Carrier

by Timothy Johnson

  Stellan made his way past Floyd's workstation without paying much attention to what he was working on. Much of the security office held little meaning to him now. It was at the center of a duty that could no longer serve the dying Atlas. It was remnant of an old, lost world. His only concern was the weapons closet. Symbols no longer meant anything. Only strength and force would be of any use.

  "Wait," Floyd said with scared eyes. "Where's Doug?"

  Stellan looked back grimly, unsure of how to answer the question. He didn't have to say anything, though. That inability to speak was all Floyd needed to know their friend had fallen.

  "Oh no," Floyd said with understanding. "Oh no."

  "You better stay here, old man. It's not safe out there." Stellan had little time for empathy and sentimentality. He stored those emotions away because doing so now would increase his chances of allowing himself to feel them later.

  He entered his office and confronted the doorway to the weapons closet. The monsters inside, his monsters, would rival the madness preying on the crew of the Atlas. They beckoned, calling out to him warmly, inviting him as a friend, telling him that, no matter how long or how hard he tried to deny them, he needed them. He would always need them, and they would always be there for him. He would never be rid of them, and in this moment, he was glad for it.

  "What are you doing?"

  Stellan waved his link over the holographic lock, and the door slid into the wall. The lights flickered on with sunrise affection.

  The Kruger MK7C assault rifle was the first thing he reached for. He aimed down the sights and then checked the chamber. It felt as good as he remembered.

  "Preparing," Stellan said.

  "That mean you got a plan?"

  "Not exactly."

  He replaced the magazine in his sidearm and then stuffed the pockets of his pants and overcoat with spare clips. He needed to be well-armed, but he had to remain mobile. If there were too many of them, he would have to run.

  And then he started to wonder what if the worst happened. What if they got to him? There wasn't much he could do about his arms and legs. He needed them to be free, but the weapons closet had some ballistic vests. They were dusty and intended for riot gear, but they could stop knives and most small-arms caliber rounds. He was sure they would stop teeth and fingernails.

  Stellan removed his coat and shirt and put one of the vests on underneath.

  "Are they shooting now?"

  "No. I'll be the only one shooting," Stellan said. "You didn't see what they did to Doug."

  A cry erupted from the holding room. Stellan had forgotten all about the men in lockup.

  "They been any trouble?" he asked.

  "First peep I've heard in hours." Floyd shrugged.

  Stellan shouldered the rifle and walked toward the holding room. Another cry erupted. And then another. Stellan ran to the door and then peered into the porthole window. The lights were dim, but all was as he left it. Edward and the three madmen were in their cells. Edward no longer huddled in the corner and, instead, appeared lucid and alert, eyes focused and brow narrowed in concentration. The three madmen swayed lazily, dancing to some tune Stellan could not hear.

  He entered.

  "Stellan, I'm so glad to see you," Edward said. "These three, I swear they were dead. One by one, they lay down and didn't move for hours, and then they just got back up. I thought they went to sleep, but they seem different now."

  Stellan walked closer to Jude's cell. The young man, once so full of life and energy, now looked fragile and vacant. His head lolled back on his shoulders, his mouth agape. A quiet moan escaped his throat. He looked lost.

  Stellan put his hand on the bars. He felt faint but not for any physiological reason. The sudden realization that everyone in his life was gone hit him like a blow to the chest. Everyone but Daelen, and he had to get to her.

  A strange scream woke him from his stupor. It sounded like an adolescent boy who had yet to gain full control of his deepened voice. Jude lunged at him, and he jumped back in reflex. Jude's hand grasped at Stellan through the bars. His fingers curled into claws, tearing at the air. His face cast a look of anguish, hate, and, perhaps, hunger.

  The thing that killed him and brought him back now wanted to do the same to Stellan.

  Facing the pure horror of its simplicity, Stellan resented it. It stared back at him through Jude's eyes. It used his friend's body as a tool to spread itself. And it wouldn't hesitate to take him down. Or his wife.

  Stellan drew his weapon.

