Fortress Schoenenbourg, Maginot Line – May 10, 1940, 16:37 hours
Nearly a year after Dr. Werner's final calculation began in Bavaria, a different kind of countdown was quietly measured in the concrete heart of France.
Dr. Marie-Claire Rousseau's thumb traced the worn leather of her notebook. Its contents: a hidden cartography of encroaching dread. Her footsteps in the concrete corridor echoed starkly, amplified—each one a beat in a larger, unseen rhythm.
Six months of secret observation had revealed patterns: unexplained dissolution, abrupt reassignments—vanishings, really. And then there was the spreading alteration emanating from sealed Level B3. The notebook held data that could mark her as a heretic against military doctrine. Or perhaps, it was a final, fragile record before an encroaching, indifferent tide.
Six hundred feet below the scarred earth, condensation dripped with slow, metallic regularity from ventilation ducts—a dispassionate metronome in the fortress's depths. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Each droplet, she suspected, carried the insidious presence from Level B3—an entity eluding all biological classification. The B3 influence, an almost tangible pressure, hung as a constant, chilling presence.
Her watch, a small human instrument against the immensity, indicated 16:37. Twenty-three minutes remained until the shift change. Fifty-three minutes until the daily medical report, a document increasingly filled with euphemisms and omissions. Seventeen hours had elapsed since Patient Eight had died. The terminal event involved a grotesque transformation, a yellow, viscous substance issuing from every orifice—the same clinical endpoint she had documented in fourteen prior cases, all personnel whose duties had intersected with Level B3. Officially classified as pneumonia, influenza, or stress-related cardiac events. Unofficially, Marie-Claire knew better. The progression had been disturbingly consistent: initial subtle symptoms, followed by rapid decline over approximately thirty hours.
"The General will see you now, Doctor." The orderly. Corporal Dupont. His eyes were filmed, bloodshot, a faint yellow residue clinging to the corner of his mouth. He swayed slightly—barely perceptible, but unmistakable to her trained observation.
"Thank you, Corporal."
He blinked at the sound of his own name, a slow, lizard-like motion, as if recalling it from a great distance. Early-stage symptoms, elevated temperature, tell-tale flush on the neck. Mucous membrane degradation. Neurological involvement progressing. She added Dupont to her private list; seven new instances this morning. This grim catalog, kept separate from official records, had been her secret burden since the first irregularities were noted in January—deaths the administration labeled as routine illnesses despite their disturbing similarities.
"He has precisely seven minutes for you, Doctor, before his secure communication window," Dupont added. As he spoke, a faint, intermittent series of tiny, wet popping sounds, almost like miniature bubbles bursting or the softest of hiccups, arose from his throat or sinuses. She was beginning to associate that sound with the earliest internal changes. Early neuromuscular or secretory symptoms. Documented.
Marie-Claire straightened her lab coat, an almost habitual gesture. The weight of the earth above pressed down like the lid of a concrete tomb.
The photographs—illegally taken images of the growths within B3—were concealed in a false bottom within her medical folder. They were evidence of what Project Charlemagne had become. Proof the bioweapon research was spiraling beyond control. The observed patterns of growth revealed structures that defied normal biological classification—something her training couldn't adequately explain, but which clearly connected to the fourteen "routine deaths" she'd been documenting.
Her folder felt cold. Heavy with implications. Damning, if her theories proved correct. Catastrophic, if General Moreau had authorized deployment. This fortress could become ground zero for something far worse than the German offensive raging above.
The office was sparsely furnished, conveying an air of bare functionality. General Moreau, a senior figure from the Ministry of War's special projects division, hunched over coded dispatches, the papers seeming to absorb the dim light. Radio static crackled from a dedicated communications unit—voices from a distant world that suddenly seemed very far away. Maps displayed troop movements near Bavaria and Alsace—conventional military concerns that felt increasingly inadequate against what she suspected lurked below.
"Dr. Rousseau," he acknowledged, his attention remaining on the documents. "An update on the situation below? Two more incidents?"
