Chapter 2: Mania to Hydroponics

The Ishimura was, in simple terms, large. Operative scale required that. This had presented a challenge to CEC-contracted ship designers, Yasutaka Komatsu and Sakyo Tsutsui. How would the crew travel across this massive construct in a timely fashion?

Legend has it that the two designers, after a near twenty-four-hour work shift interspersed with cheap beer and microwavable yakitori (some versions say ramen), found a solution. Komatsu, an avid model train collector, had joked about putting a train in the Ishimura. Tsutsui, either too drunk or too tired, heard this and thought it brilliant. Pen to tablet, he drew schematics to what is the Ishimura's most distinctive and necessary component: the Tram System.

Inspired from then cutting-edge systems in Asian and Pan-European sectors, the Ishimura Tram-system operated at high-speeds along wall-mounted rails that connected every deck. Each deck thus had one tram station (two in Medical's case), where crewmembers waited. The seats at each station were somewhat comfortable, enough to keep occupants in place to appreciate corporate posters several times. A business strategy to prevent workers from unscheduled sleep.

This atmosphere of normalcy stopped at Medical Deck's tram station. Blood covered almost every centimeter of glass, metal, and tile around. Body bags, amorphous black biers made from cheap thick plastic, lay or slumped all around. Greggs and Bruttenholm had walked into this scene expecting the "zombies", as the latter referred to them, to burst out of the bags. Instead they had ascended the platform from the railway.

Only two zombies had attacked. Bruttenholm had broken the kneecaps of one and speared the other back against the wall. The latter one gave Bruttenholm trouble, slashing at him as he attempted to delimb it.

Greggs busied himself with the other. This one crawled, using its second pair of hands to slide itself across the floor. The talon-ended pair it had was slicing forward, like some mortific flesh gin. Roars bellowed from the unnatural orifice that was once a proper jawline and neck.

A quick breath, and Greggs lined up the tri-focal beams at the end of the plasma cutter to the zombie's left shoulder joint. He pulled the trigger. The plasma bolt, hyperheating the flesh and bone of its impact point, amputated the talon-ended arm.

This is getting easier, Greggs thought, the fear balled up in his stomach barely an annoyance despite the zombie still plowing forward slower with one talon. Jen might even feel impressed.

He shifted around until the beams hovered over the zombie's right elbow and fired again. The zombie's remaining talon had pierced into body bag as it climbed over to attack Greggs. When the plasma bolt struck it fell down face-first into the black plastic, right forearm erect beside it like a memorial to its animalistic efforts. In the end, though, it was as dead as the corpse it had stabbed.

Greggs lowered his weapon and sighed.

"Nice job," Bruttenholm said. He had splatters of bile-ish ichor over his face and stubbed horns. "Not even passing out."

Greggs nodded. "Yeah. You have a tough time?"

"Not really. Got a little too personal for my tastes, but sometimes that's what it takes to finish the job."

"Such as damaging your weapon?"

Bruttenholm brought said weapon, equally stained in bile-ish ichor, up to eye-level. He rotated it around until he saw what Greggs was talking about. A little way down from the talon-tip was an inward dent in the metal shaft.

"Bastard next to the wall must have done that."

"Or the one you smacked across the face before we got here."

Bruttenholm slumped his shoulders. "Its not like I have one of those cutters..."

"I would have let you use it more, if your shooting wasn't so poor."

Bruttenholm sighed now, conceding the point. When they had unplugged the plasma cutter from Surgery-C, Greggs handed (pushed actually) the tool into Bruttenholm's big hands. The paranormal detective had put the device into his left hand, hefting it with the confidence of an experienced gunmen. When they had fought off the zombie horde blocking the entrance to Sickbay 3, Bruttenholm fired off several shots—all missing.

"Anyway," Bruttenholm said, "Where's the train?"

"The tram—one at least—is either at some other tram station or hoisted up in the Maintenance Bay. Normally, we would have to wait for a scheduled stop."

"When was that?"

Almost as if hearing Bruttenholm's inquiry (actually responding to Greggs' fingers), an RIG holoscreen flashed into existence before them. The homepage was crystal clear as if output from an actual computer monitor. A "Welcome, George Greggs" message was middle center with several tabs towards the top. Cropped into the holoscreen's background was a picture from a happier time: Jane and him on a date to the Nichiro Nissui Aquarium on Triton.

"Wow," Bruttenholm said, stepping closer to Greggs for a better look. "That your girlfriend?"

Greggs could not resist smiling. "Yes. Jane Gauthier. She's a security officer aboard this ship."

"Sounds like a badass."

"That describes her nicely."

Bruttenholm lightly patted Greggs back. "We'll find her."

But find her in what state, Greggs thought before changing tabs on the screen.

The holoscreen's text flashed away leaving only the picture for a moment. Then a digital clock appeared, numbers, hashes and colons in bold font. "07:56:32 AM February 8th, 2508."

Bruttenholm inhaled sharply. "Is that the actual date?"

"Yes. Unless the ship's AI has shutdown. It acts as the crew's hotspot.

"AI? Holograms? Spaceships? What's next? A flying car?"

Greggs shook his head. "Flying cars were considered financially unfeasible a century ago in an Audi-Ford-Mitsubishi corporate report."

An exasperated look appeared on Bruttenholm's face; his square dimensions somehow emphasized more. "You alright?" Greggs asked.

