Necropolis 2

by S. A. Lusher

  “Who's this? Never mind. That is obviously the next issue. We need a way to make it so that Dark Ops won't follow us. We need to cripple them. I've been working on a plan for that. The best I've come up with is to build and detonate an EMP bomb as we're leaving. Obviously we'll need to secure a ship first, and time it right, but it should work.”

  “EMP?” Greg asked.

  “Electromagnetic pulse. It'll shut down every since piece of electronic equipment within range of the bomb. Dark Ops would die. They'd have no power, no gravity, no oxygen. However, an immediate solution to our problem might be in order. There are a dozen other ships nearby, and they have hundreds, if not thousands, of Dark Ops personnel. Now, I'm not entirely sure why they haven't sent reinforcements over yet, possibly because of the outbreak, but I imagine they aren't going to wait for long.”

  “So what's the more immediate plan?” Greg asked.

  “Missiles.” Here, Powell offered a very rare smile. “This ship has a happy armament of missiles. We're going to go to the bridge and launch them directly into all the other ships. With a little luck, that'll buy us some more time to build our bomb.”

  Greg blinked. “Holy shit...that's pretty brutal, but it's a good idea. Can you do it?”

  “If someone can get me to the bridge, yes.”

  “What about the DNA center?” Campbell asked.

  “Okay, okay...we'll split up, again. Let's get to an infirmary, gather up samples of everyone's blood. That'll be enough to get us into the databanks, right?” Greg looked at Campbell, who shrugged. Greg sighed.

  “It should be,” Powell stated in a matter of fact tone. “I can likely walk you through it if it comes down to it.”

  “I guess that'll have to do. Anything else we need to do here?”

  “No, and there's an infirmary nearby.”

  They gathered by the door. Greg hit the open button and Cage and Billings went out first, guns at ready, playing their flashlights across the darkened interior of the data vault. When they gave the all clear, Greg and the others followed them out. Thoughts shifted uneasily through Greg's mind as they headed back out into the main corridor. He glanced at Holt and decided right away that Holt was going to be coming with him to the DNA center. There were so many questions he had for the miner. Too many, maybe.

  The main corridor was as vacant as ever. Greg stared down at the rifle he'd selected from one of the corpses. His shotgun now hung across his back. He knew he couldn't take on another weapon without seriously bogging himself down, but felt that this would be good enough. Playing with the settings, he finally settled on the single-shot feature. It seemed like the most logical choice. Greg glanced at Holt, who seemed intently focused on his surroundings. He tried to recall this man, struggled to remember him, but there was nothing.

  “Here.” Powell held up his hand to stop them.

  They came to the closest infirmary. Greg opened the door and looked inside. A pair of zombies occupied the room, going to town on med-tech corpses. Sighting one, he let the awful beast have it, spraying its black blood and brains across the white-tiled floor. The second undead horror spun to face them and roared, red flecks of flesh flying from its torn lips. Its head snapped backwards as Cage capped it.

  “Alright, grab some hypos,” Powell said.

  Kyra crossed the room and pulled open a medical cabinet. Powell crossed to a nearby terminal. Cage watched the door. Greg pulled Holt aside.

  “So, can you tell me anymore about myself? Did I have a girlfriend?” Greg, tossed a nervous glance at Kyra.

  Holt caught his glance and huffed a little laugh. “As far as I could tell, no. Though you would occasionally mention spending the night in a girl's quarters. There was this redhead you had a thing with for a while, I thought she was your girlfriend, but you were pretty adamant that she was just a friend, with benefits.”

  “Oh, great. Did I smoke?”

  “Yeah, occasionally. Drank, too, occasionally. You always had a can of soda in your hand though. I think they were called...Hex? Was it Hex?”

  “Vex,” Greg murmured.

  “Yeah, that. You had a few buddies from security you liked to hang out with. Head for the shooting range, hit up the gym, there was a company-sponsored cinema. You'd always go to see zombie movies...kinda funny, now, don't you think?”

  “Maybe in a fucked up kinda way.”

  “Got them,” Kyra called. “Gather round.”

