Halo. Flood

by William C. Dietz

  He must be getting closer.

  Once through the door he came across a half dozen Covenant bodies lying in a pool of commingled blood. Struck once again by the absence of serious opposition, the Master Chief knelt just beyond the perimeter established by the blood, and peered at the bodies.

  Had the Marines killed them? No, judging from the nature of their wounds it appeared as if the aliens had been hosed with plasma fire. Friendly fire perhaps? Humans armed with Covenant weapons? Maybe, but neither explanation really seemed to fit.

  Perplexed, he stood, took a long, slow look around, and pushed deeper into the complex. In contrast with the swamp outside, where the constant drip, drip, drip of the rain served to provide a constant flow of sound, it was almost completely silent within the embrace of the thick walls. The sudden sound of machinery startled him, and he spun and brought the shotgun to bear.

  Summoned by some unknown mechanism, a lift surfaced right in front of him. With nowhere else to go, the Master Chief stepped aboard.

  As the platform carried him downward a group of overlapping red dots appeared on his motion sensor, and the Spartan knew he was about to have company. There was a screech of tortured metal as the lift came to a stop, but rather than rush him as he expected them to, the dots remained stationary.

  They had heard the lift many times before, the Chief reasoned, and figured it was loaded with a group of their friends. That suggested Covenant, stupid Covenant.

  His favorite kind, in fact—apart from the dead kind.

  Careful to avoid the sort of noise that might give him away, he completed a full circuit of the dimly lit room, and discovered that the dots were actually Grunts and Jackals, all of whom were clustered around a hatch.

  The Chief suppressed a grin, slung the shotgun, and unlimbered the assault rifle.

  Their punishment for not guarding the lift consisted of a grenade, followed by forty-nine rounds of automatic fire, and a series of shorter bursts to finish them off.

  The hatch opened onto a large four- or five-story-high room. The Master Chief found himself on a platform along with a couple of unsuspecting Jackals. He immediately killed them, heard a reaction from the floor below, and moved to the right. A quick peek revealed a group of seven or eight Covenant, milling around as if waiting for instructions.

  The noncom dropped an M9 HE-DP calling card into their midst, took a step back to avoid getting hit by the resulting fragments, and heard a loud wham! as the grenade detonated. There were screams, followed by wild firing. The Spartan waited for the volume of fire to drop off and moved forward again. A series of short controlled bursts was sufficient to silence the last Covenant soldiers.

  He jumped down off the platform to check the surrounding area.

  Still looking for clues as to where Keyes might have gone, the Master Chief conducted a quick sweep of the room. It wasn’t long before he picked up some plasma grenades, circled a cargo container, and came across the bodies.

  Two Marines, both killed by plasma fire, their weapons missing.

  He cursed under his breath. The fact that both dog tags had been taken suggested that Keyes and his team had run into the Covenant just as he had, taken casualties, and pushed on.

  Certain he was on the right trail, the Spartan crossed the troughlike depression that split the room in two, and was forced to step over and around a scattering of Covenant corpses as he approached the hatch. Once through the opening he negotiated his way through a series of rooms, all empty, but painted with Covenant blood.

  Finally, just as he was beginning to wonder if he should turn back, he entered a room and found himself face-to-face with a fear-crazed Marine. His eyes jerked from side to side, as if seeking something hidden within the shadows, and his mouth was twisted into a horrible grimace. There was no sign of the soldier’s assault weapon, but he had a pistol, which he fired at a shadow in the corner. “Stay back! Stay back! You’re not turning me into one of those things!”

  The Master Chief raised a hand, palm out. “Put the weapon down, Marine . . . we’re on the same side.”

  But the Marine wasn’t having any of that, and pressed his back against the solidity of the wall. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me, you freak! I’ll die first!”

  The pistol discharged. The Spartan felt the impact as the 12.7mm slug rocked him back onto his heels, and decided that enough was enough.

