When they emerged from the forest into the clearing, Stellan understood. He hadn't killed her. The bullet had penetrated her shoulder blade and was on track for her heart. It should have been a clean kill, but it ricocheted off of a bone and shot up through her spine. She had writhed while Stellan and his father walked from their tree stand.
She tried to drag her paralyzed hind legs, her front hooves proving ineffectual at grasping the damp soil. She trembled quietly. Sometimes deer cried out before they died. She did not.
Stellan raised his rifle again to finish it, but his father gently pushed the barrel downward.
"No. We will mount this one. Now watch and understand why discipline and accuracy are important. When you fire your weapon, you have to mean it. You have to kill with mercy."
She died in minutes. It felt like hours. The memory lasted a lifetime.
Two
Stellan watched the infected madmen bring Doug to the deck, tear into his flesh, bite his arms and legs, rip his uniform to shreds, and dance in his blood as if in celebration. He knew then that this thing, whatever it was that turned men and women into senseless animals, would make him choose between his wife and his duty because he couldn't save them all.
Doug had been right next to Stellan one moment, and the next, a flood of bodies overwhelmed him like a crashing wave. Stellan could only gawk in disbelief at the shrill screams of delight coming from the mouths of the madmen between bites.
His sidearm felt light. Almost all of the thirteen rounds in the magazine were gone, emptied into the crowd, yet they still came. Out of dark corridors, they came. From every side passageway, they came. He could feel more on the other side of the walls, beating with their fists, trying to find a way to the feast. There were so many, so fast that they must have been drawn by the gunshots. Bullets were of no use against their unrelenting numbers.
As circumstance pushed Stellan, the ease of choosing to turn and run for his life surprised him. The immediate guilt did not surprise him. It felt natural, instinctive, but he felt he was leaving a piece of himself behind, the piece that would accept no loss. He had to face that they weren't losing the Atlas anymore. It was already lost, and they had to salvage what they could.
He began with his own life and ran. He didn't swear to redouble his efforts as he'd done with Wendy bleeding in his arms. He just ran. He ran for Daelen and would help anyone who needed it along the way, but with his duty to the Atlas sworn off, he no longer felt pulled in many directions. He felt a distinct pull straight as an arrow.
The ship didn't matter anymore. Daelen was everything.
Before he could get to her, he'd have to stop along the way. If they were to survive, they would need weapons.
Stellan knew he had always fought for himself. Even as he fought for others, he fought to save his own soul. He didn't know if there was a God, but he knew, at the end of his time, he would judge himself, and that was enough weight to carry.
For now, he would fight for himself and the survival of his loved ones because he could do no more.
As he ran, he hoped he wouldn't encounter any more of the madmen because he had drawn a line in his mind and knew he had already crossed it. They were on the other side where he couldn't reach, where he couldn't help them except to do as his father taught him. He would kill with accuracy. He would kill with mercy.
Three
Captain Pierce didn't know if it was when he accepted his promotion to lead third platoon in the Unity Corps or if it was the reason he was promoted, but his allegiance to his duty was absolute. He would die before he lost the Atlas, and as far as he was concerned, he no longer had loved ones.
He told himself it was what was expected of every enlisted man. That was why he understood he had no chance of surviving if the Atlas didn't make it, if he didn't save it regardless of who he sacrificed.
He was no longer enlisted in the military. However, when Stellan had told him he no longer owed the Council anything and Pierce had responded that they owed it to themselves, he meant it. The principles of his actions defined him.
As he watched his department heads trickle off the command deck, looking to him with both fear and shame, it was not with dwindling hope. With the network down, they could no longer do any good here, and it was just as well that they go and find their loved ones and try to keep them safe. Perhaps, in the field, they would be of some use.
Still, he felt obligated to point out the obvious.
"If you leave the command deck, you will not be allowed back," Pierce announced. "I cannot guarantee your safety."
Some of the department heads hesitated and looked back, but he knew they had no intention of returning before the end, whatever that end may be. It was only a lingering sense of obligation to duty, one last payment of respect to him before titles and rank became irrelevant.
Arlo left his workstation and joined Pierce in that lonely corridor.
"You're just going to let them go?" Arlo asked in both hope and disbelief.
"They'll be a liability for what I have in mind. I need soldiers."
"What about when we get the ship back under control? We'll need them."
Pierce looked at Arlo grimly. "We're going to have to get our hands dirty if we're going to take the Atlas back. Is there some place you would rather be, Arlo?"
"Well, I might like to check on my dad."
Pierce looked back at Evans and found his waning resolve. His navigator would be of no use to him, but they would need someone to stay on the command deck. For someone like Evans who was so wracked with fear, such a command would be a blessing.
"When you flew for the Corps, they taught you to handle a weapon, right?" Pierce asked Arlo.
"Sidearms, hand-to-hand, and the assorted small arms and MGs outfitted on every helo and gunship."
"Good enough," Pierce said. "Evans, drop the anchor. You're staying here. When we leave, lock down the command deck. Only person you let back in is me. Understand?"