  "What the hell are you doing!?" Floyd said. "That's Jude. These people need our help."

  "That's not Jude anymore," Stellan said. "And there's only one way we can help them."

  Stellan walked to the end of the row of cells and took aim at the man who used to be Robt Mathers. He pulled the trigger, and after the thunderclap, Robt's body crumpled to the floor. It already felt natural.

  "Stop!" Floyd cried.

  Stellan moved to the next cell and put down Elias Robichaud's reanimated body with the same coldness, and it began to feel like a process, something methodical.

  "No!" Floyd covered his ears and doubled over, vomiting in the corner.

  Stellan moved onto Jude, and the resemblance of the grasping, moaning monster to his old friend made Stellan hesitate as if, with Stellan's gun in his face, there was a chance Jude might give up the act and confess it was all a joke. But Jude showed indifference to the deadly end of the weapon. It was less like he did not know what the weapon was and more like he did not even see it. He looked past it, hungrily, murderously, at Stellan.

  "This is madness," Floyd spit onto the floor.

  "Yes," Stellan said. "It is."

  Stellan pulled the trigger once more, and the crack of the gun sounded far away, like even their ears had gotten used to the killing. Jude's body lay in a heap on the floor, and Stellan watched it bleed for a moment, not really thinking about anything. The viscous blood seeped from Jude's skull onto the floor. The spatter on the far wall ran slowly like syrup. On the outside, they looked human. The insides weren't.

  He moved to Edward's cell, and instead of holstering his sidearm, he aimed it at the last inmate.

  "He's not infected?" Floyd asked, confused. He lunged forward and put his back against the iron bars, ready to stand between them. "He's better now. He's not mad."

  "Agent Skinner asked me why I saved your life, and at the time, I didn't have an answer," Stellan said to Edward. "You weren't in your right mind, and I couldn't just let you go. Things have changed. Sanity is in short supply right now, and I'm not sure anymore if even I'm still thinking straight. If you ever want to get out of that cell, you're going to have to convince me you were worth it, and you're going to have to do it right now."

  Stellan wanted to pull the trigger. With the way things were going, he could claim Edward had been infected, and even if everything turned out all right, no one would question it. With the black madness messing with the dials in his brain, everyone would believe he was mad with the contagion.

  "Please," Edward said. "I can't fix the things I did. I know in my heart it wasn't me that did those things, even though I remember my hands doing them. That isn't an excuse. That is to say I will find a way to make it right, and I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

  Stellan surveyed Edward's face. It wasn't a matter of trust so much as doubt. Stellan doubted himself. He doubted he had the strength to survive in this new, insane world, to do the things that were necessary. He promised himself he wouldn't let anything stand in the way of that simple objective, survival. However, right now, Edward wasn't threatening anyone, and he might yet make Stellan's potential sacrifice worth it.

  He holstered his weapon.

  "Things are out of control," Stellan said. "Don't expect me to save you again. When you leave this cell, you leave all the protection I can offer."

  "I know," Edward said, and Stellan waved his link over the holographic control. The cell door
slid open. Floyd had been holding his breath and exhaled through puckered lips. Then he wiped his mouth.

  "If you're finished with that, I have something to show you," Floyd said. Stellan followed him out of the holding room and to his workstation. A moment later, Edward timidly left his cell and joined them, blinking in the bright lights of the central security room.

  Stellan and Floyd huddled around his terminal, which projected a blue, 3D model of the Atlas. Floyd's fingers danced across the controls, and Stellan leaned back as if watching a show.

  "You asked me to track where these links had been and find who they'd been in contact with," Floyd said. "We were lucky in that two of them were, in fact, off cycle. They both went back to their quarters and slept most of the time. Jude, though, he was a busy man. If you include everyone in the bar at the time of the shooting, this happens."

  The blue holographic image bloomed red clouds, eventually engulfing every deck of the ship.

  "There's no way it could be that bad," Stellan said. "Daelen said it would be transmitted through body fluids. This seems like it's airborne."

