Necropolis 3

by S. A. Lusher

  They came at last to a two-storied room.

  “Almost there-” Nash began when a trio of bullets turned his face into a visceral spray of blood and gore.

  Before his body even hit the ground, Greg dove for cover back the way they had come. Carter and Linda opted to move deeper within, scurrying through an open door on the ground floor. Greg scoped the area and found a quartet of Dark Ops troops waiting for them, two up high, on the second story catwalk, two more on the ground. All armed, all armored. He snapped out from his hiding place, sighted one of the bastards and put a pair of rounds straight through his faceplate. Blood and glass sprayed through the air.

  The body tumbled over the edge of the catwalk and crashed onto one of the other troops below, sending him sprawling to the ground. Carter took advantage of it and put the man out of his misery. Linda felled the second man on the catwalk as Carter did this and the final Dark Ops troop found himself suddenly alone.

  Greg capped him when he started to retreat. Once it was clear there was no one else coming for them, the three survivors gathered over Nash's body.

  “Shit,” Cater grunted, then knelt and frisked him for ammo.

  “I'm sorry,” Greg murmured.

  “I didn't really know him, but we can't really afford to lose anyone. There's only a couple of dozen of us left, and who knows how many Undead and Dark Ops, and now those cyborg things Melissa's been talking about,” Linda replied.

  They gathered up ammo and moved on. The area they needed to reach turned out to be a small security room on the second floor of the antechamber. Greg and Carter cleared it, and then sent Linda in. They found the remains of three technicians and a pair of security guards on the floor. Linda grabbed a chair, sat down, and set to work.

  Greg listened to Carter report the situation. He wished they'd have issued him a radio and made a mental note to grab one once he got back. Time passed in uncomfortable fragments. Greg paced around the room, staring at screens, at the bodies, at the vents. Occasionally, he joined Carter at the door, which was the only way into the room. Finally, after what felt like ages, Linda finally spoke up.

  “Security network is back up.” She declared.

  “Thank God, can we get back to the hangar now?” Greg asked.

  “Antsy?” She stood and joining them by the door.

  “Just eager to get this show on the road. We are working on a bit of a timeline.”

  “Guess that's true. Carter, what's the boss say?” Linda glanced at the security guard, who had his finger to his ear, clearly listening to someone on the other end. Greg waited impatiently for him to finish up.

  “We've got confirmation, the network is back up. There's been more reports of Dark Ops in the base. Now that BioScan's back up, we can track them down. Boss wants us to do that, and then double-check the security locks.” Carter replied.

  Greg sighed, but figured it was probably for the best. There was no point rushing headlong into this whole thing without making for damn sure they were secure on the home front. He knew that rushing into things was often stupid, especially when guns were involved.

  “Well,” Linda said, “let's get to it.”

  Chapter 03

  –Scavenger Hunt–

  The effects of the stimulant Kyra injected into him ran through Greg’s veins.

  He felt alive, alert, and desperately wanted to do things. He felt like he could take on the galaxy and still have room for a marathon. Things had died down since they'd left the security center. They'd had to wait around an agonizingly long time for a pair of security personnel and a technician to show up and make sure nothing else happened to it. In the meantime, other teams had secured all but one of the airlocks and other ways into the base and made sure that there were no Dark Ops survivors via the BioScan.

  Greg, Linda, and Carter headed for the final airlock, since it was nearest to them, making conversation as they walked.

  “How many people were here before the shit hit the fan?” Greg asked, his eyes constantly shifting around, scanning the hallway, the vents, the shadows, the doors, everywhere for any sign of attack.

  “Close to a thousand. Most of them were miners, the rest security guards, techs, custodian workers, medics, a handful of administrative staff. They were a joke. All we've ever really needed was Lynch...and Burne, I guess,” Linda replied.

  “Burne?” Greg asked.

