SUBTERRANEA
P.K. Hawkins
Copyright 2020 by
www.severedpress.com
Prologue
The facility’s klaxons continued to blare even after the horror was over, and Special Agent Larson was forced to run into the project’s main control room, her gun still drawn, and demand answers.
“I thought you idiots said the thing was shut down!”
“We did!” one of the main scientists said from his control panel, which seemed to be smoking and sparking. “It is! But the readings seem to indicate that it’s going to open again within the hour.”
“Then the general will just have to get more soldiers and be prepared for another breach.”
“But Agent Larson, that’s the problem,” the scientist said. “The readings don’t say anything about the portal opening again here. The monitors seem to indicate a spike of energy outside the facility.”
Larson’s jaw dropped. “That’s not supposed to be possible at this stage.”
“And yet that’s exactly what seems to be happening,” the scientist said. His tone seemed to suggest that somehow he seemed to think this was all her fault. Just let him think that, then. Everyone blamed her for everything that went wrong around here anyway, even when it was very blatantly the fault of that idiot general.
“Where then?” Larson asked. “Please at least tell me it’s going to happen in some corn field somewhere that no one is using at this time of year.”
The scientist gave a series of coordinates as they appeared on the glowing green screen of his computer. Special Agent Larson thought about them for a moment, comparing them to what she knew about this region, then swore loud and long.
“What’s so bad about that?” another scientist asked. “Isn’t that the middle of nowhere?”
“It is, but it just so happens to be one of the few spots in that area with people in it.” She started to run out of the room, then called out to the scientists over her shoulder as she left. “Someone tell the general. There’s a very small town out there that is about to experience a very big heap of trouble.”
Chapter One
With a total population of six hundred and twenty-four people, Kettle Hollow, Wisconsin barely registered on most maps. Its biggest claim to fame was that it was the home town of a player who had briefly been a part of the 1982 Milwaukee Brewers line-up, but an injury had ended his career pretty quickly and now, three years later, none of the townsfolk even knew where he lived anymore. There was parochial school as part of the Catholic church, but otherwise all the schoolchildren had to be bused over to Sheboygan. There was a diner and a gas station near the center of town, and near the edge of town (which, quite frankly, was only a block or so from the center) there was a Piggly Wiggly grocery store and a mom and pop pharmacy. That was it. That was pretty much every major landmark in the town that wasn’t somebody’s house.
It did have a single stoplight although as the darkness of the early autumn night fell over the town, that stoplight’s time left on Earth was to be measured in hours rather than days.
At the outskirts of the town and in the farm fields that surrounded it, whispers could be heard by anyone listening, along with the occasional soft squawk of a walkie-talkie. But the forces gathering out there were still unsure that their greatest fear was about to happen, so they resisted descending on the town just yet, hoping that the early warning they’d been given was a false alarm.
Beyond that perimeter of hiding figures, in a rock quarry off a mostly deserted county road, four much younger people were making a lot more noise, or at least three of them were. Maureen “Murky” Lensky proved to be the quietest of the four, mostly because at eleven she was the youngest and felt like she didn’t belong with the others. She was the only one riding an old 70’s Schwinn while the other three had BMXs of various brands. None of them encouraged her to join in as they practiced dangerous stunts (or at least dangerous in the minds of twelve and thirteen-year-olds). She wouldn’t even be here if her mother had forced her thirteen-year old sister Laura to bring her along. Their mom had said it was because Murky didn’t get out of the house enough, but Murky had understood the silent look her mother had given her just as she was leaving the house. Murky’s real reason for being out here was because their mother didn’t trust Laura alone with Henderson.
Henderson’s real name was George Patrick Staude. No one knew why he called himself Henderson, and anyone who tried to call him by his given name tended to walk away with bruises or black eyes. He was hardly a large person, but people tended to avoid him. Murky wouldn’t exactly consider him a bully, but he made little to no attempt to make friends. He wore faded flannel shirts and torn jeans because his family couldn’t afford much else, and in order to prevent others from making fun of him for this he tried to take on an intimidating air. Murky’s mother thought he was a bad influence, but he was never mean to Murky. If anything, he was rather protective of her because she was Laura’s sister, and wherever Laura went, he followed.
At this exact moment he was trying to precariously balance his BMX on an outcropping of rock. He’d been that way for several minutes now, declaring that as soon as he was ready he would pull off some kind of amazing trick. Laura waited patiently nearby with her own Huffy BMX while the fourth member of their group, Jesse, jeered up at him.
“Hey Henderson, it’s okay to admit you’re a chicken!” he