"Yeah," Bruttenholm said, face relaxing. "Now what about that train schedule?"

Another finger click and the clock was replaced with a list of times and destinations. "Let's see," Greggs' said, fingering hovering and moving down the rows. "Last tram pick-up was 07:55 AM."

Greggs read that back, aloud, several more times. Each recitation faster and more worrisome then the last. It felt like he was trapped once more in his office.

"Where is it?" Greggs said, breaking the chronometric mantra. "The tram should—" He pointed a finger into the empty tunnel space before the tram station. "—wait right there. The whole system is run from the Tram Control Room…"

A powerful wave of horror washed over Greggs. The Tram Control Room was manned by technicians, who monitored the whole system. Any accident or other issue would immediately prompt them to rectify. Which meant something dreadful: zombies had entered the Control Room, and most likely slaughtered anyone inside it.

"Oh, no. Oh, no," Greggs said, starting a new mantra. He shut the RIG screen down, the hologram disappearing into abstract nothingness. A cleaner conclusion than what he would probably experience.

"Greggs." The organ replacement technician paused his manic verse, listening now to Bruttenholm. "How far is Hydroponics from here?"

A few more panicked moments, and Greggs brought the RIG holoscreen back up. He opened a map of the Ishimura's tram station locations. "Here we are," Greggs said pointing to a dot in blue. His finger went down the path skipping one yellow dot then stopped at another. "Hydroponics is here."

Bruttenholm stroked his goatee. "Not that far away."

"But why Hydroponics?" Greggs finger moved back up, past the blue dot, up to one at the front of the Ishimura. "Our objective is the Bridge, to repair the Comms Array. We would arrive at that deck in half the time to reach Hydroponics."

Bruttenholm nodded, stroking his goatee more. "Any way to get to the Bridge from Hydroponics?"

It was Greggs turn to stroke his goatee. "I think so. Some kind of access hatch in one of the control towers…"

Bruttenholm walked through the hologram, distorting the blue laser output into a meaningless mass of light. He stopped at the tram station's edge. From where he stood, Greggs thought Bruttenholm was staring down at the railway.

"How far a walk?" Bruttenholm said, looking back at Greggs.

"To Hydroponics? On foot?!"

"The trains not comin', and I got an appointment."

"What kind of appoint—" Bruttenholm jumped off the edge before Greggs even finished his question.

After a moment of incredulity, Greggs shutdown the RIG display and ran to the edge. He leaned over slightly, aiming his cutter's tri-color laser into the tram tunnel's abyssal darkness. Bruttenholm's amber eyes stared up at him, laser illuminating his extraordinary features.

"You just going to gawk, or are you jumping on down?" Bruttenholm said.

"This is crazy. You're crazy!" Greggs said, body and cutter both shaking. The laser danced over Bruttenholm's nose and stubbed horns.

"I'll catch you," Bruttenholm said. In the low-light, he stretched his hands outward, spear held under his armpits.

Greggs stepped away from the edge. He weighed his options: jump off to certain doom or return to Sickbay 3 to certain doom. Terrible decision either way. Horrific ends, either way.

Some lights flickered, drawing Greggs' attention. Illumination was humanity's greatest weapon against darkness, all the way back when the first member of genus homo sparked the first artificial fire. That prehistoric breakthrough brought an end to nature's rule over man. With that, humanity was free to build great monuments to its well-serving ally: cities that lit the night sky.

What if an early ancestor hadn't figured out to wield fire, though? How would that humanity turn out? Would they build something as large and complex as the Ishimura? If Jane could hear these questions, she would answer all with one: pull your head out from the waves, George.

Greggs brought his hands over to his breast pocket. He knew which doom to choose.

"You better catch me!" Greggs screamed as he ran to the edge and jumped off eyes closed.

Bruttenholm was good as his word. A familiar granite grip wrapped around Greggs' sides. Firm metal was soon underneath his feet.

Greggs opened his eyes. The darkness wasn't pitch black, but enough to obscure anything beyond a few meters.

"Wasn't so bad, now was it?" Bruttenholm said, returning his spear to his left hand.

"Perhaps…" Greggs brought his cutter to bear, laser illuminating wherever in the tunnel he aimed. "How's your vision in low-light environments?"

"Better than most people's, but nothin' like a bat."

Greggs shook his head. He brought the holographic display back up, tabbed his way to the Navigation System. "RIG. Set path from Medical Deck tram station B to Hydroponics Tram Station."

"Actualizing travel data based on last update from ship A.I., George. Travel line should emit in a few seconds. Have a nice day."

"Yeah, lady," Bruttenholm said, "smiles and sunshine as we grapple some zombies."

"You know this is a program, correct? Not complex enough to answer sarcasm, let alone sophisticated enough to understand gender." Or discomfort when it casually blurts a user's given name.

"Yeah, yeah."

A bright blue holographic line trailed out from Greggs' glove, down into the tunnel from the Tram station's left side. Before he even said anything, Bruttenholm was already walking. One button press, and the nav-line disappeared. Greggs ran to join Bruttenholm.

Down in the tunnel proper, the massiveness was pronounced. The walls, angled to fit a tram's shape, left at the floor (excluding the tracks) enough room that several Bruttenholms could walk abreast. A ship-borne infrastructure of this dimension required more than just a few lines of LED lighting.

