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The private turned fierce, his features contorted, spittle flying from his lips. “Find your own hiding place!” he screamed. “The monsters are everywhere! God, I can still hear them! Justleave me alone .”
“Whatmonsters?” the Spartan asked gently. “The Covenant?”
“No!Not the Covenant.Them! ”
That was all the Spartan could get from the crazed Marine. “The surface is back that way,” the Master Chief said, pointing toward the door. “I suggest that you reload this weapon, quit wasting ammo, and head topside. Once you get there hunker down and wait for help. There’ll be a dust-off later on. Do you read me?”
The Private accepted the weapon, but continued to blather. A moment later he curled into a fetal ball, whimpered, then fell silent. The man would never make it out alone.
One thing was clear from the Marine’s ramblings. Assuming that Keyes and his troops were still alive, they were in a heap of trouble. That left the Chief with little choice; hehad to put the greatest number of lives first. The young soldier had clearly been through the wringer—but he’d have to wait for help until the Master Chief completed his mission.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to investigate the rest of the room. The remains of a badly shattered ramp led up over a small fire toward the walkway on the level above. He felt heat wash around him as he stepped over a dead Elite, took comfort from the fact that the body had been riddled with bullets, and made his way up onto a circular gallery. From there, the Master Chief proceeded through a series of doorways and mysteriously empty rooms, until he arrived at the top of a ramp where a dead Marine and a large pool of blood caused him to pause.
He had long ago learned to trust his instincts—and they nagged at him now. Something feltwrong . It was quiet, with only a hollow booming sound to disturb the otherwise perfect silence. He was close to something, he couldfeel it, but what?
The Chief descended the ramp. He arrived on the level spot at the bottom, and saw the hatch to his left. Weapon at the ready, he cautiously approached the metal barrier.
The door sensed his presence, slid open, and dumped a dead Marine into his arms.
The Spartan felt his pulse quicken, as he bent slightly to catch the body before it crashed into the ground. He held the MA5B one-handed and covered the room beyond as best he could, searching for a target. Nothing.
He stepped forward, then spun on his heel and pointed the gun back the way he’d come.
Damn it, it felt like eyes bored into the back of his head. Someone was watching him. He backed into the room, and the door slid shut.
He lowered the body to the ground, then stepped away. The toe of his boot hit some empty shell casings which rolled away. That’s when he realized that there werethousands of empties—so many that they very nearly carpeted the floor.
He noticed a Marine helmet, and bent to pick it up. A name had been stenciled across the side. JENKINS.
A vid cam was attached, the kind worn by the typical combat team so they could critique the mission when they returned to base, feed data to the ghouls in Intelligence, and on occasions like this one, provide investigators with information regarding the circumstances surrounding their deaths.