  Before the Marine had time to react, the Chief snatched the M6D out of his hand. “I’ll take that,” he growled. The Marine leaped to his feet, but the Chief planted his feet and gently but firmly shoved the soldier back to the floor.

  “Now,” he said, “where is Captain Keyes, and the rest of your unit?”

  The private turned fierce, his features contorted, spittle flying from his lips. “Find your own hiding place!” he screamed. “The monsters are everywhere! God, I can still hear them! Just leave me alone.”

  “What monsters?” the Spartan asked gently. “The Covenant?”

  “No! Not the Covenant. Them!”

  That was all the Spartan could get from the crazed Marine. “The surface is back that way,” the Master Chief said, pointing toward the door. “I suggest that you reload this weapon, quit wasting ammo, and head topside. Once you get there hunker down and wait for help. There’ll be a dust-off later on. Do you read me?”

  The Private accepted the weapon, but continued to blather. A moment later he curled into a fetal ball, whimpered, then fell silent. The man would never make it out alone.

  One thing was clear from the Marine’s ramblings. Assuming that Keyes and his troops were still alive, they were in a heap of trouble. That left the Chief with little choice; he had to put the greatest number of lives first. The young soldier had clearly been through the wringer—but he’d have to wait for help until the Master Chief completed his mission.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to investigate the rest of the room. The remains of a badly shattered ramp led up over a small fire toward the walkway on the level above. He felt heat wash around him as he stepped over a dead Elite, took comfort from the fact that the body had been riddled with bullets, and made his way up onto a circular gallery. From there, the Master Chief proceeded through a series of doorways and mysteriously empty rooms, until he arrived at the top of a ramp where a dead Marine and a large pool of blood caused him to pause.

  He had long ago learned to trust his instincts—and they nagged at him now. Something felt wrong. It was quiet, with only a hollow booming sound to disturb the otherwise perfect silence. He was close to something, he could feel it, but what?

  The Chief descended the ramp. He arrived on the level spot at the bottom, and saw the hatch to his left. Weapon at the ready, he cautiously approached the metal barrier.

  The door sensed his presence, slid open, and dumped a dead Marine into his arms.

  The Spartan felt his pulse quicken, as he bent slightly to catch the body before it crashed into the ground. He held the MA5B one-handed and covered the room beyond as best he could, searching for a target. Nothing.

  He stepped forward, then spun on his heel and pointed the gun back the way he’d come.

  Damn it, it felt like eyes bored into the back of his head. Someone was watching him. He backed into the room, and the door slid shut.

  He lowered the body to the ground, then stepped away. The toe of his boot hit some empty shell casings which rolled away. That’s when he realized that there were thousands of empties—so many that they very nearly carpeted the floor.

  He noticed a Marine helmet, and bent to pick it up. A name had been stenciled across the side. JENKINS.

  A vid cam was attached, the kind worn by the typical combat team so they could critique the mission when they returned to base, feed data to the ghouls in Intelligence, and on occasions like this one, provide investigators with information regarding the circumstances surrounding their deaths.

  The Spartan removed the camera’s memory chip, slotted the device into one of the receptacles on
his own helmet, and watched the playback via a window on his HUD.

  The picture was standard quality—which meant pretty awful. The night-vision setting was active, so everything was a sickly green, punctuated by white flares as the camera panned across a light source.

  The picture bounced and jostled, and intermittent spots of static marred the image. It was pretty routine stuff at first, starting with the moment the doomed dropship touched down, followed by the trek through the swamp, and their arrival in front of the A-shaped structure.

  He spooled ahead, and the video became more ominous after that, starting with the dead Elite, and growing even more uncomfortable as the team opened the final door and went inside. Not just any door, but the same door through which the Master Chief had passed only minutes before, only to have a dead Marine fall into his arms.

  He was tempted to kill the video, back his way through the hatch, and scrub the mission, but he forced himself to continue watching as one of the Marines said something about a “. . . bad feeling.” A badly garbled radio transmission came in, odd rustling noises were heard, a hatch gave way, and hundreds of fleshy balls rolled, danced, and hopped into the room.

