Necropolis 2 (4 page)

He found himself on the map, began to plan a route across the ship to the detention center. It wasn't far, well...okay, maybe it was. Greg stared at his lonely pistol, not even a spare magazine of ammo for company. Pulling the magazine again, he saw that he still had a dozen bullets to play with after his run in with the Stalker. As he ran that memory through his head, it caught uncomfortably and Greg frowned.

Something had been different about the Stalker. Something...disturbing, but what? He stood there for nearly five minutes before finally figuring it out, playing the memory over and over again in his head. The Stalker had been very difficult to see. It wasn't just a matter of bad lighting, as the vents came with their own lights, no...it was because the thing was damn near blending in with its environment.

What did that mean? The Stalkers were an obvious stealth offshoot of the
zombies, meant for quicksilver speed and invisibility until they dropped down on your ass from the vents. Did it make sense that they would continue to get deadlier? He supposed it would, sure, why not? Things were shitty enough as it was.

Greg sighed and memorized the route he had to take, again. He thought about it for a moment, and then decided it would take about twenty minutes, including a few detours if he ran into bad guys, whoever they might be. Finally, he decided he'd gotten all he could from the storage room and terminal. He opened the door.

Poking his head cautiously out after listening and hearing nothing, Greg surveyed his surroundings. Another corridor, this one shorter, no blood. He slipped out and hurried down it, keeping the map firmly in his head. He turned a corner, spied a corpse up ahead, a Dark Ops soldier. Greg's hope sparked.

He knelt by the body to investigate. The man's weapon and sidearm were both absent, but he had a few magazines to spare for the pistol. Greg grabbed them, finding only two, and slipped them into his pocket. As he stared at the body, Greg thought of the infection. He was a walking cure...and they still appeared to need him. Why? The most important question, (at least to him), could he get infected? Was it possible?

Again, he ultimately concluded that he didn't want to run the only real test that would tell him. Luck was a thing that seemed to stick to him, he realized. Two weeks on Dis, longer, actually, before his memory went, and after all the encounters he'd had with the Undead in their varied forms, he hadn't been cut, bit, or touched even once, neither had Kyra or Cage, Billings or Powell. As he kept going, he thought of the dead.

Baker, the poor kid who couldn't get the Zombie Apocalypse out of his head and looked at the whole thing on Dis like a movie. Then Greg thought of the Berserker, the hulk of raw muscle and killing power, crushing Baker's head like a grape, and stopped that line of thought. Instead, he shifted his focus to Kauffman. Taken down by a bullet, by Dark Ops. Where was his body now? When he'd last seen the pale thing, it had been on the floor of a jump ship. Greg didn't like that train of thought either, so he derailed it.

Just in time, too. Something groaned up ahead: a deep, unpleasant sound. Adrenaline came at him, making him faster, stronger, more focused. Greg came to a corner, put his back to the wall, and edged up to it. He peered around the corner and spied a trio of zombies moving away from him. For a second, he was struck by how smooth their gaits were. In fact, if it wasn't for the rotted flesh and the inhuman groans, he'd have mistaken them for humans.

He considered shooting them, but they were walking away from him, almost out of sight now anyway. Why race them to the grave? Better to conserve ammo and not give away his position. Besides, he was sure there was enough in the way of combat awaiting him over the next several hours or days, however long he had left to live.

Greg waited another moment for the zombies to disappear, and then he kept going, tracing his way through the plague ship of the damned.

Chapter 05

–
Reunion Tour
–

The lift hummed quietly to a halt. Greg felt whatever tension had momentarily left his body snap back into place. He was almost back to the cells. After a lengthy session of a very lethal game of hide and seek, he'd managed to make it to the lift without being exposed to either the Undead or the Dark Ops troops.

No simple trick. Greg peered out the doors, first one way, and then the other. The corridor he'd come to was void. Good. He slipped out and padded down the corridor, listening intently for anything that might be sneaking up on him. The image of that Stalker refused to vacate his mind, leaving him haunted with the notion that he would never truly be alone ever again. Greg shook himself, came to a corner, and peered around it.

Nothing but more corridor. The entryway to the detention center was just at the other end of it. He stared down the length of the passageway, maybe fifty meters. It would be a hell of a long walk. So what was he waiting for? He took a step around the corner, and then faltered, lingering further. Why this bad feeling?

Something about the hallway spoke to him of ambush. He stared down at the pistol, clutched tight in his pale hand. It trembled. Didn't matter, he fucking need to do this, and
now
. Greg steeled himself and stepped out into the passageway. He hugged the wall, keeping an eye out for any doors he came to.

For the first half of the trip, they remained closed. Greg let himself believe he could hit his destination without running into any real trouble. Then one of the doors opened and a technician in a blue jumpsuit fell screaming onto the floor. What had once been a soldier, sans helmet, smashed into him and sank its teeth into the tech's neck. The man continued to scream, his voice rising to a mindless, droning shriek that held room only for terror and death.

