U.S. Soldiers Found a Secret Alien Prison Beneath New Mexico in 1987

The Dulce Facility

September 17th, 1987

We thought it was routine work—a structural assessment at a remote government facility near Dulce, New Mexico. Another secret site buried in the desert. We were wrong. What began as a simple engineering inspection turned into something else entirely—something that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Deep in the New Mexico desert, five levels below ground, we found corridors that didn’t appear on any map. Laboratories filled with equipment unrelated to geological research. And cells. Reinforced glass cells, empty and waiting for something that shouldn’t exist. But that wasn’t the worst part. On level five—the level we were told was sealed—we discovered the truth: tanks, containment units, and inside them, beings. Not human. Not from here. Alive, intelligent, watching us with eyes that held understanding we couldn’t comprehend.

They told us it never happened. That the facility was just a research station that failed. That there were no specimens, no cover-up. But I was there. I saw them. And I know the truth is still buried beneath that desert, waiting.

I. Arrival

We were stationed at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque when the orders came through: a routine security assessment at a remote facility near Dulce, New Mexico. That’s what the briefing said—routine. The word felt wrong even then, spoken in a windowless room with maps that showed nothing but desert and a single red circle drawn around a town most people had never heard of.

My name is Ethan Ramirez. I was a sergeant in the Army’s special operations unit, 32 years old with seven years of service behind me. I’d seen classified sites before: secure installations, weapons testing ranges, underground bunkers that officially didn’t exist. But this assignment felt different from the moment we received the folder. The pages inside were thin, almost empty—no site history, no personnel roster, just coordinates, a contact name, and one line of instruction: Assess structural integrity and report anomalies.

We left Kirtland before dawn in two unmarked Humvees. The drive took us north through high desert, past scattered pueblos and stretches of red rock that glowed under the early sun. My team consisted of four men: Private Miguel Torres, our logistics and communications specialist—sharp, detail-oriented; Sergeant Javier Luna, our security lead—ten years in the service, cautious by nature; David Ortega, our driver, who never asked questions; and myself.

The closer we got to Dulce, the emptier the landscape became. The road narrowed. Fences appeared along the highway, topped with barbed wire that looked newer than it should have been. No signs, no markers, just wire and dust and an uncomfortable feeling. We were being watched.

Dulce itself was small—barely more than a crossroads. A handful of buildings clustered around a single main street. The Jicarilla Apache Reservation spread out around it, quiet and vast. We passed a gas station, a small grocery, a few homes with pickups parked outside. People watched us drive through—not hostile, just aware that strangers in military vehicles stood out here.

Our contact was waiting at the edge of town, parked near a dirt access road that led into the hills. He introduced himself as Colonel Marcus Hayes—late forties, graying hair, eyes that didn’t blink much. He wore civilian clothes, jeans, and a work jacket, but everything about him said command.

“The facility is eight miles in,” he said without preamble. “No radio contact once we’re inside. No photographs unless authorized. You see something unusual, you note it and report to me directly. Understood?”

I nodded. We followed Hayes’s truck up the access road, tires kicking up dust that hung in the still air. The road climbed steadily, winding through juniper and scrub brush. After twenty minutes, we reached a gate—a chain-link fence twelve feet high, topped with razor wire. Two guards stood beside a concrete booth. They checked our IDs without speaking, then waved us through.

Beyond the gate, the road dropped into a shallow canyon. The terrain changed—dark volcanic rock mixed with red clay. Ahead, I saw the entrance: a wide concrete structure built into the side of a mesa, partially hidden by the natural rock face. It looked like a bunker from the outside, utilitarian and old. But the steel door at the center was new, polished, with an electronic lock.

Hayes stopped his truck and got out. The air was cooler here, shaded by the cliffs. I could hear wind moving through the canyon—a low whistle that echoed off the stone. Hayes walked to the door and punched a code into the keypad. The lock clicked. The door swung inward, revealing a lit corridor that sloped downward.

“This way,” Hayes said.

We entered single file. The corridor was narrow, concrete walls painted white, overhead lights buzzing faintly. The floor was smooth, recently cleaned. We walked about fifty yards before reaching an elevator. Hayes pressed the button. The doors opened immediately. Inside, the panel showed five levels. Hayes pressed the button for level two. The descent was slow. I counted the seconds. When the doors opened, we stepped into a wider hallway. The air smelled different here—sterile, like a hospital, but with a faint chemical undertone. Something sharp, metallic.

Hayes led us to a room at the end of the hall. Inside was a conference table, chairs, and a wall-mounted monitor. He gestured for us to sit.

“This facility was built in the early 1960s,” he said. “Originally designed for geological research. Over time, its purpose expanded. What you’re about to see is classified at the highest level. You will not discuss it outside this room.”

He turned on the monitor. The screen showed a map of the facility—five levels, each one deeper than the last. Level one was administrative. Level two, where we were now, was listed as research and analysis. Levels three and four were marked storage and containment. Level five had no label, just a blank space.

