Spots: In the Dark

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

73. Hunting.	75. Holes.

74. In the Dark

The Warren, fringes.

Spots. "Check-in time, Claws."

Claws. "Yeah, I got it." Switching to squad channel. "Scythe, you still up?"

[ Squad ] Scythe : Yes. Still tracking?

[ Squad ] Claws : Yeah, we're heading fringe-ward.

[ Squad ] Scythe : All right. From now on do check-in with Control. Rest of us will be heading in shortly.

[ Squad ] Claws : All righty. Switching to Base channel. "Control, this is Recon 1, Team Kitty. You read?"

[ Base ] Control 1 : Recon 1, this is Control. Please ping your position so we can confirm.

[ Base ] Claws : Sending ping now.

[ Base ] Control 1 : We have you on the map, Recon 1. Give us a verbal check every ten minutes.

[ Base ] Claws : Copy that, Control. Recon 1 out.

Spots. "You didn't mention to either of them we're following a crab."

Claws. "They got our suit footage. I'm sure they're watching." He leans over, waves his gloved hand in front of her helmet. "Hi, folks!"

Spots, laughing. "For God's sake, Claws."

Claws. "Come on, let's get movin'."

They follow the crab, heading steadily outward. They leave the area with grid flooring though the halls are still lit.

Spots. "Claws?"

"Yeah?"

Spots. "Did they ever tell you where the crabs come from? Before I got here."

Claws. "No... assumption was they were comin' in from somewhere lateral. We built these—" knocks a gloved hand on one of the corridor walls—"to corral 'em into the space in a predictable way, figurin' if they were comin' for the donut we might as well narrow their options for 'em."

Spots. "But no one's looked?"

Claws. "The one time we looked—"

Spots. "Yes, I've heard that story. I mean... externally. With a satellite or something."

Claws. "Dunno. Reckon they have, though. Don't matter much... if we're gonna put down a military target, they're gonna attack it. That's sorta how war works."

Spots, rolling her eyes. "Claws..."

"Sorry, sorry. I'm used to talkin' to idiots. Why you askin'?"

Spots, shaking her head. "It just doesn't make sense to keep fighting the same fight over and over. It just feels... weird."

"Weird h—what the hell?"

The crab has turned the corner. Before them is a long hall. An empty one, unlit and without grid flooring.

When they point their suit lights down it, they find a distant dead-end.

Claws. "Christ! Where'd that sucker go?"

Spots plays her light over the walls. "We're pretty far out, aren't we?"

Claws. "Yeah, this is one of the last halls we built. Ain't no one been here for months, maybe not since we put it up."

Spots looks out. Looks down; looks up. "I don't see anything on the floor. Or the ceiling."

Claws. "Guess we'll be going over this one inch-by-inch. Come on."

They begin examining the corridor.

Claws. "This is crazy."

Spots. "Maybe they beam them in, like something out of Star Trek."

Claws. "Crap, I hope not."

Spots. "I don't know, transporter technology sounds pretty useful..."

Claws. "You've obviously never thought about the military uses."

Spots. "Like the 'beam soldiers from their family's homes to their areas of responsibility instead of shipping them for months' military use?"

Claws. "Like the 'beam a back-pack nuke into the middle of a major metropolitan area' military u—"

Spots lunges in front of him and drops a giant crab nearly at his feet.

Claws. "Mother f—"

"Ssh!"

She peers around the corpse and stops. There's a door there. A camouflaged door.

It's still open.

Claws, whispered. "...****."

73. Hunting.	75. Holes.