Carrier

by Timothy Johnson

  "Margo!" Stellan screamed.

  "We have to go!" Pierce said, pulling Stellan's shirt. "Now!"

  They filed back into the only secure place they knew. Daelen and Wendy reached the medical deck with Stellan and Pierce trailing closely behind. When Stellan arrived, he found Wendy and Daelen clutching each other in the common room, and he had just enough time to turn and find the barrel of Pierce's sidearm.

  "I'm sorry, old friend."

  Pierce pulled the trigger, and the force of the blast threw Stellan to the deck. All of the air left his lungs. Through a haze, he watched Pierce slam and lock the hatch door.

  Before falling to blackness, instead of feeling the ache of betrayal, Stellan thought about the dead and how his debt to them was surely paid in full.

  Chapter 12: Across The Threshold

  One

  Desperation makes people illogical. It makes them do things they would never otherwise do. It pushes them. It makes them flexible. It makes them adopt beliefs they would normally belittle. It makes them pray to gods they never believed in. It makes them try anything.

  Belief doesn't work that way.

  When Margo found herself separated from the rest of the remaining crew, she didn't panic. It actually appeared she was safe for the moment. Though the dead screamed by her door, it wasn't long before the scuffs of their shoes and the limbs knocking into walls faded into the distance.

  They passed her by.

  After a moment of silent celebration, she believed she was okay and retreated farther into the room. Somewhere in her head was the answer. She just had to find it. This problem had a solution.

  The storeroom's emergency lighting flickered. Shelves of supplies jutted from the wall. Bottled water, canned and dried food, a first aid kit, even a portable emergency breathing apparatus. It was no ENV suit, but it would suffice in case of a loss of air circulation. She could last in here for weeks. She had all the time in the world. She could finally breathe.

  In a rear extension to the storeroom, Margo found a table and some blankets. She made a bed under the table and curled up. She wanted to just sleep through everything. At some point, NESMA would notice the Atlas was overdue. It would send a search-and-rescue party. She just had to hold out until then.

  Margo would have been embarrassed to know how common her thoughts had become. She couldn't have known that hundreds of people across the Atlas thought the same thing as they huddled in dark rooms with barricaded doorways, waiting for help to come. Fear and desperation reduced them all to their most base elements.

  Something knocked. From under the table, she could see nothing. Shadows enveloped the room.

  She stopped breathing, would have stopped her heartbeat if she could, and heard a whispering, like air continuously passing through a vent.

  That's all it is, she thought. The room sensors detected occupancy, so it turned on the air processors.

  Two boots stumbled out of the darkness, choking her relief. She caught a scream in hand, hoping those boots would pass her by like the others.

  The table shook when the thing bumped into it and stopped. Still, Margo thought it could have unwittingly walked into an obstruction and was just turning. She hoped. She believed. She prayed.

  It kneeled and peered down at her, a face that carried with it the darkness of the shadows from which it came. Margo shrieked and backed out from under the table, her legs flailing, struggling to gain traction on the blankets. The thing lunged at her, missing its catch, and then slithered after her, whining like a child who'd lost its toy.

  She ran for the door but heard more of the dead out there, perhaps stragglers, now pounding on the other side. She could not guess how many but certainly more than the one in the room with her. She would have to face it.

  She pressed her back to the door and watched the thing emerge from the table and rise to its towering full height. When it stumbled into the light, Margo saw its face. She screamed.

  It dragged a length of its entrails on the floor like a leash with no master. The flesh had been torn from parts of its thick arms. Its security officer uniform had been ripped down the center, and claw marks on its chest had long since stopped bleeding and become simple, gaping holes.

  All of this was new. Before it all, she'd known the man who lurched even when he was alive. She'd known him as Doug Fowler.

  "Oh my God," she said, catching another scream. "Look what they did to you!"

  It moved slowly toward her, part of its small intestine wrapping around its leg and snaking under the table.