  “Just a moment, I'm planning our routes,” Powell replied.

  Kyra gathered small blood samples from each of the survivors, having to walk over to Powell, since he wouldn't get up and come to her. She made sure to label them all, in case any of them were broken and they had to get new samples. She secured all the hypos in a pair of shockproof containers, offering one to Greg and taking the other for herself.

  “So, what's the plan?” Cage asked.

  Greg opened his mouth to respond, then, almost seemingly against his will, he looked directly at Cage and asked, “Why don't you ever take charge? You're obviously more qualified than I am to do this.”

  “I told you before, I don't like giving orders,” Cage replied evenly.

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “Does it matter? We need to get this job done, and we really don't have time for this.”

  Greg sighed. “Okay, fine, whatever. Cage, Billings, Campbell, you're going to escort Powell to the bridge. Do whatever it takes to get him there, make this missile thing work. Holt, Kyra, you're coming with me. We're going to hit the DNA databanks, then we'll link back up with Powell and the others on the bridge or maybe somewhere in between if they get their job done quickly. Does anyone have any questions?”

  No one did.

  Powell had everyone memorize their routes through the vessel. Once he was positive they all had, he killed his connection to the terminal and stood. The squad left the infirmary, coming back out into the corridor. They split, each portion of the survivors heading in opposite directions. Greg watched Cage, Powell, Campbell, and Billings go, and tried to put the thought that he might never see them alive again out of his mind.

  Though that might not be so bad for Campbell.

  “Come on, let's get going,” he murmured.

  They moved in silence. DNA Central Processing, as it was labeled on the holographic map, was three stories up and a little ways over. The route Powell had laid out was simple, provided nothing nasty and lethal got in their way. They came to the end of the corridor they were in, pausing a T-junction.

  Greg peered cautiously around the corner, first one way, and then the other. Nothing. He led them left, toward a small maintenance lift that would bring them up three levels. He decided now was as good a time as ever to continue speaking with Holt.

  “So, Holt, I've got some more questions, if you don't mind.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Okay, and, feel free to be totally honest, but...what kind of guy was I? Was I a jerk? Or anything like that?”

  “No...not particularly. I mean, you could be short with me, sometimes, but that was just plain old stress. No, you were usually quiet. You'd go through long periods of solitude, punctuated by sudden bursts of being social, like you couldn't take being alone anymore.”

  “I see,” Greg murmured.

  “And, like I said, you didn't talk too much about yourself. I'm sorry, I'd love to be of more help, but I, myself, am a bit of an introvert. Sure, I liked the occasional beer at the bar, but I usually sat by myself or with you. I'd had my fill of people at that point, course, now I can't get enough of people, what with all the death. Well...people that aren't wearing black armor and pointing guns at my head, I guess.”

  They came to another T-junction and Greg peered around the corner. He cried out as a bullet whizzed by his head.

  “Shit.”

  “Who is it?” Kyra whispered.

  “Dark Ops. Half a dozen.”

  Greg put his gun around the corner and blind-fired. Several shouts of shock sounded. In a surp
rising action, Holt raced across the opening, taking up the corner opposite Greg. Together, they began firing on the Dark Ops troops, who had nowhere to go, as the hallway provided no real form of cover. Greg shot one through his faceplate and immediately targeted another, feeling his muscles reacting faster than his brain.

  Before they returned fire, he managed to put two quick shots into the neck of one of the other troops. He fell back and Holt popped out while the surviving Dark Ops soldiers still focused on Greg's position. He fired, scored what might have been a lucky or a well-placed shot, and shattered the faceplate of another one of the men. They continued like this until the last of the dark-armored nightmares fell.

  “Man, you are good at this,” Greg said.

  Holt chuckled, shrugging. “Well, I had a bit of practice.”

  They emerged from their hiding places and made for the corpses.

  “Now I feel a bit rude, asking all about myself. Tell us about you,” Greg said.

  They came to the corpses and frisked them for ammo.