  "As far as we know, it isn't. Otherwise, we'd be out there looking like the others. But that's not the point," Floyd said. "I've run it a thousand different ways and even calculated a low rate of transmission. Every scenario ends up the same way."

  "Everyone goes mad," Stellan said.

  "There was no way we ever could have stopped this thing."

  Stellan wondered if Skinner had known the madness was unstoppable and if she'd planned for it. He assumed she did. Agents knew and planned for everything. It was how they were able to mold circumstance. Knowing that was why he listened to her at all, why he had given her a chance.

  "Well, we're not infected," Stellan said. "That's a start. We just have to keep it that way."

  "How do we know who's not mad?"

  "For starters, they won't try to murder us."

  "Foolproof plan, Chief." Floyd smirked.

  "Smart ass," Stellan said. "Pierce was always the one to make the plans."

  "You say that like he's dead." With Floyd's smile lingering, the main entryway's control panel flashed from red to green, and the door burst open.

  Stellan drew his weapon. Pierce drew his.

  "Speak o' the devil," Floyd said.

  Seven

  Stellan and Pierce aimed their weapons at each other, killer intent flaring in their eyes. Floyd couldn't help but marvel at how far apart they'd fallen. Until now, he'd not doubted that their friendship would endure. He'd lived these past ten years watching them run the Atlas together. He knew about their history. Yet, they had diverged. He didn't know why.

  "Lower your weapon," Pierce said.

  "Lower yours," Stellan said.

  "Shouldn't you be in a cell?"

  "Doug's dead," Stellan said. "What are you doing here?"

  "Unless I missed something, one of us was relieved of duty, and the other is still the captain of this goddamn ship."

  "Gentlemen, please!" Floyd cried. "We all want the same thing here!"

  Neither Pierce nor Stellan appeared willing to yield. A not-so-distant cry of anguish rattled through the halls, and everyone looked nervously at the open door. Their time was running out.

  "I hate to be a bother," Arlo said from outside the doorway. "I mean, tell me if it's too much to ask. But would you fellows kindly settle this later when one of us isn't dangling like a worm on the end of a hook? If you missed it, I'm talking about me out here, and I'm speaking figuratively to convey my sense of urgency."

  Pierce relaxed and holstered his sidearm. "I need your help."

  Stellan lowered his weapon as well. "A lot of people out there need help."

  "And we're going to give it to them." Pierce crossed the threshold into the room. Arlo hurried behind him and closed the hatch door, flopping against the broad side in an embrace. He kissed it, lips smacking.

  "Metal never tasted so good," he said.

  The schematic of the Atlas on Floyd's workstation drew Pierce's attention. The animation of the red cloud continued to loop, and it drew Pierce's fascination.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  Floyd explained everything about how the infection started and how his analysis included many variables, always the same result. Everyone would be mad within a matter of hours. The Atlas' hull ensured that because, on an island in space, there was nowhere anyone could go. It was only a matter of time.

  "What are we going to do, Captain?" Floyd asked.

  Pierce considered the graphic in front of him. The red cloud swelled from one of the Atlas' foredecks. Multiple clouds formed and then were isolated in quarantine zones across the ship. It spread throughout those zones, thickening and deepening like a boiling rage. The entire residence deck grew to a large, throbbing blister. And then, with the server crash, the clouds erupted and consumed the Atlas until no corner was left untouched.

  "What do you think we should do, Officer Coulson?"

  "Abandon ship. The lifeboats, they would give us a chance."

  "No," Pierce said. "The lifeboats are meant to save the crew from a damaged ship. In this case, we need to save the Atlas from her crew."

  "I knew the ship was female!" Arlo cheered. His father, appearing lucid, shushed him with a disapproving glance as, even when a child becomes an adult, only a parent can do.

  "The way I see it," Pierce said, "the solution is pretty simple, although it may be hidden for some. Once you see it, there is no denying its necessity. There is an enemy on the Atlas. We must eliminate that enemy."