Even after everything he'd seen, Greg stood paralyzed. A thick gout of fresh blood sprayed out of the man's neck and across the nearby wall. It looked to Greg as though someone had grabbed a pouch of spare blood and squeezed it until it all erupted out the top. The man stopped screaming and went limp. The zombie continued chewing into his neck, briefly pulling back and coming away with a thick mouthful of stringy red meat.

Greg fought down the urge to vomit and raised his pistol. The zombie snapped its head over and locked eyes with him. Twin pools of obsidian death, like long-collapsed stars in the dead depths of space, froze him back into place. The zombie let out a roar, spittle and black-and-red flecks of gore flying from its razor teeth.

That startled Greg back into action.

This zombie didn't groan, it didn't moan, it fucking
roared
.

It shot to its feet and rushed
towards Greg, a low-pitched scream escaping its ruined, pallid throat.

Greg fired once, missed. Fired again, grazed the thing's neck. It was coming closer, faster than ever, arms outstretched. Greg steadied his aim, squeezed the trigger once more and this time was rewarded with a spray of black gore and stark white bone fragments. The Undead stumbled to the floor and went into a roll, propelled by its own momentum until it came to rest only an arm's length from Greg's feet.

His hands were still shaking. He knelt, cautiously poking the thing with the barrel of his pistol, rolling it onto its back. What struck him the most was how flat out
different
this thing looked. Its head had taken on the disturbing appearance of a skull, the skin pulled taught across the bone. The teeth...good lord, the
teeth
.

They were razor sharp now, more so than they had been back on Dis. They were long, and he had to wonder how this thing managed to chew without ripping its lips and gums to shreds. Somewhere, not distant enough, Greg heard an inhuman howl, a despairing sound that ripped him back to the real world. He stood, pressed on, leaving the wretched abomination behind. They were getting smarter, faster, better at murder.

Part of him had known this to be the natural course of things. He just hadn't spared much in the way of thoughts towards the notion. Stupid, he knew, but it was hard to face a nightmare head on if you didn't absolutely have to. Now, he absolutely had to. How far would they go? How lethal would they become? Perhaps most importantly, how in the fuck were they ever going to stop this from spiraling completely out of control?

Greg came finally to the other end of the corridor. He slid up against the wall and hit the access button. When nothing came out at him, he poked his gun barrel and head around the corner. A two-tiered antechamber awaited his inspection. It was clear and empty with several doors along the ground floor, each leading to a different wing of the detention center. Greg turned his attention to a narrow stairwell.

He ascended it, keeping his pistol in hand and at ready, pointed directly ahead of him. Reaching the door atop the neat, white-tiled stairwell, he hit the access button and looked inside. Nothing and no one. He was alone. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way into the room beside the door he  currently occupied. All the vents in the detention center were tiny and specifically reinforced so they couldn't be used by escaping prisoners.

Greg stepped fully into the room, inspecting it. The area was broad, the ceiling high. The walls were made of crystal clear glass that overlooked the entire detention block. Terminals and all manner of monitoring equipment ringed the interior of the room. There were a half dozen padded swivel chairs, two of which lay on their sides because of what Greg imagined was a panicked evacuation of the area. He slid into one of the upright chairs.

Setting his pistol on the desk where it remained within easy reach, Greg attempted to access the terminal. From his view, he could tell that the detention center was a confusing grid-work of corridors and cells. He realized that the ceiling for the entire area, every corridor and every cell, was see-through at the top.

Greg turned away from the view. There were many prisoners, but they were safe for the moment. There might not be a way to escape their cells, but there was also currently no way to get into the cells. Booting up one of the terminals, he tried to fire up the detention network. Again, Thomas was supposed to help him with this, but...he heaved a weary sigh as he realized the network was on a lockdown.

No special password necessary, either. This was a serious lockdown. The only way it was going to lift was with use of a special keycard. Greg rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. Why so many fucking detours? He just wanted to see his friends. He'd settle for at least that right now, but he couldn't, because all the cells were firmly shut behind this bastard of a lockout. Staring at the terminal, he thought of how to find the keycard.

As he continued staring, the screen suddenly cleared. He sat back in surprise, and then leaned in as he saw a topographical map of the detention center appear. There was a small red circle pulsing gently much deeper in the complex.

Greg blinked in surprise. “Thomas?”

Silence from the radio link and the room around him. He frowned, considering the matter, and then nodded to himself. Working the map out in his head, he figured he could be there in a few minutes. Well...he glanced out the window again. A few zombies roamed the corridors. Maybe longer. Once more, he marveled at how damned
fast
the infection spread. Then again, how long had he actually been passed out in that room?

