Level Five Story Tag, Part One

A ghostly, action-packed sci-fi dramady featuring "intraterrestrals".

When I pitched the idea for turning this flash fiction piece of mine into a story tag, I was honored that so many of my Substack friends hopped on board. This is going to be a super fun, wacky adventure. The first section by Yours Truly was originally a contest entry of mine for NYC Midnight. My genre was ghost story, setting had to be a government office, and the required item was a uniform. When I first shared it here on Substack, readers said they wanted more. And what do “they” (whoever they are) always say?
Give the people what they want.
So without further ado, welcome to Part One of Level Five.

Image by Grace R Colt

Hallie T

2032 - United States Geological Survey Headquarters

It’s three in the morning when I realize I’m not alone.

I try to focus on the seismic activity reports on the screen in front of me. Something makes the hair on my arms stand up. My hands shake over the keyboard.

“Come on, Shea,” I rub my eyes. “It’s just the tremors again.”

We blame everything on the tremors these days - increased seismic activity due to climate change related tectonic shifts. At least, that’s the government’s official statement.

As a night shift monitor, I’ve been studying the unusual seismic data for years. Since the first Quake created a massive crater near the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, they’ve been happening more regularly in unusual patterns that make no geological sense.

I’m chugging my lukewarm coffee when I hear footsteps.

It’s impossible. I’m alone. The only one on shift.

There’s a tap on my shoulder, a rush of cold air against my neck. My heart nearly stops.

Like a scared teenager in a horror movie, I slowly swivel in my chair. Nothing’s there.

My phone buzzes with a text from my partner, Claire. “Can’t sleep. You okay over there?”

Before I can answer, I glance up at my screen to find it’s gone black, switched off.

“What?” I go to press the power button when I catch a glance of something that wasn’t there before. Hanging off the back of the monitoring center’s door, clear in the screen’s reflection, a uniform.

Holding my breath, I walk to the door, examining the mud-stained khaki field jacket with matching torn pants. A pair of boots sits on the floor. The badge clipped to the jacket shows the name and picture of Dr. Elona Mizrahi, the lead seismologist who died suddenly after the most recent Quake. I remember the rumors floating around the office about what actually happened to her.

“How?” I whisper.

Then the jacket’s arm moves.

I stumble backwards as the jacket unhooks itself from the door. The entire uniform walks forward as if inhabited by an invisible body. It steps toward me, beckoning with its sleeve, then turns and walks through the closed door.

Swallowing my disbelief, I grab my phone off my desk. Opening the door, I chase the uniform striding down the darkened hallway, sleeves swinging in a natural rhythm. I question my sanity as we approach the elevator to the restricted archives. The uniform drops a key card from its empty sleeve. Dr. Mizrahi’s card.

Picking it up, I tap it on the card reader. Somehow, it still works.

The elevator opens and the uniform goes in with me, even though I’m sure it could have just floated through the metal.

Once on the sterile restricted floor, the uniform guides me to a door marked as LEVEL FIVE CLEARANCE REQUIRED. It points to the card reader. Dr. Elona’s card works again, the door sliding open with a mechanical groan.

Once inside, I survey the room, gasping at a large tank to the right that contains a chunk of - tentacle?

The uniform, unphased, marches over to one of the computers and somehow types in Dr. Mizrahi’s credentials. Eyes still glued to the giant severed tentacle, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Right,” I mumble. The uniform hovers as I sit down in front of the screen, scanning the files it pulled up for me.

The first one is “Project Krakken - Subterranean Contact”. Photos of massive creatures with writhing tentacles fill the screen, stamped with coordinates matching all known Quake locations. Next, personnel files marked TERMINATED pop up, showing Dr. Mizrahi and her entire team. My stomach drops. They weren’t simply fired. They were killed.

Dr Mizrahi’s final report opens of its own accord.

“The creatures respond to drilling operations. ‘Quakes’ are actually their attempts to surface, responding to our drilling. The government refuses to stop. They want contact, using civilian populations as bait.”

Suddenly, a classified communication flashes across the screen. Coordinates. The downtown district, ten miles away, where my partner and I live.

A chill runs down my spine as I read the next alert.

“Drilling at 0600 hours. Expect extraterrestrial response within twelve hours.”

With trembling hands, I pull out my phone and snap photos of everything: the tentacle in the tank, Dr. Mizrahi’s report, the alert.

Just as I take the last photo, the screen flickers and dies. Behind me, the uniform crumples to the floor.

