The Thing 3: Assimilation✔️

Chapter 05: Rescue Op

Blake looked into the yawning, dimly-lit void that awaited him.

This was really stupid, but, then again, he'd done a lot of stupid shit over his life. And he'd done a lot of it over the past few days. But he was still alive, still breathing, and if there was another Special Forces solider out there in a similar condition, then he was willing to risk his life on the chance that he could save the man.

The way ahead was a crooked, confused maze of wrecked vehicles and crates. He was already getting sick of this environment. The good news was that the only thing he heard were the last, echoing footsteps of Peltola retreating back to the base. Hoping that he wasn't walking to his doom, Blake set off, walking alongside a massive dump truck. It stood like a monolithic sentinel in the gloom, derelict and dark, windows cracked, blood smeared across the industrial yellow surface of the vehicle, some of it red, some of it black.

As he stalked through the underground gloom, Blake found his mind wandering. He realized, all at once, that he'd become entrenched in this insane war, non-stop, and there was no real end in sight. Blake had fought all over the planet, (now he could say that he'd seen some kind of combat on literally all seven continents now, so...hey, there was that), certainly longer than the few days he'd been down here in the cold.

How long had he been down here?

He realized that he'd lost all sense of the passage of time. For too long, it had only been the objectives. Simple survival, not being infected, pure paranoia and the biting cold. As he carefully slid along a dull blue cargo container, flipped over on its side, he found himself deeply, deeply appreciative to every person who had ever pushed him to go harder, go father, endure just a little bit longer. All of it had led him to start to pushing himself harder, building his own endurance, getting faster, stronger, smarter, simply better.

What better battlefield to test him on than this one?

There were so many factors to consider, so many things trying to kill him. Blake had always enjoyed conflict and struggle. He wasn't sure why. He'd grown up in a shitty little town in Missouri where the population barely broke a thousand. He'd been small and funny looking, so naturally he attracted bullies like iron filings to a magnet. At first, he'd run away. That's where his speed had come from. Then, when puberty hit, he'd began to grow and started working out. He'd done it all his thirteenth summer, doing anything he could to improve his body.

When the bullies came after that, he put them down, fast and hard.

They'd learned their lessons after that.

When he graduated high school and hit eighteen years old, he knew that the fastest, most certain way out was the Army. So he'd signed up and had never really looked back. That was twelve years ago. And those twelve years had been leading to this conflict, easily the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do in his entire life.

Blake realized that he'd come to his destination, at least, the first one. A ladder bolted to the left wall would take him to the surface. Sighing, he slung his flamethrower, placed his hands on the nearest rung and began the long climb up.

It was irritating, but eventually he made it to the top.

Opening a hatch, he poked his head up and looked around. He was inside a small, mostly empty room. Almost at once, he began to hear things: the whispering of the wind, screaming, gunshots. Many different gunshots. Okay, probably human hostiles. He switched to his MP-5, the weapon a solid, reassuring weight in his grasp.

Moving to the only door, Blake opened it and peered out. He found himself staring down a long hallway. There were a few doors to the left, but through an open door at the end he spied the staccato strobe effect of muzzle flash. Moving with as much stealth and speed as he could muster, Blake reached the end of the corridor and peered cautiously through the open door. A trio of men in white camo gear and gasmasks were ducked behind pieces of furniture in what appeared to be a recreational room, firing through an open doorway at the back of the room.