Chapter 50 Terrible Lighting

They moved cautiously past the body of the mutated scientist, the crimson glow of the emergency lights throwing long, twitching shadows along the walls. The air was thicker here—more humid, like something unseen had breathed too long in this place. The silence had weight, pressing down with every step toward the armory.

Then suddenly—BANG! The metal panel of a nearby utility closet burst open with a crash, making all three of them snap their weapons toward it. A figure stumbled out, wild-eyed and pale, swinging a flashlight like it was a club.

“DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT! I’M CLEAN—I’M STILL ME!”

The man fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender, his breathing erratic like he’d been holding it for days. His uniform was smeared with dust and sweat, the Helios-9 security badge barely visible under the grime.

Mike exhaled through his nose, lowering his weapon with visible irritation.

“Oh, for the love of... Holtz. If anyone survived, of course it’s you.”

The man looked up, eyes darting between the group like a cornered animal.

"Mike?! Sweet mother of—you're alive! I thought you got—” he paused, squinting through the low light.

 “Holy crap, what did those crystal freaks do to you, man? You look like you aged ten years and got hit by a microwave at the same time!"

Mike didn’t even flinch.

 “I always look like this, you sack of shit.”

Holtz held up his hands like a guilty kid.

 “I—I meant it with love, Mike. Concerned love. It's the lighting. Terrible lighting.”

Mike stepped forward with a grunt, jabbing a finger toward him. 

“You’ve been hiding in a broom closet while the rest of us got torn apart? You realize we're two floors down from the armory?”

Holtz scrambled to his feet. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, alright? I heard things. Screaming. People begging. Then that cracking sound. You know the one. Like bones snapping under ice. I wasn’t sticking around to join the goddamn crystal parade, okay? Some of us choose fight-or-flight. I went with hide-and-snark. You know, tactically.”

Akarui leaned toward Shachiku, whispering, “What’s his deal?”

Shachiku replied quietly, “This guy’s gonna get us all killed. That's what.”

Mike shook his head.

 “Fellas? Meet Holtz, he’s been wearing a tinfoil hat since he started to work here. Spends half his shift ranting about ‘aliens’ and the black-site lab under Helios-9 where they 'talk to rocks.’”

Holtz straightened his jacket, eyes still scanning every corner of the corridor. 

“Hey, just because I sound crazy doesn’t mean I am. You remember what I said two weeks ago about the Project? ‘Don’t poke space crystals’—those were my exact words!”

Mike rolled his eyes.

 “You also said the vending machines were bugged by corporate to track our snack preferences and decode brain patterns.”

Holtz pointed at him.

 “And you laughed. But look around, Mike! Something down here’s rewriting biology like it’s scribbling on a notepad.”

Mike groaned.

 “Alright, fine, conspiracy guy, you're with us. But if you start monologuing about alien gods or ancient warnings, I’m locking you back in your janitor palace.”

Holtz nodded eagerly, grabbing a stun baton from the wall panel. 

“Deal. But if I die, make sure my family find my manifesto. My sweet little girl really likes my stories about aliens. She even got me a wristwatch with alien picture for my birthday. It’s in locker 6-B. Password is ‘no_aliens_allowed’—ironic, I know. But don't tell my wife, she thinks I'm crazy. Every time I start with my alien stuff she gives me the look, she thinks I'm unstable. But we're friends, Mike, right? You will do this for me if I die, right?”

Mike let out annoyed sight and said, "I'm not doing it. Take my advice. Don't get yourself killed."

Akarui cracked a nervous grin.

 “Okay… he’s weird, but I like him.”

Mike turned toward the hall, rifle raised again. 

“Don’t get too attached, kid. Weird’s the first thing to die in places like this.”

The armory was at the end of the hall, its thick metal doors sealed shut. The reinforced glass window showed a glimpse inside—racks of weapons, ammunition, reinforced vests. Their salvation.

Mike practically threw himself against the control panel, fingers working fast. 

"Come on, come on—"

Akarui pounded on the door.

 "Hurry up, old man!"

 "Calm down, kid. Just a few more seconds—"

Shachiku turned, raised his pistol, and fired into the dark.

"We got company, you better hurry with the doors."

