Death Lurks Just Beyond the Door

In the dim glow, dust danced with the ever-present mist, like a solitary dancer in the spotlight of obscurity.

Black fog, a phenomenon unique to the interstellar wastelands, was the culprit for the gloomy environment, absorbing light and heat, casting the world beyond the Vortex gate into perpetual dusk and shadow.

Beside a rusty filing cabinet stacked with cardboard boxes and paperwork, a man clad in a red protective suit and helmet sifted through the relics on top. The items, age unknown, crumbled to ash upon contact.

"This Sector 127 wasteland is revolting. Look at the remnants of its civilization—so similar to ours. I wouldn't be surprised to meet another me here," he mused.

Turning, his voice tinged with impatience, he called out, "What's the status, Zane? Still no contact with our team?"

The faint light from his shoulder-mounted lamp struggled against the absorbing black fog, its beam pitifully weak.

The dim light barely revealed the surroundings of what seemed to be an archive room.

Scattered papers littered the floor, marked with chaotic footprints. A figure crouched over a pile of documents, fiddling with a standard communicator resembling a vintage radio, capable of sending and receiving data in the star wastelands.

Equipped with a security device to prevent unauthorized listening, its components included a reception antenna, frequency conversion module, signal amplifier, and a backup matrix circuit.

Zane, now fitting the components, was attempting to enhance the communication signal, but the static crackling through the device foretold the squad's grim prospects.

"...This is the fourth harvesting squad, I'm Zane, soldier code 1507. If anyone receives this, please respond."

After several unsuccessful attempts, Zane looked up, his youthful face barely recognizable through the helmet's visor.

"No contact, Captain. We might've ventured too deep, beyond the terminal's maximum transmission range."

A forceful kick against a shelf from another direction drew their attention. A teammate scolded the red-suited captain, "This is on you, Rex! Had you not lost your head, we wouldn't be trapped here, cut off by those damned Wanderers!"

Captain Rex pointed accusingly at a member guarding the door, "How is this my fault? If Dylan hadn't sworn he'd detected a Star Marrow Pillar signal, would I have bothered dragging us all out here?"

The accused team member at the door argued, "My model is accurate. The recent data on Wanderer activity suggests a Pillar nearby!"

Rex lunged forward, grabbing the man's suit, "Then where is it, huh?"

"Quiet!"

Zane's raised, clenched fist signaled alarm.

The whole squad, captain included, tensed and turned their attention to the world beyond the door.

The corridor outside was splotched with mold, walls crumbling.

Strange sounds echoed from around the corner—a mix between the last gasps of a dying patient and the deep growls of a wounded beast.

From his utility belt, Zane retrieved a glow stick.

"What are you doing?" Rex tensed.

"We need light. Don't worry, Captain, Wanderers don't react to light sources."

Zane snapped the glow stick, casting it around the corner. Chemical reactions within emitted a cold, growing radiance.

Under the chill bluish-gray light, they saw several distorted shadows swaying at the far end of the hall.

Suddenly, a hand with rotting flesh oozing dark green pus appeared, its slimy discharge hissing upon contact with the floor—as if water had been dropped on sizzling rock.

The team's hearts raced, relieved as the hand quickly retracted.

"It's them, the Wanderers!" exclaimed Dylan, stepping back, "Captain, we need to move. I don't want to be caught by those things!"

"But how?" another teammate shouted, "Even if we sprint down this corridor, there are more below. Every building, every street—it's infested with them!"

"Shut up!"

Rex tightened his grip on his assailant rifle, his eyes flickering with resolve.

Turning to Zane, he reached out, "New guy, give me your gun!"

Hesitation was evident on Zane's face behind the visor.

His grip on the standard-issue rifle tightened. The weapon, a solid projectile firearm with limited power and cumbersome design, could still disrupt the will-cages of the Wanderers—the only known means to halt these dark offspring.

To surrender the gun was to forfeit life itself.

The light from the glow stick began to fade. As its luminescence dimmed, a foot crushed it, extinguishing the last of the cold light.

The twisted shadows advanced, the pale light emitted by the will-cages of Wanderers flickering like ghostly flames above a graveyard.

"Go! I'll hold them off," Rex urged, "I need all the firepower I can get. Damn it, what choice do we have?"

With gritted teeth, Zane acquiesced.

Handing over his rifle and a magazine, Rex waved him off, "Get out through the window upstairs. Zane, you first."

As Zane turned towards the window, his legs buckled beneath him.

Bang!

Blood from his thigh spurted against his visor, blooming like a crimson flower.

Stumbling, the young man fell.

The abrupt turn left the others stunned.

"Move!" Rex bellowed, "The place is crawling with Wanderers, and now his broken suit's pheromones will draw them. This is our only chance!"

The betrayal, whether from injury or deception, left Zane numb with cold fury.

As rage boiled in his chest and pulsed through his veins, it erupted into a roar.

"Why, Rex?"

Rex sneered within his helmet, "Not so many whys, boy. I am a citizen of the Bastion, a person of stature. You, a lowlife from the undercity, should feel honored to die for someone like me!"

"You bastard!"

Zane attempted to rise, challenged by the dark muzzle of the rifle.

But it also brought clarity. Anger solved nothing; only cold, calculated thought offered a sliver of survival.

Rex aimed the gun at Zane, turning to the others, "Are you coming or staying to die with him?"

With that, he headed towards the window.

The remaining teammates exchanged glances, ultimately opting to follow their captain.

"Wait!"

Zane produced a dagger, its blade reversed towards his own chest.

"Leave if you want, but only after giving me the medkit and two units of survival supplies!"

Rex's eyes widened behind his sweat-streaked visor, caught off guard.

"That knife isn't standard issue!"

Indeed, it wasn't. The alloy blade was a parting gift from Zane's mother, purchased with all her savings.

He had kept it hidden, too precious to use—unknown to Rex.

"Remember, Rex, a dead man releases no pheromones. If you don't hand me those supplies, as good as dead, I might as well end it now!" Zane's eyes were resolute.

Rex wavered, and the other two teammates tightened their grip on their rifles, fingers resting on triggers—not aiming at Rex, but ready.

Rex cursed inwardly, aware of the pressure Zane was applying. He hadn't anticipated the rookie being so troublesome.

"If only I'd chosen a different target," he thought.

But now...

"I'll give him the medkit. You two, fork over one unit of supplies each. Hurry, we've no time!"

Quickly, Rex removed his backpack containing a medkit. The others, after a brief exchange of glances, produced the supplies, all the while eyeing Zane warily.

Zane eased the dagger away slightly.

Relieved, Rex scoffed and clambered out the window.

The trio used the exterior pipes to ascend, evading the Wanderers inside the building.

Watching them depart, Zane didn't utter threats, just etched the grudge deep into his heart.

Reaching for the medkit, a noise from the corridor caught his attention. The sibilant sounds of leaking bellows drew his gaze back.

In the dim passageway, the pale ghostly light of the Wanderers' will-cages grew nearer, and Zane saw a three-toed foot oozing viscous pus step heavily to the ground, its juices splattering.

The Wanderers had reached the doorway.