I laugh dully at the centuries-old crudely-drawn paint-based warnings on the walls around here. A long time ago, they say, this place was used to store waste products from dirty nuclear fission power. Then, they sealed high-toxicity tau-emission cores here. Funny how they left the best till last, isn’t it?

There’s movement near the door. Me and six other guards charge for the squat cargo container and dive behind it. A fury of fire and brimstone washes over the top of the container. More guards make a break for the huge container as the safest spot; the rest hunker down beside the automatic turrets which are blazing away uselessly. Beside me, some fool fires his gun wildly over the top of the crate.

I drag him back down by the shoulders and motion at him to stay put, risking a quick glance at one of the mirrors I’d pasted on the elevator platform earlier. The thing sees my glance and almost meets my eyes, but I snap them shut. I’ve seen enough horrors for several lifetimes already, thanks very much.