Holtz started to panic, shouting, "Nope. Nope nope nope! This is wrong. We shouldn’t be here. This place—this place is screwed six ways from Sunday. I told you. I TOLD you this was gonna happen!” 

The muzzle flash lit up the corridor for a split second—just enough to see the mass of a shifting body barreling toward them. The bullet hit, but the creature didn’t stop.

Then, finally—

The doors hissed open.

Holtz was the first to tumble inside. Mike grabbed Akarui by the collar and threw him in, dragging Shachiku in behind him before slamming his fist against the emergency lock. The doors slid shut just as the creature lunged, its jagged claws scraping against the metal with ear splitting screech.

Then the pounding started. Heavy. Relentless.

Akarui collapsed onto the floor, gasping. 

"Holy hell, we’re dead, we’re so dead—"

Holtz joined him.

“They’ve been experimenting with stuff they didn’t understand! Bio-weapons, off-the-books projects—alien spores, maybe time loops! What if we’re stuck in a loop right now, huh?! What if we’ve already died?! What if we’re just clones?! What if we’re clones of clones and they’re watching us right now from some sick control room with popcorn?!”

Akarui stepped away from him, eyebrows climbing his forehead. 

“Dude, come one. I mean, shit hit the fan bad out there but you're making no sense.”

“I SAW a door breathing earlier, alright?! The WALLS had PULSES. I’m telling you, this whole place is cursed—this ain’t science, it’s some eldritch horror found footage crap! I shouldn’t have gotten out of that closet. That closet was safe. That closet understood me. We're as good as dead!”

Mike ignored him, moving deeper into the armory, grabbing weapons and tossing them toward the others.

 "Not yet, we ain't. Now get up and gear up. It ain't over."

Inside the armory rows of lockers lined the walls, some already pried open, others still sealed shut with dented digital locks. Mike stormed in and cracked open the nearest crate and started pulling out weapons.

He tossed a compact rifle to Akarui. 

“This one’s light, semi-auto, no recoil to speak of. You said your old man let you shoot, right? Point, click, don’t freeze up.”

Akarui caught it awkwardly but nodded.

 “Got it. Safety’s here, right?”

“Yep. Keep it off unless you wanna blow a chunk outta your leg.”

 Mike didn’t wait for a response—he was already pulling out something heavier.

He turned to Shachiku, weighing the heft of a chunky, brutal-looking shotgun before handing it over.

“For you? Drum-fed auto. Buckshot. You’ve never shot before, so keep this simple—point it at whatever’s about to eat your face, pull the trigger, repeat. You don’t aim with this thing, you introduce problems to it violently.”

Shachiku took the shotgun, surprised at its weight. 

“Feels like a damn cannon.”

Mike gave him a crooked smirk. 

“That’s ‘cause it is.”

Then Mike turned to Holtz, pulled out another rifle from the crate—standard issue, reliable—and tossed it to him.

“Catch.”

The rifle hit Holtz square in the chest with a dull thump… and promptly dropped to the floor with a clatter. He hadn’t even tried to catch it.

Holtz stared at the weapon like it was a venomous snake.

Mike let out a long, slow sigh.

 “For crying out loud…”

Holtz just muttered, trembling, “I don’t… I don’t think I can. I can’t shoot—I’ll hit one of you, or shoot myself, or… or the gun will jam and blow my hand off—”

Mike stepped forward and picked the rifle up off the floor

“Holtz. We are in a science facility that looks like Satan’s pet project, with things growing on the walls that scream when you shoot them. You want to survive? Then grow a spine, keep your finger off the damn trigger till I say, and don’t point that thing at me.”

Mike walked up, grabbed Holtz by the collar, and gave him a quick, hard shake—not enough to hurt, just enough to snap.

“Holtz. Get your ass together, or I swear to every half-baked conspiracy theory you’ve ever posted on the internet, I’ll drag you back to that utility room and lock you inside.”

Holtz blinked. Then again. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing slowed just a notch.

“…You wouldn’t.”

Mike leaned in close. 

“Try me.”

Holtz took a shaky breath, straightened his vest, and muttered, “Fine. I’m good. I’m good. Just needed to scream into the void a little.”