  “Richard Burne. He's head of security. He made it out. Back at the hangar right now, I think. He's a tough son of a bitch. Like a lot of the mercs out here, he was in the Marines. He was a Staff Sergeant, I think, before he scrubbed out. He lost a squad in some god awful conflict. He was the sole survivor. They honorably discharged him...it was political, I think. Someone was trying to save their own ass and sacrificed his.” She shrugged.

  Greg nodded. The more he heard about the Marines, the government, and SI, the more it seemed it was all politics. They came to a turn in the corridor and took it. Up ahead was the airlock, what Carter referred to as the north exit. Although things like south and north weren't very reliable on an airless moon orbiting a dead world.

  They spent a few moments opening it up, checking it out, and then Linda put a security lockdown on the external door. Greg waited impatiently, tapping his feet, cracking his knuckles, playing with the safety on his gun.

  “You're pretty nervous,” Carter murmured.

  “Not nervous. I'm alert,” Greg replied succinctly.

  Carter shrugged. A moment later, Linda seemed satisfied with her lock, came back out, shut the interior door, and put a lock on it.

  Greg heaved a sigh.

  “Oh, good lord, Bishop, I'll be done in a minute,” she said.

  Greg said nothing, but tried to control himself. Finally, she finished up. Carter agreed to stay behind and guard the door. Linda led Greg back through the installation, towards the hangar headquarters.

  “We have so much do to,” he said.

  “Yeah, I imagine so. Not even sure where to begin.” Linda replied.

  “Powell will tell us. He's good with things like lists and organization.”

  “Hope so. We've got a hell of a lot on our plate.”

  They came back to the hangar, which was abuzz with all manner of activity. He spied Lynch and Mike, standing with Kyra, Powell, and Campbell, as well as another man that Greg assumed must be Burne. He was short but stocky, as though he had built up a great deal of muscle in an attempt to compensate for not making it past five and a half feet. As Greg and Linda approached, his gaze snapped over and he regarded Greg with sharp blue eyes that were so honed and alight with intelligence they looked like they were neon implants.

  “Ah, Greg, Linda, you're back,” Mike said amicably.

  “The airlock is secure,” Linda reported.

  “Good, fantastic,” Lynch replied, glancing back from where she stood, hovering over Powell's chair. Powell was currently planted firmly in front of a trio of terminals.

  He looked right at home.

  “Okay, everyone, listen up because I'm only going to say this once,” Powell began without looking back at them. His fingers continually moved across the keyboards. “This is the situation as it stands. That ship over there is presently the only ship with faster than light capability. Dark Ops has none. Obviously the Undead have none. Erebus and his Augmented are settling into orbit over us now, but scans reveal none of their engines are up to snuff in terms of FTL capabilities. They were all damaged by the missiles, and, hopefully, we can build and set off the bomb before they manage to get their repairs done.

  “Presently, the facility is about as secure as it's going to get. We're cut off from Erebus, for now. BioScan is online, the drone gun network is online, all exits and entrances are secure, but that could change at any moment, so don't let your guard down. Now, Cage and I managed to build most of the bomb before I was forced to evacuate. I also had to leave a few important bits behind, unfortunately, so that's back on the list.

  “The ship was under re
pair when Dark Ops took control and, in all the chaos, even more damage has been done to it. Repairs are underway. Now, I have a list of components necessary for both the ship and the EMP bomb. I'm still trying to figure out where they actually are. What I know for sure is that most of the components are presently within this facility. And...I've just compiled a list of what components are where.

  “Most of these are in relatively secure locations and can be handled by basic personnel. One, however, is in an area below, part of the mining tunnels, that shows heavy Undead infestation. I suggest Greg lead a team to retrieve the part,” Powell said.

  Greg was impressed. It was the single longest speech the technician had ever given in their time together.

  “Where is this place?” Lynch asked.

  One of the terminal screens cleared and then displayed a map. Mike and Burne leaned forward, frowning.

  “I know that place,” Burne said. “Heavy spider infestation. I was just preparing a team to head down there and burn them out.”

