‘Kill Everything That Moves’ Part 6

Now the facts began to emerge.

Oca 4, 2025

THE SUICIDE MISSION
The truth was out now. Humanity faced an enemy beyond comprehension—and our only chance was to fight back.
The adrenaline was electric, fear thick in the air. We were volunteers, yes, but the document they handed us made it clear:
This was a death sentence.
“By participating, you acknowledge the high probability of fatality.”
Some backed out immediately. I couldn’t blame them. But as I stared at those words, a grim resolve settled over me.
We’re already dead. Might as well die fighting.
THE ARMORY
The remaining volunteers were herded into a high-tech chamber that didn’t belong in any ordinary bunker.
How long has this place existed? I wondered. Did they know this was coming?
They scrubbed us raw, then issued us sleek, black bodysuits.
“Pray these withstand the acid,” the officer muttered.
Next came the devices—not radios, but something new, humming with alien energy.
“Lose this, and we can’t retrieve you,” they warned.
Avva gripped hers like a lifeline. I pulled her close.
“Stay with me,” I whispered. “And tell me—how the hell is this tech working when nothing else does?”
INTO THE WASTELAND
The helicopter blades cut through the toxic haze. Outside, the world was a graveyard—no acid rain today, just the eternal dust choking the sky. Day or night? Impossible to tell.
We touched down near skeletal buildings. The mission:
Find survivors.
Collect samples.
“Samples of what?” I’d asked.
“Anything that doesn’t melt your gloves off,” came the grim reply.
THE HUNT
Avva and I moved as one, her hand locked in mine. The streets were eerily silent—no cries, no footsteps. Just the crunch of debris underfoot.
Then, in my sample container: movement.
A sliver of black sludge twitched, forming pseudopods to probe the glass.
“Got something,” I breathed.
Not just a substance—a creature.
THE OTHERS RETURN
Back at the rally point, the other teams brought horrors of their own:
A mangled survivor babbling about “things in the mist.”
A dog—or what was left of it—its flesh half-melted, half-reconfigured into something with too many joints.
And then… the sky rippled.
A pulse of violet light tore through the clouds. The ground trembled.
The officer’s voice crackled through our devices:
“Abort! It’s starting aga—”
Static.
Above us, the dust parted—just enough to reveal the underbelly of the ship.
It was watching.

Okumaya Devam Et