The two companions traveled in silence awhile in mutual fear that somewhere a zombie waited to assault them. Light footsteps were their only sound, which amplified within the cavernous tunnel. Greggs' face was in a near-constant flinching state.

Eventually, Greggs spoke. "You never answered my question."

"Which one," Bruttenholm said.

"You know the one."

Though the shadows obscured his face, Bruttenholm's nod was clear. "Nicole asked me to find someone—a Lexine Murdoch—and the group that she's with."

"Hydroponics was where they were going," Greggs said.

Another head nod from Bruttenholm. "Exactly. Consider our trip there a little detour on the tour."

"Yes. A detour that may very well kill us. If it hasn't already killed Miss Murdoch and her associates."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"'Maybe, maybe not'?" Greggs stopped. Bruttenholm stopped after a few more steps and looked back. "That uncertainty is risky. More so with a deck as multi-leveled as the one we're walking to."

"Helping people is always worth the risk."

That statement shocked Greggs.

Bruttenholm walked closer to where Greggs had to angle his head to maintain eye contact. "Alive, dead, or undead. If they're in Hydroponics, we'll find them. If not, we'll make our way to the Bridge."

A line that a superhero would say. Despite the cheap comparison, though, the conviction in Bruttenholm's deep voice convinced Greggs of his sincerity. If it were within the paranormal detective's power, they would reach the Bridge. With or without Murdoch and her associates.

Greggs leveled the cutter's tri-lasers at Bruttenholm's face. The extraordinary features, beyond his amber eyes, were better illuminated. What allele and DNA pairings had expressed and mutated to permit such a specimen? What were the ones that had turned the Ishimura into a CEC-sponsored morgue?

"I accept your terms," Greggs said, pushing his inquiries to the back of his mind.

A smile cracked upon Bruttenholm's scarlet lips. "Good. Let's continue—"

"On one condition." This line brought Bruttenholm leaning in closer. Greggs now cracked a smile himself. "If I die, I am permitted to haunt you."

Humor was not a skill Greggs wielded competently, as Jane could attest to. Despite this, he thought that Bruttenholm would have laughed at such—what was the phrase—tip of the hat. Instead Bruttenholm frowned, raising red ridges on his forehead.

"I won't let that happen."

The somber superhero line delivered, Bruttenholm turned around and trotted onwards. His tail swished low against the metal floor, almost like a dog with its tail between its legs.

I know it wasn't hilarious, Greggs thought, but I thought he would at least chuckle.

Greggs ran after Bruttenholm, soon resuming his position beside him. Silence, awkward now, resumed between the two. Echoes of their steps still wailed in the tunnel. A repetitive noise that would spawn madness if someone kept listening.

Thankfully, Greggs' mind busied itself. Lexine Murdoch, unknown to Greggs, warranted risk to literal life and limb to find. Why? What was so important that Chief Medical Officer Brennan requested her finding? Perhaps it involved whatever was displayed on that fragmented workstation.

Regardless, there was no turning back. Greggs was stuck with Bruttenholm and vice-versa until they reached the Bridge or the zombies managed to kill them. The weighty promise held within his breast pocket, a gift to Jane, assured his course.

Further ahead, as if from a dream, brighter light shone—another tram station. Greggs brought up his cutter, a precautionary measure. Bruttenholm clasped his spear with both hands. Whatever zombie awaited would find itself dismembered in short order.

The light grew closer as if drawing them in. A morphism that reminded Greggs about a predatory tactic that an order of extinct bony fishes utilized. Lophiiformes, or "anglerfishes", had a fleshy growth that glowed in oceanic abysses. A lure that brought unexpecting fish to their toothsome doom.

"Greggs," Bruttenholm whispered, "watch the platform. I'm going to focus on what's ahead in the tunnel. If you see anything jump off that has more than two arms, shoot and scream."

Easy instructions. Demonstrated how much Bruttenholm trusted Greggs' marksmanship. That trust somehow terrified Greggs more!

The light engulfed them. Greggs aimed up left. From the bottom looking up, the Cargo Hold tram station was bloodless, a reassuring sign. He tried to control his breath, slow his beating heart. Noise, at least from their position, was the only clue to any potential attack leaping down from the landing's edge.

Their slow deliberate pace was agonizing. Any creak or groan caused Greggs to clench his teeth, awaiting the howls of the undead. No walking corpses materialized, though.

Eventually, they passed the station and found themselves in familiar low-light. "Well," Bruttenholm said, "that was disappointing."

A great sigh left Greggs. The exhale was so great it caused him to stop and bend over, cutter almost falling from his grasp.

Bruttenholm laid his flesh hand on Greggs' shoulder, and said. "I know it wasn't funny, but I thought you would at least giggle."

What little air his lungs drew in immediately exited as giggles. "I can't…. believe…you said…that!" Greggs said.

"My entire career deals with things that no one wants to believe," Bruttenholm said, a thin smile on his lips.

"Obviously."

After a giggle-filled minute, Greggs calmed. The two went on, a little more carefree. Their conversation lengthened.

"How does one become a paranormal investigator? Do you attend a vocational school or university?"

"In my case," Bruttenholm said, "just be the one strange looking guy that's not out to rip off your face, or some similar crap."

"That's a…"

"Very low bar to clear, I know."

"Exceptionally low," Greggs said, "Question: who employs you? EarthGov, or a corporation?"