“Wait, no!” I kneel beside the wrinkled clothes. “What am I supposed to do?”

But I already know. I have to alert the public. Picking up the jacket that once belonged to a soul much braver than I, I whisper:

“Thank you. I hope I can make you proud.”

I run to the elevator, clutching Dr. Mizrahi’s jacket. My watch shows four AM. I have two hours before drilling commences.

As the elevator rises, I call emergency services. When the operator answers, the words tumble out:

“You need to evacuate downtown before six PM tonight -”

“Ma’am, is this a prank?”

The line goes dead. Of course it would.

“Damn it!” I groan. I text Claire. “Get out of town, now. I love you.”

Back to my desk at the monitoring center, my thumb hovers over the pictures on my phone: blurry images of severed tentacles and classified reports. I have proof that the Quakes aren’t simply a natural phenomena, yet I feel terrified to blow the whistle.

Dr. Mizrahi died for this, I remind myself. I owe it to her to get the word out.

Pulling up the number for the local news station, I take a deep breath as a subtle tremor shudders through the building. Dialing the number, I wait for someone to pick up the phone.

I have less than fourteen hours to convince someone - anyone - that monsters are real.

Alexa D.B.

I pace back and forth as the phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

“C’mon, someone pick up…”

Another ring.

“Thank you for calling Station 13’s tip line. We are currently unavailable to answer the phone, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message after the tone, and a member of our team will return your call. We appreciate our community.”

My heart plummets into my stomach.

Beep

“Uh-yes. Hi. This is Shea Campbell. I work at the Geological Survey Headquarters. The Quakes are part of a giant government conspiracy. It’s–it’s aliens. Giant aliens. Meet me Downtown on the corner of 1st and Main with cameras in two hours.”

I shove the phone into the pocket of my brown flannel slacks and rush back to the elevator. I rapidly press the button for the lobby.

I need to come up with a different plan. Emergency services were no help, and who knows if the news station will believe me either…

The elevator doors open into the main lobby. The late-night janitor, Richard, is mopping the white marble floors, singing along to the music blaring out of his ear buds. “Pink pony club nananana West Hollywood…”

I give him a polite nod as I rush past him—he returns a worried look. Gosh, I must look as crazy as I feel.

“Hahaha!” An excited squeal of laughter echoes throughout the lobby, “Hey! Miss Campbell! Come here! You have to see this!” Pamela, the late-night receptionist, is holding her bedazzled phone over the counter.

I run over to her, slapping my palms onto the black granite countertop.

“Look! It’s a baby hippo,” she exclaims, completely ignoring my frantic state.

“Pamela, we don’t have time for baby hippos!” I rake both hands through my auburn hair. “There are aliens out there, and the government is covering it up! And emergency services didn’t believe me, and the news didn’t even answer my call. The whole city is in danger and there’s nothing I can do about it!” The words tumble out of me faster than I have ever spoken in my life, leaving me gasping for air.

“What on earth are you even talking about?” Pamela doesn’t even blink as she crunches on a Flaming Hot Cheeto.

I reach back into my pocket and pull out my phone. “Look!”

She takes the phone from my shaking hand.

“Oh, shit.” Her face falls as her too-long- acrylic-tipped finger swipes across the screen. Color drains from her complexion, making her freckles stand out darkly against her rosy cheeks. “This is real? How did you even find this?”

Shit. What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t exactly tell her the ghost of Dr. Mizrahi led me to Level 5 and revealed this all to me. “Uhm… an old co-worker tipped me off…”

“Do you have BaaBaa?” she says as she pulls her black leather purse from her desk drawer, licking cheeto dust off her pale fingertips.

“What’s BaaBaa?” I watch as she rounds to the front desk.

“Ugh, Shea, you’re so boomer-coded. Never mind. I have like 2,000 Sheep on my profile anyway. Here’s your phone back.” She struts towards the front doors, “Let’s go. You too, Richard!”

“Go where?”

Pamela turns back and looks down her nose at me in true Gen Z fashion. “You know, for a scientist or government agent, or whatever the hell you are, you’re not very smart.”

My face knits together.

“WE ARE GONNA SAVE THE WORLD BY LIVE STREAMING THIS ON BAABAA. NOW ARE YOU GONNA COME OR NOT?!”

“Right.”

I quickly catch up to her as Richard drops his mop, falling in line with us. We push through the heavy double doors and walk out of Headquarters.