  “Not much to tell. I'm afraid I'm a bit boring. After I got out of high school, I just kind of drifted for a while. Picked up a job as a dockhand on a cargo ship for a few years, then I was a cook in a diner on a trade route space station for a year. Had some more odd jobs before I finally decided, what the hell, and hooked up with the Marine Corps. That was, ah, fun, I guess. Like I said, spent five years doing the whole Corps thing.”

  They reached the end of the corridor and slipped into a small maintenance area. At the back of it, they found the lift, untouched, sitting in its nest. It was just barely big enough to hold all three of them. Greg sighed, but entered all the same. Kyra and Holt squeezed in with him. Greg hit the proper button and waited as the lift hummed to life.

  “Why'd you quit?” Kyra asked.

  “Contract was up. Didn't feel like renewing.”

  “You ever been married?” Greg asked.

  “Yeah. Twice. Once before I joined up, once after. The second one is the whole reason I'm out here, actually.” He offered a short, bitter chuckle. “Married a woman I fell in love with. After I quit the Marines, I went back to drifting. Landed a position as head of security on a cargo freighter. The captain was a fine example of a woman. We got to talking, realized we really liked each other, within six months we were married.”

  The lift came to a halt. The doors slid open and Greg was out first, rifle at ready. There was nothing in the back maintenance area they'd come to. It was identical to the area they'd just left. There were shelves, tools, and crates, plus a storage room, a workroom, a small machine shop, a bathroom, and another storage room.

  They came back to the exit and Greg peered out. The first thing he noticed was that this portion of the ship was different from the one they'd just come. Everything had a cool blue tint to it, not exactly comforting, but a damn sight better than cold white sterile environments of the detention center and medical wings.

  The second thing he noticed was that the area reeked of death and decayed flesh. Undead were nearby.

  “Stay sharp.” He stepped out into the corridor.

  Greg almost tried to get Holt talking again. For some reason, he liked hearing about other people's pasts. Maybe it was because he had none for himself, but he couldn't shake the notion that he really needed to focus. They crept down bloodied passageways, the cool blue corridors turning red and black as they drew closer to the DNA Processing Center. No corpses, though. Greg wondered about that.

  Something made a sharp huffing noise, followed by a deep, guttural growl. It was up ahead, nearby. Greg swallowed and edged up to the corner. He poked his head around and immediately pulled it back.

  “Berserker,” he whispered.

  “Fuck,” Kyra snapped.

  “What do we do?” Holt asked.

  “I don't know. We need to go that way. DNA Processing is at the end of that hall and it's the only way in. These things are hard to kill, maybe even harder now that more time has passed or Dark Ops has been screwing around with them. Okay...okay...” Greg realized that history was going to repeat itself.

  He reached into his pocket, passed his container of the blood samples over to Holt. “Here, take these.”

  “Greg, no. You aren't doing this again.” Kyra grabbed his arm.

  “Don't worry. I'll be fine. I've got enough practice at this point.” Greg tried to give her a convincing smile.

  “What's going on?” Holt asked.

  “He's going to be bait.” Kyra's voice was laced with anger.

  “Oh. Wow. You've got guts,” Holt replied.

  “Thank you, Holt. At least someone thinks so.”

  “What the fuck is it with you men? Why do you always have to do stupid shit like this? I swear to fuck, Greg, if you get killed-”

  “I'll be fine. And if I do kick off, you'll be fine, because you're a hard ass.”

  Kyra made a face at him, but didn't argue anymore. Greg grabbed her and kissed her hard on the lips, then let go of her and ran into the next corridor.

  “Come on, fuck face!”

  He fired several shots into the thing's broad back.

  The Berserker flung itself around and barreled down the corridor towards him. Greg turned and ran, back into the original corridor and away from Kyra and Holt. The Berserker didn't even glance at them as it passed, now thrown into a frenzy as it made a feverish beeline for Greg. He glanced once behind himself, saw that the thing was gaining on him and turned the whole of his attention to flight. Running full tilt down the lengthy corridor, Greg let himself be consumed by the simple action of running for his life.

  He reached the end of the corridor far too soon, smacking into a large set of double doors and rebounded off them. Hurrying over to and slapping the open button, Greg darted inside and hit the close button on the corresponding side. A huge dent instantly appeared in the door, followed by another, and then a third.