"Well. I don't work for Walmart, or any other private enterpirse. And even though they granted me official status as a human, I don't work for the UN, EarthGov, whatever name their using now."

Walmart? UN? Such antiquated terminology, last time he even heard the latter was in a high school history class.

"I work for the U.S. government, BRPD."

Greggs had no idea what the last acronym stood for. The former, though, he knew all too well. That nation-state's participation and facilitation of the Global Warming Epidemic. A crisis that drove the former superpower to insolvency, and its rebirth as the chief portion of the North American Sector.

"Bruttenholm," Greggs said, afraid to ask the following question. "How old are you?"

The paranormal detective's brow furrowed. "The date was right on your RIG's clock?"

"Yes."

"Well…" Bruttenholm thought a minute, using his fingers as a digit-based calculator. "Give or take a few months, I'm five-hundred and sixty-four years old."

Ahead, obscured in the near darkness, a vent popped open. Greggs brought up his cutter, aiming it down the tunnel. The pitter-patter of feet echoed. The expectation was zombies charging, talons out. The small, round masses that crawled along the walls defied that.

At a distance they resembled dogs, but, as they pattered closer, human features became defined. Small hands and feet clasped the metal walls, perhaps additional traction to the suction that red tendrils writhing from a burst-open torso provided. Wide milky eyes stared out from relatively large round bald heads. Monsters more appropriate for the abyssal benthic than a starship.

The zombies must have overrun the Biological Prosthetics Center, Greggs thought. That location had scores of clone-filled tanks. How many were infected?

"'They did not sin; and yet, though they have merits, that's not enough, because they lacked baptism, the portal of faith that you embrace,'" Bruttenholm said.

The infantile zombies, not impressed with the citation, screeched. In that cry was a newborn's endearing timbre spliced with a sickish alien cadence. It brought back memories…

"Greggs!" Bruttenholm said.

Any memory he might have reviewed was blocked. Thank goodness.

"I'll sever the limbs!" Greggs said as he brought the cutter's laser points upon the closest infantile zombie.

The trigger pull was automatic, his consciousness only acknowledging the action after a bright light engulfed the target's left arm and torso. Greggs smiled, a direct hit. The facial expression fell away a moment later when the brightness faded, and the infantile zombie was whole.

The result shocked Greggs into place. It sounded like everything was spinning. Sounded like spinning?

Bruttenholm pushed Greggs onto the floor. In seconds, his world went from vertical to horizontal. The zombies still lurked before him, regardless to alignment. Tentacles extended and flexed, ready to wrap and stab as if attached to a homicidal squid.

Briefly, Greggs wanted to stay down and wallow in his fear. He wasn't allowed to, as Jane's gift in his breast pocket reminded him. A quick breath and Greggs hauled himself up.

"Greggs," Bruttenholm said, almost growling the syllables, "find your cutter!"

Cutter? Greggs flexed his hands, grasping only air. The gasp from the latex gloves was too appropriate.

He scrambled up to his hands and knees then looked forward. The low light, combined with undead fetal matter bellows, hampered swift observation. Only after squinting his eyes was the cutter found: a few meters to the right.

"Greggs, anytime today," Bruttenholm said.

As if he needed prompting. Hands and knees scrambled in toddler-like locomotion. The cutter's grooves grew larger, easier to discern. Greggs stretched out his left arm to grab the weapon. That spinning sound, like an object cutting through the very air, returned. Greggs pulled his limb back. A moment later a trio of sharp barbs stuck out from the metal floor.

Greggs turned towards the tunnel. The infantile zombies had lurked closer. That was horrifying enough, but there was a far worse sight. One zombie's tentacles, long nub ended appendages, spurted out new barbs in an explosion of ichor.

Regenerative projectiles, Greggs thought, what other adaptations is this virus capable of?

Evolutionary speculations would wait. Greggs wanted to live.

He leapt over the barbs then grabbed the cutter on the way down. More inhuman cries from the unliving clones. "Greggs," Bruttenholm said, annoyed.

"I know!" Greggs cried.

Before he even rose, the lasers were already pointed upwards right at the zombie with its new barbs. If dismembering it like the others would not work, perhaps a new strategy would. Greggs switched the cutter's alignment to horizontal and fired.

The infantile zombies retaliated. Their tentacles flexed back, like organic lacrosse sticks, then sprung forward. Greggs body moved, independent to his brain that observed the nine barbs flung through the tunnel in every direction. He could run, but he would die.

Greggs closed his eyes, awaiting pain. He thought about Jane—her smile, her laugh. How he wanted to hold her one last time. The image was lost to a more dreadful one: a young child bleeding out from his skull.

Not now! I don't want to die thinking about that! Greggs attempted to will it away. The blood and body remained, though. It always remained.

"Greggs!"

Greggs opened his eyes, expecting barbs stuck out all over his frame. There were none. Bruttenholm hovered over him instead, arms around him as if he wanted to hug Greggs.

"Bruttenholm…you alright?" Greggs said.

"Pretty much, except for the barbs that pierced my left ass cheek and calf."

Greggs moved to check the areas Bruttenholm mentioned but was stopped with a gentle pat on the chest from his stonehand.

"We'll worry about it later." Bruttenholm motioned his head back down to the tunnel. "Those crawlers need a one-way trip back to Purgatory."

"Sure." Greggs stepped back. "Also, those things do more lurking then crawling."

