Chapter 3: Into the Base—Old Wounds and New Fears

After the orders came down, Natalie Foster and I packed up and drove through the night, her Chevy Tahoe eating up the miles. We left the windows cracked, letting the pine air clear our heads, but the GPS blinked out as we neared the Range. Soldiers met us at a logging road, faces unreadable. The blindfolds they handed over were soft but smelled like bleach. When they finally came off, I squinted under harsh fluorescents. The base looked straight out of a Cold War thriller—Quonset huts, razor wire, satellite dishes, and guards scanning the trees.

Major Derek Sullivan, the military lead, didn’t waste time. He shoved a confidentiality agreement into my hands. "Dr. Sanders, paperwork first—always the fun part." His Minnesota accent had been drilled flat by West Point. The NDA was thick as a phone book. I signed, glancing at Natalie—she just arched a brow and scribbled her name.

I’d worked with the military before. After the paperwork, Sullivan took us down an underground tram—army green, diesel and old coffee in the air, flickering lights overhead. We rattled through rock tunnels, passing guards every few bends. Natalie cracked a joke about “Area 51: Midwest Edition,” but her fingers drummed a nervous beat on her thigh.

We were handed a declassified file. The faces inside—scientists in parkas, soldiers with carbines, all posing in front of a snow-dusted tent—looked so normal. They were the best: genetics, geology, cryptology, anthropology. A moonshot mission, but with more mud and less glory.

There were stories about the founder of civilization—some called him a legend, like Paul Bunyan or John Henry—a giant who shaped the land. The Ojibwe elders had other names, older and harder to pronounce. Whatever you called him, the sense was the same: something ancient, maybe immortal, walked these woods.

The missing expedition had found the underground pillars, just like us. The logbook held chilling messages:

July 4, 2012, 3:34 PM: [The giant bronze pillars are suspected to be ceremonial objects, possibly related to the legendary founder. Further verification needed.]

July 4, 2012, 4:29 PM: [There is a mountain of skeletons underground. Humanoid embryos grow on the trees. We are constantly being watched...]

July 4, 2012, 5:48 PM: [We are sick. All of us are sick. Please come save us.]

July 4, 2012, 6:11 PM: [Don’t come looking for us. Absolutely do not come looking for us.]

Outside, the camp radio repeated its message:

Humans are no longer human; they are right beside us.

The shift from curiosity to panic was unmistakable. What could break a team of professionals so fast?

When the rescue squad arrived, there was no underground complex at all. Just torn tents, scattered gear, and a sense of dread that clung to the trees. Officially, it was called a “mass disorientation event.” Unofficially, people said the mountains swallowed the truth.

I flipped to the end of the file. "All the experts went missing, but one of the military elites returned alive. Who was it?"

Sullivan’s gaze cut through me. "Your colleague, Professor Howard McAllister."

Natalie mouthed, "Holy shit." I could only nod, my heart thudding in my chest.