The van rumbled noisily down the highway, the dull drone of the engine rising and falling it climbed the rolling hills of the New Hampshire countryside. Following behind, its twin accompanied it down the empty roads, the matching purple stripes standing out bright behind the official lettering.
In the rear of the van, hard metal benches stretched the length of the windowless sides, liberally adorned with safety harnesses to prevent passengers from being tossed about. None of them were in use at the moment; instead the space was filled with two squads of PRT officers, the ten men spread out amidst piles of their equipment. They had left Boston an hour and a half prior, and were idly checking gear or catching a few minutes of sleep before they were due to arrive.
Agent Clarke sat hunched over near the rear doors of the transport, papers spread precariously across his knees. As the corporal of his squad he would be directing the upcoming field expedition; the documents in front of him detailed what little information the department possessed.
Overall, it wasn't much. A report had been filed the previous afternoon – a call to the local police, forwarded up the line to the Boston PRT. The caller had described an ominous white fog, filling the small valley he had been traveling through on a detour to get home. He had shown the rare sense to turn around immediately and report it, and the first investigative team had been dispatched that evening. Evidently they had deemed the surroundings safe enough to move to the next stage, and so his squad and the three others in their convoy were headed to the site.
It was unclear what exactly they would be expecting. There had only been resources for a single flyby that morning to judge the size of the cloud. The dense formation was clearly artificial, but it obscured any sight of the forest below. On the positive side it didn't seem to be expanding; if anything, reports were trickling in that the edges were retreating slowly. Regardless, it stretched over a mile down the bottom of the valley, stubbornly clinging in place long after any regular fog would have been burnt away.
The goal of this upcoming expedition was to solve the glaring lack of information that surrounded the anomaly. The higher-ups had been clear on that front; the primary goal was to get in and get out quickly and safely. The resources of the Boston PRT might be divided amongst a number of tasks, but they could bring down the hammer should the need arise.
Until that need was found, however, they would be on their own.
Inside the van, the mood was more strained than it should have been for a reconnaissance mission. The cloud itself was relatively innocuous, but the Slaughterhouse Nine had last been identified only a few weeks ago, moving towards the Northeast. Nobody wanted to voice their suspicions aloud, but the nagging suspicion hung heavily over the group.
Clarke busied himself back in the folders, flipping through a detailed map of the position they would be embarking from. Visibility was reportedly awful in the fog, so it was best for him to get familiar with the area as much as possible beforehand.
The vans' engines died with a cough as they pulled to a stop in front of an unadorned beige tent, the central location for the impromptu field command that had sprung up in response to the call. On one side a generator rhythmically chugged away, thick black cables snaking out the back to disappear underneath the canvas wall. Perimeter lights dotted the area a few dozen meters away, splayed outwards towards the opaque wall of mist that began another hundred meters further down.
Additional cables stretched out across the grassy clearing towards a second tent, this one braced with thick metal poles and surrounded in a double-layered wall. Strips of long plastic hung in the entryway, partially isolating the field laboratory from the outside. As Clarke and his squad began unloading and gearing up, motion stirred between the two tents, a lab technician striding towards the command post with papers clutched in one hand. The bald man spared a brief nod towards the new arrivals before continuing inwards, ducking under the entry flap and out of sight.
The technician hadn't appeared too hurried, which was always a good sign. In his experience no news was the best kind of news; anything that got the lab boys excited usually resulted in trouble for the men and women sent to deal with it. If his team could get in and out without encountering anything out of the ordinary he would consider the expedition a rousing success.
On the other hand, excitement was still on the positive side of the spectrum when it came to some of the situations the PRT regularly found themselves in. One of his former teammates had likened the eccentric technicians to a bomb squad: when they started running, it was time to move. If you couldn't, you had best hope that you were in a secure position.
Tangent aside, he had known ahead of time that there wouldn't be any glaring problems on arrival. The mission wouldn't have been cleared until the first tests had been completed, and the lack of information in the briefing was almost a relief in that regard. If there had been anything glaringly dangerous, it would have been discovered and highlighted in the report. It didn't rule out problems further in, but it was reassuring nonetheless.