  That was when the screaming started, when the Master Chief heard Keyes say that they were “surrounded,” and saw the picture jerk as something hit Jenkins from behind, and the video snapped to black.

  For the first time since parting company with the AI back in the Control Room, he wished that Cortana were with him. First, because she might understand what the hell was going on, but also because he had come to rely on her company, and suddenly felt very much alone.

  However, even as one aspect of the Spartan’s mind sought comfort, another part had directed his body to back toward the hatch, and was waiting to hear the telltale sound as it opened. But the door didn’t open, something which the Master Chief knew meant trouble. It caused a rock to form at the bottom of his gut.

  As he stood there, gripped by a growing sense of dread, he saw a flash of white from the corner of his eye. He turned to face it, and that was when he saw one, then five, twenty, fifty of the fleshy creatures dribble into the room, pirouette on their tentacles, and dance his way. His motion sensor painted a sudden explosion of movement—speeding closer by the second.

  The Spartan fired at the ugly-looking creatures. Those which were closest popped like air-filled balloons, but there were more, many more, and they rolled toward him over the floor and walls. The Spartan opened up in earnest, the obscene-looking predators threw themselves forward, and the battle was joined.

  It was dark outside. Only one mission had been scheduled for that particular night, and it had returned to the butte at 0236 arbitrary. That meant the Navy personnel assigned to the Control Center didn’t have much to do, and were busy playing a round of cards when the wall-mounted speakers burped static, and a desperate voice was heard. “This is Charlie 2-1-7, repeat 217, to any UNSC forces . . . Does anyone copy? Over.”

  Com Tech First Class Mary Murphy glanced at the other two members of her watch and frowned. “Has either one of you had previous contact with Charlie 217?”

  The techs looked at each other and shook their heads. “I’ll check with Wellsley,” Cho said, as he turned toward a jury-rigged monitor.

  Murphy nodded and keyed the boom-style mike that extended in front of her lips. “This is UNSC Combat Base Alpha. Over.”

  “Thank God!” the voice said fervently. “We took a hit after clearing the Autumn, put down in the boonies, and managed to make some repairs. I’ve got wounded on board—and request immediate clearance to land.”

  Wellsley, who had been busy fighting a simulation of the Battle of Marathon, materialized on Cho’s screen. As usual, the image that he chose to present was that of a stern-looking man with longish hair, a prominent nose, and a high-collared coat. “Yes?”

  “We have a Pelican, call sign Charlie 217, requesting an emergency landing. None of us have dealt with him before.”

  The AI took a fraction of a second to check the myriad of data stored within his considerable memory and gave a curt nod. “There was a unit designated as Charlie 217 on board the Autumn. Not having heard from 217 since we abandoned ship, and not having received any information to the contrary, I assumed the ship was lost. Ask the pilot to provide his name, rank, and serial number.”

  Murphy heard and nodded. “Sorry, Charlie, but we need some information before we can clear you in. Please provide name, rank, and serial number. Over.”

  The voice that came back sounded increasingly frustrated. “This is First Lieutenant Rick Hale, serial number 87654-43821-RH. Give me a break, I need clearance now. Over.”

  Wellsley nodded. “The data matches . . . but how would Hale know that Alpha Base even existed?”

  “He could have picked up our radio traffic,” Cho offered.

  “Maybe,” the AI agreed, “but let’s play it safe. I recommend you bring the base to full alert, notify the Major, and send the reaction force to Pad Three. You’ll need the crash team, the emergency medical team, and some people from intel all on deck. Hale should be debriefed before he’s allowed to mix with base personnel.”

  The third tech, a Third Class Petty Officer named Pauley, slapped the alarm button, and put out the necessary calls.

  “Roger that,” Murphy said into her mike. “You are cleared for Pad Three, repeat, Pad Three, which will be illuminated two minutes from now. A medical team will meet your ship. Safe all weapons and cut power the moment you touch down. Over.”

  “No problem,” Hale replied gratefully. Then, a few moments later, “I see your lights. We’re coming in. Over.”

