Necropolis 2

by S. A. Lusher

  “What's your blood type?” she yelled at Billings, but he had passed out by now.

  “Stay with him,” she said. “Make sure it clots right.”

  Greg wasn't sure how to do that, but Kyra was already gone, racing across the infirmary. He watched the door, guarding, making sure nothing came in after them. A moment later, Kyra was back, jabbing Billings' bicep with a small device. She stared at the screen, grunted, ran back across the room to a cold storage unit.

  “Grab that stand there.”

  Greg looked around, saw what she meant and grabbed the tall metal pole meant to hang blood or IV drips from. He rolled it over to the examination table. Kyra shoved a chilled pack of blood into his hands and fiddled with a needle. He hung it and watched her stick the needle into one of Billings' main veins, then attached the tube to the blood pack. The crimson liquid began to filter down the tube, flowing into Billings.

  “Good,” she whispered.

  Then she was gone again, tearing open medical cabinets, tossing aside what might have been thousands of credits worth of equipment as though it were garbage. Suddenly, she paused, staring at something in her hands.

  “Holy shit.” She hurried back over.

  “What is that?” Greg glanced between her and the door.

  She held a small white canister, like an aerosol can. She lowered it to Billings' wrist and began spraying out a pale, foamy substance.

  “It's like fake skin,” she explained while she worked. “You spray this stuff over a wound, and it works like skin, holding everything together while your body heals. It even accelerates the healing process. It'll flake off slowly as your body produces real skin. This is seriously top-notch stuff. Only really high-class emergency rooms carry this shit. It's really expensive to make. I haven't seen this in a while.”

  She finished up, set the can aside and then moved to the control panel built into the side of the examination table. As she punched in a few commands, the table began to hum. Greg held his breath. It was the moment of truth. He opted to watch the door instead, the vents, too. Anything could be out there, coming for them.

  Kyra let out a long sigh. “Okay, thank fucking God. He's going to be fine. Shit, that was a hell of a close call. Fuckers rigged it so that he'd have to rip out a major artery to get that thing out. Damn, that was clever, and lucky as hell that none of us had one. You should check up with Cage and Powell, let them know, see if they're okay. He'll need a bit to recover.”

  Greg nodded, relief flowing through him. He activated his radio, wondering if Williams was listening in on them.

  “Cage, you there?”

  A long pause. Then a distracted, “Yeah.”

  Greg updated the pair on the situation. Cage was quiet for another moment, seeming to consider the situation.

  “Okay. Maintain radio silence. We'll contact you once we have a secure channel.”

  He was gone again.

  “You know...if we weren't implanted, maybe there were a few others that weren't, either,” Kyra suggested.

  “Yeah, maybe. It'd be nice to catch a lucky break. As soon as he feels up to it, we'll get going and hope for the best.”

  Greg leaned against the examination table, suddenly tired.

  What next?

  Chapter 07

  –Undead Rising–

  “What happened?”

  Greg snapped his gaze over. He'd been hearing things out in the corridor, but they seemed uninterested in the infirmary, so he let them pass. They didn't sound pleasant, undoubtedly Undead. Billings shifted on the examination table, trying to prop himself up. He was still very pale, but his color was coming back.

  Kyra hopped off the table she'd been sitting on. “You cut your wrist, remember?”

  “Yeah...damn, that hurts...I remember that part. What happened after? I remember running...I think some Undead...”

  “We got you to an infirmary. You've only been out around half an hour. You're going to be fine,” Greg replied.

  Billings shook his head, rubbed at his wrist. “Damn...hurts like fuck. What's the plan? What's happening?”

  “Relax, for now. You need to-”

  Billings cut Kyra off, pushing her hands away, standing up.

  “No,” he said bluntly. “We're not waiting around for that. What's the plan?”

  “We were thinking that some of the prisoners might not have had that chip in them,” Greg replied diplomatically. “Could we at least bandage your wrist first?”

  Billings sighed. “Fine, but be quick about it.”