Checking in on the rest of his squad-mates revealed they were almost finished shrugging on the final pieces of gear that had been set aside during the long ride. Body armor was many things, but comfortable wasn't one of them. Each man carried his service pistol and rifle, and two per squad were equipped with the PRT's iconic containment foam launchers strapped tightly across their backs.
Clarke left them to finish, continuing forwards to the command tent and moving past the bored officer standing guard outside. The man must have been part of the first group; it was likely he hadn't done anything but secure the site and keep an eye on the tents since then. Clarke didn't envy the position; with any luck the unlucky officer would be freed up once they finished the expedition.
Inside, tables, desks, and chairs cluttering the decently-sized room. The two side walls were papered with printed maps and scribbled notes, while against the back wall laptops rested beneath a modest monitor mounted to a tall stand, stretching almost to the ceiling. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs dangled from hanging straps, cables taped flat and running down to the floor. In the middle a narrow aisle left barely enough room to maneuver down, and at the far end of the room was the bald technician he had seen a minute prior, speaking to another figure sitting next to a satellite phone.
As he approached the pair turned, welcoming him into the conversation.
Unsurprisingly, there wasn't much information to be revealed. The area was safe, as far as any tests so far had shown. Over the past night the makeshift lab had been busy analyzing the white fog, subjecting it to a battery of tests, both mundane and tinker-designed. The group of techs had found the chemical substance fascinating, or so he gathered, but the important result was that for all its complicated structure it was an incredible sterilizing agent. Short-term exposure wasn't a concern, and he tuned out a good portion of the remaining speech, letting the man before him ramble about the potential applications. It wasn't until his second-in-command peered into the tent that he excused himself, exiting to face his full team. Final preparations had been completed, and with professional calm they moved towards the treeline at a brisk march.
Whether by happenstance or due to the sporadic winds, the bank of chemical fog had drifted to a stop just inside the edges of the woods. Within, towering pine trees crowded together, ice-coated needles overlapping to create a dense canopy even in the heart of winter. The pale white trunks of scattered birch trees broke up the dark pillars, peeling bark fading in and out of view. Alone the forest would have been intimidating; the addition of the thick fog lent it an unearthly air.
To call the path in front of Clarke and his team a road was generous. Twin dirt tracks peered out from the icy ground intermittently, splotches of uneven ground where the ice had partially melted. The only real difference between it and the rest of the forest was the lack of trees, but even that provided little aid. High above, branches twisted together like grasping fingers, forming a shroud that kept the road in the same gloomy twilight as the rest of the forest.
At Clarke's prompting gesture the team split, each squad moving quietly and smoothly to spread out on either side of the rode. The four groups fell into a rough line, innermost two at the edges of the road while the outer teams trudged deeper into the woods. They didn't stray far – maintaining line of sight in the current conditions limited their travel to only twenty or thirty meters further.
As the officers entered the darkened fog sound faded away, the wind failing to pierce the thick canopy. In its wake the silence echoed outwards, devouring the muffled footsteps before they could spread. The small sounds of movement were all that remained, a gentle shuffling of cloth that remained caught around each officer. The world seemed to shrink inwards, forming a moving oasis bordered by indistinct walls. Amongst the PRT, hands tightened around their weapons as fingers bounced anxiously on the sides of trigger guards.
The careful trek into the looming forest was interrupted minutes in. Ahead of the rightmost squad a low groan echoed out, loud enough to be clearly heard but impossible to pinpoint amidst the clouded vista. The two teams alongside the road moved forwards first as Clarke gestured to form a wedge, taking advantage of the comparatively easier path in the center.
The noise continued unabated as all four squads drew closer, an incessant creaking that grew in intensity moment by moment. Clarke could hear his pulse hammering in his ears, strained breath fogging the lower edges of his mask. It wasn't until they had moved almost a full hundred meters further through the fog that their crawling pace stopped abruptly.
Ahead of the officers a dozen rapid-fire cracks rang out, resounding through the air, and they threw themselves to the ground, raising rifles as they peered desperately ahead. Before they could surge forward the mist churned and seethed in a giant whirl as the indistinct form of one of the titanic evergreens toppled slowly with a rumble. Brittle, ice-coated branches that stood in the way were obliterated with the same splintering cracks of wood that had echoed out previously. Even as his heartbeat jumped at the noise Clarke heard the muffled swear of his teammate next to him, exhaling in a rush.