“Your assessment will focus on levels three and four,” Hayes said. “We’ve had reports of structural issues—cracks in walls, moisture seeping through ventilation. We need to know if the integrity is compromised.”

It sounded simple. Too simple. I glanced at Luna. He was frowning.

“What’s on level five?” I asked.

Hayes didn’t answer right away. He switched off the monitor and folded his arms. “Level five is sealed. You won’t be going there.” The way he said it made it clear the conversation was over.

He handed me a site map, a radio, and a small black device I didn’t recognize. “This is an environmental monitor,” he said. “It measures air quality, radiation, chemical traces. Keep it on you at all times. If it alarms, you leave immediately and report to me.”

We spent the next hour preparing. Hayes gave us access badges, each one coded to specific doors. He showed us the decontamination protocol—a series of airlocks and spray chambers we’d need to pass through before entering the lower levels. The process was thorough, methodical—the kind of procedure you follow when the risk is real.

At 1100 hours, we suited up. Not full hazmat, but close—thick coveralls, gloves, respirator masks with filters. The environmental monitor clipped to my chest, its screen glowing faint green. Hayes watched from the observation window as we entered the first airlock. The door sealed behind us. The room filled with mist—a fine spray that smelled like chlorine. After thirty seconds, the inner door opened. We stepped into a stairwell.

The descent to level three was steep. Metal grating underfoot. Handrails cold to the touch. The temperature dropped as we went lower. The air felt heavier. I checked the monitor—green, stable. Behind me, Torres’s breathing was loud through his mask. Luna moved carefully, one hand on the rail, his eyes scanning every corner.

At the bottom of the stairs, we reached another door. I swiped my badge. The lock clicked. The door opened into a long corridor lined with storage units. Each unit had a number stenciled in white paint. Some doors were open, revealing shelves stacked with crates. Others were sealed, marked with yellow caution tape.

We moved slowly, checking each unit. The crates were standard military issue, labeled with alphanumeric codes. Most contained equipment, cables, circuit boards, tools. A few held sealed containers marked with biohazard symbols. I logged each one in my notebook, noting the condition and position.

Halfway down the corridor, I noticed something. The walls here were damp—not dripping, but moist, as if water was seeping through the concrete. I touched the surface. My glove came away wet. The environmental monitor flickered, still green, but the readings were shifting.

Luna pointed to a side passage. “There.”

I turned. A narrow hallway branched off to the left. It wasn’t on the map Hayes had given us. I checked the page again. Nothing. The corridor simply didn’t exist on paper.

“Could be an old access route,” Torres said. “Sealed off and forgotten.”

Maybe. But the floor here was clean. No dust, no debris. Someone had been through recently.

I made a decision. “We check it.”

We entered the passage. It curved slightly, descending at a gentle angle. The walls were rougher here, less finished. The lights were older—incandescent bulbs in wire cages. After thirty feet, the passage opened into a small chamber. In the center of the room stood a metal table. On it lay a thick folder, pages yellowed with age.

I approached carefully. The folder wasn’t locked. I opened it. Inside were schematics—not of the facility we were in, but of something larger, deeper. The drawings showed tunnels extending far below level five, branching out in multiple directions. Some passages were marked with symbols I didn’t recognize. Others had handwritten notes in the margins, dates from the 1970s, references to excavation and expansion.

Luna leaned over my shoulder. “What the hell is this?”

I didn’t answer. I took photos of each page with the small camera Hayes had given us for documentation. As I worked, Torres walked the perimeter of the room. He stopped near the far wall and knocked on it with his knuckles. The sound was hollow. “There’s space behind this,” he said.

I joined him. The wall looked solid, but Torres was right—the echo was distinct. I ran my hand along the surface, searching for seams. Nothing. Then I noticed a small ventilation grate near the floor. I knelt down and peered through. Beyond the grate, I could see another corridor, dimly lit, empty, stretching into darkness.

I stood up and checked the environmental monitor. The readings had changed. Still green, but the numbers were climbing. Not dangerous yet, but higher than they should be.

“We need to report this,” Luna said.

I agreed. But as we turned to leave, the lights in the chamber flickered. Once, twice, then they went out. We stood in complete darkness for three seconds. Then the emergency lights kicked in, bathing everything in red. The environmental monitor beeped once. I looked down. The screen was yellow now—caution level.

“Move,” I said.

We backtracked through the passage, moving quickly but controlled. The red lights cast long shadows that seemed to shift as we passed. Behind us, I heard something—a faint mechanical hum like machinery starting up. Or maybe it was just the ventilation system adjusting to the power change. I didn’t stop to find out.

When we reached the main corridor, the lights there were still on—normal white. The monitor dropped back to green. I radioed Hayes.

“We’ve completed the initial sweep of level three,” I said. “Found some structural anomalies. Also discovered an unmapped passage. Requesting permission to continue to level four.”

There was a pause. Static filled the line. Then Hayes’s voice came through, flat and calm. “Continue to level four. Document everything. Do not deviate from the marked routes.”

