The temperature dropped twenty degrees after sunset.
By 2100 hours, frost had formed along the lower rails of the perimeter fence, silvering the steel beneath the floodlights. Ethan stood beside Captain Beckett at Sector Three, hands tucked beneath his arms, watching soldiers exchange positions with the precision of a ceremonial guard.
No one hurried. No one spoke above a murmur.
Each incoming pair checked the outgoing pair’s weapons, radios, watches, and names before assuming the post.
Ethan watched Corporal Isaac Boone hold a clipboard beneath a red-lensed flashlight.
“Specialist Bennett.”
“Present.”
“Staff Sergeant Alvarez.”
“Present.”
Boone looked at both of them before marking the roster.
“You check attendance every rotation?” Ethan asked.
“Every thirty minutes,” Boone replied.
“That seems excessive.”
Boone clipped the pencil to the board.
“Yes, sir.”
He offered no explanation.
Staff Sergeant Lena Alvarez adjusted the sling on her rifle. She was compact, sharp-eyed, and carried herself with the stillness of someone who noticed everything.
“Sector Three secure,” she said. “No movement. No voices. Light steady.”
Beckett nodded.
“Maintain observation.”
Alvarez and Bennett turned toward the shack.
Neither looked particularly frightened.
That unsettled Ethan more than fear would have.
They looked practiced.
Beckett led him along the inner fence.
“Each sector is manned by two soldiers,” he said. “Rotations every two hours. No exceptions.”
“Why pairs?”
“Because people make mistakes alone.”
“That true everywhere.”
“More true here.”
They passed another post where two soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, both facing the clearing. One watched the shack through binoculars while the other scanned the ground around it.
Not the windows.
Not the door.
The ground.
“What are they looking for?” Ethan asked.
“Changes.”
“In what?”
“Anything.”
Beckett stopped near a waist-high concrete barrier.
“The porch. The roofline. The distance between the shack and the fence. Whether the door is open. Whether there are footprints.”
“The distance?”
Beckett looked at him.
“Measurements are taken at dawn.”
Ethan waited for more.
None came.
He glanced toward the shack.
The amber window glowed with the same steady warmth it had shown since his arrival. No curtains. No visible furniture. No movement.
“Has anyone gone inside?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Ethan turned.
Beckett’s gaze remained fixed on the building.
“What happened?”
“They stopped being useful witnesses.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting tonight.”
A radio crackled at the nearest post.
Alvarez lifted the handset.
“Sector Three.”
Static hissed, then a voice emerged. It was faint and distant.
“...three...do you copy...”
Alvarez did not respond.
Ethan looked toward her.
The voice came again.
“Sector Three...come in.”
It sounded male. Young and calm.
Alvarez removed the radio from her vest and set it on the barrier.
“Why aren’t you answering?” Ethan asked.
She kept her eyes on the shack.
“Because that isn’t our channel.”
Ethan checked his own radio. The frequency displayed correctly.
“Then how is it coming through?”
“It does that sometimes.”
The voice returned. It was clearer now.
“Lena?”
Something changed in Alvarez’s face. Not much more than a tightening around the eyes. Bennett stepped closer to her without looking away from the clearing. The radio hissed.
“Lena, answer me.”
Ethan reached toward the handset. Beckett caught his wrist. The movement was fast enough to startle him.
“Don’t.”
“It could be one of our people.”
“It isn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Beckett’s grip tightened.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
The voice on the radio changed.
“Lieutenant Mercer?”
Every muscle in Ethan’s body went still. The radio sat less than three feet away.
“Lieutenant, can you hear me?”
It was Colonel Hayes. Ethan knew the voice.
The measured cadence. The slight rasp. The way he clipped the end of each sentence.
“Mercer, respond.”
Ethan looked at Beckett. The Captain released his wrist.
“Colonel Hayes doesn’t have this frequency,” Ethan said.
“No.”
“He doesn’t know where I am.”
“No.”
The voice softened.
“Ethan.”
Hayes had never called him by his first name.
“Something’s wrong,” the radio said. “You need to come back.”
Ethan stared at it. Static fluttered beneath the words like breathing.
“Your transfer was a mistake.”
Beckett picked up the radio. For one moment, Ethan thought he intended to answer. Instead, the Captain switched it off and removed the battery.
The voice continued.
“Ethan, don’t let them—”
It cut out. Silence rushed back across the compound. Bennett exhaled slowly.
Alvarez remained motionless.
Boone marked something on the clipboard.
Ethan looked at him.
“What are you writing?”
“Time. Voice used. Target.”
“Target?”
“You.”
Ethan’s skin prickled beneath his uniform.
“How often does that happen?”
“To new arrivals?” Boone asked.
He glanced toward the shack.
“Usually the first night.”
At 2330, Beckett left Ethan with Rourke at Sector Five.
“You’ll observe only,” the Captain said. “No independent movement. No radio responses unless Rourke confirms the sender.”
“I understand.”
Beckett studied him.
“Do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
After the Captain walked away, Rourke leaned against the concrete barrier.
“He asks because most people say yes before they do.”
“I’m beginning to understand the distinction.”
“No, you’re beginning to notice there is one.”
The First Sergeant handed Ethan a pair of binoculars.
“Watch the porch.”
Ethan raised them. The shack filled his vision. It had peeling boards, rusted hinges, and a black gap beneath the front step. The porch light was off, though the window still glowed.
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything that wasn’t there before.”
Ethan scanned slowly. Nothing moved. For several minutes, the only sound was the wind scraping dry grass across the clearing. Then he heard footsteps. They were soft and measured. They were also right behind him.
Ethan lowered the binoculars. Rourke stood at his right. The post behind them was empty. The footsteps continued along the gravel path outside the floodlights.
One step. Then another. Coming closer.
Ethan reached for his rifle. Rourke shook his head.
“Don’t turn around.”
“There’s someone behind us.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“You hear it.”
“I do.”
The footsteps stopped directly behind Ethan. Close enough that he could hear fabric shift.
A voice whispered beside his left ear.
“Lieutenant.”
Ethan’s grip tightened around the rifle. The voice belonged to Captain Beckett.
“Turn around.”
Ethan began to move.
Rourke seized the back of his vest and held him in place.
The voice came again. More urgent.
“That’s an order.”
Ethan stared at the shack. Its amber window remained steady. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs.
“What do I do?” he whispered.
“Nothing.”
The presence behind him seemed to lean closer. Warm breath touched the edge of his ear. Then the voice changed. It became his own.
“Turn around.”
Ethan shut his eyes. The footsteps resumed. They moved away slowly, crossing the gravel until the sound disappeared into the dark. Only then did Rourke release him.
Ethan opened his eyes. His hands were trembling.
Rourke took the binoculars from him.
“First night’s usually the worst.”
Ethan looked toward the empty path behind them.
“Usually?”
Rourke raised the binoculars and watched the shack.
“No,” he said. “But it’s kinder to say so.”
Across the clearing, the amber light went out. Every soldier on the perimeter raised a weapon. A second later, three slow knocks sounded from inside the shack. The noise carried across the entire compound. Rourke’s face hardened.
“Lieutenant.”
Ethan lifted his rifle.
“What?”
“Whatever happens next…”
The shack door creaked open.
“…do not answer it.”