by S. A. Lusher
“Be careful,” he said.
Cage nodded. “Always am.”
He and Powell left. Greg looked around at the others. Just him, Kyra, and Billings now. Three against the world, but it was better than one.
“Let's go find an armory.”
Chapter 06
–Pressure–
“Anything?” Kyra asked.
Greg sat before the main terminal, looking over the map, trying to figure out what was what. As of that moment, everything was a confusing network of rooms and corridors with no way to tell which room held what. Billings hadn't said much since his escape. He stood by the window, looking out over the detention center, scratching at his wrist. Kyra stood behind Greg, who was frowning intently, staring hard into the screen.
“I think...” he clicked on something new and the screen shifted. Tags to all the areas appeared. “There.”
“You got it?” Billings walked over.
“Yes. I got it. And...holy shit, there's actually an armory close by. We should probably head there now since there's no telling how long it'll be before the whole thing is picked clean by Dark Ops.” Greg stood.
They left the observation center, hurrying down the narrow stairwell and back into the main antechamber. All three of them had their pistols out. As they made for the exit back out into the corridor that ran alongside the detention center, Greg realized it had been roughly ten minutes since Powell and Cage had left.
“Cage? How's it going?” He poked his head into the corridor, looking both ways. They were alone for now.
“You really opened Pandora's Box, Bishop, but we're making good time.” Cage's voice came back cold and calm as ever.
“Good. We found an armory. Talk to you in a bit.”
“Affirmative.”
The armory was just a couple dozen meters down the corridor, along the opposite side. Greg considered his plan as the trio hurried towards it.
“If we can find enough guns here, we should probably just set up an HQ in the detention center. Send out scouting parties to mess halls, infirmaries, armories, fortify our position. The center is easily defensible. There are no vent openings big enough to allow Stalkers, there are only three ways into or out of the center.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Billings replied.
“So where's this guardian angel of yours?” Kyra asked.
“Thomas? I'm not sure, but he must be watching over us, doing whatever he can. For some reason he just can't communicate. We shouldn't rely on him, but I do want to find him. We wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for him.”
They came to the armory. Greg ran his card through the slot by the door, as it was locked down, and went in gun-first, wary of lingering agents on either side of the alive-undead spectrum, but again he was alone. It seemed as if this part of the ship had been abandoned in favor of more important areas. Greg surveyed the armory.
“Damn.” Billings stepped in.
“Well...it's not totally empty,” Kyra replied.
The armory was vacant. Racks, shelves, and tables made bare by the needy hands of Dark Ops troops. However, as Kyra had pointed out, they weren't completely shit out of luck. Greg spied a sleek, black-barreled shotgun lying on the floor next to a box of fat red shells. He grinned, crossed the room and knelt.
“Hello,” he murmured, scooping up the gun and feeding shells into the slide. “Grab as much as you can. We need to arm as many as possible.”
Kyra and Billings moved to comply, scavenging over the abandoned armory. Greg filled up the weapon and pocketed the rest of the shells. He stood, slung the shotgun over his shoulder and crossed to an armor cabinet that was ajar. Pulling it open, he found none of the fancy suits of black full-body armor, but there was a nice selection of bulletproof vests. He pulled one on, passed Kyra and Billings their own.
“This is it?” Billings stared at the black vest.
“Yes. It'll have to do. We're going to need to be really careful until we can find something a little more substantial. How are we doing on weapons?” Greg replied.
Kyra held up a pair of rifles and already had a shotgun slung over her shoulder. “Besides the rifle that Billings has, this is all we've got in terms of more powerful guns. Three pistols, a fair amount of ammo. Nothing else.”
Greg sighed. “Fantastic. Gather it all up, ammo belts, shoulder straps, pouches, everything we can.”
They hurried, the pressure of time heavy upon them. Greg envisioned Dark Ops getting their shit together, containing the Undead, coming for him and the others. This time it would be different: brutal and bloody and with a hard end for them all. No, they needed to make this work and fast. He refused to go back to prison.