I looked at Luna. He raised an eyebrow. Hayes hadn’t asked about the unmapped passage. He hadn’t seemed surprised at all.

II. The Lower Levels

We moved to the next stairwell. The descent to level four was longer. The stairs here were older, the metal showing rust at the edges. The air grew colder with each step. By the time we reached the bottom, my breath was visible through the mask.

Level four was different. The corridor here was wider, the ceiling higher. The walls were lined with large metal doors, each one sealed with heavy locks. Some had observation windows—thick glass reinforced with wire mesh. I approached the first door and looked through the window. Inside was a small room—white walls, a metal cot, a sink. It looked like a cell, but it was empty.

I moved to the next door. Same setup. Empty. The third, fourth, fifth—all the same. Empty cells. All identical, all recently clean.

Torres stopped at one door and tapped the glass. “Why build cells down here?”

No one answered, because we were all thinking the same thing. These weren’t storage units. This was a containment level.

At the end of the corridor, we found a larger door. This one had a control panel beside it—a keypad and a card reader. My badge didn’t work. I tried twice. Access denied.

I radioed Hayes again. “We’re at a sealed door at the end of level four. Our badges aren’t working.”

More static. Then: “Hold position. I’m sending someone down.”

We waited. The silence was heavy. I could hear the ventilation system humming—a low, steady drone that filled the space. Luna paced near the wall. Torres checked his equipment. I studied the door, looking for any markings, any clue about what was behind it.

After ten minutes, the elevator at the far end of the corridor opened. A man stepped out—not Hayes. Someone younger, maybe mid-thirties, wearing a white lab coat over civilian clothes. He had dark hair, glasses, and carried a clipboard. He walked toward us without hurrying.

“I’m Dr. Samuel Moreno,” he said. “I work in the research division. Colonel Hayes asked me to escort you.”

He swiped his badge at the door. The lock clicked. The door opened into a dimly lit laboratory. The space was large, maybe forty feet across. Workbenches lined the walls, covered with equipment—microscopes, centrifuges, sealed containers. Everything was clean, organized, and looked recently used.

In the center of the room stood a large glass chamber. It was cylindrical, about eight feet tall and four feet wide. Inside, I could see electrodes attached to monitoring equipment, but the chamber was empty.

Dr. Moreno walked to one of the workbenches and set down his clipboard.

“This is one of our active research labs,” he said. “We study geological samples, atmospheric data, biological specimens from the surrounding area. Standard scientific work.”

I looked around. Nothing here seemed standard. The equipment was too advanced, too expensive. This wasn’t a geological research station. This was something else.

“What was in the chamber?” I asked.

Dr. Moreno paused. “Various test samples. We cycle through different experiments depending on current projects.”

It was a careful answer—not a lie, but not the truth either.

Luna moved to one of the benches and examined the equipment. “This is medical grade,” he said, “not geological.”

Dr. Moreno adjusted his glasses. “We conduct multiple types of research here. The facility is multidisciplinary.”

I checked the environmental monitor. Still green, but the readings were higher than they’d been upstairs. Not dangerous, but elevated.

“We need to document everything,” I said to Luna and Torres. “Standard protocol.”

Dr. Moreno didn’t object. He stood near the wall and watched as we photographed the room, logged the equipment, noted the layout. When we finished, he led us to a side door.

“There’s another section you should see,” he said.

The door opened into a smaller room. This one was colder, refrigerated. The walls were lined with storage units, each one marked with code numbers. Dr. Moreno opened one unit. Inside were rows of vials, each labeled with dates and coordinates.

“Sample archive,” he said. “Everything we collect gets stored here for future analysis.”

I picked up one vial carefully. The liquid inside was clear, slightly viscous. The label showed a date from three months earlier and a location code I didn’t recognize.

“Where’s this from?” I asked.

“Local collection site,” Dr. Moreno said. “We have several monitoring stations in the surrounding hills.”

I set the vial back carefully. Something about this place felt wrong. Not dangerous exactly, but deliberate, like we were being shown only what they wanted us to see.

We finished documenting the storage room and returned to the main lab. Dr. Moreno sealed the refrigeration unit and made a note on his clipboard.

“Is there anything else you need to see on this level?” he asked.

I looked at Luna. He shook his head slightly. We’d seen enough—or at least we’d seen all they were willing to show us.

“We’re good,” I said.

Dr. Moreno led us back to the corridor. As we walked toward the elevator, I noticed another door at the far end of the hall. It was different from the others—heavier, marked with a red warning symbol I didn’t recognize.

“What’s through there?” I asked.

Dr. Moreno barely glanced at it. “Storage. Sealed for maintenance.”

But the door looked operational. No dust, no signs of disuse, and the keypad beside it was active, its light glowing green. I made a mental note to include it in my report.

We took the elevator back to level two. Hayes was waiting for us in the conference room along with another man I hadn’t seen before—older, maybe fifty, with thinning hair and the bearing of someone used to authority. He wore a dark suit, no badge, no identification.

