Omega 19: The Call

Eric lay in his bunk, extending his hand toward the flashlight on the drawer as the voices swirled around him.

They were louder tonight. More distinct. No longer a faint murmur, an occasional clear whisper or speech at the edges of his hearing, but something that felt real—more real than it should. Something purposeful.

Something he just couldn't ignore or play along with anymore.

And then, clear as day, he heard his name.

"Eric..."

A cold shiver crawled down his spine.

He turned his head slightly, glancing toward the far side of the cramped room. The extra mattress they had shoved in made the space feel even smaller, the air thick and stale from too many nights without proper circulation. Tucker lay there, buried beneath a pile of blankets, dead to the world.

Eric waited, watching for any sign that Tucker had heard it too. But he didn't stir.

Did he imagine it?

Then he heard it again.

"Eric..."

It came from the hallway.

His heartbeat quickened. The base was supposed to be quiet at this hour. The others had long since turned in, and with the storm outside, there was no way anyone was walking around.

Other than the currently patrolling individuals, there shouldn't be anyone else.

He exhaled slowly.

He chanted to himself.

Just your imagination.

Play along. Ignore it like always.

Except he knew better.

His grip tightened on the flashlight as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk. The floor was freezing beneath his socks, the chill biting into his skin as he carefully pushed himself to his feet.

Up until this moment, he hadn't turned the flashlight on.

The glow from the emergency lights lining the hallway was just enough to see without tripping over anything. If someone was messing with him, he didn't want to announce his presence right away.

He took one last look at Tucker, unsure if he should wake him. He didn't want to abandon the guy, but he also didn't know which of them was in more danger at this moment.

He placed a hand on Tucker's shoulder and, in a barely audible voice, called, "Tucker."

The younger private didn't respond. He was out cold. Eric tried shaking him a few more times, but other than the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the young man was utterly dead to the world.

"Eric..." The call came again.

Eric knew it would be better if he went alone. If he was the one being called for.

He knew he should turn back, but something in him needed to see this through—to reach the end of it.

He fastened his rifle and strapped his bayonet.

Taking another slow breath, he stepped toward the door.

It let out a quiet creak as he eased it open.

The hallway stretched ahead of him—empty.

Yet the whispers continued.

Not fading. Not disappearing. Growing louder.

He swallowed hard and stepped out.

Moving carefully, he kept his footsteps light against the hard floor. The base was old, the walls lined with metal pipes that creaked as they expanded and contracted with the temperature shifts. He knew every sound by heart.

He'd been choosing to play along for a long time. He had adapted well, as the voices said.

But now... he felt compelled to check. He felt an urge that was his own—not something slipping into his will, taking over.

The whispers drifted ahead of him, drawing him deeper into the base. He passed the closed doors of the rooms first—empty, no lights or noises coming from behind them.

Then came the mess hall.

It was just as deserted, the metal tables and chairs untouched since dinner. Someone had left a tray on the counter near the sink, remnants of a half-eaten meal still visible under the flickering lights. The faint scent of coffee and reheated rations lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present chill.

He hesitated, scanning the room. Nothing.

But the whispers—the call—persisted.

They led him to the back of the mess hall, past the kitchen and the storage lockers, toward the maintenance corridor.

The further he went, the colder it got.

A faint draft seeped in from somewhere, carrying with it the scent of ice and metal. He ignored the way his breath began to fog in the air, pushing forward until he reached the storage room.

The door was ajar.

A sense of unease settled in his stomach. The doors were usually locked by the end of the day. No one else should have been in there.

Eric pressed himself against the wall beside the doorway, listening.

The whispers had stopped.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then—a faint hum.

Low. Constant. Like a heartbeat.

He clenched his jaw.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed the door open and lifted his flashlight.

The beam cut through the darkness, sweeping across the room.

Shelves lined the walls, filled with spare equipment, sealed supply crates, and old tools. The thick scent of dust and oil clung to the air, untouched by the cold outside.

But none of that mattered.

Because at the center of the room, on the table—was the artifact.

The black stone sat there, strange symbols carved deep into its surface. It had been inert when Caldwell locked it away.

Now, the symbols were glowing.

A dull, eerie light pulsed from within, casting faint patterns across the walls.

And beside it stood Caldwell.

Her back was to him, her head tilted slightly, as if… listening.

A prickle of unease ran through him.

"Caldwell?" he called softly.

She didn't move.

His grip tightened around the flashlight. His instincts screamed at him to leave.

But he stepped forward instead.

"Caldwell, what are you doing?"

Slowly, she turned.

Her pupils were dilated, her breathing shallow. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers twitching as if she wanted to reach for something but couldn't.

"They're talking to me," she whispered.

Her voice was different. Hollow. Not hers.

Eric's pulse pounded in his ears. He hoped—deep in his heart—she was hypnotized. That it was just the visual impact of the glowing symbols affecting her.

"Step away from it. Now."

She didn't.

Didn't even blink.

The symbols pulsed brighter. The hum in the air grew deeper.

Eric took another step forward, reaching out—but before he could touch her—

The lights flickered.

The whispers returned—no longer faint, no longer distant. They were screaming.

The artifact pulsed.

A wave of force slammed into Eric's chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. The world spun as he was thrown backward, crashing into the shelves.

Pain exploded in his shoulder. Tools clattered to the ground around him. His flashlight flickered, rolling away.

For a moment, his vision swam. His head throbbed.

He forced himself to look up—

Caldwell was gone.