As the adrenaline drained away squad members slowly regained their footing, the crackle of the radio sounding the all clear from each squad. The two central groups maintained position as the line reformed. With the thickening fog it didn't stretch as wide as before, and nobody seemed in a hurry to remedy that.
Resuming movement towards the collapsed tree revealed an unpleasant surprise as the prone silhouette came into view. The splintered base stood out from the rest of the thick trunk, and surrounding the jagged and crushed mess a sickening substance glistened against the bark. Pale tendrils of discoloration wrapped upwards along the tree, the affected areas dripping like wax that had been softened and then re-hardened out of place.
Peering into the dimness beyond the fallen tree, Clarke took in the surrounding woods. From his current position onward, an invisible something had drifted through the base of the undergrowth. The smallest bits of foliage were dissolved completely, not that there had been that much to begin with in the dead of winter. However, the contamination didn't stop there. Numerous low-hanging branches bore the same marks as the trunk in front of him, exaggerated to a frightening degree. Finally, a few of the larger pieces of wood suffered an identical affliction. At the moment the changes were intermittent, but he had an unfortunate suspicion about what lay ahead. Right now they were only on the outer edge; it would undoubtedly be worse the closer they got to whatever caused such unsettling phenomenon.
The unplanned stop didn't last long, officers taking extra care to avoid the largest concentrations of twisted plant life as they continued forwards. The task grew more and more difficult as they progressed, clumps of strange and disturbing substance dotting the increasingly-eerie landscape. Off in the distance occasional splintering cracks could be heard, the sound reflecting around them without any discernible source.
Not far after the first sighting of contamination Clarke's fears were confirmed, as the changes grew larger and more numerous. Most of the trees were still standing, but many were pitched in unsettling angles, sections of trunk making abrupt twists and turns up the length of the tree. The healthy trees were beginning to be outnumbered, and the pale sickness was joined by new infections: bubbles frozen in time atop the greatest concentrations of melted areas. It was impossible to tell if it was a separate issue or the next stage of what he had seen before. On the positive side, it was completely unmoving. Peering closer at the bubbles revealed one frozen in the process of popping, leaving a dimpled crater in the slurry beneath it. Even his amateur knowledge of chemistry indicated that whatever reaction had been ongoing didn't seem to be active any longer.
Speaking curtly into the radio, he relayed a description of the unfamiliar changes back to the command tent. Shortly after he began the technician that he had spoken to before joined as well, prompting him to slow down as the sounds of hurried note-taking scratched by in the background. A minute passed after he finished, murmurs barely audible before the commander spoke again, bidding him to continue. Evidently something in his description had satisfied the technician.
Unfortunately, the good news failed to offset the growing tightness that gripped the team as they moved through the trees. Whoever was responsible for the perversion twisting through the woods had yet to be found. Nothing about the environment around them helped – the dwindling lines of sight were a tactician's nightmare. They could be walking directly into an ambush and have no idea until the officers were practically on top of it.
His thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar sensation traveling through his sturdy boots as Clarke took another step forward. Until now there had been nothing but the occasional branch buried under the snow and ice at the edge of the road, but beneath his feet something had given way with a crisp crack, higher and lighter than the familiar sound of breaking wood. Waving for a halt, he glanced back and forth to confirm his squad mates were in position, before taking his eyes off the murky path ahead. Kneeling down, the packed snow at the bottom of his boot print revealed a flat shimmer as he dug through it. His hand rose with a razor-sharp shard of glass gripped precariously between gloved fingers.
The clearly artificial material was out of place amidst the dark forest and he paused, eyes roaming the forest floor. Now that he knew what to look for, scattered shards of glass peeked out intermittently from the snowy ground, the subtle reflections slightly different than the blank white backdrop. Unlike the ever-present organic growths the sharp fragments were clustered roughly ahead of him and slightly off the road. His eyes followed the vague path to the base of a large birch tree, bare branches weaving between the white, ice-coated pine needles before they vanished into the mist above. It was difficult to see any details, but as the mist swelled and faded Clarke could barely make out a lump high up in the branches. Slipping his finger around the trigger of his rifle, he raised the scope to his face.