Hayes gestured to him. “This is Dr. Alan Cortez. He oversees our research operations. I thought you might have questions after your tour.”

Dr. Cortez shook my hand. His grip was firm, professional.

“What did you think of the facility?”

I chose my words carefully. “Impressive. More extensive than we expected based on the initial briefing.”

“It’s grown over the years,” Dr. Cortez said. “We’ve expanded our mandate several times. What started as basic research has evolved into something more comprehensive.”

“What kind of research?” Luna asked.

Dr. Cortez smiled slightly. “That’s classified, I’m afraid. But I can tell you it’s important work. Work that benefits national security.”

It was the kind of answer that said nothing while sounding official. I’d heard it before at other classified sites.

“We noticed some structural concerns,” I said. “Moisture on level three, temperature fluctuations on level four. You might want to have your maintenance team take a look.”

Hayes made a note. “We’ll send someone down tomorrow.”

I handed him my preliminary report—a few pages of observations and photographs. He glanced through it briefly, then set it aside.

“You’ll stay the night,” he said. “We have quarters on level one. Tomorrow you can finish your assessment and file your final report.”

It wasn’t a request. We were being kept on site, at least until they could review what we’d found.

The quarters were basic but clean. Small rooms with bunks, a shared bathroom, a common area with a table and a few chairs. We stored our gear and gathered around the table.

“What do you think?” Torres asked quietly.

Luna leaned back in his chair. “They’re hiding something. The cells on level four, the equipment in that lab—none of it matches what they told us this place was for.”

“The question is what,” I said, “and whether it’s our problem.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Outside our door, I could hear footsteps in the corridor—guards making rounds or researchers going about their work. The facility felt alive, active, even late at night.

Around midnight, I gave up trying to sleep. I got dressed and walked to the common area. Torres was there, sitting in the dark staring at the wall.

“Can’t sleep either?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Something about this place. It feels wrong.”

I sat down across from him. “We’ll finish the assessment tomorrow and get out, file our report, and let someone else worry about it.”

But even as I said it, I knew it wouldn’t be that simple. Somewhere deep below us, on levels we hadn’t been allowed to see, something was happening. Something they were working hard to keep hidden. And tomorrow, whether they wanted us to or not, we were going to find out what it was.

III. The Specimens

At 0300 hours, I woke to the sound of footsteps in the corridor—not the regular patrol pattern we’d heard earlier. These were faster, urgent, multiple people moving with purpose. I got up quietly and opened the door a crack. Three men in white coats hurried past carrying equipment cases. Behind them came two guards, rifles ready. They disappeared around the corner toward the elevator.

Something had happened.

I dressed quickly and knocked on Luna’s door. He was already awake, standing by his window, looking out into the hallway.

“You saw them?” he asked.

I nodded. “Get Torres. We need to find out what’s going on.”

We gathered in the common area. The facility had changed. The ambient hum we’d heard all evening was different now—deeper, pulsing at irregular intervals. The lights flickered twice, then stabilized. Torres checked his watch.

“Power fluctuation. Something big just came online.”

Before we could discuss it further, the door opened. Hayes stood there, still in his work clothes from earlier. He looked tired but alert.

“Get your gear,” he said. “We need you to conduct an emergency assessment.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Level five.” The same level he told us was sealed. The level we weren’t supposed to go near.

Hayes didn’t wait for questions. “You have ten minutes. Full protective gear. Meet me at the elevator.”

He left.

We looked at each other. Luna spoke first. “This is what they’ve been hiding.”

We suited up fast—the environmental monitors, the respirators, the coveralls, everything we’d used on level four, plus additional radiation badges. Hayes had left them outside our door—the kind used for high exposure areas.

When we reached the elevator, Hayes was waiting with Dr. Cortez and two armed guards. Dr. Moreno was there, too, carrying a large equipment case and looking pale. Hayes swiped his card. The elevator panel lit up, revealing a sixth button below level five. It wasn’t labeled—just a blank circle.

“Level six?” I asked.

“Level five,” Hayes corrected. “The button you saw yesterday only goes to the upper section. This is the primary access.”

The elevator descended. I counted the seconds—thirty, forty, fifty. We were going much deeper than before. The temperature dropped noticeably. My breath fogged inside the mask.

When the doors opened, we stepped into a different world. The corridor here was wider, the walls lined with thick steel plating. Heavy cables ran along the ceiling, pulsing with faint light. The air had a metallic taste even through the filters. My environmental monitor jumped immediately from green to yellow.

“Stay close,” Hayes said. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t open any doors unless I tell you.”

We moved forward in a tight group. The corridor branched multiple times, but Hayes navigated without hesitation. He’d been down here before—many times.

