Chapter 4: Inmortuae Mare Limax
Vincent was happy inside an elevator. That she experienced such joy from something so annoying on any other day spoke volumes about how messed up the current situation was. Shit. It sounded like Ramirez providing a synopsis to a B-grade vid.
Historic starship, stuck in the far frontier of known space. A routine mission gone horribly wrong. The dead shambling right out the morgue. Zombies? Alien infection? All of the above! Humanity's only hope—a ragtag band of security personnel, a mechanic, a scumbag, and…
Vincent looked over her shoulder. In the elevator's back, tail gently twitching, stood a devil. One that loved to wise-crack.
Advertising has its work cut out on this one. Hope the trailer gives away the entire plot, though.
Their elevator ride, a well-earned distraction after surviving a ship-borne greenhouse of horrors, embraced a tenacious quiet. Credits were on Irons to break it. The mechanic, as far as Unitologists went, acted normal. No proselytizing to the heathens about Convergence or other galaxy- affecting supernatural events.
When Bruttenholm joined the group, Irons's right hand had barely left his Marker necklace. The miniature helix shifted back and forth between his large, gloved fingers. Finally, he dared to ask an important question.
"What happens after death?"
The question hung in the elevator. A philosophical weight that pressed against everyone's mind. Personally, Vincent found it offensive with zombies running around.
"I apologize," Irons said, hand grasped around his charm. "I'm just overwhelmed with your presence, Bruttenholm—"
"Hellboy. Only Greggs likes to call me that."
"Hellboy. You are the only being beyond Earth that humanity has ever had contact with."
"What? Poltergeists no longer haunting houses? Gremlins not tearing up airplane engines?"
"Before, or after the exorcism with Karras?" Ramirez said suddenly.
"Who says that was the only exorcism!" Hellboy said.
This exchange continued. Their sentences descended into reference and tongue-in-cheek. Everyone's confusion grew as terms such as "head-spinning vomit" were uttered. Shen, despite growing pale, failed to throw up. There probably wasn't anything left in her stomach to churn up.
Confusion passed through the group. Poltergeists? Gremlins sounded close to Jermlaine, a nasty fey from Dungeons and Dragons. Those nasty bastards massacred Vincent's party years ago. That ruined the only fun during her stint aboard the George Hearst.
"Sorry guys," Hellboy said. "I guess The Exorcist is obscure these days?"
"Yeah. Kind of is…" Vincent answered, but her mind chewed on something else.
Ramirez loved old movies. The kind from the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. How familiarly Hellboy talked about this Exorcist compelled Vincent to ask:
"Hellboy? What are you?"
Hellboy, without missing a beat, said, "What do I look like?"
A big, frickin' devil wearing the worst thong in history! Vincent instead replied, "An investigator with a sharp tongue that's not blunted with a lit cigarette."
Hellboy smiled. "Polite. Real polite. But yeah, any default assumptions about my family tree you have is probably half-right."
Before anyone inquired further into this devil's genealogy, the elevator stopped. Back to business.
Vincent stepped out; plasma saw already revving. The immediate area, a hallway that eventually went off to the right, appeared clear. No corpses lay around, or other fucked up shit. Three ceiling vents.
"Ramirez, you're with me. Hellboy and Greggs will follow behind. Irons and Shen, you guys are last. Double time."
Ramirez and Shen gave curt acknowledgement. Irons kissed his Marker charm. Hellboy nodded, as he hefted Hanson on to his shoulders, eliciting a soft groan from the unconscious sergeant. Greggs voiced dissent.
"All due respect, Chief Security Officer Vincent, shouldn't we proceed slowly? Bruttenholm and I executed such a strategy, and we survived our journey to Hydroponics…"
Greggs's voice died out as he noticed not only Vincent's "pissed" face, but Ramirez and Shen staring daggers into him. The bastard went pale, legs clenched together almost as if about to piss.
"Greggs," Hellboy said, "Let's follow her lead. We do have a handicap here." Another groan from Hanson emphasized that point.
Disagreement settled. Everyone readied their weapons (in Hellboy's case his stone fist), and marched down the hall.
All eyes were up top. Stealth wasn't possible in this confined space. Every step punctuated like a shot pistol round. Plasma saws revved like jungle beasts roaring.
The first vent arrived and went. No scythed corpses leapt down among them. Everyone picked up speed.