It took an effort of will not to fire as details swam into view. Sightless eyes started back into his own, surrounded by frozen black flesh. The discoloration was severe enough that he couldn't identify the body until the edges of a glass-coated dress shifted into view.
Would you look at that, he thought with vengeful satisfaction. Sprawled amidst the treetops lay Shatterbird, limbs splayed outwards and harshly broken against the unyielding tree. The presence of a dead member of the Nine only raised the stakes further, but it did nothing to dispel the vicious warmth that filled him. The middle-eastern woman had been the herald of the Nine for years, her city-wide destruction often announcing their presence in a terrifying display. The enormous number of casualties inflicted had cemented her place as one of the most dangerous members.
Her death did change things, however. Clarke's previous assumption had the Nine stopping in place to terrorize one of the scattered homesteads or cabins dotting the region, out of sight of the main towns. Instead, Shatterbird's corpse indicated something greater. Turnover amongst the murderous team was high; the body in front of him could be the mark of a new terror joining the ranks. Alternatively, a particularly brave or dumb cape might have tried their hand at culling the members themselves. He didn't fancy their chances, but he'd raise a drink to their memory when he got back to base.
In the meantime, it still fell to him and his squad to figure out exactly what had happened. They wouldn't get any answers from Shatterbird's silent form, not that she would have been inclined to help had she been alive. Continuing further remained the clearest course of action, as unsettling as it was.
"Command, we have confirmation on the Nine. Eyes on Shatterbird's body."
He could practically feel the commander sit up straighter in the chair through the radio as his words registered.
"Acknowledged. Continue forward but do not engage. If you see movement, you are to retreat immediately. I'm putting out the call, the Protectorate will be on standby. I repeat, do not engage," the other man finished. Around him, nods passed back and forth as the officers took in the instructions.
The twisted and tortured plant life surrounding the team took on an increasingly sinister feel, knowing now that the Slaughterhouse Nine had been in the area. As if in response to their heightened attention the contamination worsened rapidly as the PRT officers trudged cautiously forward. Black fingers of ashy residue began to supplant the previous markings, spreading into the snow at the base of the trees in a dark stain. Branches lay thickly on the ground, dissolving into the same inky dust at the slightest touch. Disturbingly, the ash failed to mix with the snow in the slightest, flakes tumbling across the wet surface without sticking.
Ahead of his five-man squad, Clarke could make out a soft lightening of the mist, so faint that it took almost a full minute before he convinced himself that he wasn't imagining it. There had been a solitary cabin marked on the map he'd reviewed before the mission; the change in lighting should be the clearing around the house. If that was the case they were moving slightly slower than he'd estimated. Regardless, the difference wasn't enough to be significant.
He gestured for his squad and the other road-adjacent group on the right to pause, letting the two squads further into the woods shuffle forwards. The line had drifted out of shape due to the inevitable realities of woodland traversal, but if there was a treeline ahead they would need to approach it simultaneously. As they caught up the center pair resumed their march.
Halting at the edge of the trees, the officers gazed forward into the clearing. Each member within the group of five focused on their designated angle, eyes unwavering from the assigned positions as they silently scanned for movement. In front of them, the few remaining trees vanished as the forest opened up before them.
The clearing wasn't terribly large, perhaps forty or fifty meters across. Within it, the lack of canopy showcased a bright blue hole to the sky, fog abruptly wisping away amidst the open space. Across the ground lay a thick carpet of snow, built up high without branches overhead to catch it. In the middle of the white tableau lay a sturdy wooden cabin, the picturesque view standing out in stark contrast to the ominous mist-shrouded woods that surrounded it.
By the side of the road two plain white vans were parked casually. They had evidently been there for some time, as large drifts of snow had gathered on the windward side of each vehicle. Oddly enough, the vehicles were completely unmarked by whatever plague had swept through the area. In comparison, at the base of the cabin a few of the logs bore faint markings, but even those resembled the lightest touches that he had seen along the outer edges of the forest, nothing even approaching the rampant desiccation that now almost covered the trees. Other than that the path to the cabin was completely open, the flat expanse shining faintly.