After about a hundred yards, we reached a checkpoint—a sealed door with a biometric scanner. Hayes placed his hand on it. The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Beyond was a control room. Banks of monitors covered one wall, showing camera feeds from dozens of locations. Most screens showed empty corridors and sealed doors. But one screen in the center caught my attention. It showed a large chamber. Inside, suspended in some kind of cylindrical tank, was something I couldn’t immediately identify. Organic, roughly humanoid in shape, but wrong. The proportions were off—too long, too thin.

Dr. Cortez saw me looking. “That’s why you’re here.” He gestured to the monitors. “Three hours ago, we experienced a containment breach in section C. The subject in tank seven became active and damaged its housing. We’ve managed to reestablish partial containment, but the structural integrity of that entire section is now questionable.”

“Subject?” Luna asked.

Dr. Cortez chose his words carefully. “We conduct research here. Biological research. Some of our specimens are unusual.”

“What kind of specimens?” I pressed.

Hayes cut in. “The kind you don’t ask about, Sergeant. Your job is to assess whether section C is stable enough for us to complete the recontainment procedure. That’s all.”

He led us out of the control room and deeper into level five. The corridors here were colder, darker. Emergency lighting cast everything in red. The walls showed signs of stress. Cracks ran along the concrete, some wide enough to fit a finger through. We passed several sealed chambers. Through the reinforced windows, I glimpsed more tanks. Most were empty. A few contained shapes I couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. They didn’t move, but I had the distinct feeling they were aware of us passing.

Torres was scanning the walls with a handheld structural analyzer. “The concrete here is compromised. Multiple stress fractures. This section wasn’t built to handle whatever pressure it’s under now.”

“How long has this facility been active?” I asked Dr. Cortez.

“This level was completed in 1979,” he said. “We’ve been conducting research here for eight years.”

“What kind of research requires this?” Luna gestured to the tanks, the heavy doors, the security measures.

Dr. Cortez stopped walking and turned to face us. For the first time, he looked uncomfortable.

“In 1947,” he said slowly, “something happened in Roswell. You’ve heard the stories. Most of them are nonsense, but not all of them.”

The implication hung in the air.

“We recovered materials,” he continued, “technology we didn’t understand and biological samples. Most were dead on arrival, but some weren’t. And some of what we found led us to discoveries we never anticipated.”

“You’re telling us you have alien specimens down here?” I said flatly.

“I’m telling you we have biological specimens of unknown origin,” Dr. Cortez corrected. “Whether they’re extraterrestrial or something else entirely remains classified at levels above your clearance.”

But the answer was obvious. This wasn’t a geological research station. This was a containment facility—a prison for things that shouldn’t exist.

We reached section C. The damage was immediately apparent. One wall had partially collapsed, revealing twisted metal support beams. Fluid leaked from a ruptured pipe, pooling on the floor. It wasn’t water—too viscous, faintly luminescent. My environmental monitor went to orange. Not critical, but elevated.

Dr. Moreno knelt by the fluid and took a sample. “Cooling system breach. The temperature in tank seven is rising. If it hits forty degrees Celsius, we’ll have another containment failure.”

“How long?” Hayes asked.

“Two hours, maybe less.”

Hayes turned to me. “Can we stabilize this section long enough to transfer the specimen?”

Torres ran his scanner along the damaged wall. “Short-term maybe, but this whole section needs to be rebuilt. The supports are failing.”

“Short-term is all we need,” Hayes said. He radioed someone on a secure channel. “Bring in the transfer team. We’re moving tank seven to the isolation wing.”

While we waited, I moved closer to the observation window of section C. Inside, I could see the damaged tank. The cylindrical chamber was cracked, its containment field flickering. Through the distortion, I got a better look at what was inside. It was definitely humanoid—roughly four feet tall with elongated limbs and a disproportionately large head. The skin looked gray, almost translucent. But it wasn’t dead. It was moving slowly, deliberately, testing the limits of its damaged prison.

As I watched, it turned and looked directly at me. The eyes were large, black, depthless. There was intelligence there. Awareness. And something else—recognition. It tilted its head slightly, as if studying me. I felt cold. Not from the temperature, from the certainty that whatever this thing was, it knew I was there. It knew I was watching. And it was communicating something I couldn’t quite understand.

“Ramirez.” Hayes’s voice snapped me back. “Step away from the window.”

I moved back, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. That thing had been trying to tell me something. A warning, a plea.

The transfer team arrived—six people in full containment suits carrying specialized equipment. They worked quickly, setting up a mobile containment unit outside section C. The process was clearly rehearsed. They’d done this before. Dr. Moreno supervised, checking readings on a tablet.

“Field strength at sixty percent. It’s holding, but barely.”

One of the team members attached a thick cable to the damaged tank. The cable ran to the mobile unit. Slowly, carefully, they began the transfer. The specimen inside the tank reacted. It pressed against the containment field, its movements becoming more agitated. The field sparked, flickered. For a moment, I thought it would fail completely, but the team adjusted something and the field stabilized. The specimen went still.