  “Shit.” He looked around.

  He'd come into a large, warehouse-style room. Shelves and piles of crates towered over him. He spied a large metal claw meant for moving larger crates built into the ceiling. He tossed a plan together. Behind him, the Berserker raged, howling loud enough to freeze his marrow. Greg hurried across the room and climbed a steady pile of crates closest to the crane.

  Behind him, the door shuddered once more, and then it tore free of its moorings. A large slab of bent metal flew into the storage room. The Berserker stormed in, maddened eyes hunting insanely for its prey.

  It saw Greg climbing the stack and let out a wretched sound of inhuman triumph. It came for him. Greg relied on luck, in a very large way, but there was nothing else to do. He scurried up the pyramid of crates to the top, where he leaped and got a good hold on the claw. Below him, he watched the Berserker scramble mindlessly after him.

  Moment of truth, he realized.

  Luck shifted in his direction and the Berserker lost its footing. Better than that, it upset the pyramid of heavy crates. As it rolled back to the ground and crashed onto the floor, the crates went after it. Greg had to act fast. He looked around for a good way to get down, as the floor was damn near twenty feet down, and the nearest stack of crates was across the room. He started swinging his body, and the claw jerked in that direction.

  It wasn't locked into place, he realized. Continuing to swing his body, he brought himself closer to the next stack. Below him, the crates continued to fall, burying the titanic Berserker beneath their great metal weight. He kept swinging until he was almost over the pile, and then dropped. The top crate shifted beneath his weight, and for one terrible moment, Greg held his breath, expecting to go down like the Berserker, but it held.

  Moving fast, he descended the pyramid of crates and hopped onto the floor. The Berserker was still half-buried beneath a pile of crates, only now it was viciously shoving them aside, freeing itself. Its head was exposed. Greg selected his shotgun and ran over to the trapped beast. It roared up at him. He put the barrel of the gun in its mouth a
nd squeezed the trigger. A great blast of black gore sprayed in a circular pattern as the back of its misshapen head exploded.

  “Holy shit,” Greg whispered as it stopped moving.

  “Did you do it?” Kyra asked over their link.

  “Yep. Dead as shit, and I'm fine,” Greg replied, a grin in his voice.

  “You're getting cocky.”

  “Confident.”

  “Whatever, both of them come before the fall, but only one of them is sexy. Get back here, now. We're uploading the blood samples.”

  “On my way.”

  Greg shot the Berserker twice more in the head, effectively vaporizing everything above the neck, just to be sure, and then left the storage room. He hurried back down the corridor, feeding more shells into his shotgun, then returned it to its place across his back. He felt good. They were making progress and he'd just survived something insane.

  He turned a corner and headed down the primary corridor that led directly to DNA Processing. The doors at the end of the hallway were open and he could see Holt and Kyra moving around within. Good, after this they'd get to the bridge and-

  “Bishop!”

  Greg spun around, his blood freezing, and he saw death on two legs coming directly for him at a brisk pace. Graves, in all his muscle-bound terror, had a rifle in his hands. The thing looked like a toy against his enormous frame. Without a word, he raised the rifle and fired. A three-round burst kicked Greg directly in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back, the wind knocked out of him. Graves let the gun hang and kept walking.

  “Bishop, you motherfucker.” He came to Greg, reached down and wrapped one beefy hand around his throat, holding him easily up in the air.

  “Do you have any idea what you've done? Any idea what you've released? The fucking Undead were bad enough but-”

  His sentence ended forcibly as a bullet whizzed by, grazing his neck and sending a thick spurt of blood from it. He dropped Greg to the ground, slapping one hand over the wound while raising his rifle with the other. Gasping for breath, Greg tried to bring his weapon into play. His hands shook and he could hardly function.

  Two more gunshots rang out, one grazed Graves' shoulder and another hit him directly in the chest. Blood splattered across the wall, Greg realized he wasn't even wearing a vest. Graves seemed to come to a snap decision. He turned and sprinted away, trailing blood, and disappearing around the corner before Kyra or Holt even reached Greg.