Greg rubbed his jaw, wincing at the pain, and stood. He grabbed the pistol and made for the door. Easing his way down the steps again, Greg considered a plan. He needed to grab that card, raise the security lockout, and find his friends. Grab some guns and maybe some of that fancy black armor, while he was at it. Then what? Get off the ship, obviously. Only it was never that simple. Ever. That was something Greg had learned the hard way since waking up to this living hell of a world, but that was later.

He entered one of the corridors, thinking about his seemingly random helper. It
must
be Thomas, there was no other explanation. The information he needed wouldn't just randomly pop up like that. Thomas must be monitoring him, just unable to communicate. It was the only thing that made any kind of sense.

Up ahead, Greg heard something. Chewing, followed by the sharp snap of what had to be bone. Something let out a low, guttural growl. Greg's stomach did a slow roll. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and raised the pistol. Turning the corner, he faced another pair of
zombified horrors. They were med-techs, helmets torn away, mouths stained with fresh smears of gore. Greg took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The first shot was perfect. It nailed the back of the first zombie's skull, spraying its brains and blood all over the other, which seemed to send it into a frenzy. It spun, zeroing in on Greg's location and coming for him. He fired again, his hands steady now, and watched one of the thing's eyes explode in a torrent of black blood. The body flopped to the ground, skidding to a stop. Greg kept going, stepping over the corpses.

As he pressed on, turned another corner, and wound his way through the maze of corridors, the lights flickered and died. Greg froze. His heart thundered in his chest, primal terror seized him like never before. He looked around, but he couldn't see anything. It was pitch black. He had no flashlight, and the gun didn't come equipped with one. Could these things see in the dark? Probably. Hell, they could probably go by smell and hearing alone. Greg realized he was outright shaking with fear now. He tried to control himself.

As he considered how to deal with this problem, the lights flared back to life. He was relieved to see nothing had entered the corridor in the dark interval that had passed. His nerves were a twisted bundle. He swallowed,
trying to calm himself and wondered what this meant. Was the main reactor gone? Was this backup? Didn't a secondary generator usually power only the emergency lights, which were red? He shook his head. Too many questions.

Greg pressed on, a sense of urgency returned to roost on his psyche like some mental bird of prey. Passing by closed cell doors, he wondered about the men and women currently occupying them, wondered who they might be. What was Dark Ops' plan here? Why did they need so many prisoners? So many cells? He began thinking of the Undead and experiments, and decided that he didn't really want to know.

What he kept coming back to, however, was his own incarceration. Why the tests? It had become obvious that they still needed him, but why? He remembered thinking about this earlier and unable to come up with a sufficient answer, but now it stared him in the face. The Cure didn't work, and if it didn't work, then there was no way to guarantee anyone's safety while experimenting with the Undead.

His nerves twisted into a bundle, again. They would chase him to the end of the galaxy for this. All the more reason to hurry. At last, Greg came to the opposite end of the detention center. Whatever it was he was looking for resided within a storage room in the back. Greg's finger hovered over the open button. He glanced around, sure he was being watched, then hit the button. The room beyond was stark white, the walls lined with tall, narrow, cold-storage units made of polished silver steel. He realized this must be where they kept the meals.

The room had only a single occupant. A security guard, though he was only half in his armor, his torso covered only by a tight black t-shirt and blood. Something had torn viciously into his guts and they hung out in foamy red and purple tendrils. His flesh was deathly pale and he had his pistol in hand. It looked as though he meant to kill himself, but had passed out and probably died from blood loss before doing the deed.

Greg hesitated, trying to determine if the man was still alive. He didn't seem to be breathing. How did the infection work? Could people die and then reanimate? Was that how it worked? Or did they still have to be alive to turn? Greg raised his pistol, determined to finish the job, one way or the other, when the man shifted and opened his eyes. They were still human, a cloudy emerald that looked out of focus.

“Bishop.” The man managed to speak after a long time. “What the fuck are you doing out of your cell?” He shifted again, looked like he was trying to lift the pistol, but strength had left him. He slumped.

“
Making a bit of a jailbreak, I'm afraid,” Greg replied. “You got your keycard on you? I need it.”

The man laughed, a hoarse bark.
A bit of blood sprayed from his mouth. “I'm turning Bishop. Can feel it...burning through me. Bastard ripped my guts out. Finish the job...card in my left pocket. Can have it when you finish the fuckin' job...”

Greg raised his pistol, and stuck it to the man's skull. The guard closed his eyes. Greg squeezed the trigger. Blood sprayed his chest and the wall behind the security guard. He shuddered once, and then was still. Greg noticed the wretched smell of death and spilled guts and decided to get on with it. He grabbed the man's pistol and relieved him of any spare ammo magazines and his security keycard. Greg stood and left the room.

Scurrying back through the corridors, Greg studied the card. A small, flat, silver piece of metal with a red decal in the center and small bold text signifying who owned it and what level of security it permitted. At last, Greg returned to the security center's observation deck. He fed the security card through the swipe-slot and the computer chirped, admitting him access. He began navigating the maze of the databanks.