The transfer took twenty minutes. The entire time, my environmental monitor climbed steadily. Orange deepened. The alarm threshold was close. Finally, the specimen was secure in the mobile unit. The team sealed it and began rolling it toward the corridor. As they passed us, I got one last look through the reinforced window. The specimen was watching me again, its hand pressed against the glass. Five fingers—too long, too thin, but recognizably a hand. Then it was gone, wheeled away into the depths of the facility.

Hayes checked his watch. “The section is yours. Document everything. We need a full structural report by 0800 hours.”

He left with Dr. Cortez and the guards, leaving us alone in section C with Dr. Moreno.

We began the assessment. Torres took measurements. Luna photographed the damage. I logged observations in my notebook. The work was routine, mechanical, but the atmosphere was anything but. Dr. Moreno watched us work, quiet and tense.

After a few minutes, he spoke. “You think we’re monsters for keeping them here?”

I didn’t answer immediately. I was focused on documenting a crack pattern on the north wall.

“I think you’re doing something most people wouldn’t believe is possible,” I said finally.

“We didn’t ask for this,” Dr. Moreno said. “When they brought the first specimens here in ’79, I was a junior researcher. Fresh out of graduate school. I thought I’d be studying soil samples and atmospheric data. Instead—” He trailed off, gesturing to the damaged tank.

“Instead, you became a zookeeper,” Luna finished.

Dr. Moreno winced. “We prefer the term containment specialist, but yes, that’s essentially what we are.”

“How many?” I asked. “How many specimens do you have down here?”

Dr. Moreno hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

Torres finished his scan of the support beams. “We should check the adjacent sections. If this wall is compromised, the stress could have transferred to neighboring areas.”

Dr. Moreno nodded. “I’ll show you.”

He led us through a side door into a connecting corridor. This one was in better condition, but I could see similar stress patterns in the walls. The whole level was unstable. We passed more sealed chambers. Most were dark, but in one I saw movement—something large shifting in the shadows behind the reinforced glass.

I stopped. “What’s in there?”

Dr. Moreno glanced at the door number. “That’s tank twelve. Subject is currently dormant.”

“What is it?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Not all specimens are humanoid. Some are different.”

Before I could press further, an alarm sounded—a sharp, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the corridor. Dr. Moreno grabbed his radio.

“What’s happening?”

A voice crackled back, distorted by static. “Breach in tank four. Subject is loose in the corridor. Lockdown initiated.”

Dr. Moreno’s face went pale. “Which corridor?”

“Section B, near the junction with section A.”

That was close. Maybe a hundred yards from where we stood.

Dr. Moreno looked at us. “We need to move now.”

We ran. The alarm continued its urgent pulse. Behind us, I heard heavy doors slamming shut—the automated lockdown system sealing off the compromised area. We reached a security door just as it began to close. Dr. Moreno dove through first. Torres and Luna followed. I was last, sliding under the descending door with inches to spare.

On the other side, we were in a different section—cleaner, more modern. The alarm was muffled here, distant. Dr. Moreno checked his tablet.

“We’re in section D, safe zone. The lockdown will contain the breach.”

“What happens to whatever got loose?” Luna asked.

“Security team will handle it. They have protocols.”

“Protocols for what?” I pressed. “What are we talking about here?”

Dr. Moreno met my eyes. “The specimen in tank four is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. It’s why it’s kept under maximum containment. If it reaches an unsecured area—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

We waited in section D for thirty minutes. The alarm eventually stopped. Dr. Moreno’s radio crackled with status updates. The breach was contained. The specimen was recaptured. Two security personnel injured but alive.

When we finally returned to section C, the damage assessment continued. But something had changed. The facility no longer felt like just another classified site. It felt like a pressure cooker ready to blow.

Torres completed his structural analysis at 0645 hours. His conclusion was clear: section C needed to be evacuated and reinforced within forty-eight hours or the risk of complete collapse was significant.

We returned to level two to compile our report. Hayes was waiting in the conference room along with Dr. Cortez and several people I hadn’t seen before. Military brass. High-ranking officers with faces I half recognized from official photos.

I handed Hayes our findings. He read through them quickly, then passed them to the others. One of the officers, a general with three stars, looked at me.

“Your assessment is that level five is unstable.”

“Section C specifically,” I said. “But the stress patterns suggest other sections may be compromised as well. The entire level needs a comprehensive structural review.”

The general exchanged glances with his colleagues. “That’s problematic.”

“Problematic?” Luna said. “Sir, with respect, that whole level is a disaster waiting to happen. Whatever you’re doing down there, it’s not safe.”

“Safety is relative, Sergeant,” the general said. “What we’re doing here is critical to national security—more critical than you can possibly understand.”

“Then maybe you should relocate whatever you’re keeping down there,” I said, “before the whole facility comes down.”

“Relocation is not an option,” Dr. Cortez said. “The specimens are too dangerous to transport and there’s nowhere else that has the containment capability we’ve built here.”

“Then you’re sitting on a time bomb,” Torres said quietly.

No one disagreed.

