The leaden grinding of the manhole cover made Derek wince, as he hauled it closed. The few frozen seconds thereafter felt stretched, tense… but ultimately, no screech could be heard, no cry of discovery.

He was safe, for now.

“Canavarel, do you copy?” he whispered hoarsely into his wristlink. “Canaveral, this is Powers! I have it, but I’m being hunted. I need an evac. Goddamit, I need it yesterday!”

The channel stayed silent. Derek glanced down at the package in his hand, all ominous biohazard warnings and charred edges. The most important object in the history of the human race.

Without warning, his wristlink erupted in a storm of static. “Commander Powers, this is Canaveral, over. Confirming your request for evac. Do you have the item, repeat, do you have the item?”

“Canaveral!” Derek erupted in relief. “Yes, I have it, confirm I HAVE THE ITEM. It’s a little toasted, but it’s intact, over.”

“Copy that, Commander, good work. Did Aitchison retrieve his full notes? Please confirm, over.”

Derek crouched low, screwing his eyes up tightly and biting his knuckles, fighting the surge of frustration and grief which threatened to overwhelm him.

“Professor Aitchison did not make it, Canaveral,” he eventually responded. “Those… things intercepted us as we tried to leave the lab. The lab, the research, the Professor… all gone. Over.”

“Sorry to hear that, Commander. It makes this job even tougher, but we have to get it done. Can you activate your beacon for pickup, over?”

Derek shook his head, glancing around the dank tunnel. “No sir, I cannot. I’ve been forced to head underground to avoid detection, into the Sewer system. I need you to come extract me based on static co-ordinates, over.”

His words echoed against the slimy brickwork. Eventually, the response came.

“Negative, Commander Powers, we have drone extraction capability only. Underground extraction is not viable, repeat, not viable. We need you to head to a rendezvous point above ground; transmitting co-ordinates to your wristlink now, over.”

Derek surged to his feet. “Canaveral, are you out of your goddamn MINDS? I can’t go above ground, their whole goddamn HIVE is looking for me! I’ll be a sitting duck! Over.”

“You can do this, Commander,” the voice from the speaker assured him. “You’ve had the best training Uncle Sam can provide; you have thirteen successful missions on your record; you’ve been decorated by – ”

“I’M A GODDAMNED ASTRONAUT, CANAVERAL!” Derek roared, then instantly regretted it. He hunkered down again, before continuing in hushed tones: “I’m not James Bond, I’m not Jason Bourne! I can’t get through those things – they’ll find me, and then our only chance will be gone. GONE. Over.”

“I’m sorry, Commander. It’ll take 3 hours to get an operations team to your position; by that time, out of containment, the samples will be useless anyway. It’s a Hail-Mary, but we need to take the chances we get. You have to reach the rendezvous point within 20 minutes. It may not be fair, but you’re the only man who can make a difference. The Earth will stand or fall on this one moment, over.”

Derek opened his mouth, trying to form a response – a plea, an argument, anything – but before he could speak, he heard the sound. A skittering, from further down the tunnel. Without warning, a tide of terror-stricken rats flowed out of the darkness ahead of him, causing him to dance and scramble to the tunnel wall as they surged past.

“Canaveral,” Derek whispered, voice shaking. “They’ve found me. They’re down here with me, over.”

“Do whatever it takes to get out of there, Commander,” responded his nameless confidant. “We’re all counting on you. Every one of us, over.”

Derek inched backwards down the tunnel wall, away from the sounds, until his groping fingers found the edge of a tiny alcove. He dived gratefully into it, peering around the corner to see whatever might emerge into a patch of grilled light beneath the nearby storm drains.

The legs were first: dark, violet-black appendages whose sharp chitin clicked on the brick walkways, before the creature-proper was illuminated, sectoid body flexing.

It paused, appearing to scan the scene, before stretching wide its awful mandibles; then, to Derek’s horror, it spoke in a manner which tore deep into his chest.

“Derek?” the alien called out, in the voice of his wife. “Sweetheart please, please stop this. Come out.”

Caught between the urge to roar his grief down the length of the tunnel, and to remain hidden from the thing’s sight, Derek emitted a strangled cry.

“Derek, is that you?”

If he closed his eyes, he could still see Susan’s face in profile, slumped where the things had left her. Rage boiled up, propelling him back into the tunnel.

“Don’t think her voice can protect you!” he shouted. The blaster was in his hand, pointed already at the monster’s bulbous abdomen, although he couldn’t recall snatching it from his belt.

“Derek, no…! Put… put it down, sweetheart. Please. This isn’t you, this is what the Professor warned us about. It’s the Narrativephrine, baby. It’s a flashback.”

Tears rolled down the Commander’s cheeks. “Shut up. I won’t let you take my mind, not like the others. I’ll kill you before you get close enough.”

“When I looked at the TV planner… I should have known. I should never have let you stay up alone. God knows what that movie marathon has done to – ”

Derek fired, once, twice. Spurts of liquid erupted from the creature’s body. It teetered for several seconds, before collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the surface of the walkway.

He advanced toward it, keeping the blaster trained on its head.

“No, Derek, please!” the abomination bubbled. “Don’t do this. Think about Ben… he’s… he’s only in the next room. Can’t you hear him crying?”

For a moment, the world flickered in Derek’s mind. His foot, next to the creature’s head, strobed between a booted appendage, planted on the tunnel’s brickwork, and a slipper-clad alternate, pressed into a cream-coloured carpet. The creature’s black ichor rolled into the mortar channels around his toe, or soaked red into the fibres of the carpet; back and forth, back and forth.

“You want to be… a better writer…” gasped the voice. “Not…a murderer. Please… phone… ambulance…”

Derek raised the package to look at it again. In one heartbeat, it was the last hope to build a bio-weapon which could fight these things; the next, a used and bagged diaper.

Something inside him snapped. Screaming, he blasted the thing three, four times, reducing its skull to pulp, then leaned back against the tunnel wall, gasping for air.

“Canaveral,” he eventually panted into the wristlink, “I have engaged and disposed of the enemy. One unit, attempted to use its mind-weapon, but it was unsuccessful.”

“Well done, Commander,” squawked the speaker. “Proceed immediately to the rendezvous point, over.”

Derek checked the co-ordinates on his wristlink display. “I can make it in plenty of time, Canaveral. I have one more thing to take care of.”

Raising the blaster again, Derek moved into the darkness from which the creature had emerged.

“I think,” he growled into the wristlink with relish, “that its nest is nearby.”

***

This was a Story Generator entry, based on the formula: Sewer, astronaut, hysteria, diaper