  The pilot keyed his mike off and turned to his copilot. Bathed in the green glow produced by the ship’s instrument panel, the Elite looked all the more alien. “So,” the human inquired, “how did I do?”

  “Extremely well,” Special Operations Officer Zuka ‘Zamamee said from behind the pilot’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  And with that ‘Zamamee dropped what looked like a circle of green light over Hale’s head, pulled the handles in opposite directions, and buried the wire in the pilot’s throat. The human’s eyes bulged, his hands plucked at the garrote, and his feet beat a tattoo against the control pedals.

  The Elite who occupied the copilot’s position had already taken control of the Pelican and, thanks to hours of practice, could fly the dropship extremely well.

  ‘Zamamee waited until the kicking had stopped, released the wire, and smelled something foul. That’s when the Elite realized that Hale had soiled himself. He gave a grunt of disgust, and returned to the Pelican’s cargo compartment. It was crammed with heavily armed Elites, trained for infiltration. They carried camouflage generators, along with their weapons. Their job was to take as many landing pads as possible, and hold them until six dropships loaded with Grunts, Jackals, and more Elites could land on the mesa.

  The troops saw the officer appear and looked expectant.

  “Proceed,” ‘Zamamee said. “You know what to do. Turn on the active camouflage, check your weapons, and remember this moment. Because this battle, this victory, will be carved onto your family’s Saga wall and recited by generations to come.

  “The Prophets have blessed this mission, have blessed you, and want every soldier to know that those who transcend the physical will be welcomed into paradise. Good luck.”

  A blur of lights appeared out of the darkness, the dropship shed altitude, and the warriors murmured their final benedictions.

  Like most AIs, Wellsley had a pronounced tendency to spend more time thinking about what he didn’t have rather than what he did, and sensors were at the very top of his list. The sad truth was that while McKay and her company had recovered a wealth of supplies from the Autumn, there had been insufficient time to strip the ship of the electronics that would have given the AI a real-time, all-weather picture of the surrounding air space. That meant he was totally reliant on the data provided by remote ground sensors which the pa
trols had planted here and there around the butte’s ten-kilometer perimeter.

  All of the feeds had been clear during the initial radio contact with Charlie 217, but now, as the Pelican flared in to land, the package in Sector Six started to deliver data. It claimed that six heavy-duty heat signatures had just passed overhead, that whatever produced them was fairly loud, and that they were inbound at a speed of approximately 350 kph.

  Wellsley reacted with the kind of speed that only a computer is capable of—but the response was too late to prevent Charlie 217 from putting down. Even as the AI made a series of strongly worded recommendations to his human superiors, the Pelican’s skids made contact with Pad 3’s surface, a number of nearly invisible Elites thundered down the ramp, and the men and women of Alpha Base soon found themselves fighting for their lives.

  One level down, locked into a room with three other Grunts, Yayap heard the distant moan of an alarm, and thought he knew why. ‘Zamamee had been correct: The human who wore the strange armor, and was believed to be responsible for thousands of Covenant casualties, did frequent this place. Yayap knew that because he had seen the soldier more than six units before, triggered the transmitter hidden inside his breathing apparatus, and thereby set the raid in motion.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that ‘Zamamee’s quarry might very well have left the base during the intervening period of time. If so, and the mission was categorized as a failure, the Grunt had little doubt as to who would receive the blame. But there was nothing Yayap could do but grip the crudely welded bars with his hands, listen to the distant sounds of battle, and hope for the best.

  At this point, “the best” would likely be a quick, painless death.

  All the members of the crash team, half the medics, and a third of the reaction team were already dead by the time McKay had rolled out of her rack, scrambled into her clothes, and grabbed her personal weapons. She followed the crowd up to the landing area to find that a pitched battle was underway.

  Energy bolts seemed to stutter out of nowhere, plasma grenades materialized out of thin air, and throats were slit by invisible knives. The landing party had been contained, but just barely, and threatened to break out across the neighboring pads.