  "How do you propose we do that?" Floyd asked.

  "Stellan, do you remember Operation Phalanx?"

  "Of course. How could I forget?"

  "You see, Floyd, we faced something similar to this in a small city in South America some years ago. We were told insurgents were holed up somewhere within city limits, using it as a hub of operations. The problem was that's all we knew, and the Council wanted action. We had no way of telling friendlies from enemies. IFF systems are inaccurately named. They don't identify friends and foes. They only identify registered friendlies wearing their IFF tags and other people. The insurgents knew that, and they got the people to flood the streets. With thousands of innocent civilians surrounding us, their strength was in their anonymity in the crowd. They knew who we were, but we didn't know who they were. In a way, using the people, they outnumbered us. We lost seven men before we even knew they were on us. They used their knives. They were quiet."

  Floyd's rapt eyes glistened in the light. "What did you do?"

  "We pulled out. We set up grids throughout the city and marched down each street, announcing our presence and then instructing those who supported the Council to surrender to our protection. They had one chance. Anyone who didn't come out would be treated as hostile. Anyone who did come out would be given food and shelter, things they desperately needed at the time because the rebels were bleeding them dry. At least that's what we were told."

  "I don't understand. How does that apply here?"

  "We go deck by deck and announce our presence at the bulkhead. If friendlies respond, we take them to safety. If hostiles respond, we seal it off."

  "And then what?" Floyd asked.

  "For Phalanx," Stellan said, gazing into the nothingness of recollection, "we didn't know it at the time, but after we cleared the city and told them there were no more friendlies in the area, the Council ordered aerial bombardment of the entire grid. They leveled it. They said the rebels blew it up and that we were to be commended for the evacuation. They said we saved lives, that we were heroes."

  "I hope you pardon any inferred insubordination, Captain, but how is that at all similar to our situation now?" Floyd asked.

  "After we clear each deck, we purge it."

  "Is that your solution to everything?" Stellan said. "Just airlock it?"

  "Space kills."

  Arlo sighed. "It certainly does."

  "This is madness fighting madnes
s!" Floyd said. "We can't be sure we won't be sacrificing uninfected people, never mind the chance we could actually cure the sick!"

  "Some innocents will be sacrificed, but it isn't so dissimilar to how you would treat an infected limb. Even today, surgeons remove infected limbs and replace them."

  "You can't replace people!"

  "No," Pierce said. "No, you can't."

  He fell into silence, which Stellan found unbearable. Stellan knew Pierce was thinking about the loved ones he'd lost, some more recently than others. He knew Pierce probably was thinking of all the men he led into battle who never came back. So many of them were good men. It frustrated Stellan that Pierce didn't seem to be fighting for those loved ones who still remained. He was fighting for an ideal in a no-win situation. Pierce wanted to send them into battle but didn't realize they would be fighting themselves. After a moment, Stellan stood and walked to the door.

  "Where are you going?" Pierce asked.

  "From what I've seen, there's only one way we can help some of these people. There's a lot we don't know. I know I'm not sick, and I know I'm not going anywhere or doing anything without Daelen or until I know she is safe. That's all I've got, and it's all I care about right now. So I'm going to medical. Hopefully, she'll have something more for us there. Come if you want or go off on your campaign. Either way is just as well with me."

  With a measure of contempt, Pierce watched Stellan raise the manual locking lever on the hatch door.

  "And Pierce," Stellan said. "You're forgetting one thing about Phalanx."

  "What's that?"

  "It failed. The insurgents were based elsewhere, and the attacks didn't stop. That's why the Council pinned the blame on the rebels."

  Eight

  A closed door represents possibilities as well as an open one. It offers mystery. There's intrigue and suspense. You want to open it. Before you do, you imagine what's on the other side. A closed door, however, allows the mind to take the thought of what's behind it to a dark place, to fear the unknown.

  Stellan tried not to think about what he would find when he opened the door to medical, but when his mind went there without his permission, all he could imagine was blood, the walls dripping with it.