Bruttenholm nodded and turned to face the zombie trio. "Lurkers. Yeah, that fits."

These infantile zombies—these Lurkers—had spread out along the tunnel's surfaces. One hung from the ceiling, while the remainder covered the walls. Divide and murder, an efficient strategy. What was their counter?

"Greggs," Bruttenholm said, "focus on shooting these things down. I'll cover you."

Sound plan. How to implement it was a challenge, though.

Greggs looked down the tunnel. The lurker on the ceiling had retracted its tentacles as it crawled. When it stopped a tentacle popped out. A single tentacle. Arms and legs might not lob off, but the supernumerary organs will.

Cutter lined up with the remaining tentacle, Greggs fired. There was no time to observe the effect. As the plasma round went out, the lurkers screamed and threw more spikes. Bruttenholm and Greggs moved in concert, the former blocking some barbs while the latter aimed at the lurker hanging on the left tunnel wall.

That lurker's tentacles retracted with a splat before climbing up the wall. A splat echoed in the tunnel, aural proof that a body had dropped from a certain height. Dependent on particular mutations, hosts to this virus obeyed the same principle: dismember certain limbs, and the organisms will die again. An observation worth remembering going forward.

Greggs kept the lasers on the lurker. Despite its strange locomotion, it crawled along the wall as fast as any cockroach. After a minute, it stopped and brought out its spiked tentacles. He adjusted the cutter from horizontal to vertical to compensate for the angle. One trigger pull, kickback, then another trigger pull.

The lurker screamed. Before its barbs were even launched the plasma round singed the tentacle down to a nub. Screams died out as the infant body popped off from the wall. Greggs looked away before it hit the floor.

There was a cry. Greggs turned on his heel. Spiked tentacles flailed around the lurker's small form. Its organ tendrils were a writhing red mass speeding along small death. Only impediment to this was the cutter. He brought the tool to bare, squeezing the trigger before even lining a shot.

Nothing. The clip was empty.

Greggs breathed. The lurker howled. Its mouth, much like the larger breeds, had lost its bottom jaw, leaving a serrated top. Three yellowish-green feelers (formerly a whole tongue) stretched out, ready to kill.

Mere meters from ripping range, Bruttenholm speared the lurker from the side. It screamed, a call to barbs, a call to aid. Bruttenholm silenced it swiftly. He grabbed all three barbed tentacles, placed a hoof on the lurker's back, and pulled them off.

"Well," Bruttenholm said, dropping the lifeless tentacles, "that's another to tack onto my list of awful, gross monsters."

He grabbed the spear's handle and pulled it free with a moist pop. There was no tip. "There goes my weapon. What about yours?"

"Fine. I need to reload…" Greggs turned the cutter to the side, popped the clip handle, and a rectangular plasma clip fell out. A smoke trail, barely visible, followed behind the depleted ammo. He brought his left hand down to his third left shirt pocket, opened it, and dug out a new plasma clip. A few hand movements later, the clip was loaded into the cutter.

"Good," Bruttenholm said, staring down at the broken metal shaft. "Now what am I goin' to use?"

This question required little thought on Bruttenholm's part. As he stared at the lifeless fetal matter, he shook his head but bent down and grabbed a ripped tentacle with a barb attached. Greggs looked away, watching for any more zombies and muting out the wet squish sounds of organs knotted together. He failed at the latter.

"Your injuries, we have to treat them," Greggs said growing queasier as the squishes continued in the background. "If we don't, you may suffer infection and…"

"End up a zombie?" Bruttenholm said, voice calm. A tonal contrast considering the dirty, wet work he busied himself with.

"That's a concern."

"Alright. Give me a minute or two here to finish, then you can give me a once over, deal?"

Greggs pursed his lips. "Deal."

That "minute or two" felt like years. Once the squishing stopped, though, Greggs' work began.

There were six barbs in total—ugly and bone-crafted. Each one had torn into Bruttenholm's scarlet flesh. Dark, vermillion blood flowed in rivulets. Fresh bile erupted up Greggs' throat, but was forced back down. He put on his medical masque.

"This is not good," Greggs said.

"I've suffered worst. That one in Guatemala especially," Bruttenholm said.

Whatever happened in "Guatemala" was a matter better left to ignorance. Greggs dug around in his suit's pockets until he found some bandages and a med-gel cylinder. He placed them in his left hand, went down onto one knee, and maneuvered his right hand around a barb.

The projectile was stuck in. Greggs pulled and pulled to no avail. His fingertips grew sore.

Bruttenholm stopped him, left flesh-hand wrapped around his arm. "Let me have a try."

The barb's exposed sharp ends were engulfed between Bruttenholm's stone index-finger and thumb. A deep inhale, like a swimmer preparing to dive, and Bruttenholm ripped the barb from his flesh. Blood flew in an arc as the projectile was thrown away.

Greggs applied the med-gel to the wound, let the substance sit a minute, then wrapped a bandage over it. He repeated the process: removal, application, and adhesive. As he neared the end an observation struck him—the skin regrew around the barbs.

"Bruttenholm?" Greggs said as he worked on the final wound.

"Yeah."

"Any peculiarities with your physiology?"

"You mean besides red skin and a tail?"

Greggs looked up and said to a grinning Bruttenholm. "I wasn't inquiring about your unique anatomy."

"I know," Bruttenholm said shaking his head. "I have certain passive abilities."