Once they had cleared out the armory, Greg made for the door, checking up on Powell and Cage. He poked his head out as he called them up and screamed as something swiped at him with wicked claws. He heard Kyra shout behind him as he fell back on his ass, bringing the shotgun into play. A former technician with a pallid skull-face and pools of deep space for eyes bore down on him, reaching for him with jagged, bloody claws.
Greg squeezed the trigger. The zombie's head vaporized into a thick plume of black blood, brains, and bone fragments, spraying all over the corridor and door frame. The body was thrown several feet back where it slammed to the deck, twitching spasmodically for several seconds until it became still.
“Holy shit, Bishop.” Billings cried, and then began laughed wildly.
“Are you okay?” Kyra helped him to his feet.
Greg caught onto Billings' laughter. “Uh, yeah...yeah, fine. I just...wow, that was close.” He shook his head, and laughed.
“Was there something you wanted?” Cage asked.
Greg had forgotten he'd put in the call. “Just checking up.”
“We're fine, but busy. Might have to go dark for a little bit. Call you back when we're free. Lots of Dark Ops around.”
That was that. Greg left them to it, putting his trust in the pair. If anyone could get the job done, it was Cage. The man was an unstoppable force, or so it seemed. Greg was more cautious as he peered back out into the corridor this time. He needed to focus himself, blend caution with speed into a cocktail of survival.
This time, the corridor was empty. Greg wasted a few seconds trying to figure where the now very dead zombie had come from, but realized it could have been from anywhere. He led the others back up and across to the detention block. They headed back up to the observation deck looking out over the vast area.
“We should secure this space.” Greg pointed out the handful of zombies still milling about below. “Lock down the exterior entrances. Then start releasing the prisoners, apprising them of the situation.”
“How about I stay up here? Be your spotter?” Billings suggested.
Greg stared at the Sergeant for a moment, sensing that there was some kind of sub-textual reason for this splitting up. Billings' eyes flicked to Kyra. Oh, duh. Of course. Greg hadn't had a moment alone with her and, well, now would be as good a time as any.
“All right, good idea. Let's go.”
He and Kyra descended the stairwell, opting to make a slow circuit through the corridors, killing off the half dozen or so zombies that remained. Quick and easy, with enough time to have at least a brief talk with Kyra.
“So, Kyra,” Greg said as they entered the first corridor. It was zombie-free, but would bring them around to another hallway where a pair of zombies resided, presumably chewing a corpse. Kyra glanced over at him.
“Yeah?”
“Well, this may not be the best time to ask, but what are we? I mean, like, where do we stand? You and me?” Kyra stared at him for several seconds.
Greg looked away for a moment. “I mean, I'm sorry if it's weird or anything-”
“No, Greg. No. It's not. It's just...I dunno, I've had a lot of shitty relationships. A lot. Bit of a serial dater for a couple of years. I guess I just got used to the idea that if I fucked a guy and didn't straight up tell him to leave
after, he just assumed we were serious. I agree we should be up front and clear about our intentions.”
Here, she took a breath. They rounded a corner and she let it out, raising the rifle she'd taken, having left the shotgun and the other rifle back with Billings. Greg spied zombies up ahead. He let his shotgun hang, pulled out his pistol and aimed. They both zeroed in on pale Undead skulls at the same time. Triggers were squeezed, bullets exploded from muzzles at terminal velocities and blood sprayed the corridor walls.
Two corpses dropped.
“So, as I was saying, I like you, Greg. A lot. I trust you. I trust you enough to sleep next to, and that's not easy for me, but if I'm being blunt, I'm kind of damaged goods, psychologically speaking. I don't exactly have time to get into the whole damned mess right now, but...well, I guess, if you'll have me, then yeah, I wouldn't mind you being my boyfriend and keeping this thing going until you get sick of me.” She gave him an unsteady smile.