"Seven, sir. Not two." The words fell into the quiet room like stones dropped into deep water. She forced her voice to remain clinical, detached. "All presenting with symptoms consistent with the February cases. Fever, disorientation, the yellow discharge." Her hand tightened involuntarily on her notebook. "But there's a critical development. The rate of progression—it's accelerating. Patient Fourteen advanced from first symptoms to complete systemic failure in twelve hours." Half the previous time.
This drew his gaze upward. His eyes, sharp and assessing, held a veiled quality. "Twelve hours? The previous mean was closer to thirty. Significant acceleration." He paused, expression unreadable. "Your conclusion, Doctor? Be precise."
Marie-Claire took a deliberate breath, the recycled air tasting of metal and something else—something she couldn't identify. "It is not influenza. Not typhus. It aligns with no known pathogenic classification." She placed her folder on his desk, opening it to reveal microscopy images—patterns that hinted at complexity far beyond normal cellular structures. "These are formations I isolated from Private Lefèvre's lung tissue. They exhibit fungal characteristics, but their organization, their response to stimuli... it is unlike anything in our literature. These men aren't just infected; their cells are being systematically altered. The progression is alarmingly rapid and consistent, indicating an aggressive pathogen that will make containment extremely challenging." She lowered her voice. "Sir, I believe this is connected to Project Charlemagne. To B3. And it is changing."
The general's face became impassive. "That project is classified, Doctor. Beyond your need to know."
"With respect, General," Marie-Claire countered, her voice carefully controlled, "I have witnessed fourteen men undergo this transformation in the past six months—deaths officially attributed to pneumonia, influenza, and cardiac failure despite identical symptom progressions. The rumors among the lower ranks are growing. I know there is a biological research unit on Level B3. I know the official designation is defensive research. But whatever pathogen you're working with, it is not contained. It is spreading, adapting. And it is accelerating."
Moreau stood abruptly, his movement harsh in the confined space. "You are overtired, Doctor. These events, while regrettable, are anomalies. Stress-induced, perhaps, under these conditions." He reached for her folder, closing it with finality. "Continue your duties. Report any new cases directly to Dr. Girard."
"That will be impossible, General," Marie-Claire stated, her voice cutting through his dismissal. "Dr. Girard is dead. I confirmed it myself this morning."
The lights faltered briefly. In that moment of darkness, Moreau's eyes reflected raw fear. Then his composure returned, though visibly shaken. "Dead? When? Where did you find him?"
She reopened her folder. "This morning, sir. In ventilation shaft 7-C during my routine inspection of the lower levels." Her clinical voice wavered slightly. "What I found... there was no recognizable human anatomy left to examine. The space where his body should have been contained a porous, honeycomb structure that pulsed with faint luminescence."
She withdrew a photograph from the folder—illegally taken evidence that could condemn her. "The formation had completely replaced his internal organs. His eyes were open, but something else looked out through them. And the sounds..." She steadied herself. "Rhythmic clicking. Structured. Purposeful."
Marie-Claire met his gaze directly. "The cellular characteristics are consistent with phenomena I observed during my limited access to B3 three months ago, following what was termed Dr. Girard's 'laboratory accident'—an accident I now believe was directly related to his research."
Color drained from Moreau's face. "Who else knows of this assessment? Of Girard?"
"Only my nurse, Bernadette. And she began exhibiting symptoms approximately an hour ago." Marie-Claire leaned forward. "Sir, it is my professional assessment that whatever is being researched in Level B3, its effects are no longer confined."
Moreau's telephone buzzed. He snatched it up, listened, his face tightening. He slammed the receiver down. "The Germans. Sedan. Faster than predicted. The 55th Division... gone." His eyes locked onto hers. "We are isolated. High command... unreachable."
"Which makes addressing this contamination all the more critical," she insisted. "In these enclosed spaces, with recirculated atmosphere, the fortress will become a breeding ground. Days, not weeks, if the current acceleration holds."