Evans nodded and didn't bother to ask what he should do otherwise because he knew the standing order was to do nothing. He knew the Atlas wasn't going anywhere.
"Arlo," Pierce said. "Come with me."
"Terrific. Today's a perfect day for a walk in the park."
Pierce walked toward the lift, and Arlo followed. Though Pierce felt guilty for taking his pilot off the bridge for what may be the last time, he didn't have time for guilt anymore. He'd let the last of his vulnerability out and knew this would be their last shot. For it to have any chance at success, he would have to be relentless. He owed both the dead and the living that much.
Four
After running for what felt like miles, Stellan stopped to listen. He expected to hear the footfalls of his pursuers, but there were none. All he could hear were the sounds of his own labored breathing, the pounding of his heart, and the emptiness, like the Atlas had died straight down to its bones.
Then those bones rattled with a shrill scream. It reverberated through the corridors so that he could not determine its origin. The return to silence disturbed him more than the voice itself. No one called for help. No one opened doors in concern or even curiosity. No one rushed to offer assistance.
The voice belonged to a woman, and Stellan realized he should be the one going to investigate and give aid. It was his responsibility, and he felt the tug in his gut, pulling him in a direction, any direction, so that he might help that woman, so that he might make amends for his past life. Like an addiction, it was hard to let go.
He told himself it was too late. He told himself he could not help her but that he could still help others and that the situation had gone so far out of his control that triage and prioritizing the needs of the Atlas' crew had become necessary.
The truth was he was afraid, not for himself, however. He feared that woman's voice belonged to Daelen. It was illogical that she would have been in that part of the ship. She should have been in medical. Daelen would have wanted to help, and that was where she would be
able to do the most good. She knew that, and Stellan knew she would act on it. Still, he doubted, and his love for her compelled him to investigate to be sure. If he left her, she would most certainly perish. If he went to her aid now, he might still have been able to help.
He didn't know what to do.
The conflict was peculiar. Stellan had experience with concern for others in high-risk situations. In battle, he and his squad mates had agreed they were all more than brothers. They said, when you were willing to die for someone, the knot that held that bond was greater than any that blood could tie. More than genetics bonded them. They needed to lean on each other. Otherwise, their chances of survival dwindled.
Co-dependence made them stronger as a whole.
He had seen his battle brothers die in combat. He would never forget the faces of those who fell, some of them condemning him, pleading with him, asking why he had let them down.
But none of the loss and guilt he'd felt then compared to the thought of losing Daelen now. He had to know she was all right. He had to continue toward medical. It was mathematics. Each moment that passed that he was not with her, ensuring she was alive and well, diminished their chances.
The portside fairway was just ahead of him and around a corner. The corridor stretched nearly the entire length of the ship, and it was a gamble to use. With the Atlas' friendly population waning, it was likely any of the madmen would be able to see him if they were anywhere in the stretch of that corridor. But it was the quickest way to the medical deck, and he had to risk it.
Speed meant greater risk to him, and that meant less of a chance harm would come to Daelen. It was a trade he was happy to make.
Stellan turned the corner to the fairway and realized their problems went far beyond the concerns of the living.
Five
Stellan wondered about the meaning of the word "victim." He wondered if it was a matter of perspective. In all the madness that ran amok on the Atlas, he couldn't determine anymore whose loss was greater, the living who fought for their lives, the madmen who had lost their minds, or the dead who had no words.
Stellan was not a religious man, but surely, there must be something after death, even if it was simply peace, a prevailing nothingness.
Death did not scare him. It was a part of life he had to come to terms with years ago. In fact, the only way they could come to terms with it was to believe they already were dead. This belief was not to discourage them or so they would be reckless or more courageous. It simply allowed them to cope, so they could function and do their duty.
The thought of not being able to rest, however, scared him, though it was not with fear or disgust that he looked down upon the man in front of him now. It was with pity because it was clear that death was no longer the final grant of peace. This man was not allowed to rest. He had come back in the most horrible way Stellan could imagine.
Judging from his torn jump suit, the man had been an engineer. The blood had dried black like a splash of gravity crane oil. He had been a young, attractive man with broad, muscular shoulders and clean-cut dark hair, like a movie star whose name escaped Stellan at the moment.
Stellan felt guilty not knowing this man's name. The Atlas was like a small town. He knew almost everyone, but he could not come up with a name. The man deserved the dignity of an identity.
Stellan saw the man he had been, but he had become something else entirely. He realized the infection that took their minds took their bodies as well, and after death, when everything of their identity was gone, it assumed full control, driving them like a vehicle.
One of his legs had been eaten away, leaving only a femur extending from his waist, white and dry like it had been licked clean. His abdomen was exposed with intestines coiling behind him like tendrils. Even as he tried to drag himself toward Stellan with his lone hand, the other arm ending in a stringy stump at the elbow, his mouth gaped and chomped with dusty rasps, lips chewed away revealing perfectly straight and white teeth that even then could have served as a model for a dentist's work.
Stellan marveled at the torso-wide streak of blood that extended down the fairway about one hundred meters, reminding him of the distance to the clearing and the doe that deserved mercy.
