August 18, 1985

Pvt. Hewitt pushed a load of contaminated viscera through NASA's headquarters. The cart contained six oil drums filled with the remains of the undead, shredded into immobility by machine gun fire but still much more active than corpses had any right to be. Thumps, moans and muffled screams came from the cargo.

So this must be what it's like to be prison guard in hell… Hewitt thought. He never imagined he'd have a reason to feel that way, but then the past few months had been particularly taxing for his suspension of disbelief.

The way Hewitt saw things, the impossible intruded on the real world in two ways: through miracles and nightmares. The government's nuking of Louisville, KY definitely fell into the latter category. Even though the Army had taken measures to prevent an accidental retaliatory strike against Russia, finding a cover story for the very noticeable explosion proved quite difficult and irreparably damaging to the President's re-election campaign. And the icing on the "Fuck you. Sincerely, God" cake? The nuclear blast contaminated the atmosphere with Trioxin, spreading the plague with the rain.

But what happened afterward could only be seen as a miracle. The cabinet quickly monopolized cable news stations that would otherwise have worsened the crisis through misinformation and sensationalist reporting, instead using them to inform and mobilize the public. Policemen and firefighters followed instructions to organize volunteer "undead response squads" that contained the outbreak as best they could through breaking the limbs of the immortal (though, fortunately, not invincible) ghouls. The eastern borders of all the Great Plains states became militarized. The civil war between the living and the dead may have been costly in equipment and lives, but it saved mankind.

Hewitt worried that after that lucky break, fortune might swing the other way again. He saluted the crewman who retrieved the cart to load onto the rocket and left, but not before asking, "How do we know this will work?" He tried in vain to fight off visions of the rockets breaking apart in the atmosphere and spreading the blight even further.

"Don't worry. We're reinforced the hull with layers of the toughest stuff that can still fly. Takeoff, atmosphere, space junk, won't leave a scratch. The ingredients are classified, but trust me, it won't break until it hits something big and solid."

"Big and solid…? You mean we're not launching them into the sun?"

"Bigwigs don't know how the sun would react to having Trioxin introduced to it. We're just going to send them as far away from here as we can."

An alarm sounded: *eenk* *eenk* *eenk*

Hewitt jumped, "Oh, fuck! What does that mean?"

"It's nothing. It just means we're about to launch soon. So I have to go."

"Thanks," He left, thinking of other things he could have asked had the alarm not cut them off. He knew that the unmanned rocket would be one of hundreds, and all of them would just keep going forward forever until they hit something. What if one of them traveled far enough over the course of eons to crash into a world inhabited by intelligent life? What if in saving itself the military doomed civilizations unknown to it?

Unlikely? Yes. But it was just as unlikely that any one sperm would reach an egg during conception. But with so many cells, one of them would make it and give birth to… what? A diplomatic nightmare for American's distant descendants?

Well, I guess that'll be their problem, not ours.

Galactic Cycle 20.196.8

Aboard the Space Pirate Mother Ship, Private B-86 watched the radar screen. This mundane task was punishment for his cowardice in the face of combat with the hated bounty hunter, Samus Aran, when she intervened in a raiding party. Normally, the punishment for such an action was execution, but Mother Brain somehow saw fit to subject him to a job so boring that he would beg for death. As the ship's engines powered up for takeoff, Private B-86 was supposed to watch for incoming meteors so other pirates could blast them out of the sky before they hit the ship. B-86 envied the pirates in the turrets. At least they got to shoot something.

Just as B-86 was about to test his ability to sleep with his eyes open, a blip appeared on the radar. A meteor closed in, fast. The space pirate's momentary apprehension evaporated when he saw the object's size. It was too small to be any real threat. It would certainly burn up in the atmosphere before it even hit the ground. He chose not to report it to the gunners. The ship would be off the planet soon enough.

It didn't go away.

B-86 stared at the radar screen in disbelief. The object was still heading in their direction. He immediately pushed the alarm button. The gunners assumed their seats, locked on to the target, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The coolant systems in the turrets closest to the meteor were malfunctioning. The only operative guns were on the other side of the ship, making them useless. The intercom system projected frantic, indecipherable orders. Private B-86 quietly soiled himself as a computerized voice announced that impact would occur in 3… 2… 1.

