It wasn't long ago—though after so many events, it already felt like years—that, on Hunter's suggestion, we'd disabled everything possible on ATLAS to preserve every watt in the power system. Now, in the passenger cabin, only two dim lights over the seats and the faint blue floor lighting burned; in the cargo hold—just a solitary lamp. We'd muted the emergency beacon, switched off media and video systems, and all screens and instruments not directly related to flight safety. The machine sank into minimal life-support mode, and the difference was immediately palpable.

  As soon as I crossed the threshold, a real frost hit my face. The air inside was still, icy, thick as in an unheated winter hangar. Emily, Sarah, and Keila looked like seasoned winter fishermen: they wore multiple layers of rubberized tactical clothing over their regular clothes, and balaclava hats covered their faces up to their eyes. The girls unceremoniously kicked off their light boots and shoved their feet into huge, fur-lined men's boots taken for the Alaskan hunting trip. Sarah's shiny, neat tactical boots, which she still hadn't dared remove, were tightly wrapped in towels.

  Thick steam came from Colonel Daniels's mouth as he lay on the stretcher. It instantly turned into frost, settling on his graying, long-unshaven mustache and beard, coating them in tiny, shiny crystals. Frost had covered almost all control panels, portholes, screens, and displays—a matte, milky film through which numbers and readings were barely discernible.

  "Ork, we need to turn on the heating, at least briefly," Sarah said, rising to meet me. Her voice sounded muffled through the scarf tightly wound around her neck.

  "First, we need to clarify whether we can even charge the power system batteries under these conditions," distinct notes of worry sounded in the colonel's voice. He spoke slowly, conserving breath.

  "Of course we can," I replied, though honestly, I wasn't sure myself. "We need to rise above this cloud layer, try to deploy the auxiliary solar panels. So direct rays hit them. Then the batteries will start charging."

  I paused, gathering my thoughts. The auxiliary panels weren't designed to fully charge the main battery arrays—they were meant to power secondary equipment during long flights. But in our situation, even these scraps of energy could be decisive. At least to avoid freezing to death.

  Daniels quickly caught the uncertainty in my voice. He asked to be propped up and given the ATLAS manual—that thick volume in a blue plastic cover I'd once, seemingly in another life, printed at Hunter's request. At another time, I'd probably have been offended by such blatant distrust of my knowledge. But now I was so physically and morally exhausted that his demand evoked nothing but weary resignation.

  Retrieving the manual from under the seat where Hunter once slept, I wearily sank into my chair. My head grew heavy; my eyelids began sticking together on their own. I even tried to fight it but simply fell into a deep sleep.

  Nightmares haunted me—shapeless, incomprehensible, but no less terrifying. I jerked in the chair, broke out in a cold, clammy sweat, and trembled so hard my teeth chattered.

  "Awake?" Lieutenant Howard asked as soon as I lifted my head. He sat opposite; his face in the semi-darkness seemed gray and drawn.

  "Seems so. Not sure yet," I mumbled, struggling to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

  Thirst had tormented me since yesterday. Howard and I, in the heat of working with the cable, hadn't taken a single sip—water was running low, and we saved every drop for the girls and the colonel. Now my lips felt glued together, and my throat was coated with something sticky, unpleasant, making every breath uncomfortable.

  "Without water, we won't last more than a day," Daniels stated, understanding my condition from how I unconsciously licked my cracked lips.

  "We can't delay any longer," I whispered. "We have to storm the shelter..."

  "Here, the manual says," the colonel interrupted, slowly flipping pages of the hefty volume, "that in an emergency, chilled water drained from the ship's hull can be used for drinking."

  He looked up at me, apparently trying to see if I knew anything about this system.

  "When the creators wrote these instructions, maybe they meant the cold of the upper atmospheric layers?" I suggested, thinking with difficulty.

  "Not so much that, but the temperature difference in general," the colonel objected, tapping the page with his finger. "If we turn on the heating, the difference between internal and external temperatures will be enough for condensation."

  I was so thirsty that thinking about expending precious energy was beyond me. Silently, I got up, approached the control panel, and activated the cabin heating system.

  ATLAS heated slowly, reluctantly. First, a faint hum came from deep within the hull, then slightly less icy air streamed from the floor ventilation grilles. Only after about two hours, when the frost on the panels began melting into wet streaks, did I open the valve of the emergency tank with chilled water. A thin, transparent, incredibly enticing trickle immediately flowed from the spout.

  Thirst tormented everyone, but Howard was the first to approach the stream. He stared greedily at the water, his fingers involuntarily clenching into fists.

  "If I let him drink first, he won't leave anything for the others," flashed through my head with familiar dislike. I waited until the proffered cup filled to the brim with life-giving moisture, then divided its contents into five equal portions—for everyone except Keila, whom I assigned to guard the tank for now. Each got only a few sips. The water was ice-cold, tasteless and odorless, but even that seemed like salvation.

