modem shriek and tectonic plate shear.

The container shook violently.

Something inside was striking the walls with colossal force, warping the metal.

The roof buckled outward—trembling like it might rip open at any second.

Then came the tendrils.

Hundreds of them—dark, barbed, twitching—shot from the doorway like living wire.

The Marine barely had time to turn her head.

The first wave struck her hand and forearm.

The second buried into her face and neck.

A third volley hit her legs and pulled her clean off the deck—dragging her back into the smoke.

Screaming, she drew her Ka-Bar and slashed at the threads.

They didn’t cut.

Instead, they began to merge—melting into her flesh, fusing with her.

She disappeared into the shadows of the container.

A moment later, the world turned white.

A nuclear warhead–tipped torpedo, launched from deep underwater, struck the Highland centerline with flawless precision.

The ship didn’t break apart.

It ceased to exist.

Most of her was vaporized instantly.

Molten debris was flung a mile into the night sky, scattering across the South Pacific.

Some of it rained down on islands hundreds of miles away.

For the third time that day, sunlight bathed the ocean.

***

The captain of the U.S.S. Louisiana was furious—at the world, yes, but mostly at himself.

He’d commanded the Los Angeles–class submarine for over a decade. In all that time, he’d never been ordered to do anything like this.

Not that he’d questioned it.

He and his crew had carried out their orders with precision, without hesitation.

But now they were holding position in contaminated waters… and he had just killed every man aboard.

A thousand thoughts ran through his head at once.

Was this a suicide order?

Was he being sacrificed?

It didn’t matter.

He just hoped it accomplished whatever the brass thought needed doing.

His executive officer stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Not my proudest moment,” the captain said, eyes fixed on the deck. “We buried a lot of our own today.”

“Goes without saying,” the XO replied softly. “Command to dive? We should take evasive action.”

The captain shook his head. “No point, Jim. We were set at minimum safe distance from the island. I didn’t plan on leveling the Highland too.”

He looked his XO in the eye.

“This was supposed to be a rescue mission. The incident shock’s gonna catch us.”

The XO exhaled and looked away. “Great.”

He pulled out his wallet and slid a photo from inside—his wife and two kids. He stared at it for a long moment.

The captain picked up the PA mic.

After the Boatswain’s call sounded through the sub, he spoke into the silence:

“Godspeed, gentlemen.

It’s been an honor.”

A moment later, the shockwave hit.

Hydrostatic pressure folded the Louisiana like paper—twisting steel and flesh into silence.