The general reached into a locked drawer and withdrew a sealed envelope marked 'Eyes Only — Deuxième Bureau'. "This arrived three days ago. Intelligence. Regarding the suspected origin." He slid it across the desk. "Open it."
Her fingers broke the seal. A single photograph. A laboratory, but the walls were covered with dark, shifting structures that seemed to absorb light. In the foreground, a woman, her face circled in red ink, her eyes conveying terrible understanding. A name on the reverse: "Dr. Ingrid Werner, Bavarian Research Division."
"The Germans," Moreau stated, his voice flat. "They were not developing a weapon. They were studying something they found. A fungal organism. It doesn't just kill. It doesn't just convert. It alters behavior, integrates with neural tissue. Our intelligence suggests they lost control months ago."
Connections flashed through Marie-Claire's mind. The restricted files she'd glimpsed. Rumors of unusual shipments from Bavaria. The quarantined sections of B3. "We have it here," she whispered. "In B3. That transfer... last summer..."
"Project Charlemagne," he admitted, his voice strained. "It was an attempt to understand. To develop countermeasures. From samples provided through intelligence channels. But something has gone wrong. Or perhaps something is proceeding exactly as intended." He looked at her with desperation. "Dr. Girard was supposed to report on its status yesterday."
"What I found of Girard this morning could offer no report, General," Marie-Claire said, her voice detached. "There was no recognizable human anatomy left."
The memory: not of a body, but of a space where a body had been. A sickly-sweet, sharp scent. Soft, yielding texture under her probing fingers. A hollow where Girard's chest cavity should have been, now filled with a porous, honeycomb structure that pulsed with faint, wrong luminescence.
His eyes had been open. But something else looked out through them—something that made soft, rhythmic clicking sounds that weren't random. They were structured. Purposeful.
"The formation," she continued, forcing clinical detachment, "had replaced his internal organs."
Moreau's composure cracked. "Sir," she pressed, urgency breaking through. "Colonel Latour reported seven hundred souls in this fortress last week. If this spreads—if this acceleration is the new pattern—"
"Twelve hundred," he corrected hollowly. "The 114th Infantry. Arrived last night. Seeking refuge."
The clock read 16:43. Less than twenty minutes until shift change. Twelve hundred individuals, circulating throughout the fortress. The telephone rang—frantic, distorted voices. Not quite human sounds. "Where?" Moreau barked. "How many affected?" His knuckles were white. "Seal Level 5-D! Latour has his orders! No one in or out!" He hung up. Met her gaze. "Three," he confirmed, voice cracking. "Attacked the mess hall. The sounds... they were making coordinated sounds."
General Moreau's composure shattered completely. His hand trembled, spilling water. "Too fast," he whispered. "The projections were based on normal pathology. This is something else."
Marie-Claire's heart hammered. "Lockdown. Isolate. But how do we contain something that seems to emerge from the air itself?"
"Lockdown... Latour..." Moreau stammered. "The military situation..."
"Is secondary, General! This fortress is becoming a death trap." Her voice carried terrible certainty. "If it escapes these walls..."
The air raid siren screamed through the underground silence. One long blast, two short. Bombers—a human threat that suddenly seemed trivial. Moreau stood, fumbling in his desk drawer for a small brass key. "Level B3. Girard's records. They might tell us what we're dealing with. How it spreads. You understand the medical aspects better than anyone. Go. Find what you can."
The key was cold in her palm. Access to the source. Lights flickered, died. Emergency reds pulsed like a heartbeat. A new sound from the corridor—wet, rhythmic clicking. But with an underlying hum that seemed to vibrate through the concrete itself.
"Go," Moreau whispered, sidearm drawn. "Now."
Marie-Claire gripped the key tighter, gathered her notebook and the intelligence file. Twelve hundred souls. An air raid. The German advance. And this spreading contamination that defied every principle of medicine she knew. Her watch: 16:45. B3 was six floors down. The elevator was sealed. Emergency stairwell. The clicking grew louder—no longer random but structured, purposeful.
Marie-Claire gripped the key tighter. Moved toward the sound. Toward the darkness. No time left for human fear.