  More or less quenching our thirst and leaving Keila on duty by the tank to collect as much water as possible, we gathered in the cabin for a new meeting. The air had lost its biting edge, but real warmth was still far off.

  "And now, my dears," I pronounced, my voice sounding hoarse and strange, "to the final and decisive battle!"

  Saying this, I internally shuddered. The phrase came out pompous and cheap, like from a bad movie, but behind it lay a simple, terrible truth.

  "Either we win today, or we die. There's no third option for us."

  Keila wanted to place a filled plastic bottle on the table and join us, but I stopped her with a decisive gesture.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "You, girl, stay with Colonel Daniels. Your task is to try to stockpile as much water as possible. It's no less important."

  We checked and topped off our rifle magazines, slung canvas bandoliers over ourselves, and finally removed the powerful reflector spotlight from ATLAS's lower hull. Such bright lighting was, of course, a monstrous waste of precious energy, but we had no other choice: everything we knew about the underground creatures boiled down to one thing—they were pathologically afraid of bright light. To keep my hands free, I decided to hang the heavy spotlight on my chest with improvised straps. Thus attired, looking like either a seasoned commando or a terrified night watchman, I was the first to decisively step down the stairs to the ground.

  Howard followed me, having wound most of the thick cable around himself. Sarah carried the remaining coil, and our small detachment was brought up by Emily with a spare, less powerful spotlight, who, according to the general plan, was to remain at the top, covering our retreat.

  Outside stood a terrible, piercing frost, but we were so nervous we hardly felt the cold—it was overridden by an internal, feverish tension. When we approached the black maw of the ventilation shaft and looked inside, I immediately realized what foolishness I'd committed yesterday. The ladder I'd knocked down lay at the bottom, across the entire ventilation chamber, useless and unreachable.

  "There's your peace—for one night," Howard sneered, and the familiar notes of defeatism sounded in his voice again. "Now we can't lift it."

  His tone spurred me on. Quickly assessing the situation, I mobilized the remnants of my clarity. My gaze fell on the slings we'd initially used to try to topple the rock.

  "We descend to the intermediate platform, and from there, you lower me on the slings all the way down," I said. "I'll tie one end to the ladder, climb up, and together we'll haul it up."

  My plan turned out to be surprisingly workable. When they lowered me from the platform on slings through the previously opened, blocked hatch down to the chamber floor, I immediately understood that climbing back up wasn't necessary. It was much more effective to stay below to lift and guide the ladder while those above pulled. But for that, I needed to stand facing the wall, with my back to the dark passage from which constant rustling and that staccato tapping of many feet emanated.

  I started looking for something to hang the spotlight on so its beam would shine directly into that passage, blinding and deterring the creatures hiding there. Four huge, rust-and-cobweb-covered ventilation fans were mounted in the chamber. I quickly approached the nearest one, illuminated its massive metal blades... and froze.

  Between the enormous steel vanes, two lurking monsters were watching my actions. Long-haired, covered in matted fur, they didn't move, but from the depths of their cluster, dozens of narrow, red, unblinking eyes, full of mute, predatory malice, stared at me. That gaze paralyzed and sapped my will. As if hypnotized, instead of raising my rifle and emptying the magazine right into that gathered hatred, I just stood and stared into those burning points.

  Sarah, apparently, was the first to sense something wrong. Aiming over my head at the spot where I stood frozen, she shouted from above: "Duck!" and fired several precise, single shots right into the gap between the fan blades.

  But before the gunshots echoed, the spider that was closer suddenly lunged forward directly at the light source—at the spotlight glass on my chest. A dark mass slapped against the protective glass with a dull thud, almost shattering it. In horror, I jerked my head back, hitting the back of my head against the concrete wall. Pain pierced my skull, but that sharp blow brought me to my senses. I raised my rifle and began firing at the rapidly retreating, shadow-blending creature.

  Now, before hanging the spotlight, I thoroughly, with the icy calm of despair, checked all three remaining fans with the flashlight beam. No one else was there.

  With great effort, scraping our hands bloody on the cold metal, we finally got the ladder back in place, and Howard and Sarah descended its shaky, unsecured steps. And our long, terrifying descent down endless iron flights began.

  The structure was simple: a steep metal ladder led downward, every four meters meeting a small platform about two square meters in size. The steps were wide and convenient, about thirty centimeters, but the shaft itself wasn't tall, forcing us to descend bent over in an unnatural, exhausting posture. Damp air thick with the smell of mold and something sour, the loud, resonance-amplified sound of our footsteps and breathing, nerves stretched to the limit—all of this made my heart race somewhere in my throat.

  As soon as our feet touched another platform, from under dark gaps in the welded seams, three or four hairy shadows leaped out and scurried downward, their claws clicking dully. And this continued almost the entire time we descended into the unexplored depth.

  At a depth of about two hundred meters, judging by the unwound cable, the ventilation shaft unexpectedly split into three branches. Narrow tunnels, about a meter in diameter, stretched in different directions into darkness.