The meeting ended with orders to compile a full engineering report. We were to stay on site for another forty-eight hours conducting detailed assessments of all five levels. Then we’d be debriefed, signed to new non-disclosure agreements, and reassigned. But as we left the conference room, I couldn’t shake the image from section C—that specimen pressed against the glass, looking at me with eyes that held intelligence, awareness.

Whatever was down on level five, it wasn’t just biological curiosities being studied for science. These were living beings, imprisoned, contained against their will. And sooner or later, one way or another, they were going to get out.

That night, I lay in my bunk, unable to sleep. The facility hummed around me, its machinery working constantly to maintain containment, to keep the secrets buried. But secrets have a way of surfacing, and some prisons aren’t meant to hold forever.

IV. Collapse

The comprehensive assessment began at 0800 hours. The next morning, we split into teams. Luna and Torres would examine levels three and four with structural engineers who’d arrived overnight. I would accompany Dr. Moreno back to level five with a specialized team.

When we reached level five, the atmosphere had changed. More personnel everywhere, guards at every junction, scientists moving with urgent purpose. Something was happening beyond our structural assessment.

Dr. Moreno led us to section A, housing the older containment units from 1979. The tanks here were cruder. Through observation windows, I could see several occupied units. Most specimens appeared dormant, but one was awake. It was smaller than the one in section C—maybe three feet tall. Similar body structure, humanoid, but wrong. This one had visible damage—scars across its torso, one arm ending in a stump where a hand should have been.

“What happened to it?” I asked.

Dr. Moreno consulted his tablet. “Subject three. Recovered in 1980 from Nevada, injured during retrieval. We tried to treat it, but our medical knowledge is limited.”

The specimen’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. There was an emptiness there. This thing had given up. I felt something unexpected—pity.

We documented structural integrity methodically. Around 1000 hours, we reached the boundary between sections A and B. Dr. Moreno swiped his badge, but the door didn’t open. He tried again. Nothing. He radioed control.

“Access door AB isn’t responding. Standby.”

We waited. Then I felt it—a faint vibration through the floor. Rhythmic, like something heavy moving in the distance.

Dr. Moreno’s radio crackled. “Dr. Moreno, return to the elevator immediately. We’re initiating facility-wide lockdown.”

“What’s happening?”

“Multiple containment failures. Section B is compromised. Evacuating non-essential personnel.”

My environmental monitor jumped from green to yellow to orange in seconds.

“Move,” I said.

We ran. Behind us, the vibration grew stronger. Then another sound—metal tearing. A low tone that wasn’t quite a scream. Not quite mechanical, something in between. The lights went out. Emergency lighting kicked in—red. The alarm started.

We reached the elevator. Dr. Moreno hit the elevator button repeatedly. Nothing. “It’s locked down,” Rodriguez said. “We need emergency stairs.”

“There are no emergency stairs from level five,” Dr. Moreno replied, voice tense. “The elevator is the only way out.”

The vibration was right behind us now, growing louder, more insistent. I turned and saw the security door buckling. Something was pushing through with impossible strength. The reinforced metal shrieked as it bent inward.

“Override it!” I said to Dr. Moreno.

“I can’t. Only Hayes or Cortez have that clearance.”

I grabbed his radio. “Hayes, this is Ramirez. We’re trapped on level five. We need emergency extraction now!”

Hayes’s voice came back, strained. “Working on it. Hold your position.”

“We don’t have a position! Whatever’s in section B is coming through!”

The security door gave way with a final, tortured scream of metal. Through the gap, I saw movement—multiple shapes, different sizes. The specimens were loose, several of them. Their skin glistened in the red emergency lights, eyes reflecting a cold, alien intelligence.

“Get away from that door!” I ordered.

Rodriguez pulled out his sidearm. The door fell, torn clean through, edges glowing faintly from friction. Three specimens emerged. Two were the standard gray type, small and thin. The third was larger—maybe six feet tall, more angular, clearly dominant. They moved with purpose, not randomly, hunting.

The tall specimen turned toward us, its eyes fixed on me. Recognition flickered in its gaze. Then it raised one arm and pointed. The other two moved forward.

Rodriguez fired—three shots, center mass. The specimen staggered but didn’t fall. The wounds glowed faintly, as if something inside was resisting the damage.

“Shoot the head!” I shouted.

Rodriguez adjusted and fired again. This time, the specimen went down, but the second was already closing in. Behind us, the elevator dinged. The doors opened. Hayes was inside with four guards carrying energy weapons.

“Get in!” he shouted.

We dove in. The guards took position and opened fire. The muzzle flash was blue-white, throwing the specimens backward. The tall one didn’t advance. It stood watching, eyes locked on me. Then it turned and disappeared into section B.

The doors closed. We ascended quickly. Rodriguez was breathing hard. “What the hell were those things?”

“Above your clearance,” Hayes said, but his hand was shaking.

Level two was chaos. Personnel running, alarms blaring, military trucks arriving outside. Hayes led us to the conference room. Dr. Cortez was there with the general and other officers.