Greg wasn't sure how to react to that. “Well...if you can put up with my memory loss, I'm certainly willing to try and make the relationship work, provided we make it out of this fucking nightmare alive.”
Kyra laughed then. “Good. Come on, let's get to blasting zombie skulls.”
They progressed through the center, following Billing's quick instructions, blowing away the remainder of the zombies that haunted the corridors. They stopped by one of the exits and Greg spent a moment figuring out how to lock it down.
“What are we going to do after?” Kyra asked.
“After what?” Greg replied, staring at the keypad and slot next to the door.
“After we secure this place. We escape this place. I don't know, how do we ever go back to being, you know, normal?”
“I honestly have no idea, Kyra. Go into hiding? Change our names? Maybe we'll be able to dig up some dirt on these assholes, threaten to go public. Maybe Cage has a plan. He always seems to, anyway. Ah-ha.”
Greg punched the right button and slipped the keycard through the slot. The keypad turned red, indicating that it was locked down. It would keep the zombies out and maybe Dark Ops personnel if their luck held out. At least it would give them some kind of warning if someone was trying to get in. They began walking again.
“I don't like it,” Kyra said as they headed for the other third and final entrance. “Not having a plan. I've always had a plan, at least, well, mostly. That needs to be something we figure out before we escape.”
“We will,” Greg promised. “For right now, how about we worry about escaping, or at the very least, staying alive.”
Kyra seemed unsatisfied, but nodded and fell silent. They came to the final exit and locked it down, then met with Billings in front of one of the cell doors.
“Try to seem as non-threatening as possible,” Greg said.
“Isn't there a way to see inside?” Kyra asked. “Might be a good idea to look in and let them know they're not going to die, you know?”
“Yeah...hold on.”
Greg fiddled with the simple control panel by the door and, after a moment, found the button that turned a portion of the door transparent and hit it. Peering into the cell, he spied a thin man in a blue jumpsuit lying on his cot with his hands behind his head, staring up at nothing in particular. He seemed very calm.
“Hey,” Greg said. There was no reaction. He sighed and hunted for another moment, finally finding the button that activated the intercom.
“Hey, you in there.”
The man looked over. A look of confusion passed across his face, and then he stood and crossed the small cell.
“Hello?” He looked and sounded confused. “Who are you?”
“My name's Greg. Look, everything has gone to hell here. I'm going to let you out. The Undead have broken out and the soldiers are trying to contain it.”
“Oh, good. I had hoped something like this would occur.”
Greg opened the door. Now that he studied the blue jumpsuit, he recognized it as an SI technician's get-up.
“I'm Park.” The man offered his hand.
Greg shook it. “Glad to have you. We're going to free more prisoners. Can you handle a sidearm?”
“Yes. I can. I was trained.” His tone sounded injured, as though the question insulted him. Greg passed off one of the two pistols he currently had on him, tucked into the back of his pants, as well as a pair of magazines.
“Keep an eye out.”
Park nodded. They moved on to the second cell and repeated the process, this time finding a burly man in a gray mining outfit who paced his cell like a caged beast. He took more convincing, but when Greg finally opened up his cell, the man stepped out, saw that they were armed, and that they were not members of Dark Ops.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked.
“It's a long story but there are zombies loose. My name is Greg. We need-”
The man let out a sharp bark of pain and grabbed at his wrist. Greg jumped back, surprised by this sudden event.
“Oh God! Oh fuck!” the miner screamed, clawing at his wrist.
Abruptly, he went limp, collapsed to the deck, and shook, stuck in the throes of a violent seizure. Greg had no idea what to do, or what was happening. He felt unable to move, frozen by this display. The man foamed at the mouth, his head shaking back and forth violently, foamy spittle and blood flying everywhere.
Without warning, he froze up and stopped moving. Greg, wide-eyed, his hands trembling, stepped forward and knelt by the fresh corpse. He reached out, hesitated, and then gripped the man's left hand, bringing it up. The limp right hand fell away and where he had been gripping, at the base of the left wrist, where all the veins met, there was a small lump and an ugly black spot. Slowly, Greg let the hand back down.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Billings whispered, fear cracking his voice.