  "Doug, it's me," she pleaded. "Remember? Don't you remember me? The squint?"

  She thought it slowed for a moment and cocked its head. She wanted to believe the recognition was reciprocated and that, not unlike a coma patient, he'd just snap right out of it.

  "Doug, can't you hear me? It's Margo."

  Her words may as well have never even crossed her lips, and as it crept closer, the realization set into her that she was helpless. She'd thrown all her logic and reason out for the belief that this man, whom she might have once considered friendly, might hear her and stop its advance.

  She realized this thing used to be a man. It used to be Doug Fowler. Now, it was only a shell, its former master like a lingering whisper in her memory, a memory this thing did not share.

  As it fell on top of her, breaking her bones with its incredible weight, she knew how foolish she'd been. She shouldn't have left her friends. Fear had won. Her faith in something real waned, and as she searched for something she now knew was not there, she felt ashamed.

  Margo didn't think her friends were any better off. She thought they were all damned; however, that didn't mean she wanted to die. In fact, she wanted every last moment, and when the thing that was once Doug tore her throat out, her dying thought was that she didn't think it was an unreasonable request for just a little more time, just a few more moments without the pain and the incredible solitude of space, just to remember what it was like.

  She begged for mercy. She pleaded for pity. She did not know on whose deaf ears her requests fell. This thing that was not Doug would not relent or reason or know humanity, even though it looked human. And she certainly wasn't crying out to God.

  As much as she tried, even at her end, she could not believe in an almighty being. Heaven was a nice thought, but Margo knew nothing awaited her after the cold, black silence.

  Two

  When Stellan emerged from the darkness, he found no air in his lungs, and as hard as he tried, he could not breathe. An immense weight lay on his chest, the hand of God pushing down on him.

  Daelen was kneeling over him, tearing open his shirt, the veins in her arms and hands bulging with adrenaline.

  She would not let her husband go. After everything she'd lost, his life hanging in the balance restored her confidence. She no longer questioned if she could save him. She simply had to.

  She searched for the wound in his chest, beneath his clutching hands as he begged oxygen to flood his lungs. They burned so hot that, even if the air were on fire, he would welcome it.

  He convulsed and rolled onto his side, curling into the fetal position. The muscles in his stomach twisted and wrenched as he tried to kick start respiration.

  "Baby!" Daelen cried. "Let me see! Let me see!" She tried to roll Stellan onto his back, but she couldn't stop him from curling. He was too strong, and Wendy could only sob. Everyone she'd ever loved and counted on was gone, and now Stellan, her best friend, was writhing on the deck and surely dying.

  "I need your help!" Daelen told her.

  Wendy timidly complied, and as soon as she placed her hands on Stellan, he coughed. His lungs rattled dryly in their depths, and he gasped, the air feeling like ice water in his throat. After a few deep breaths, Stellan relaxed and rolled over, exposing his chest.

  Beneath his shirt, they found the thin ballistic vest. In the middle of his chest, they found a black circle from the bullet impact, the heat from the friction as it left th
e barrel and traveled through the air at such a high velocity singed and charred the fabric.

  Daelen touched his chest and then, in disbelief, searched his back for an exit wound. She scanned him with her link to be sure. The vest had stopped the round.

  It didn't make sense. Blood dampened most of his upper chest area. She inspected him further and found the shoulder of his coat had been torn, so she slid it down his arm and found his undershirt drenched in crimson.

  Then she saw the two jagged, curved wounds and knew.

  "Oh no!" she sobbed hoarsely. "Oh no, no, no."

  She looked into his grave eyes and caressed his cheek, almost reticently. The thought that she could somehow fear him made her feel ashamed.

  "Margo," Daelen said. "Where's Margo?"

  "I don't know," Wendy said. "She got separated from us."

  Daelen's mind raced for answers. Everything was a roadblock. All the old routes were inaccessible. She didn't know where to go. She felt lost.