  “Alright, pass it off to Bishop and Mercer. Mike, you go, too,” Lynch said.

  “I'd like to join them,” Burne said tightly.

  “No, I need you here. Dark Ops caught us napping last time. If any of these assholes tries to get in again, I'll need you here. Campbell, you're staying here, pulling guard duty,” Lynch replied firmly. Burne nodded, clearly unhappy with the arrangement.

  “Come on,” Mike said, leading Greg and Kyra away while Lynch assembled small teams to go and hunt down the spare parts.

  “So, when he said burn out, what did he mean, exactly?” Kyra asked.

  Mike led them over to the armory. “He meant it literally. We've got a handful of flamethrowers. Recovered them from the Dark Ops armory before we pulled out. We'll each grab one, go in there, and burn all the bastards to a crisp.”

  “But won't that risk damaging the part we need? And the rest of the stuff in there?” Greg asked.

  Mike shook his head. “Nope. Everything in there is flameproof. All mining colonies, all the equipment, pretty much everything but the people, is flameproof. Standard in the construction. Won't be a problem at all.”

  He directed them to a table that held a trio of black cases. Mike undid the latches on one of them with a pair of sharp snaps and propped open the lid. Inside was a sleek, black, nasty-looking thing with a long barrel with a cylinder at its base.

  “A flamethrower,” he said, taking it from the padded interior. “We've got a case of fuel canisters, too. They're pretty easy. Just unscrew an empty one, toss it aside, and screw in a fresh one. Just make sure you don't point it at anything you don't intend to fry.”

  “We're not idiots.” Kyra rolled her eyes, and popped open another case.

  “I...sorry. A lot of the survivors were miners, techs, you know, no real training on handling guns. I've been giving a lot of lectures lately,” Mike replied.

  “No problem.” Greg opened his own case.

  They all grabbed a flamethrower and secured a pair of canisters of fuel each. Greg found that they had attachments for a belt. He clipped them on, prepared to leave, but hesitated. Something was nagging at his mind.

  Finally, it came to him. “Mike...we could all use radios.”

  “Oh, no one's issued you any? Strange. Here, hold on. Stay here.”

  He crossed the room to what looked like a makeshift tech station where a half dozen men and women in orange and blue jumpsuits clustered around. He spoke with one of the techs, who, after a moment, produced something and handed it off. Mike returned and passed small, earpiece comm units to both Greg and Kyra.

  “I made sure to let them know to get Powell and Campbell one, so you're all in on the loop,” he said.

  Greg fitted his into his ear. “Thanks.”

  They set off through the hangar once more, soon free of the babble of voices. As they made their way down another industrial corridor, Greg found himself thinking of darker things. Kauffman, Billings, and Cage.

  His metal arm.

  He tried to distract himself. “So, Mike, how'd you end up out here at the ass-end of space?”

  Mike laughed. “I was drowning in debt, actually. Still am, technically. I was never very good with money. I always seemed to owe money to everyone. Just kept maxing out my credit lines. It was when a couple of guys with steel pipes showed up that I realized I was in trouble. I'd been out gambling.” He glanced at Greg. “Yeah, I know, great idea. Managed to take home about ten thousand credits. Had to give it all to them, my bank account number and the keys to my car just to get the guys to leave without breaking my legs. Paid off that guy, only owed him eight thousand, actually, but they claimed interest. That's when I really got a boot in my ass.

  “So, I started looking around for legit ways to work off debt. Most of the corporations have deals set up, kind of like indentured servitude. They cover your room and board and training, you work your ass off for them twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and in place of a paycheck, they hand over the money to a debt collector. I was doing pretty good, actually. Spent a year here as a miner. Got promoted to shift leader.

  “I was actually in talks with the company. They agreed to pay off the rest of my debt if I agreed to stay on and work as a shift leader for five more years out here. I guess I was good at my job and Melissa stuck up for me.” He shrugged.

  “And then this shit happened,” Greg finished.

