UNKNOWN LOCATION, VALE – 30 JULY 2021

Three special-unit soldiers had been dispatched to the clinic outside Vale to secure the site until an investigative committee could be assembled. Two patrolled the perimeter; the third remained inside. The siren and emergency lights had been silenced. Silence now blanketed the building as though nothing had happened the day before. No one could approach without being seen, and the men had received clear orders on handling any curious trespassers.

In any case, no hapless hiker would wander within a fifteen-kilometre radius of the isolated facility. The guards relaxed as the hours passed uneventfully.

It was a bright morning. A small white speck appeared in the cloudless blue sky, gradually resolving into a light aircraft. Such planes were commonplace in the region, thanks to the private airstrip near Vale.

One of the perimeter guards glanced up briefly as the aircraft passed overhead and vanished from view. Ten minutes later the low growl of an engine reached them. They raised their rifles, ready for contact — until a camouflaged military pick-up swung sharply into view and braked five metres away.

A thin man with a neat toothbrush moustache and dark rectangular sunglasses leapt from the driver’s seat. He wore a Gomorian uniform, yet he bore little resemblance to the stereotype: no paunch, no gum-chewing swagger, no booming voice. Instead, he moved with quiet precision.

He approached the two sentries, tossing his keys lightly into the air and catching them.

“Hello, boys. How are things here?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.

The Gauls exchanged a glance. They had dealt with Gomorians before; the contrast was striking.

“Hello, sir. All quiet. I haven’t seen you before…” one replied politely, careful not to provoke. Higher-ranking Gomorians were notoriously volatile when they sensed disrespect.

“Staff Sergeant Fred Hawk, Gomorian Military Base, Neufville.” He shook their hands firmly. They noted the black leather gloves — odd in the heat.

“How can we assist you, Sir?”

“We heard about Professor Von Rotten,” he said, stressing the we as though they should understand the collective. “I’ve come to assess the situation personally.” He glanced at the building with faint distaste, waiting.

“Follow me, sir.” One guard nodded to his colleague to remain outside.

They walked down the long, dim corridor. “It was meant to be routine surveillance,” the Gaul explained. “Corporal Jens Koenigs, Gaul Air Force, was ordered to collect two infected patients from Brushtown — the pulmonary virus — and bring them here for Professor Von Rotten to study and treat. Unknown to anyone, Koenigs had stolen weapons from an armoury. He attempted to assassinate the professor. Our team arrived just in time to neutralise him. We never recovered the two patients. We assume Koenigs killed them and that their bodies are under the rubble in the cafeteria. An unexplained explosion occurred there, killing one of our men.” They passed the dried bloodstain where Jens had fallen. “We removed the corpse, but orders were to leave the bloodstains intact.”

“How many on site?” Hawk asked.

“Three of us. The other should be making his rounds.”

They rounded a corner and nearly collided with the third guard. After a brief introduction, the two continued to the cafeteria.

Hawk stopped short at the threshold. The room resembled the aftermath of a bomb: tables, chairs, and fittings reduced to twisted metal and shattered plastic. The structural columns had miraculously held; otherwise, the roof would have collapsed entirely. A jagged hole gaped overhead, letting sunlight pierce the gloom.

He whistled. “What the hell happened here?”

“There.” the soldier nodded toward the vanished counter. “We suspect gas cylinders in the kitchen. One of our men was inspecting the area when it detonated.” He shrugged uncomfortably at the blood spatters on the floor.

“Odd,” Hawk murmured. “The blast point seems centred exactly there — judging by the hole in the ceiling.”

“We don’t know for certain, sir. An investigation will determine the cause. We believe the two missing patients are buried under the debris.”

“Why hasn’t it been cleared?”

“No orders yet, sir.”

Hawk clicked his tongue. He stepped closer to the pile, studying the wreckage with peculiar intensity — head tilted as though listening, nostrils flaring slightly. The Gaul watched, puzzled. If this Gomorian wasn’t shouting or posturing, perhaps eccentricity was simply another national trait.

“Hey – what’s that?” Hawk exclaimed suddenly.

He beckoned the soldier over, pointing with a pen extracted from his breast pocket. The Gaul leaned in to look.

In that instant a sharp prick pierced the side of his neck — like a needle. He clapped a hand to the spot; the world tilted. Darkness rushed in.

Freddy Falco — disguised as Staff Sergeant Fred Hawk — had timed the sedative injection perfectly. As the guard crumpled, Falco disarmed him. He had not intended to kill, but the rifle might prove useful. And it did — far sooner than anticipated.

The fallen soldier’s earpiece crackled. Falco removed it and heard an urgent voice in West-Gallic: “Glenn! Fred Hawk is an intruder! I called Neufville — they have no record of any Hawk, and no one was dispatched! Glenn, respond!”

Falco did not speak the dialect, but the alarm was unmistakable. He had been exposed. He snatched the rifle and ducked beneath a large tabletop propped against a surviving metal cabinet — tilted at an angle that concealed him while affording a clear view of the entrance.

Moments later the second guard burst into the cafeteria. He spotted his unconscious colleague and advanced cautiously, scanning for the intruder. He crouched to check for a pulse.

Falco could have shot him cleanly from cover. He chose not to. These men were following orders; they knew only the sanitised version of events and recited it without question. There was no malice in them worth a bullet.

He waited until the guard passed his hiding place, back turned. Falco slipped out silently, intending to strike the base of the skull with the rifle butt. The soldier sensed the movement and spun, blocking the blow.

They grappled. Falco lost balance and pulled the Gaul down with him. They rolled across the debris-strewn floor. The soldier gained the upper hand, straddling Falco and drawing a combat knife from his boot. One hand clamped around Falco’s throat; the other raised the blade toward his face.

Falco caught the wrist just in time, but the serrated edge sliced through his leather glove and into his palm. Blood welled. He knew he could not match the younger man’s raw strength for long. His original plan — to avoid casualties — was no longer viable.

With his free hand he fumbled the pistol from the soldier’s holster and fired.

The shot rang. The grip on his throat slackened. Horror flashed across the Gaul’s face, then his eyes glazed. He slumped forward. Falco shoved the body aside. The bullet had struck the abdomen; dark blood soaked the Gomorian uniform.

No time to recover. The third guard would have heard the shot.

Falco scrambled up and moved toward the exit. Footsteps pounded in the corridor. No time for finesse. He would rely on surprise.

The last soldier burst in. Falco struck — rifle butt to the temple. The man dropped instantly.

Falco leaned against the wall, breathing hard. He wiped sweat from his brow and returned to the rubble blocking the kitchen. Instinct insisted he keep searching.

He was right. After shifting beams, twisted metal, and splintered wood, he opened a gap wide enough to peer inside. A cold draught carried the sour reek of vomit. He switched on his phone’s torch.

There — on the lowest shelf of a buckled metal rack — lay Sandra. Pale, eyes closed, dressed in the white patient uniform. A dried yellow stain pooled beside her head.

“Sandra!”

Her eyelids fluttered at his voice, then closed again.

Falco tore at the debris with renewed urgency. When the opening was sufficient, he climbed through, gathered her in his arms, and crawled back out. Her skin was icy, her pulse thready. Hypothermia. He had arrived just in time.

Carrying her, he hurried through the corridors and out into the sunlight.

The light aircraft that had overflown earlier waited on a patch of level ground beyond the perimeter. The pilot jumped down, helped Falco secure Sandra on a stretcher inside the cabin, then climbed into the cockpit beside him.

Moments later the plane lifted off, banking away from the ruined clinic and the open field that stretched in every direction.