  "In that cabinet," Daelen's finger shook, "there's some disinfectant and some gauze. Get them for me, please."

  Wendy hurried to the cabinet.

  "It's okay," Stellan said.

  "Also, there should be some pain relievers."

  "Love," Stellan said, "it's okay.

  "No!" Daelen cried. "I'm not going to lose you, too!"

  She looked into his eyes again and hated what she found. Acceptance is the last stage of grief, and it was in every corner and crease of his face. She could never see herself reaching that stage. She could never visualize a life without him. Stellan had become a constant in her life. He was always there, and he would always be there. What she saw then couldn't have been possible, but it had to be real. Her mind struggled to rationalize it any other way, and she understood that acceptance was a decision. Acceptance was the mind giving in to the exhausting task of attempting to explain its reality in a less painful way.

  She thought she may one day reach that point, but she already knew it would be a long time. She also understood knowing that was the first step, so she shook it from her mind.

  "I'm not giving up," Daelen said.

  "Neither am I," Stellan said. "We have to stop Pierce."

  "He's gone," Wendy said. "He could be anywhere."

  "I know where he's going," Stellan said, "because he has given up."

  Three

  Stellan sat shirtless on one of the exam tables and allowed Daelen to clean and dress his wound. She took her time, careful to wipe away the blood that was already becoming gummy. She knew what was going to happen, and while she lovingly, yet mechanically, secured the bandage, her mind blazed, searching for a way to fix him.

  "How do you feel?" she asked. For a moment, they stared at each other across a threshold of seemingly infinite space.

  "Are you asking about my shoulder?" Stellan said. Her gaze persisted. "I feel fine."

  Wendy brought another box of bandages and set them on the table beside Stellan. Daelen had already discarded a baseball-sized wad, which she'd used to stop the bleeding. Wendy was careful not to touch it.

  "How much time do you think we have?" Daelen said. "Before the purge, I mean."

  "Pierce has to make it to the command deck. Assuming he does, then he has to set each deck to do it individually, since the network is down and can't coordinate that on its own. He'll open outer airlocks first and work inward."

  "Is there a protocol for that or something?" Wendy asked.

  "Not that I know of," Stellan said. "It's just how I'd do it."

  "So how much time?" Daelen asked.

  Stellan shrugged. "An hour. Maybe less."

  He rolled his shoulder to test its mobility and winced. Daelen watched him closely, but he seemed fine, like himself. His face remained as solid and plain as ever, a seriousness accompanied by a politeness that conveyed his good nature. His ghostly blue eyes calmed her like still waters that she could wade in, as if he could hold her there forever and keep her safe.

  Forever now had an expiration date. It pained her to think that, even if they were able to stop Pierce and somehow make it to safety, their time together was finite.

  Death always won in the end. Time was its accomplice. And now Stellan's life, their life together, was not measured by years but hours. If she could stop time, she would be able to find a solution. In time, she could beat it, but time was relentless.

  And none of it would matter if they couldn't stop Pierce from ejecting them into the black. As much as she hated it, to even give Stellan a chance, they had something more pressing to address. Old, resolute Pierce was determined to keep them from ever leaving the ship alive. While the scientist in her agreed with him, the lover in her couldn't accept it. After everything they'd been through, her heart was stronger than her logic and reason. Their will to survive prevailed.

  "We should probably move then?" Daelen asked.

  "Yeah," Stellan said. "First things first, though. Pierce locked us in here. Wendy, I know your specialty is fixing things, but that also makes you good at breaking them. Think you can get us out?"

  Distress lingered in her eyes, as if the very thought of action frightened her.

  "Open the hatch?" Wendy said. "Aren't those things out there?"

  "They would have followed Pierce away from here," Stellan said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  She hesitated and looked doubtful. "All right. I can try."

  "Good," Stellan said, touching her shoulder affectionately, sensing her urge to recoil. He wanted her to feel useful and empowered. If her mind worked on something familiar, maybe she'd feel more in control. Maybe it would calm her.