  Kyra moved over to one of the medical cabinets and rummaged around in it for a moment. She came back with a small hypo and a bandage. She took his wrist, injected it with the hypo and then applied the bandage.

  “Antiseptic and local painkiller,” she said, tossing the hypo away.

  “Thanks,” Billings murmured, rubbing his wrist.

  She gave them each a medical kit and then hooked her own to her belt. Greg mimicked her action. With nothing left to do, the trio left the infirmary, moving back out into the main corridor. Whatever had been skulking around was gone now, as far as Greg could tell. They moved back toward the detention center.

  “I'm sorry about being a jerk,” Billings murmured as they entered the center.

  “It's fine,” Kyra replied quietly.

  “No, it's not. I just...” He hesitated as they ascended the stairwell. Greg took a seat in front of the terminal, trying to discern if anyone was still alive. “When I was younger, a teenager, you know, I was one of those do-nothing losers. I didn't give a shit about my grades, my parents, anything really. All I wanted to do was hang out with my friends and play games. When I graduated, barely, I still didn't have a license, a job, a girlfriend, anything real. No skills. I was a total fucking drain on society. I was that guy who could never hold a job, who was always getting kicked out, who kept borrowing money and never giving a fuck about anything.”

  Billings fell silent. Greg and Kyra stared at him now. Billings stared at the floor, or into the cold silence of memory.

  “So what happened?” Kyra asked quietly.

  “I finally ran out of options when I was twenty five. Everyone turned me out, all of my friends, all of my family. All I had left was dad and he...well, he made me join the Marines. He told me if I could get through Basic and do it for a year, and I absolutely hated it, he'd let me move back in with him and he'd try to work with me, help me get a job, all that shit. I almost walked out, went homeless, but there was something in his voice, something so pleading...I was really at the hard end right then, so I said 'Fuck it, why not?' And I did it.”

  “How'd it go?” Greg asked.

  “How about we see if anyone's left alive first, then I'll tell you all about it,” Billings replied reasonably enough.

  Greg nodded, embarrassed that he'd stopped working, and turned back to the terminal. He'd gotten the hang of navigating the menus, and whoever he'd put out of his misery and stolen the keycard from must've been pretty high ranking, because he never ran into restricted files or password protection anymore.

  “Okay, it looks like...damn, only two other prisoners made it. Naturally, they're at opposite ends of the complex. Better go get them out.” Greg stood and stared out the windows, trying to see the men in question.

  He could see one, vaguely, who was pacing back and forth. The other must have been lying down, as the distance and angle of view didn't allow for immediate sight of the cot. Greg memorized the route there, grabbed the extra weapons they'd stashed in the control room and then headed back into the detention center once more.

  “So, what was it like?” Kyra asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, Basic. Well, about like all the vids make it out to be, I guess. Not like that one, though, the famous one? Shit, what did they call it...Back To Basics, I think. No, the Drill Instructor never touched us, and while there was a lot of bullshitting between the Recruits, no one ever got killed or went over the edge or anything like that. It was routine. I hated it
, of course. Argued all the time with my Drill. I must've scrubbed a skyscrapers' worth of floors with a sonic toothbrush during my six months there.

  “It worked. I made it through, somehow. I remember thinking that I'd never even get to Basic, that they'd reject me outright. I think they almost did, too. When I passed, I got a lot of crap assignments. They rotated me out about every two months. Not normal, but I ended up causing problems wherever I went. Always getting into fights. I'd gone from a loser to a 'tough guy', I thought I was the shit...I'm getting off track. The point of all this was that I don't like people suffering because of me.”

  “Not that I don't like hearing about you, but...you haven't really said much about yourself since we met. What brought this on?” Greg asked.

  Billings laughed, his hands automatically going for his pocket, coming up with nothing.

  “Shit, gonna have to find some more cigars. I guess a genuine brush with death will get a man feeling confessional and reflective.”

  “Fair enough. Next chance we get, I want to hear more.”

  Billings shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  They came to the first prisoner's cell. Greg worked the control panel, turning the central portion of the door transparent. He stared into the cell and confirmed that, yes, the man had been laying on his cot. He appeared to be asleep. Greg flipped on the intercom.

