Whew. Loooong time since last update. Hopefully, I'll have a few more out at a faster pace. Also editing a few typos/continuity errors in previous chapters, in the event that you decide to just start from the beginning rather than trying to remember who everyone is.
"Regular check-in," McNeal's voice crackled over Bass' radio, "No change since last call. Janick's stable, but Doc's burning morphine like no tomorrow keeping him from going into shock."
"Alright. We're trying to reach a possible exit in L-Block," Gunnery Sergeant Bass replied, keeping his attention focused down the dimly lit hallway, "Schematics say it's intact, and we should be able to blow it open if need be."
"Any contact from the Ishimura?" this time, it was Jones, the medic left with the three others trapped behind the mess hall door.
"Nothing yet," Bass admitted reluctantly, "Switch to open channels. It's not like we're trying to be secretive here, and if they pick up our transmissions, they might try to make contact themselves."
"Too quiet," Dean tightened his grip on his pulse rifle, "If the Ishimura's dealing with the same thing that got onboard the Valor, they should have been spitting out signals for assistance when they picked us up in the first place."
"We're assuming they lost their comm capabilities, presumably before they put out the distress beacon," Bass justified the silence, "Besides, there's plenty of debris around to mess with short-range comms. We'll be in contact distance soon."
"If anyone's around to talk to," Sherman muttered.
"Stow that," Kaczynski shot back with uncustomary hostility to his friend, "Gunny says there're plenty of reasons not to hear the crew or the colonists, and Gunny's word is law."
"Shit," Sherman shook his head as his vision began to cloud, clearing his eyes, "I'm just trying to make sense of all this. Sorry, Kat. You too, Gunny. Didn't mean to question you."
"It's fine," Bass punched open the override commands for another sealed bulkhead door, "This isn't what any of us were trained for, and that…thing," he couldn't come up with a more suitable word for the monster that they'd killed, "Well, it makes Tanith seem like a memory of better days."
"Tanith?" Dean looked between Sherman and Bass. Bass was slightly surprised the PFC hadn't heard of the fiasco, but then again, Dean was from one of the outer colonies. It wasn't uncommon for them to miss key happenings in other parts of human space.
"I'll tell you about it when we're sharing a round back on Earth. On me, of course," Bass managed a small smile, even if his squadmates couldn't see it. It still put them at visible ease, and that was essential: in a hostile environment with the massive unknown that was the alien grating on their nerves, one of the squad snapping under the pressure could be worse for them than any number of obvious hostiles.
"One sec, Gunny," Kaczynski let the mechanical support arm of his Grinder take the better part of the weapon's weight as he fished through his supplies with a now-free hand, "Popping a stim. With respect, we could all probably use one."
"Good idea," Bass looked at Sherman, Dean, and Chen, "Take a second to shoot up. We're not much good if we can't stay sharp." Kaczynski was the first to insert the small plexiglass vial into his suit's auto-injector, sending the potent concoction directly into his carotid artery to speed its spread.
Bass let the momentary rush fade, counting off thirty seconds to let the desired effects take hold. The stimulants, nicknamed 'stims' or 'stimpacks' by the Marines, was designed in light of what the men in R&D called 'human weakness.' Marines were equipped with the best weapons and body armor available short of prototypes, and a few scientists had noticed that even the minor gene-boosts given to the enlisted men of the Corp weren't enough to ensure that a few millennia-old weaknesses of the human body wouldn't interfere with operation of said equipment.
Thus, stimpacks were developed. They were exclusively for usage in a combat environment where sleep was not an option, sharpening senses and staving off hunger and exhaustion for hours. There was a .01% chance of a bodily addiction to the substance, but that number was deemed low enough to be acceptable for widespread use.
Bass waited for a confirmation from each man that enough time had elapsed, then passed through the previously closed door. They were getting close to the seal for the escape pod Bass had designated, not because it was still intact or usable, but because (if the schematics were right) it offered a route into the Ishimura.
"Alright…" Bass held up a closed fist, bringing the four other men to a stop as he summoned the holographic image of the Valor's floorplan, "Bridge is about twenty meters that way," he nodded in the respective direction, "And pod two should be right about here."
Sure enough, the escape pod's doors were sealed, indicating that it had long since launched, but if the impact report was right, by prying the door open, they should have a clear path right into the Ishimura.
"On it, Gunny," Sherman drew out what resembled a compact caulk gun, "We'll be in faster than-"
"Wait," Bass placed a staying hand on Sherman's shoulder, looking around the red-lit interior of the corridor. Kaczynski had seen that look enough to know that the Gunnery Sergeant thought something was amiss.
"What is it, chief?" Kaczynski took the initiative and broke the silence. Bass waited a moment, then shook his head and took his hand off Sherman's shoulder.
"It's nothing. Just get that door open." Sherman shrugged and set about running a thin line of clear 'caulk' down the length of the pod's access door. It was slower and weaker than a breeching charge, but the corrosive ooze would burn its way through the thin door without risking a hull breech as surely as a welder's torch. That, and the team didn't have any breeching charges. Bass considered himself lucky that Sherman even had the tool with him.
