Page 82 of Echos and Empires
The party moved forward in tense silence, the only sounds the muffled tread of their boots and the occasional chirp or howl filtering down from the dense canopy above. Bash kept his rifle at the ready, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard, every muscle coiled in anticipation of danger.
As they ventured deeper into the heart of the jungle, it felt as though the very world around them was closing in, a dense and oppressive tangle of vines and lush foliage that wove a canopy so thick it blotted out the sun, plunging them into a dim and stifling embrace. The air was heavy and humid, clinging to their skin like a moist blanket, while strange cries reverberated through the verdant labyrinth. These eerie calls of creatures unknown echoed in the distance, each one a haunting melody that sent a prickle of unease cascading down Bash’s spine. He scanned the murky gloom, his eyes straining to pierce the thick shadows that pooled like ink between the towering trees, each flicker of movement convincing him that some unseen threat lurked within the dense undergrowth, biding its time.
So far they’d seen nothing, which Bash wasn’t certain was a good sign, but he was going to take it as such.
It was Javier who spotted it first, a thin thread of a path snaking through the undergrowth, so overgrown it was nearly invisible.
“Hey Sabastian,” the older man beckoned him over. “Come here.”
“It’s Bash, Javier. I’m Italian, your accent makes me hate my full name more than I already do.” He came closer as he spoke and frowned, unease prickling at the back of his neck as he moved to investigate. This deep in the jungle, any sign of human passage was cause for concern. They hadn’t ever come this route to his knowledge, which meant there was a chance there were more of Victor’s damn buildings out here.
“Anyone been this way before I got to the island?”
He looked around at the eight men in his unit. None nodded their heads. “So it’s possible something really is here.” He sighed and took his gun off his shoulder, readying to hold it as he walked. “We’ll go slow, in fact, Javier and Luke, you both stay back. If shit hits the fans, you get back and warn the council there are other people here.”
Crouching, Bash lifted the gun, preparing to shoot if anything gave him a reason to.
As the group advanced cautiously, the path widened, the vegetation flanking it showing signs of long-ago cultivation. Unnatural lines and angles began to emerge from the riot of green - the crumbling remains of man-made structures, now almost wholly reclaimed by the ravenous jungle. Bash’s gut clenched, instinct screaming at him to turn back, to flee this haunted place that reeked of secrets better left buried.
But a flicker of recognition stopped him cold—the distinctive shape of a facility, its facade choked with strangling vines, windows gaping like hollow eye sockets. The sight was like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a host of dark memories Bash had long sought to suppress. He knew this place, well, others like it. Knew the sorts of horrors that had been wrought within those sterile walls in the name of corporate greed and twisted science.
Signaling the group to hold position, Bash approached the ruin warily, senses stretched taut for any hint of danger. The jungle had gone eerily silent, as if holding its breath, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled with the uncanny sense of being watched. The structure loomed before them, a crumbling monument to the folly and hubris of the old world, steeped in an almost palpable aura of dread. With a deep breath, Bash steeled himself and stepped forward into the waiting maw of the entrance, praying he wasn’t leading them all to their doom.
This wasn’t the mission and they were easily two hours from the caves. He could take the group in, or they could ignore it and go back and prepare for tonight.
“We need to know what this is for, what danger it could hold. Stay on alert. Watch each other’s six.” Bash took the first step forward, holding his breath hoping they would follow.
The only sound was the hollow echo of their footsteps and the occasional drip of water from some unseen leak, each noise magnified in the oppressive silence. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and something far worse—a cloying, metallic tang that caught at the back of Bash’s throat and made his stomach roil with nausea. He fought down the urge to gag, focusing instead on the beam of light that danced ahead of him, picking out details in the gloom.
Rusted equipment and overturned furniture littered the corridors, skeletal remnants of the facility’s former purpose. Faded safety posters peeled from the walls, their cheery slogans and caricatures rendered macabre by the passage of time. Bash paused to rifle through a stack of moldering documents, his brow furrowing as he scanned the dense blocks of text, picking out words like “cognitive reorientation” and “neuro-linguistic programming”. The clinical jargon only hinted at the depth of depravity that had taken place within these walls, and he felt a cold knot of anger tighten in his gut.