  Wendy walked to the door and popped the control panel off the wall with Rick's switchblade, which he'd given to her before he turned. She gazed at it longingly for a moment and went to work on the wiring.

  "So we stop Pierce," Daelen said. "And then what?"

  "We'll figure something out," Stellan said.

  "What do we have left to fight with?" Daelen asked. "Wendy and I both were out of ammo and tossed our weapons in the escape. And we left the bag at Gamble's Run."

  Stellan looked at her grimly. He pulled his sidearm from its holster and released its magazine, showing Daelen that it was empty. They were completely out of ammo.

  "Oh," she frowned, but her resignation served as a catalyst for Stellan's mind, and he patted his pants. From his cargo pocket, he pulled the bullet Pierce had given him, the same bullet with which he'd destroyed that boy in London a decade ago.

  Stellan held it in an open palm, staring wondrously at the glint along its side. It looked perfect.

  "Second chances," he whispered. With a thumb like a hammer, he snapped the bullet into the magazine, and then slapped the magazine into his weapon. Racking the slide, the bullet ascended into the chamber.

  He gazed at his sidearm almost lustily, and Daelen watched him with wide, worrying eyes.

  With trembling fingers, she took his steady hands, and lowered the weapon to the table. It sounded heavy against the metal tabletop.

  "We may yet have one," she said. Her words pulled him from his trance, and he smiled.

  "I was thinking about something," Stellan said. "Do you remember our first run?"

  "Yes," Daelen said fondly.

  "I remember seeing Earth from orbit for the first time. Endless oceans and mammoth mountains became almost insignificant, but I found them beautiful in a way I'd never thought possible. The whole planet looked untouched, and I remember thinking everything was a matter of perspective. As the station came around in orbit and the sun set, I remember feeling like the possibilities were endless. We were leaving a whole world behind but gaining the universe. I remember thinking everyone out here was trying to escape something, some kind of clock or I don't know what, but I felt like we were running toward something. Freedom. The freedom to live how we wanted, without fear of judgment or persecution. I thought I might miss it. Home. The smell of trees, the sound of w
ind. But I knew I traded all that for you and that, wherever you were, that was my home. This life, it wasn't ideal, but it was enough. And that made it perfect."

  "Dammit!" Wendy said, huffing in frustration. For some reason, Stellan and Daelen found it funny.

  "I remember the first jump made us so sick we were useless the whole run," Daelen said, and they laughed again. "Even though neither of us could hold a meal down, you were there for me. You took care of me when you could barely stand yourself."

  "Not Pierce, though," Stellan said. "His stomach must have a padlock."

  Returning their thoughts to Pierce brought back the shadow over their mood, though even in reminiscing about him, they found good memories.

  "When we were in the Corps," Stellan said, "he used to go shot for shot with new guys in our squad. Whiskey, of course. He'd say, 'Gentlemen, drinking whiskey is like taming a wild horse. The more willpower you have, the better you can stay on top of it. If you let it, it will kick your ass. But only if you let it.' It was his way of demonstrating mind over body. The stomach wouldn't roll if the mind wouldn't let it. He sent every single one to the toilet before each night was through, and he'd lead the charge in belittling that guy. It may sound silly, but the message was clear. He didn't need to dish out punishment to assert himself. He just had to prove he could take more than us."

  "Men are so weird." Daelen shook her head. "But he can certainly keep his drink."

  "Yeah," Stellan said. "He wouldn't let anyone else ever see him the next morning, though. See, Pierce was a morning-after guy. He could drink anything, and if it was going to come back up, it'd be the next morning."

  "He was a good friend," Daelen said.

  "Yes," Stellan said. "He was."

  Wendy cursed in frustration again and pounded the panel beside the door. The holocontrol flickered and then change from red to green.

  "Tough love," she whispered in disbelief. "Done!"