The Saskatchewan forest swallowed the road long before they reached the site. The trees grew close together here — tall, dark, and old — their branches knitting overhead like a canopy meant to keep secrets. As the convoy moved slowly, the headlights cut narrow tunnels through the early‑evening gloom.
Leah sat in the passenger seat beside Hayes, her fingers tapping anxiously against her thigh. Greyeyes rode in the back, silent, steady, watching the trees blur past. Behind them, RCMP tactical vehicles followed in tight formation.
The radio crackled. “Approaching the perimeter,” an RCMP officer said. “Thermal shows multiple heat signatures inside the structure. Small. Stationary.”
Leah’s stomach tightened. “Stationary?”
Hayes’ jaw clenched. “They’re restrained.”
Greyeyes closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Creator, help them.”
The convoy slowed as the structure came into view — a squat, concrete building half‑buried in the earth, its exterior disguised with weathered siding and brush. It looked like an abandoned utility station. It wasn’t.
RCMP tactical teams fanned out, taking positions. Hayes stepped out, pulling on a vest. Leah followed, her breath catching in the cold air. Greyeyes joined them, his temporary Civilian Emergency Response credential clipped to his jacket.
A tactical commander approached. “We breach on your signal.”
Hayes nodded. “Leah, you’re with me. Greyeyes, stay behind the second line until we secure the chamber.”
Greyeyes didn’t argue. “Understood.”
###
The commander raised his fist. “Breach!”
The door blew inward with a deafening crack. The team surged inside.
The hallway was narrow, sterile, and lit by harsh fluorescent lights. The air smelled of disinfectant and something metallic — something wrong. Hayes moved quickly, weapon raised, Leah close behind him.
They reached the main chamber. Leah froze. The blueprint hadn’t prepared her for the reality. Twelve pods lined the walls — cylindrical, reinforced, each with a small window. Inside each pod, a child sat strapped to a chair, eyes open but unfocused, faces slack with exhaustion or shock. Sensory emitters glowed faintly around them.
A low hum filled the room — the sound of machines running a cycle. A cycle Chet had lived through.
Hayes moved to the control panel. “Shut it down!”
An RCMP tech rushed forward, typing rapidly. “The interface won’t unlock. I am trying to override."
Leah stepped toward the nearest pod. A girl inside — maybe nine years old — blinked slowly, her gaze drifting toward Leah but not quite focusing. Leah pressed her hand to the glass. “Hey. We’re here. You’re safe.”
The girl didn’t respond. Greyeyes entered behind them, his breath catching softly. He moved to another pod, speaking gently in his language — a soft, rhythmic reassurance.
Some children stirred. Some didn’t.
The tech shouted, “Override complete!”
The hum died, and the lights dimmed. The locks clicked open. RCMP medics rushed in, opening pods, unstrapping children, checking vitals. Greyeyes knelt beside a boy who flinched at every touch, murmuring soft words until the boy’s breathing slowed.
Leah moved from child to child, helping where she could, her heart breaking with every blank stare, every tremor, every whispered apology from a child who thought they’d done something wrong.
Hayes approached her quietly. “We need to clear the rest of the building.”
Leah nodded, wiping her eyes. “Let’s go.”
They moved down a side corridor; the air grew colder, the lights dimmer. At the end of the hall was a heavy door, slightly ajar. Hayes pushed it open. Leah stepped inside. And stopped.
###
The room was small, windowless, and lit by a single overhead bulb. Shelves lined the walls — old, wooden, sagging under the weight of books. No new books. Not modern manuals.
Old books. Dusty books. Books with cracked leather spines and yellowed pages.
Leah stepped closer, her breath catching. German titles. Medical texts. Behavioral studies.
Eugenics treatises. No copies. Originals.
Greyeyes entered behind them, stopping in the doorway. “What is this place?”
Leah swallowed. “This… this is where Bergmann came from.”
Hayes scanned the shelves. “These are from the 1930s, 1940s. Some older.”
Leah pulled a book from the shelf — a thick volume with brittle pages. Inside the cover was a handwritten name.
Bergmann.
Not the Bergmann they were hunting. His grandfather.
Leah’s voice shook. “These aren’t trophies. These are relics. He reinvented nothing. He inherited it.”
Greyeyes stepped forward, his expression darkening. “This is a shrine.”
Leah shook her head. “No. Shrines honor. This… this is a workshop. A blueprint. A legacy.”
Hayes exhaled slowly. “He built his system from this.”
Leah closed the book gently and whispered, "This molded him."
Greyeyes looked around the room, his voice low. “Evil doesn’t disappear. It changes shape.”
Leah nodded. “And he perfected it.”
Hayes’ radio crackled. “All pods secured. Multiple children stabilized. No adult subjects found.”
Leah looked at Hayes. “He’s not here.”
Hayes nodded grimly. “No. But we found what he left behind.”
Leah looked around the room one last time — at the books, the notes, the diagrams pinned to the walls. A generational echo of cruelty. A lineage of harm. It was a library of inheritance.
She turned toward the door. “Let’s get the kids out.”
Greyeyes followed her, his steps heavy but steady. Hayes lingered for a moment, staring at the shelves. Then he closed the door behind him. And the room — Bergmann’s past, his roots, darkness swallowed his blueprint.