  “Hello, in there,” he said.

  The man's eyes opened. He looked around, confused, and then zeroed in on Greg. His eyes widened and Greg saw something there: recognition. He studied the man, wondering if he should know him. Tall, bulky with muscle, short black-heading-for-gray hair, his eyes and mouth caught in a net of wrinkles. He wore a gray miner's outfit.

  “You.” He crossed the room to stand before the door. “How in the hell did you get here?”

  “Do you know me?” Greg asked.

  “Well...yeah, duh. I should fucking hope so, we worked together for six months.”

  Greg blinked several times, staring hard at this man, trying to jump-start his memory. It felt like ages since he'd last put serious thought into his lost memories. Was it just that he was too busy...or that he no longer wanted to ponder it, unable to face the all-to-potential truth that he might never recover them?

  “You don't remember me, do you? You really don't.”

  “I...here, I'm getting you out of there. The Undead are all over this ship.” Greg roused himself, and hit the open button.

  The miner stepped out, taking in all three of them: armored, bloody, and armed. He seemed immensely relieved.

  “Thank God you came along...I was pretty sure I was never getting out of there.” He offered his hand to Greg, who shook it. “We've done this before, but...William Holt is my name. We were friends back on Dis.”

  “I...I'm sorry. I lost my memories not long after the outbreak. It's kind of a long story, but I have total amnesia.”

  “Oh...my God, that's terrible. I'm so sorry.” Distantly, perhaps from one of the nearby vents, a loud roar echoed down to them. “Might I trouble you for a sidearm? I used to be a Marine a decade or so ago, five years in the service.”

  “Yes, here.”

  They passed him a rifle, a pistol and ammo for both. Holt handled himself well, taking a proffered holster, fitting it to his belt and slipping the pistol in. He pocketed the ammo, checked to make sure both weapons were full of ammo and functional.

  “So, what's happening? Catch me up. I spent so long in that damned cell I'm aching for something to do.”

  As they crossed the area, making for the second prisoner's cell, Billings and Kyra filled Holt in on all the relevant details. Greg lost his voice, stricken into something like awe at the thought that he might finally have a link to his past.

  “So...you remember me, I mean, really?”

  Holt nodded. “Of course I do. We had drinks together every Friday down at that shitty hole in the wall the company called a bar. Your name is Greg Bishop. You're with Security-Investigations. You'd made it up to the rank of a Corporal and you were pretty sure you'd never go any higher. You seemed to think that management had it in for you.”

  “Man...this is crazy,” Greg whispered.

  “We get some time and I'll tell you more about yourself, but if I'm being honest, I don't know too much. I mean, we hung out, sure, but you didn't like much to talk about yourself. I have no idea about your family, any friends you might've had before Dis, what you did before...” Holt shrugged and frowned.

  “I'll take what I can get,” Greg replied.

  They came to the final cell. Greg made the center transparent, hit the intercom and stared in at the man in a dark uniform who was pacing rapidly back and forth.

  “Hey...who do you work for?” Greg asked, unfamiliar with the uniform.

  The man looked over. His eyes widened and an uncomfortable smile spread across his face. He took a step back.

  “Oh...shit,” he said. “What the hell are you doing out of your cell?”

  “What? Do you know me?” Greg asked.

  “That voice is damned familiar,” Billings said.

  Now that he mentioned it, Greg thought so to. “Who are you?”

  “Uh...nobody, man. Can you let me out of here? You're doing a jailbreak, right? Right? Yeah, I'd like out now.”

  Greg shook his head. “No. Tell us your name.”

  “It's Campbell.” Kyra cut in. “Remember? Starck's pet killers? Campbell and Rez? Rez never spoke, that's Campbell. He's Dark Ops.”

  “Aw shit,” Campbell muttered.

  “How the hell did you end up in there?” Greg was curious.