“I think-” Park began, then hissed in pain and grabbed his own wrist.
“Oh, no,” Kyra moaned, backing away.
“What is happening?” Greg cried.
Like the miner before him, Park collapsed, foaming at the mouth, seizing violently. Right as he stopped moving, slipping suddenly and violently into death, Greg heard his radio crackle to life. Someone was laughing.
“Did you honestly think I wouldn't take precautions against something like this?” Williams' voice sounded as smooth and causal as ever.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Greg screamed.
“Implants, in your wrists. Tracking chips and kill-switches, as well. There's poison in those tiny things, barely more than a quarter of an ounce, but it will kill, make no mistake. I admit that I didn't get to your little party yet...except for that one man...what was his name...was it Billiam? Or Hilling? Damn, slips my mind.”
Greg turned to look at Billings, agonizing terror gripping his stomach, and saw that the soldier had gone several shades paler. Williams was coming in loud and clear on all their channels. Billings was shaking.
“Good luck. And enjoy your freedom...while it lasts.”
In a blur of motion, Billings had a combat knife in his hand, picked up from the armory, Greg guessed.
“Billings, wait-” Kyra cried, but it was too late.
Billings drove the tip of the blade into his wrist. A thin spray of blood splashed Greg squarely in the chest, running down his recently acquired body armor. Billings let out a small cry of pain but kept digging, his face set, already slicked with sweat, determined. Kyra stepped forward, perhaps to stop him, but Greg put a restrictive hand on her shoulder. Billings kept going, heedless to all around him, cutting into his flesh.
With a sharp flick, he popped a small, bloody, metal device from his wrist. It clattered to the floor. Billings dropped his knife and clamped his hand over the self-inflicted wound. He looked to Greg and Kyra.
“Infirmary,” he managed, his mouth a flat, grim line, teeth gritting.
Blood pumped thickly from between his fingers. A thought flickered through Greg's mind. He imagined that Williams
had his med-techs implant the device in such a way that if you had to remove it by force, it would cause not only a great deal of pain, but blood loss as well. It was a nasty thing he could easily envision Williams doing.
They set off in a flash, racing toward the exit, forgetting about all else. They couldn't lose another one, they were too few already. Greg tried to remember where the nearest infirmary was. He knew he'd seen one while hunting for the armory across that map.
Billings moaned as they came to the main entrance and stepped out into the corridor beyond. He was paling even further now, blood still dripped thickly from his wrist. Where was it? Where the fuck was it?
“There.” Kyra pointed.
Greg didn't even confirm whether or not she was right, just followed her, guiding Billings along, who focused all his attention on his wrist. Greg felt sick, staring at all the blood that was gushing from his wound. There shouldn't be that much blood.
How was there so much blood?
“Fuck,” Kyra cried.
Greg snapped his attention toward Kyra. A trio of zombies rushed down the corridor toward them, two of them wearing full body armor, including helmets. Greg raised his pistol and opened fire, but several of his shots went wide. His hands shook. He managed to put down the unarmored zombie, a former med-tech, as his magazine ran dry. He reloaded, heard shattering glass and the thump of a corpse hitting the ground.
Glancing up, slamming the magazine in, he saw that Kyra had punched through the visor of one of the others with a three-round burst from her rifle. Together, they brought the last bastard down and then kept going, now having to support Billings, who stumbled at every step. Greg wondered how it was possible to infect a fully suited soldier, but didn't have time to think about that now. They came at last to the infirmary.
Memories of his and Kyra's first meeting, when her friend was bitten, bleeding, and dying, surfaced as they helped Billings into the infirmary. Everything that happened next seemed to come to Greg in a rapid series of two-second clips. First, he set Billings down on the table. Then he watched Kyra tear through a medical cabinet. Next, she poured something across the wound, a coagulation agent.