  If until now we expected danger only from below, the situation was now complicated by the fact that spiders could approach through one of the side branches and attack us from above, from behind.

  "We need to somehow secure our rear, at least during the descent," Sarah suggested, illuminating the three black holes with the spotlight beam.

  "Suggest we block two channels? But with what?" Howard sighed in dismay, surveying the bare concrete walls.

  "We could go up and lower stones down," Sarah realized, but doubt immediately showed on her face.

  The side branches were smaller than the main shaft. But even a stone eighty centimeters in diameter would weigh several hundred kilograms. Dragging that down a ladder...

  "If we drop a stone from above, it'll roll down on its own," she persisted.

  "How would it roll?" I immediately imagined a boulder weighing several hundred kilograms flying down metal steps, sweeping everything in its path.

  "Maybe these channels originate above the shelter ceiling and are simply inaccessible to the spiders?" Howard cautiously suggested, clearly unwilling to either carry stones or stay here long.

  "And what if spiders are already lurking there, just waiting for us to descend further to attack from behind?" Sarah's shoulders shuddered under the thick jacket at such an unpleasant prospect.

  But I was tired of speculation; time was running out, and we needed to act. I tore off a loose piece of limestone hanging from a nearby wall, swung, and threw it with all my might into the right branch of the shaft. The stone flew downward with a growing rumble, hit something metal with a deafening clang, and after a few seconds, everything fell silent.

  "In our shelter, ventilation shafts hung under the ceilings of technical floors," Howard said a bit more confidently. "I think it's the same here. These are just air ducts."

  "If even a coward like the lieutenant isn't afraid to descend further, we should risk it," I decided to myself and, without another word, decisively stepped onto the next platform, continuing the descent. Sarah and Howard silently followed me.

  We were already at a depth I estimated at about four hundred meters when the spotlight cable suddenly tightened, snagging on something. We paused and began carefully pulling it when, at that moment, a wild scream echoed through the shelter. The same scream, full of horror and pain, that had echoed through the shaft last evening when Howard and I were resting at the entrance. Only now it was closer, much closer, and therefore a hundred times more terrifying.

  "A-a-a-a-a!" echoed through the shaft, multiplying and reverberating with chilling echoes. "O-o-o!.. Ow! Ow-ow-ow..."

  This was, without a doubt, the moan of a living, sentient being. A human scream of pain and despair, monstrously amplified by the resonance of huge, empty spaces.

  Howard recoiled in horror, stepping on my feet. His face twisted in panic, and he was ready to bolt upward, abandoning us, when Sarah tried to grab his sleeve.

  "Where?! There are people down there!"

  In response, with a wild, inhuman expression, he grabbed the barrel of his rifle. It seemed another second, and he'd shoot her to clear his path to escape.

  But I acted faster. With a short, precise chop to the wrist, I knocked the weapon from his trembling hands. The rifle clattered onto the metal platform.

  "You miserable coward!" Sarah hissed, not even flinching. She spat at his feet with icy contempt. "They need urgent help down there, and you?!"

  Below, right beneath us, in response to the scream, someone began beating frantically, desperately, against something metal. The blows were furious, chaotic. And then everything abruptly fell silent. The scream ceased as suddenly as it began.

  "Do you understand? There are living people! Living people down there!" Sarah almost cried, clutching the railing.

  I couldn't take it anymore. Fear, despair, rage—all of it fused inside into a single, blind impulse. I don't remember how I broke into motion. I only recall the clatter of my boots on metal as I, forgetting caution, ran downward, stumbling and grabbing the railings.

  And then, completely unexpectedly, the ladder ended, and I would have flown off the last platform if I hadn't managed to grab the railing in time. We had reached the floor.

  Raising the spotlight high above my head, I slowly illuminated the space around us.

  And although many years had passed, I recognized the place immediately. We were in the atrium—the very heart of the "North Clark" shelter, where they'd once briefed us on evacuation and living rules in case of nuclear war. It was a huge circular room, several stories high. To our left were massive, hermetic gates leading to residential sectors. To the right—similar gates to service-technical areas, workshops, and, most importantly, food storage. And directly before me gaped a wide, main corridor stretching far into the rock. It led to third, even more massive steel doors—those leading further down, to the power station, reactor compartments, and nuclear waste storage. It was from there, from that dark maw, that the deadly threat to the entire complex emanated.

  The spotlight beam snatched from the darkness millions of tracks on the damp, thin layer of silt-and-dust-covered floor—imprints of countless feet, intertwined, overlapping. And the walls and ceiling of the corridor leading downward were densely, impenetrably draped with layered, gray webbing. It swayed in the airflow from our movement like heavy, dirty curtains.

  Sarah and Howard, descending after me, froze nearby, surveying the panorama of hell that opened up. No one uttered a word. Only the steady hum of ventilation equipment operating somewhere far away broke the silence, which had become even more ominous after the recent scream.