But he was still ill at ease by the environment. Something was…off, but for the life of him, he couldn't see what it was. He dismissed the feeling as nervousness as Sherman trigged the goo, igniting it in a bright glow that automatically caused their helmets to further darken their eyepieces.
Even if he couldn't pin it down, Bass was right. Something was wrong. Sergeant Willis had been at approximately this location at the time of the collision. But despite most of the team being killed on impact, their bodies were nowhere to be seen.
The caustic substance continued to burn through the door, paving the way to the Ishimura. But if Bass had known what had become of those bodies, a lesser man might've drawn his sidearm and ended his own life then and there to save himself from facing the monstrosities to come.
"Hear that?" Private Wallace and 'doc' Jones both tensed, shooting glares at McNeal. Jones' gloves were still bloody from tending to Janick, and Wallace was short-tempered as it was. Neither was in the mood for false alarms.
"Don't look at me like that," McNeal added, "I know what I-"
A loud clang erased any doubts any of the Marines might've had. All of their guns toward the mess hall's opposite doorway. A scratching on the other side only further wracked their nerves. Wallace thumbed the safety of the Grinder and let it wind up. McNeal's shotgun was long since primed.
The scratching stopped. The only sound was the low hum of the Grinder's spinning barrels. A few seconds more, and Wallace released the first of the two triggers. The normally quiet sound had become deafening in the silence. Janicked groaned from his prone position, and Jones was swift to stifle the sound.
"Maybe it's-" McNeal stopped as a clatter stole the trio's attention, this time up to the bullet-addled air vent. It was a slow, stumbling, not like the quick movements of the creature lying dead in the center of the room. It grew louder, echoing through the rupture in the vent.
"Hold fire," Jones whispered, drawing his sidearm and adding it to the arrayed firepower, "Wait for it to fall."
The noise stopped, and a pained groan leaked from the vent before an armored body tumbled from the hole and flopped to the ground. McNeal fired off one panicked shell, but Jones shoved the Jackhammer's barrel away in time to allow it to miss. The sergeant's stripes on the shoulder pauldron and the decal of a pair of crossed shotguns was enough to jog recognition.
"Don't shoot!" he shouted, racing to the prone form, "It's Campbell!"
"Fucking hell," McNeal fought back a rising nausea, "Almost shot the sarge."
"Sergeant!" Jones jostled the prone, bloody form, "Come on, sarge, answer me!" Campbell was in terrible condition, with his armor ruptured in numerous places and coated in blood, some of it probably not his own. Jones turned back to McNeal, snapping his fingers and reaching out with his free hand.
"McNeal, gimme my kit!" he hissed, "He's a goddamn mess!" McNeal let his weapon hang from its strap as he fumbled for the medical kit beside Janick. Jones struggled to turn Campbell onto his back. His RIG was unlit, but from the damage to his suit, it was understandable for it to be offline.
"Stay with me, sarge," he murmured, unsealing Campbell's helmet and pulling it off, "It'll be…fine."
Jones trailed off as the words died in his mouth. Half the flesh melted like putty, hairless, and fanged…there was no way this thing was Sergeant Brian Campbell.
But worse were its eyes…focusing directly on him as its fanged mouth let out an inhuman scream.
Jones died as a razor-edged spine tore itself from the creature's arm and decapitated him. His body swayed a moment, pumping blood from its neck to a head that wasn't there, then collapsed onto the creature.
McNeal was frozen in shock. The creature jittered with newfound quickness, thrashing at the body to right itself. Jones' head had barely hit the ground when Wallace slammed both firing studs of the Grinder.
In the agonizing second of windup, the creature was already up, free of the weight of Jones' body, and lunged. But by then, the Grinder spoke.
A banshee wail combined with the deafening thunder accompanied the storm of death that spewed from the multi-barreled weapon. The Campbell-creature was hurled backward as if hit by a train, smashed against the wall as the high-caliber rounds blew it apart.
Wallace only released his grip after a full ten seconds of sustained fire. Hundreds of pockmarks surrounded the body, and little was left of it above the waist except for a few vertebrae. The rest was scattered around the body, nothing but shards of armor and chunks of meat.
The pounding on the door resumed again, this time louder. More clattering from the vent, this time in unbroken sections across the mess hall. Razor-sharp claws tore through the metal like scissors through paper, and the unpowered door began to tremble as it was forced upward.
"Contacts!" Wallace shouted into his radio, unleashing another salvo onto one of the ventilation ducts. A screech of pain followed, and blood dribbled onto the floor through the new holes.
"Repeat, contacts!" No reply from Bass and his squad, if they were even still around to hear him. Wallace frantically refocused the Grinder's sights, killing another creature that had gotten halfway through a new hole in the vent. This one was like Campbell: wearing Marine armor, with the familiar decals of Alpha squad.
McNeal was still paralyzed. In an instant, Jones was dead, and now, they were killing monsters wearing the skins of their fellow soldiers. What in God's name was happening here?
"Goddamnit, McNeal, shoot them!"
R&R, the usual deal.