The beam of Bash’s flashlight fell on a door hanging slightly ajar, the words “Psychological Operations” emblazoned on the frosted glass in chipped black lettering. A chill raced down his spine, his instincts screaming at him to leave this evil place, to seal it up and never return. But he knew he couldn’t turn back now, not when the truth was so close at hand. Steeling himself, he shouldered through the door and into the waiting malevolence beyond.
The room was a charnel house of horrors, every surface cluttered with the debris of human experimentation. Charts and diagrams plastered the walls, detailing techniques for breaking and reshaping the human mind with a cold, clinical precision that made Bash’s blood run ice. Grisly photographs were interspersed throughout, images of blank-eyed test subjects wired into nightmarish devices, their faces contorted in silent screams. And everywhere, that hated symbol - the crimson V of the Warrington corporation, stamped like a brand on every piece of equipment and document.
Bash’s vision swam with rage, his grip tightening on his rifle until the metal creaked in protest. How many innocent souls had been shattered in this room, their minds violated and enslaved to serve as pawns in his twisted games? The urge to put a bullet between those cold, calculating eyes had never burned hotter.
But before he could give voice to his fury, a shrill, piercing klaxon split the air, the sudden noise like a blade to the eardrum in the oppressive silence. Red warning lights burst to malevolent life along the corridors, bathing the facility in a hellish glow. Shouts of alarm rose from the others as they formed up in defensive positions, weapons at the ready. In the chaos and confusion, one thing became terribly, crystal clear. Their presence had not gone unnoticed.
The game, it seemed, was very much afoot, regardless of who this place belonged to, it was as abandoned as it looked.
Reflexes took over, muscles responding before conscious thought could catch up. Bash dove to the side as he spotted a member of the security team, Kirk. Kirk’s pistol barked, the bullet whining past close enough to ruffle Bash’s hair. He rolled to his feet, bringing his own rifle to bear in one fluid motion. The barrel trained unwaveringly on the traitor’s chest, though it took every ounce of control not to center it between the bastard’s eyes. He knew this man, they all did.
“Drop it, Kirk,” Bash snarled, his voice razor-edged with barely leashed fury. “Drop the gun, or I drop you.”
Kirk merely laughed, an ugly sound devoid of mirth or sanity. “You think you can stop what’s coming? What’s already here?” He jabbed his chin at the corpse-like facility, the ghastly light lending a demonic cast to his features. “This is just the beginning, a taste of the glorious future Lord Warrington has planned for us all.”
Bash’s finger tightened on the trigger, the metal biting into his flesh. Retorts hammered in his mind, vicious and cathartic, but he bit them back. Every second spent bantering was a second Kirk could use to bring his own weapon to bear. In a lightning quick motion, Bash lunged forward, swinging his rifle like a club.
The stock cracked against Kirk’s wrist with a sickening crunch, the pistol clattering to the floor. But the traitor was quick, far quicker than a man his size had any right to be. He caught Bash with a devastating left hook, stars exploding across his vision as he reeled back. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth.
How could he have been so blind? They’d been followed from god only knew where. Someone had to have a phone on them, but he’d worry about that after. The knowledge burned like poison in his veins, fueling each swing, each bone-shattering impact.
The two men grappled viciously in the hellish red glow, a blur of flailing limbs and bared teeth. Kirk fought with the frenzied strength of the fanatic, spittle flying as he spewed vile oaths and twisted praises to his dark master. But Bash gave no quarter, his own rage tempered into a cold, lethal focus. He weathered the storm of blows, absorbing their punishing impact, biding his time for the perfect opening.
It came in a fractured instant, Kirk’s arm cocked back for a haymaker, his guard dropped in his berserker fury. Bash lunged inside the strike, driving his elbow into the traitor’s solar plexus with pile-driver force. Kirk’s breath left him in an agonized whoosh, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Bash followed with a lightning-quick jab to the throat and a sweeping kick that scythed the larger man’s legs from under him.
Kirk crashed to the floor in a graceless heap, gasping and choking, scrabbling weakly for his fallen pistol. But Bash was on him in a flash, pinning the traitor’s arm with his knee as he hammered away with ruthless precision. Each punch was a declaration, a repudiation of Kirk’s betrayal and the insidious evil he served.