Clarke grimaced at the sight. They had made it this far without issue, but the terrain in front of him was perfect for anyone lurking inside the dark windows. He and his officers would have to cross the gap quickly, leaving them uncomfortably exposed.
"Eyes on the house. Bravo and Charlie, move to the vans on my mark."
Counting down on an outstretched hand, the two center squads crouched in preparation for the rush towards what little concealment was offered. As his arm dropped they surged forwards out of the woods, shuffling through the knee-deep snow as fast as possible. Clarke felt the hairs on his neck raise, but no response came as they drew even with the tall vehicles, ducking behind the high sides and into the relatively clear pocket on the opposite side of the drifts.
His breathing slowed its frantic pace as the silence continued unabated, the utter stillness resuming as if it had never been interrupted. Shifting position towards the front of the van and back in the direction of the woods, he had barely taken a step before the deafening hammerblow of gunfire swept across him from behind. Muscle memory asserted itself instantaneously as he slammed himself into the side of the van, spinning to look at the other squad beside the second vehicle.
All five members had rifles raised, aiming down at a point in the snow just in front of them. The furthest officer had stumbled backwards, shock evident in his posture as he stared down into the snow at something out of view. The seconds dragged by like molasses as the barrel of his rifle remained locked on whatever lay buried, until it finally broke position, dropping to the man's side. Stepping forward, Clarke watched as he reached downward, fingers tangling beneath the snow before rising, carrying with them a smooth, oblong object.
Not just any object, he realized as the other man spun it to face him. In his hand, the detached head of Mannequin stared forwards, blank faceplate scored by a single one of the rounds fired moments prior.
The realization seemed to trickle over Agent Clarke as he stared at the detached head of the infamous murderer, blinking rapidly. Once was a coincidence, twice was enemy action. This was big, he could feel it in his gut. Someone had been hunting the Slaughterhouse Nine, and more importantly, they were succeeding. It wasn't until the chirp of the radio sounded that he startled, cursing himself for his own inattentiveness. Belatedly he confirmed their status, reassuring the two separated squads even as he peered back and forth between them and the cabin in front of him.
There wasn't enough room behind the vans for all four squads, so he could only instruct the further pair to remain on guard as his group and the other collected themselves, moving back to the edges of the vehicles to peer around them at the cabin lying ahead. It looked innocuous enough; a small raised porch ran the length of the front, bordered by a waist-level railing piled high with additional drifts of snow. Behind it, a red door fit snugly centered beneath the eaves, the windows on either side unlit and empty.
Another countdown and they departed the shelter of the vans, slogging towards the cabin with eyes plastered to the windows and door. Reaching the base of the steps, he barely even paused as the sight registered: another two forms lay slumped against the inward side of the railings, one on each side of the gap formed by the doorway. Ragged dark brown hair framed the one on the left, hunched over in a small ball with her back pressed against the railing, searching for a final comfort. On the right, looping blonde curls were the only thing that could be seen amidst the heavy snow.
There weren't any comments now, as the PRT officers fell back on staring silently in the wake of each successive revelation. Even Clarke could feel his focus drifting; the scene felt like some kind of fever dream, that it would vanish the second he looked away. He could only soldier on, reaching for the doorknob and finding it turning easily in his hands. Of course it was unlocked. Why not, after everything else that had happened.
Pushing open the door, light spilled in from the outside to reveal a spacious open room, hardwood floor covered in a thick carpet. A squat iron stove sat in one corner, grate closed and cold. Beyond the main room another entryway beckoned, the edge of a large table peeking out into view. More importantly, illumination shone weakly from the far room, a sight that drew the attention of every member of the team.
Clarke and the nine officers stormed forward, individuals peeling off to cover sections of the room until only his squad of five remained, rushing to pile through the doorway in a line. Rounding the corner, he took in the scene. In front of him, a figure was laid out on the large oak table, but his eyes skipped over it almost against his will, drawn irresistibly to the rear of the room.
At the end of the table, Jack Slash sat slumped in a chair, a gaping hole shining clear through his chest.