Amy

“Why are you holding that jacket?” Pamela asks as we step out into the dark street. Tendrils of early-morning sunlight cast a white-cold hue in the eastern sky, just visible through the dominoed skyscrapers.

“This? Oh…” I glance down at the grubby jacket clutched in my left-hand. I loosen my sweaty fingers. “I, um, got cold at my desk. Found it hanging on a peg.”

“Right,” says Pamela. Luckily she sounds like she’s lost interest. I’d hate to have to explain a haunted jacket to her.

Richard trails behind us, humming.

My phone vibrates in my other hand. My partner’s face fills the screen.

“Claire!” I say. “Are you on your way out of town?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” She sniffs like she’s been crying. “What happened tonight?”

“I–” My phone vibrates again as another call comes in. BLOCKED NUMBER.

“Claire, I have to go. Please, trust me! Pack a bag and drive out of town. Go to Debra’s! I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. I love you!”

I switch to the incoming call before she has a chance to respond.

“Hello?” Static on the line. “Hello? Anyone there?” Nothing. But, wait, is there a background sound? A faint thudding? I press the phone closer to my ear, just as a truck roars by, drowning out everything in the vicinity. “Hello?” I try again. The line goes dead.

I hurry to catch up with Pamela as she rounds the side of HQ and heads into the dark mouth of the underground parking lot.

“Where are we going?” I pant, sweat licking my spine in my thick clothing.

“We might as well take my car!” Pamela calls over her shoulder as she pulls a ring of jangling keys out of her pocket.

We cross the almost-empty parking lot, the artificial light blaring into my pupils. Pamela’s heading for the only vehicle in sight, and it chirrups as she unlocks it.

Looks like my return bus ticket will go unused this afternoon. I think. And then, What a ridiculous thing to worry about.

I climb into the passenger seat, and Richard clambers into the back, bobbing his head, still lost to his earbuds. I drop Dr Mizrahi’s jacket into the footwell, just as a tremor rips through the lot. The car shudders, and I scream, grabbing the dash.

“Get the hell out of here, now!” I shout. We all buckle up. Pamela fires up the engine, knocks the car into drive, and we shoot towards the exit and the brightening skies beyond.

Kelly Hummel

Downtown isn’t far, and Pamela’s driving makes the journey far shorter. She weaves through the traffic of early birds and sleepy night owls with ease. I don’t know how she’s capable of it. My stomach’s in my throat. My heart is pounding so loud I worry it’ll pop right out of my chest.

I look up, batting away a trip down memory lane with Claire. I can’t act like it’s already over.

“Pamela, red—”

“Are you kidding me?!” she barks, and I wince.

“Sorry! You’re right, just blow it!”

Between Pamela’s driving, my quaking, and Richard’s unstoppable bopping, it was easy for me to momentarily forget about the tremors. But as we pass 9^th Street’s green sign, I notice the car is vibrating in a way it shouldn’t.

“Is the tremor still happening?”

Pamela doesn’t answer, too busy aggressively communicating with a fellow driver that their 30 miles an hour trek is not urgent enough for this morning’s circumstances. I glance at the side mirror, a yellow morning aiding the wonky streetlights of the city. And that’s when I see it.

I lean forward with such eagerness, I smack my forehead into the window, but I’m too terrified to care.

There’s a crack in the tarmac. There’s a growing crack in the tarmac.

“It’s following us!”

I grab the wheel, which is a panic-induced, terrible idea. I avoid city driving on my best day, and Pamela is clearly a secret race car driver in her downtime. The jeep swishes to and fro on the thinning road, and mine and Pamela’s yelling is a perfect harmony of terror and frustration: the very tune required to pull Richard out of his melodic hypnosis.

“What’s going on?!”

Richard joins our screeching when Pamela’s beautiful jeep slams right into a massive white van, causing a sufficient dent in her hood, but an impact not strong enough to cause the airbags to go off. I blink multiple times at the van, my vision slowly unblurring with each flutter of my lashes. A news outlet?

Pamela groans, “Looks like the news outlet got your message.”

Suddenly, Richard’s head is between us, one earbud having been plucked from his right ear, “That isn’t the news.”

There’s a long, painful pause as we all attempt to read the van’s contorted namesake.

Craft Catchers: You Saw ‘Em, and We Believe You

“Oh no,” I swallow thickly, “Ufologists.”

---

I hope you have enjoyed Part One of Level Five. Stay tuned this week for the next two installments! And make sure to check out the co-authors’ publications.

Cheers,

Hallie