  “Well...I guess I started growing a conscience.” Campbell's laugh held a nervous twinge. “The shit we were doing...man, nuts. Just way too much for me. I mean, I just wanted out, you know? I couldn't look at some of the shit they were doing down in the labs, the prisoners, the experiments. One night I started talking to Rez about, you know, taking off. There's a few smaller ships around that have FTL capability. Just hi-jacking one and punching void until we were somewhere far away, change names, go to ground, that kinda thing. He says it's a good idea. I go to bed that night and I wake up in a fucking cell!”

  Campbell sighed and shook his head. “So what's it going to be? You heard my story. I'd promise not to betray you, but I don't think you'd believe me. What I can offer, however, is knowledge of the ship and a damned good gun hand.”

  Greg considered it. He looked at the others.

  “I say we leave the fucker to rot,” Kyra said darkly.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Campbell muttered.

  Kyra took a step closer to the door. “Call me that again and I shoot your nuts off.”

  “We could use the back up, and he's got a point, he knows the ship. He could help us.” Billings stared a Greg.

  “Yeah, until he turns us over at the first possible convenience,” Kyra muttered.

  Campbell shook his head. “No, they wouldn't take me back. Once you talk bad about Dark Ops, they're done with you. Forever.”

  “So why didn't they just kill you?” Billings turned to Campbell.

  “Better this way. Live test subject is better than a dead body. Always. So what do you say? Yes or no, but don't draw it out.”

  Greg considered it for a long moment, and then hit the open button. The door slid open and Campbell stepped forward, smiling. Greg pointed the barrel of his shotgun directly into Campbell's face, who instantly froze.

  “W-what's the deal?” he managed.

  “You fuck us over, you're the first to die. Got it?”

  “Yeah...yeah, I got it. Shit.”

  Greg lowered the gun, and passed Campbell one of the spare pistols, a holster and a few magazines of ammo. Campbell frowned at them.

  “A pistol?”

  “Yes. Count yourself lucky you get that,” Greg replied.

  Campbell sighed, but said nothing else, fixing the holster to his uniform and pocketing the magazines. Greg led his group back through the cente
r.

  “I guess we can abandon the idea of using this as a command center.” He shook his head. This was a disappointment.

  “You were going try and set up shop here? In the prison?” Campbell asked.

  “Yes, dipshit,” Kyra snapped.

  “You guys have gotta work on your manners. I haven't actually done anything to any of you, you know?”

  “You worked for Dark Ops. That's enough,” Billings replied.

  “You guys straight up kidnapped and imprisoned me,” Holt threw in.

  Campbell heaved a weary sigh. “All right, fine, I'm so sorry on behalf on all of this Dark Ops cell.”

  “Okay, we've found a secure channel.” Cage's voice suddenly sounded in Greg's ear. He paused where he was. They had just come into the antechamber. Greg waved his hand to quiet the others, who, after a few seconds, fell silent.

  “So, what's happening?”

  “Nothing good. Dark Ops and the Undead are really going at it. We're finally at the data network center. It's like a big security station. It should take you a lot less time to get here. We've managed to find a maintenance tunnel that will take you about three quarters of the way without much trouble.”

  “Good. We've found another two survivors. One is a miner from the planet, another is Campbell. As in Starck's lackey. He was in prison.”

  “I resent that,” Campbell murmured.

  “Shut up,” Kyra advised.

  “Fantastic. And you're taking him with us? I can hear it in your voice. Fine. Get to our position, quick as you can, Powell's got a plan together.”

  Cage fed him the instructions, and then logged off, leaving Greg alone with his thoughts.

  He turned to face the others. “All right, Cage just called. Gave me instructions. We're going to meet up with him and Powell and figure out our next step.”

  “Who's Cage?” Campbell asked. “Or Powell, for that matter?”

  “Shut up,” Kyra said.

  * * * * *

  They found the entrance to the maintenance tunnel five minutes later, one by one plunging into the narrow metal shaft that would take them to meet with Powell and Cage. Greg went first, making his way as quickly as he could down the ladder. Campbell was above him, as he was his responsibility. Billings followed Campbell. Greg knew the others were concerned. Campbell might be a lot of things...a liar he was not.