I swear, it's always so silty down here," Martin complains. The team sits on top of the massive sea treader, a large cargo vehicle with wheels as tall as their suits. Inside a crew of sixty sit, waiting for when they are needed. Simon has to agree. He hasn't been to the sea floor before, but he's seen the images. The dome itself is situated on a slightly elevated plateau, anchored deep into the rock. However the floor itself is covered in super fine silt, some areas hundreds of feet deep.

"What's the ETA?" Tarma asks.

"One hour," the Captain responds. The comms go silent as the sea treader makes its way through the silt fields, kicking up enough to completely obscure the dome behind them. So this is the dead zone. There's nothing out here. No lights, no sounds. Not even a micro shrimp. Simon is no stranger to the dead zone. It was a highly talked about point during the last presidential race. With enough poison from all the waste shoved out of the dome kill any living being. The last guy tried to convince the people to try and fix it. He didn't get elected. Not that it would change anything. We are way too deep for anything to naturally live down here. At least that's what command wants me to believe.

"You know Simon, I hear the souls of the dead roam this place." Martin uses his deepest tone, "The techies that fall off the dome always searching for the way home, lost to the abyss."

"S-shut up," Simon stutters, the words of the old man echoing in his head.

Marco lightly thumps on Martin's helmet, "I agree. Shut up, man."

"What do you think we'll find there?" Gin asks.

Martin chuckles, "Maybe we'll find frozen corpses floating around."

Tarma yawns, "Doubtful. That place has probably lost its density shield. Without that, it would be immediately crushed. I'll be surprised if anything is left. A fool's last desperate hope."

Simon looks at the lower left of his face panel. Eighty-six percent power. Let's hope this doesn't take more than a few hours.

The sea treader makes steady progress, avoiding mile-high silt piles, careful not to disturb them. Simon shines a light into the darkness, but it is swallowed up imminently, only going a few feet.

Forty minutes pass slowly as the team watches their power consumption. By the time the treader stops each man is down to fifty percent. The high beams shine onto a half-buried building at least five stories tall. The spotlights travel the length of the pure metal tower. Martin turns off his mag boots, hopping off the vehicle, "Would you look at that? The shield is still up."

"Tarma." The Captain snaps.

"On it." Tarma walks up to the field, tapping it with a finger. It bounces off as if a wall is in front. "Looks good. No fluctuations in the molecule compression. Seems the generator is working as intended. Air bubble is also functional. Might take a few minutes to open a path. Gin, tools." Wordlessly Gin walks up with a large box the size of a large chest. Marco follows behind with a long cylinder as wide and tall as him.

Simon watches silently as they assemble a large box made out of pipes, each one with a dozen holes in each side. They work quickly, measuring it so the box is just barely the size of the sea treader, and press it against the shield. While Gin and Marco do this Tarma opens the chest, assembling something similar to a car engine. Not the typical electronic one, but one similar to the oil engines of old. With a tap of a button, the engine comes to life, emitting a high-pitched whine while also glowing blue. The blue spreads to the box, creating a crisscross pattern in the water.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Entry point is ready," Tarma says, waving the sea treader in. It rolls through the square, entering into a courtyard of stone. The group enters after them, the crisscross pattern fading as the last member enters.

Simon's suit beeps, "Lack of water detected. Activating automatic suit lock."

Simon relaxes as the suit straightens and locks into place. Deep breaths, Simon. Deep breaths. A shudder goes through the suit, indicating it has completed the lockdown. "Suit, activate protocol five-five-two-nine." Silence. Did I do something wrong? Several more seconds go by and now panic has started to set in, but just before it takes hold, the suit responds.

"Protocol five-five-two-nine activated. Opening suit."

A deep and relieved sigh escapes Simon as the front of the suit opens, the rest of his team also exiting their metal giants.

"Man that was rough," Marco says, stretching. Sitting in those damn things sucks. I always worry I can't get up."

The team silently agrees, Marco voicing their own thoughts. The stone courtyard is barren and dark, their lights focused on the only door into the building.

"Drab place," Martin comments. Sixty men exit the sea treader, each one lining up in six groups.

The Captain walks to the head, belting out their orders, "Each squad will help one dome tech with their sub. When we head inside make sure you check your designated sub and report any problems to your lead."

"SIR!" They reply in unison.

"Let's go see our haul," Their Captain says to his crew. It is dark inside the factory. Their flashlights move about the place but come across no subs.

"Huh. You'd think the damn things would be hard to miss." Marco remarks putting his hand on his hips.

"Is there a light switch anywhere?" Simon asks, scratching the back of his head. No one answers as they walk the length of the shop, which is at least three hundred yards. Simon wanders around a bit before coming across a large handle on the wall. Maybe this is it? He pulls down, sparks dancing across his vision. With a hum and a flicker the entire building lights up. The floor is completely clean, not a single tool or desk in sight.

"Hoooly shit." Gin's voice trembles as he looks up. Simon follows the direction of his face and his jaw drops. A massive submarine hangs above them and is at least two hundred yards long, slick black and as wide as the shop. Multiple men yelp, running out from under the beast.

"What the hell is that?" Martin yells. "What is that? A sub?" Silence follows. The entire company is silent in shock. I've never seen a sea-faring vehicle that big. It could carry at least five hundred people. Why is this here? How was it made without Command's knowledge?

He glances over at the Captain, who seems just as surprised as everyone else. "Captain? What now?"

The man mumbles to himself as he continues to look at it. Crossing his arms he starts to pace. The rest of the team gathers in a line, waiting for his decision.

He sighs, "I suppose we have no option. Men, try to find a computer, hologram, or records of any kind. The people here must have a reason for going against Command. With luck, we will come across schematics or instructions on how to get that behemoth home."

The next two hours are spent scouring the building. Aside from a few rooms located outside the main building, nothing else seems to indicate people even worked in the abandoned facility. After coming up empty, Marco, Martin, and Simon use ladders to reach the top of the sub.

"It's huge," Marco says. Martin whistles in appreciation.

Simon stares at the metal, "There has to be a hatch around here somewhere." The three start feeling around the hull, hoping to find an indent or crack that signifies an entrance. When they get near the front, a loud groaning sound fills the silence, and Simon's heart leaps up his throat as a hatch opens. They look at each other silently before Marco yells for their Captain.

"Guess we found our way in," Martin jokes.