No one deserved this..
Stellan looked grimly to his sidearm, which he held with white knuckles.
Stellan's only skill had ever been killing. Growing up in the mountains, he had been a product of his environment, learning how to hunt at an early age. He wished he had been an artist or a scientist, someone who had the ability to contribute to society. The source of his self-loathing had only been that he was a bringer of death.
He remembered his first kill, the doe. He remembered how she tried to drag her paralyzed hind legs and how ineffectual her front hooves were at grasping earth. He imagined her agony and how frightened she must have been as her killer watched her bleed to death. He wondered if and when she had realized what was happening.
Regardless, death came. The time she spent in pain was definite. That was not true for the man who lay in front of him now. Stellan did not know whether he felt any pain, but something wasn't allowing his body to die. He was undead, in a kind of stasis, a checkpoint between this world and the next.
Perhaps Stellan could use his skill just this once to free someone of the torture of being trapped in their own body. Perhaps he could send this man on to where he belonged.
The man grasped Stellan's boot, feeble fingers trying to scratch through the leather, perhaps clawing to escape, begging for release.
He aimed his weapon at the man's head; he looked up into Stellan's eyes. So ghostly white, Stellan thought there unmistakably was a person in there, locked in a prison of enduring life.
Sometimes, death was better.
The dead man continued to grasp Stellan's boot, rocking like a boat, rolling onto his side to compensate for his stumped arm.
Stellan tried to think of the words to say, some kind of eulogy. He thought he should apologize, express sympathy that something so horrible had happened to this man. He thought he should accept responsibility for failing to protect him. But no words came to restore some of this man's dignity. Stellan tasted only inadequacy and the brine of his own tears.
He squeezed the trigger to do good, and the blast startled him. The bullet entered the top of the dead man's head and exited the back of his neck, then ricocheted off the deck. His reaching arm fell limp. His raspy chomping ceased.
The lack of blood spatter surprised Stellan. He'd never seen a gunshot so dry. The blood that splashed against the floor had the consistency of tomato paste.
Stellan turned away, looking down the other end of the corridor. The others had most certainly heard the gunshot, but he didn't care. This man deserved death, not because he was wicked, but because it was merciful.
Wiping his eyes, he faced the portside fairway. The corridor was so long that the walls appeared to meet at a point impossibly far away. Facing the sheer length of the empty, uninterrupted hallway frightened him. No one hurried toward destinations unknown. No couples gathered along its walls to share a moment of public affection. No groups congregated to block traffic.
Nothing stopped him from seeing the horribly endless possibilities and understanding what this meant for the road ahead.
Six
On his way to medical, the security deck would offer a place of refuge for Stellan to muster his wits and prepare to make the rest of the trip. It also would offer a place for him to gather his strength in the form of weapons and ammunition. Even executioners were tradesmen, and tradesmen needed tools.
He approached the entryway to security slowly and carefully. The door was closed, and the holographic control panel glowed red, which meant it had been purposely locked. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign. He'd left three infected madmen in holding. Perhaps they'd fallen into a coma like the others. And perhaps, when one of his officers checked for a pulse, they'd come back. Perhaps, with madmen on the loose, so
meone had escaped and locked the door behind them.
With his worst nightmares coming true, anything seemed possible. Stellan could imagine it, so he had to expect it. He'd learned long ago that people didn't make mistakes because they didn't expect the unexpected. They made mistakes because they lacked the imagination to dream the darkest dreams, to truly see how bad things could get.
Stellan crept upon the door, back against the wall, using the various lips and support beams jutting from the bulkhead as cover. The enemy didn't have guns, but stealth tactics remained the same. As monstrous as they were, they still had human sensory limitations. At least, he hadn't seen anything to lead him to believe otherwise. Skepticism might have prevailed and frozen him in place, but he had to keep moving.
He waved his link over the control panel, and it chirped and flashed to green. He pushed on the door, but it wouldn't budge. The manual lock on the other side had been engaged, which was a comforting thought. Someone on the other side was smart enough to use the manual latch, perhaps someone who was old enough to remember a time when these doors only had manual locks.
"Floyd," he whispered. "Are you in there? It's Stellan."
A moment of silence passed. Then the lever on the inside fell, and the locking mechanism slid out of the frame. The door cracked open, and a beady blue eye with a wild white eyebrow peered out.
Stellan smiled. He found comfort in the thought that someone under his command still lived. Floyd opened the door with a gasp and sigh of relief.
"Oh, I'm so happy to see you, Chief!" he said. Stellan hurried through the door, and Floyd hugged him. Stellan pushed him away and quickly closed the door.
"I'm sorry. I'm happy to see you, too, but keep your voice down."
"You're right," Floyd said. "I've just been hearing so much that's set me on my heels, and no one's answering any calls."
"I know. The comms system is down. I can't access the ship's intranet either. Have you heard anything about medical? Anything about Daelen?"
"No," Floyd said. "Some of the boys were supposed to finish their sweep to that point, but I never heard from them. The rest of them, well, they just took off a while ago."
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