  Mike nodded. “Yeah. Gotta say, this is pretty...out there, for me. I mean, I've heard stories. I mean, everyone has. Some scout ship finds alien ruins way out somewhere in deep space. Or miners unearth something they aren't supposed to...”

  “That's actually how this happened,” Greg said.

  “Ha! Really? Holy shit. But yeah, this is nuts. Zombies? I mean, like, zombies? It's totally crazy. And government conspiracies, cover-ups, experiments...very fucked up. I'm amazed that I'm even still alive,” Mike said.

  “I know that feeling,” Kyra replied.

  They came to the end of a corridor and Mike led them into a small room where the walls were lined with shelves, the shelves all holding crates, parts, pieces, and tools. There was a hatch in the center of the floor.

  “And here we are.” Mike knelt and activated the hatch.

  It slid open. Greg stared down the narrow shaft. It was so dimly lit that he could barely see a few inches down, let alone see the bottom. Distantly, something made a skittering sound.

  “Creepy,” he muttered.

  “Yeah. This leads directly into the storage room. So...we get down there and just torch everything, I guess.” Mike took a deep breath and let it out.

  “What about smoke?” Kyra asked.

  “That's what these are for.” He went over to one of the shelves and pulled off a crate. He put it on the floor, pried it open, and passed out gasmasks. Greg secured his, then flipped the safety off the flamethrower and headed for the maintenance hatch.

  “I'll head down first.” He paused. “Come in right behind me.”

  “Got it,” Mike said.

  “Don't do anything stupid,” Kyra replied.

  Greg grinned and lowered himself into the shaft. He hurried down the ladder, keeping his eyes cast downwards, trying to get a sense of what might be waiting for him down there. As he neared the bottom, he thought he saw something huge and dark flash by, but it might have been his imagination. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then went down the rest of the way. He hopped lightly onto the floor and activated the flamethrower.

  A tiny flame sprang into existence at the end of the muzzle. The light down in the storage room was practically non-existent. Greg stepped aside and activated a flashlight mounted on the edge of the weapon, which, for a moment, he thought was redundant. It was at least useful, though. He played his beam across the area.

  There was web everywhere. It covered up almost everything except for the tiny amount of area beneath the ladder they were standing in.

  “Holy shit,” Kyra whispered.

&
nbsp; Mike hopped down. “Damn...it really is an infestation. Well, let's get to it.”

  He punctuated this sentence by turning away from them, raising the flamethrower, and sending a jet of raw, white flames into the air. Immediately, the webbing in that area began peeling away, receding across the storage bay. Several huge, dark shapes scurried about and a loud, high-pitched squealing noise emitted from them.

  “There you go, you bastards!” Mike shouted.

  Greg turned in his own direction, aimed his flamethrower at nothing in particular save for a thick collection of webbing and squeezed the trigger. The flamethrower hardly kicked at all, but a powerful stream of pure flame shot out and ignited the webbing in front of him and whatever spiders happened to be hiding there.

  Kyra lit up as well, playing her flame back and forth in a broad arc.

  “This is awesome!” she cried.

  Soon, the room was engulfed in smoke and the sounds of spiders dying a horrible, flaming death. Several minutes passed. Greg emptied his fuel canister, unscrewed it, dropped it, and screwed a new one into place. He kept going, walking forward, revealing more and more of the room they were in. It was mostly occupied by stacks of crates, though these crates were organized into high rectangles. Webbing burned and spiders died.

  By the time they finished up, Greg had gone through half of his third canister. He noticed that the smoke had begun to clear out. This was nice, because moving through it like this was like walking underwater.

  “I found the vent controls.” He heard Mike say. “We can reverse them, suck the smoke out. Shouldn't take but a minute.”

  “Thanks,” Greg replied.

  They waited for the smoke to clear, and then did an examination of the room while Mike called up and had them run a scan to check for survivors. A moment later they were told that they were the only life signs in the room.

  “Thank God,” Kyra muttered. “Hate goddamn spiders.”