Passive abilities? Does overdeveloped sarcasm count?

"You've heard about dog years, right?"

Greggs nodded. "Every year a canine ages that's the equivalent of four in a human."

"Okay. Well I do the same thing, except in reverse."

That information was difficult to fathom, let alone understand. Reverse-aging? If that was biologically possible then not only the Unitologists, but all Earthgov would have funded research and then exploited the results.

Yet, if what Bruttenholm mentioned was true then that explained a centuries-old lifespan.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Bruttenholm said.

"Quite so. But, in the context of recent events, anything relegated to fantasy or myth is now possible."

Bruttenholm smiled. "That's the spirit."

Greggs sighed and shook his head. "I guess tiresome word-play is another ability?"

"Yep. That, and my regenerative powers."

A powerful tiredness overtook Greggs. He rubbed his nose's bridge, ignoring the desire to just sleep.

"Regenerative powers? Like an amphibian when it loses a limb?"

"I can't regrow an arm or leg, but bruises and cuts—" Bruttenholm snapped with the fingers from his left-hand. "—heal up in no time."

That explained why the barbs were progressively harder to remove: Bruttenholm's skin regrew around them. Superpowers and zombies, a popular culture catastrophe. What was next? vampires or werewolves?

The final barb was removed, and the wound sprayed, an excessive act. After a few pleasantries, their journey resumed, with every creak and groan scrutinized along the remainder.

After about a hundred such brief pauses, they stepped into Hydroponics' tram station's soft lights.

"How do we get up there?" Greggs asked, cutter's laser lines skimming the landing's edges.

"Remember how we got down the other one?" Bruttenholm said.

"Oh, no…"

Bruttenholm jumped and grabbed the landing's edge one-handed. He hefted himself up, spear swung out before him. Zombies beware.

Greggs waited. Hearing strained in anticipation of undead howls. Only hoof beats echoed down to him. Somehow that worried him more.

"All clear," Bruttenholm said as he stuck his head over the ledge. A hand extended down to Greggs.

Not for long, Greggs thought as he grabbed Bruttenholm's hand and was lifted.

The tram station was mostly cleared. Less smeared blood compared to the one in Medical Bay. No body bags. No body parts. Perhaps little undead presence on the deck? A man could hope…

"Well," Bruttenholm said, bearing his barbed spear, "let's get going."

"Hold on a minute."

"Thought you wanted to reach the Bridge, fast," Bruttenholm said, but stopped anyway.

"I do. But—" Greggs bent down and picked up a rectangular device with a cylindrical hand grip. "—this might provide some information about what's occurred on this deck."

Bruttenholm's eyebrows rose. "What is that?"

"An audio log. It works like a…" Historic audio recording devices flashed through Greggs mind. "MP3 device."

Bruttenholm nodded. The comparison was apt. "No more iPhones then?" he said.

Greggs had forgotten that one. There were so many brands lost during the Great Mergers that he doubted any anthropologist could identify them all.

"Not that I'm aware." Only tact response Greggs thought possible.

The yellow touchscreen presented a user interface common to any audio/video recording program: polygons to perform different commands and, above that, low and high waves that represented captured sound. He pressed the play button. A prompt asked him if he wanted to transfer a copy of the audio log to his RIG.

Yes please, Greggs thought as he pressed "YES".

A screen popped into existence from Greggs' holoprojector. "PLAYBACK AUDIO" was aligned up and to the right from several blue bars that rose and fell as a frustrated and tired voice spoke.

Hydroponics log… Elizabeth Cross reporting. I'm pleased to say that we're working close to maximum capacity at the present time. All flora is healthy and thriving and food yield has created a surplus. I was going to pass the surplus onto the colony, but the captain has given a no-fly order. I want to note my opposition to that order. Everyone knows they're in trouble down there, and I don't see what denying them our surplus will achieve.

"Your captain is an asshole," Bruttenholm said as the recording finished.

"Yes. He's issuing extreme isolationist policies." Greggs laid his hand above his breast pocket. "What little success they had."

Bruttenholm snorted. "Success my ass…"

Condemnation declared, Bruttenholm started towards the door leading to Hydroponics proper. Greggs placed the audio log back on the floor and followed. Better to maintain pace with the brave scarlet giant.

An automatic message played regarding door access. Bruttenholm growled.

"Hold on." Greggs ordered the door open.

Down the hall, sticking out from a bathroom entrance, was a bloodied arm and head. From the black latex glove and loose gray material, Greggs guessed the body was formerly a horticulturist. How he wanted back down into the tunnel.

Bruttenholm gently pushed him aside. A restroom massacre peaked the paranormal detective's interest.

Despite his hesitancy, Greggs followed. His "tourist" stepped over the corpse and entered, as he took position a few steps away from the corpse back to the entrance, cutter's lasers sweeping either hallway end every few seconds. Felt like they never left the tram tunnels.

Water dripped from a sink, an undertone to the methodical hoof steps. Greggs heard his own heartbeat. Tension gripped his mind—when and where would undead howling bellow.

"Nothin' in here," Bruttenholm said from the bathroom.

Despite the loud tenor of his voice, Greggs felt relief. No slashing corpses pouring out of the bathroom stalls.

"Don't relax." Bruttenholm side-stepped Greggs out the bathroom. "We still have to pass through the rest of this deck."