“Status?” the general demanded.

“Level five is completely compromised,” Hayes reported. “Fourteen specimens uncontained. We’ve sealed the main elevator, but they’re accessing service shafts.”

“Recommendations?”

Hayes hesitated. “Full evacuation and facility destruction. It’s the only way to guarantee containment.”

The general nodded. “Authorization granted. Begin evacuation. Set charges on levels four and five. We bury it all.”

Just like that. Everything they’d built—gone.

“What about the specimens?” Dr. Moreno asked quietly.

No one answered. They would die. All of them, including subject three.

The evacuation was orderly but fast. We were assigned to the second wave. Luna and Torres found me near the decontamination station.

“We’re really going to blow this place?” Torres asked.

I nodded. “Those things are alive. Intelligent.”

“I know.” Luna looked at me, eyes haunted. “So, we’re executing prisoners because our prison failed.”

I didn’t have an answer, because he was right.

Outside, the desert sun was blinding. Military transport lined the access road. Helicopters circled. We loaded into a truck and drove to a ridge overlooking the facility. Officers stood with binoculars and radios.

“Charges are set,” someone reported. “All personnel accounted for.”

The general checked his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

I looked at the facility. From here, it looked peaceful, but I knew what was underneath.

“Ten seconds.” I thought about the tall specimen that had pointed at me, the intelligence in its eyes. Five. Had it wanted freedom or revenge? Maybe its motivations were too alien to comprehend.

“Detonation.”

For a moment, nothing. Then the ground rippled. A low rumble rolled across the desert. The facility entrance collapsed inward, dust billowing. A second explosion deeper. The structure shuddered and began to sink. It took less than a minute. When it was over, all that remained was a crater filled with rubble. The facility was gone. Everything inside buried.

The general lowered his binoculars. “Secure the perimeter. No one gets within a mile. As of now, this location doesn’t exist.”

Luna broke the silence. “It’s still down there. Some of those specimens might survive, buried, waiting.”

V. Aftermath

We returned to Kirtland the next day. The debriefing took six hours. We signed non-disclosure agreements with penalties including life imprisonment. We were told everything we’d seen never happened. The facility was officially a geological research station that experienced structural failure due to seismic activity—declared unsafe and permanently closed. No casualties. No unusual findings. Our reports were classified. Our photographs confiscated. Our notes destroyed.

A week later, our unit was disbanded. Luna transferred to Germany. Torres to Japan. I was offered a promotion—a Pentagon desk job. I turned it down and requested discharge. They granted it. Honorable discharge. Good Conduct Medal, a handshake, and a reminder that my NDA was permanent.

I left the army in November 1987. Got a civilian job. Tried to forget, but some things don’t fade.

I think about Dulce sometimes. About what we found. About subject three and its empty eyes. About the tall specimen that pointed at me before we escaped. Were they aliens? Probably. But maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe the real question is what gives us the right to imprison intelligent beings, regardless of where they come from.

We built that facility in secret. Conducted experiments in the dark. And when it fell apart, we buried the evidence and pretended it never existed. But it did exist. Those specimens were real. Their intelligence was real. Their suffering was real. And somewhere under the New Mexico desert, beneath tons of rubble, pieces of that truth remain, waiting.

Patient, buried, but not gone.

Years have passed. I’ve built a life, a family, a career. Most days, I don’t think about it. But sometimes, late at night, I remember the elevator descending, the red emergency lights, the sound of metal tearing, the look in those depthless eyes. And I wonder if we really contained the threat or if we just bought time.

The official story is nothing happened. That the facility was just a research station that failed. No specimens. No cover-up.

But I was there. I saw what was hidden beneath Dulce. And I know some secrets are too dangerous to keep and too dangerous to reveal. So, I carry this story in silence, a witness to something that officially never happened. And I wait, because if those specimens survived—if even one is still down there—then the story isn’t over. It’s just beginning.

The facility is gone. But the questions remain. What were they? Where did they come from? What were they trying to tell us before the collapse? I’ll never know, because we chose to bury the answers. Maybe that was the right choice. Maybe some things are better left buried. Or maybe we just condemned ourselves to repeat the same mistakes.

All I know is this: beneath the desert, under the rubble, something still exists, dormant, waiting, watching. And one day, someone will dig. They’ll excavate the site. And they’ll uncover the truth we tried to bury.

When that day comes, I hope they’re more prepared than we were. I hope they ask better questions, because the universe is bigger than we imagine, and we are not alone in it. That’s the real secret of Dulce. Not that we found alien life, but that we were arrogant enough to think we could contain it.

We were wrong, and the price of that arrogance is still being paid.

So if somehow this account survives and reaches someone who can act on it, remember: the facility is gone. But the truth isn’t. It’s still there, under the desert, waiting for someone brave enough to dig it up.

Just be careful what you unbury, because some truths change everything—and some prisons aren’t meant to hold forever.

End.