At Doom's Gate

Chapter 1

"Hell exists, the Devil is real, and God is dead." The warning was as clear as day. How foolish we were; our arrogance condemned us.

We encountered the ominous inscription on a wall as soon as that macabre illumination manifested. Those enormous, misaligned scrawls. I shuddered at the thought that those letters had been etched in blood. I have no doubt everyone thought the same, but they chose the comfort and safety of reason. It wasn't difficult, as we were at the beginning of a mission for which we were unprepared, and the limits of reason were yet to be widely tested. However, allow me a brief digression to make it clear how we ended up before the gates of damnation.

My name is Elisabeth Moss. I am a doctor and a sergeant in the armed forces. I will strive to retrace my steps, as best as my mental state allows, up to the moment I write this account.

We landed on the moon on December 11, 1985, aboard the Erebus 12. We left Earth on the 8th. The beginning of my journey, the night before. It was just before midnight, and I was sinking into the armchair in the living room. The day had been particularly exhausting, marked by difficult decisions and inevitable changes. Great plans were abandoned, and exhaustion set in. A feeling of emptiness filled my chest.

I was staring at a glass of Buchanan's, the ice slowly melting. The sound echoed in my mind, reminiscent of the cracking of an Antarctic ice wall breaking into the sea. The light from the lamp on the table, refracted by the liquid, produced a seductive and threatening amber glow that flickered on the apartment walls, casting long shadows that evoked memories of dreamlike creatures of all shapes and sizes, restless and mocking, always lurking, just waiting for a slip to attack me. A harbinger of what I would encounter next, perhaps.

The hands of the enormous mahogany grandfather clock, which for some unknown reason I brought from my parents' house when I moved into my apartment, advanced lethargically. The ticks and tocks seemed increasingly spaced out, and the sound grew ever more pungent. The memory of the monumental argument with the General that afternoon. Ah! Those harsh words, as always. My mind replayed the day in an anguishing loop.

After what felt like several dozen eternal minutes, the ice melted completely, the crashes in my head ceased, the creatures in the shadows calmed down, and I was almost able to taste the bitter flavor of victory when the door of my apartment was pounded.

I rose without enthusiasm and walked to the door unhurriedly. I opened it without turning on the lights and took some time to realize what it was about. The man filled almost the entire doorway. It was Officer Thompson. I consider myself a tall woman at 178 cm, yet before that man, I seemed like a child.

— Sergeant. — The man growled as he entered the apartment, sporting an impeccable posture, with his chin slightly raised and his hands firmly crossed behind his back.

— Can we skip the formalities, officer? — I replied, blocking the entrance. Involuntarily, I straightened my posture, squared my shoulders, and lifted my chin. Old habits die hard, and I hadn't had any time to shed the military persona I'd maintained since I was eighteen. In truth, I didn't even know how to be anything else.

— Just doing my job, Sergeant. Please, follow me. — The man took a step back and extended his hand, indicating the exit.

— Am I under arrest? — I asked, without surprise. After all, after that day, it wouldn't be the first time my bad decisions led to worse consequences. As the General always made a point to highlight.

— Not at all, Sergeant. Your services have been requested for one last mission. — His tone was cold but respectful.

I felt my stomach churn. That strange day never seemed to end. I glanced at the whisky glass glistening on the table, walked over to it with dragging steps, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the table. — What kind of mission? — I inquired, resigned, while thinking: why now, just when I had requested my discharge?