"And find Miss Murdoch." Greggs nodded his head back. "Unless she was in there."

"No. She wasn't."

"Based on evidence, or a hunch."

"I'm a detective," Bruttenholm said as he headed further down the hall. Red hoofprints left in his wake. "Hunches are the only reliable thing we have."

Greggs shook his head. I have a hunch myself: longer we're on the deck, more danger we'll suffer.

Despite that, Greggs followed the scarlet tracks further into a nightmare that would drive anyone screaming mad.


Hydroponics, renowned for lush greenery despite the steel environment, provided a popular respite in a cold galaxy. Wildlife recordings played over the intercoms: crickets chirping, birds singing, and monkey hollers. In West Grow Chamber 2, though, screams broke the artificial harmony. All the crops, suspended in their glass chambers, appeared to wilt in despair at this unedited noise. But death had already claimed the vegetation before they had arrived. An alien blight that harvested flesh above all else.

Alissa Vincent, not wanting herself and her team to die, needed silence.

"Hansen," she said as she shoved a hand over the security officer's mouth. "Shut the fuck up!"

In the eight years that Hansen had served aboard the Ishimura, he was the consummate professional. Any situation, including the infamous G-ball riots, had never shook his calm demeanor. Now, the man was batshit crazy.

Hansen shoved Vincent out of the way. Spit flew everywhere from a mouth stuck in a maddened, toothed snarl. His wide forehead accentuated now too wild spiked blonde hair.

"Fuck you! This is all your fault!" He pulled out his pistol, flashlight on, waving it in Vincent's face. "You killed us all, you fuck!"

Ramirez, Vincent's second, wasn't having any of that shit. "Hansen. Shut your fucking mouth."

That stopped Hansen a moment, but he was still irrational. His breathing was erratic, almost like a rabid dog's. Any action or sound might trigger him to pull the pistol's trigger.

As Hansen eyed Ramirez and Vincent, Shen—the Medical Officer of the team—snuck up on his left. Before the crazed security officer noticed, she jumped onto him. He fell on his back, pinned with the pinner sliding his pistol out of reach.

"Get your shit together, man," Shen said as much to Hansen as herself. What hair that wasn't shaved, fell in azure-dyed strands.

Hansen laughed. High-pitched, arrhythmic, like a mass shooter on an adrenaline high. On instinct, Vincent hefted the plasma saw where the energy blade was pointed out.

"What's so funny?" Shen said.

"Our bodies. They want our bodies," Hansen said, between gasped laughs. "And they're going to get 'em."

Shen arched up. That comment, considering what had happened the last few days, had struck an emotional chord. It struck in different ways. Ramirez cursed. Irons, a miner that found Vincent's team, prayed to the Marker. Vincent just felt angry.

As if a spell, the hysteric words summoned the zombies. One stepped out from behind a growth chamber closest to Hansen and Shen. The bastard was bloated, its stomach a yellow sac ready to bust. Only a single set of arms, but made up for with longer, almost grader-like blades. This much weight was the reason why its legs were shorter and feet twisted into thick, gangrenous tripods.

Shen jumped up into a charge, plasma saw revving. "Shen!" Vincent shouted. This particular zombie was different from the ones fought previously, and that meant a risky degree of unknown behavior.

The medic ignored her warnings. The hyper-heated blade, starting from one jawbone to the next, beheaded it. Its skull rolled down onto the floor, sickish blood spurting after it. Then Shen brought the saw down, cutting straight through its enlarged abdomen. No yellow pus gushed out, a surprise.

The top half thudded against a growth chamber's glass, while the bottom fell to the floor. Intestines, exposed and rotten, started to convulse in this latter half.

More weird shit? Vincent thought.

Small creatures burst out from the guts. A score, perhaps more, that paddled their way like a hungry ant swarm to a sugar cube.

"That fucker had quite the load," Ramirez said.

"Yeah." Vincent revved her own plasma saw. "Good thing we know how to mop up messes."

Ramirez smirked while Irons simply nodded. All in agreement, the three charged.

The swarm's members, despite their diminutive size, sped. Shen stepped back, an unconscious act that shortened the distance between her and everyone else. When the little creatures started to jump at her, a quartet of saws met them.

Those first ones disintegrated into flesh mists upon contact. The rest, perhaps aware of danger, jumped all over. A few landed atop Vincent's left arm. Up close, the things resembled nub-limbed faceless frogs. One's non-face split open like a blossoming tri-petaled flower, a spiked proboscis flailing out.

Vincent swatted them off with her right hand. The things fell in different spots with the closest one quickly squashed under boot. A pained cry drew her attention.

Ramirez, face down on the ground was covered from head to shoulders with the tiny monsters. He grabbed and pulled them off, but more were hopping over. Instinctually, they knew that downed prey was an easy kill.

As they jumped in for the kill, Vincent slid in, and with one horizontal slash, bisected them. Ramirez looked up, his face covered with small, bleeding hole. The proboscis had stuck him.

"Thanks," Ramirez said as he wiped blood away with a gloved palm. The rivulets were gone, but red smudges remained.

More howls drew their attention. Ten of the usual (if that term applied) zombies shambled over at nine o' clock. Talons ready to slash.

"Got this?" Vincent asked Ramirez as she offered him a hand.

"Yeah," he said taking the hand and lifting himself up. "Hydroponics of Horror, streaming on every major vid-channel."

Vincent smirked.