*BOOM*

The rocket slammed into the Space Pirate Mother Ship with devastating force, killing everyone aboard, including Kraid, who was to provide heavy support in the pirates' assault on Norion. From her nutrient tank in Tourian, Mother Brain, leader of the space pirates, considered the implications of this. She was not so much concerned about the loss of lives as the loss of equipment. Even with the space pirates' advanced technology, it would take weeks, perhaps months to build a new Mother Ship. As for Kraid, a new one could always be grown from the cloning banks. Regardless, Mother Brain felt that her subjects had to know of this, so she broadcast the news of the ship's destruction via telepathy.

When Ridley received it in his lair, he ground his razor-teeth. As a member of High Command, he had a great deal of privileges, with the hidden cost of having to clean up after idiots who from time to time made very expensive messes. The spoils of his latest raid would have to wait until later...

The first thing Private B-86 felt upon regaining consciousness was every nerve in his body screaming in agony. His muscles felt as if they were being eaten by worms. His head was on the verge of exploding. Although B-86 thought he should be grateful that he was alive, he wondered if death would be preferable to his condition.

B-86 sucked in a lungful of air and let out a loud scream. Several other, similarly tortured screams answered. B-86 had no way of knowing if they were mere echoes. He pried himself from the twisted metal that was once his chair and crawled through the ruined halls of the Mother Ship. What was once a uniform system of rooms and tunnels was now a jagged, twisting labyrinth of scrap and wreckage. It was a miracle that B-86 found his way out. In fact, he thought, It's a miracle I'm alive.

High Command forbade religion in Pirate society, but B-86 couldn't help feeling that he was being watched over by some higher power. How else could he have had such great fortune? By the time he got to Crateria, he was already walking (or shuffling, really).

B-86 had the irrational feeling that he was being followed. Perhaps the pain he felt was playing tricks with his brain. The pain, which had subsided for a brief period, was back in full force. Thankfully, B-86's tortured eyes found a recharge room. Soon my injuries will be healed and this will all be a bad memory, he thought to himself.

B-86 entered the recharge station and activated the medical console. Nothing happened. Is this some sort of sick joke? B-86 wondered. He wanted relief from the pain immediately. He hit the command buttons again. Still, nothing happened. This is ridiculous! he thought.

"Why won't you work, you piece of crap machine?!" B-86 shouted. Apparently, the voice recognition system in the console was still active, because a chirpy, mechanical voice responded, "Systems will not activate because life signs are zero."

What? That's not possible! B-86 thought, but all that came out of his mouth was, "Computer, there must be an error. I'm pretty sure I'm alive."

Apparently, no one programmed the computer to realize that dead things don't talk, because it continued, "Blood pressure: zero. Pulse: zero. Body temperature: 72 degrees. All circuits functional. No errors detected. Subject is deceased."

"No!"

B-86 opened his pincers and blasted the console to smoldering ruins with his galvanic accelerator cannons. "I can't be dead!" he howled into the tunnels of Crateria.

No one answered.

The undead space pirate's thoughts crawled from his lips, "The pain! It's getting worse! How do I stop it?" Desperate for a remedy, he tried to kill himself again. He firmly grasped one of his pincers around his head and fired his handheld laser. The blast went right through his head, yet still he remained conscious. Apart from overwhelming dizziness and a losing a good chunk of his memory, B-86 suffered no ill effects.

For some reason he couldn't explain, the space pirate was struck with the desire for warm, juicy… brains? How are brains going to help me? he thought. He didn't understand it, but the drive had enough strength to pull him out of the ship and into the surrounding wilds. Private B-86 looked around and saw a skree hanging from the ceiling.

Instinct won out and with a quick "snap" of his aching limbs, B-86 leaped upward and plucked the skree from its roost. Ignoring the bat-like animal's squeals of protest, B-86 bit off its head and let the brain matter slide down his gullet. Incredibly, his pain faded away. The brain itself didn't taste that bad either, it had a spicy flavor B-86 came to appreciate. For a brief period, B-86 knew happiness. Then the pain came back thirty seconds later.

Like a junkie seeking his next fix, B-86 went off in search of more brains. Other space pirates crawled out of the wreckage of the ship, all of them mutilated in ways that appeared fatal. This macabre parade of the dead devoured the brains of any creature unfortunate enough to cross its path. Eventually, one of the zombies, a Pirate Commando, announced, "Why are we feasting on zebs and skrees in Brinstar when the biggest brain in the world is down there in Tourian?"

The other zombies immediately stopped what they were doing and sprinted in the direction of the elevator…

Author's note: I've merged the first three, barely-substantial "chapters" of Brinstar Contaminated into a more cohesive whole.