Plasma saws en garde, the two steeled themselves. Before any brave charge, though, a red barrel with a flame image rolled in front of the horde. A zombie tripped over it, rolling it further into the horde. A blue plasma bolt hit the container.

The hyper-heated energy lit the fuel and catalyzed an explosion. Flame and force stopped the horde. Rotten flesh burnt before the dead crops. Limbs shot off, bringing many a zombie low. Those that still stood—or crawled—were enflamed.

Vincent looked to her left. Between two growth chambers, lanky as any phantasmal corn stock, stood an all too familiar figure.

"You know noise attracts these things, right?" George Greggs said in an almost full monotone.

Ramirez and Vincent looked at each other. "You have got to be shitting me!" the former said.

"Crazy shit attracts crazy assholes."

"Yeah, but how is that 'crazy' alive?" Ramirez said while he pointed towards Greggs.

Good question, considering that when ship security went to detain him a few days ago he holed himself up in his office.

"I don't know." Vincent grimaced. "But I think we'll find out. Whether we like it or not."

Ramirez nodded, then went to finish off the zombies that survived the explosion. Greggs sprinted over to Vincent soon after. "Chief Security Officer Vincent," he said "How's the situation?"

It took all her will not to punch the bastard with his feigned polite professionalism. "You tell me?" she managed to say.

"Walking corpses all over the ship. Crew decimated. Everything falling apart."

That analysis was given without emotion or infliction. Vincent sighed. Rhetorical questions went over his head.

"Frustrating situation," Greggs said with some concern.

"No shit." Vincent stabbed a finger into his chest. "How are you even here?"

"I walked."

"Through the tram tunnels?"

"Yes."

"From Medical Deck."

"Yes, ma'am."

The finger curled back to form a fist. "Who helped you? Someone from Security"

"In a way, yes…" Greggs rubbed the back of his neck. "He's a detective. Of sorts."

A detective? Only one she knew was that McNeil guy that crashed into the ship with the others from the colony. Regardless, two people trekked all the way to Hydroponics with all this horror shit? Something wasn't right.

There was a cry. Vincent recognized the owner. "Hansen," she said in a whisper.

"Fuck off!" Shen cried.

Vincent cursed and broke into a run.

Everybody—every living body—converged to the cries. What Vincent half-expected was some walking corpse, standing over a bifurcated Hansen and Shen, blood dripping from its talons. A semi-naked red devil wasn't considered.

"Hey, hey," the biblical creature said, large stone hand spread out in a stop gesture. "Calm down."

"Like Hell!" Shen attempted a slash, but missed.

"Ma'am," Greggs said. "Please listen to Bruttenholm."

Shen kept her eyes on the now identified "Bruttenholm" but stopped attacking. "This bastard attacked Hansen."

Ramirez started to move up, saw ready. Vincent shot out a hand to stop him. "I guess you're the detective?"

"Yep."

"Informal attire?"

"Better than being butt-naked."

The broad smile on Bruttenholm's face was disarming. Irons and Ramirez chuckled, while Vincent grinned. Shen gaped.

"Alright, smart guy," Vincent said, "I have a million questions and little time, so I'm starting off basic: why did you knock out my guy here?"

The smile dropped. "The man was crazy."

"Tell us something new," Ramirez said.

"Homicidal crazy." Bruttenholm chopped at air with his stone-hand. "Hansen, was it? Charged at full speed with that future saw of his—" He then pointed at Shen. "—at you."

Shen lowered her saw. "Shit…! I knew he lost it, but not that much…"

"Yeah. I know," Bruttenholm said. A moment later, "Anyone here Lexine Murdoch, or know her by any chance?"

Vincent's team shook their heads. Another name to another person. Vincent even said no until a memory struck, one related to the other detective…

"Personally, no," Vincent stepped up to Bruttenholm, not intimidated by his immense size. "But, from the report I read earlier, she crashed in with others from the colony."

Bruttenholm's shoulders slumped. Whatever drove his search, it must have some importance. It was a mystery that Vincent wanted answered.

"Pardon me," Greggs said, "But considering our exposed nature, we may want to continue this somewhere else. Bridge perhaps."

Vincent nodded. "Alright, everyone. Let's go."

"What about Hansen?" Ramirez said.

"I got him." Bruttenholm effortlessly hefted the unconscious man onto his massive shoulders.

The group ran, leaving cleaved bodies to rot. A profane act like massacring a sacred grove's caretakers. An unspoken query plagued their thoughts: How long until this was their fate?


A/N 1: Well, here's another one...after five months. On a serious note thank you for the patience. I was working two jobs since August, and only about a few weeks ago returned to working one. That situation left me little time to write. Thankfully, I have more free time again. Next update for this story may be another wait. I plan to outline the remaining chapters in this story. In the mean time, I'm working on a chapter to another story that may interest everyone and sate your appetite for awhile. I would also love to give a shout out to because. just because and UltraZeta120-thank you both for your reviews, they encouraged me to make it over the finish line on this one. If I don't post anything else this year, hope everyone has a happy and safe holiday season and Happy New Year!

A/N 2: I would also like to apologize for the lack of horizontal line breaks. I had uploaded the chapter this morning right before I left for work, so I had no time to alter anything until tonight. I hope it wasn't too jarring for the readers that read it earlier today. Also, please feel free to favorite or follow the story, or leave a review!