Second vent passed without incident. Footfalls screamed like cannon fire. Vincent—and to an extent her team plus two—prepared. One more vent. That's where the zombie would jump out. The security chief angled her plasma saw.
Every step rang in Vincent's ear, almost as if it attempted to dig into her brain. Damn, she thought, my headache stopped only a little while ago.
Vincent went under the last vent, then past it. She pivoted on her heels, and pressed her back against the right-side wall. Everyone continued. Somehow, nothing burst down with a murderous bellow.
In a moment, Vincent relaxed. One breath made her feel as if she drank a cold beer after a long shift.
The team progressed through several more halls. Eyes always on doors or vents. After trampling down the seventh hall they reached their destination: another elevator, with no active hologram.
"Damn," Vincent said. "Ramirez."
"On it." Ramirez went to a control panel beside the elevator, dug out a screwdriver from a suit pocket, and began to diagnose the issue.
The rest of the group turned to face down the hall. If any zombie shambled down, it would meet a wall of plasma.
"Shit," Ramirez cursed softly.
"What's the problem?" Vincent asked.
"Most of the wires are fried. Probably related to the power issues that have occurred the last few weeks."
"Meaning?"
"I can unlock the elevator, but I can't provide power to operate it."
"Oh, that's great," Shen said. "What now?"
"Hypothetical here, guys," Hellboy said, tugging his makeshift loincloth back into place. "If there was a way to open the elevator's top, how far a climb to the Bridge?"
"Twenty something meters," Ramirez said, crossing the remaining functional wires. The elevator's door slid open. "But that's a difficult climb, let alone cutting open the elevator ceiling."
"Fifteen to twenty minutes minimum to make an adequate opening to fit everyone," Irons said, eyes never leaving the hallway.
"You callin' me fat, Irons?" Hellboy said. "Here I thought we were friends…"
"We are! I mean…I meant no offence!"
Hellboy placed a hand on Irons's shoulder. "Relax. I was just jokin'."
Yeah, and what a laugh fest it was, Vincent thought, noting how Irons shot to attention at Hellboy's touch. Almost as funny as the man enraptured with your every word.
Vincent respected Irons, really. If it wasn't for him and his cache of industrial plasma saws, they'd already have served their remains as zombie chow in A-block mess like Pendleton. Shit, he appeared to hold it together better than many security officers she knew. But a semi-naked devil turned this grown-ass man into a nervous kid.
"Watch this guy," Hellboy said, gently placing Hanson in a reclined position against the wall.
"Got it," Ramirez said as he stepped away from the panel, screwdriver back in its assigned pocket.
"What's your plan?" Vincent said.
"Ammo conservation." Hellboy raised his stone hand curled into a fist.
Hellboy ducked into the elevator. Inside, he stood, considering, much like a demolition specialist, where to start without fucking up. He began to pummel the elevator's ceiling.
The noise, voluminous like an asteroid connecting against a ship's hull, caused everyone to wince. These make-shift entrance's birth cries soon attracted predators.
Gurgled, wet roars underscored Hellboy's work. Vincent gripped her plasma saw tighter with every blow.
Long shadows appeared from the hall's end. Undead cries now overtook the elevator's groans. One rounded the corner. Scythes and small arms reached for Vincent and her team. Two more followed behind.
"Damn," Ramirez said, gulping despite himself. "Trio of slashers."
"Really, that's what you're calling them?" Shen said.
The "slashers" were halfway to them and closing. What clothing remained—black boots and overalls, green overshirt and pants—indicated former engineer and maintenance crew. Vincent, despite herself, stole a glance at Irons. If he recognized these walking corpses, he failed to show it.
The closest slasher had its right leg amputated in a clean plasma cut. Its right talon, stretched back to attack, flew off from the elbow. A tri-laser beam, aimed at an acute angle from Vincent's far right, followed the falling body. Another plasma bolt, and the final talon was amputated.
The remaining zombies shambled around the dead-again corpse.
Greggs, Vincent noted, appeared familiar with the plasma cutter. He was already aiming at the next slasher in line. Perhaps the bastard's survival wasn't all dependent on Hellboy.
"Irons, with me!" Vincent said.
The mechanic joined her without a word. Vincent engaged the slasher on the right, while Irons took the one on the left.
Vincent ducked beneath a talon swing. In a crouched position, she kept forward. Once close enough, she leapt up and shoved her plasma saw straight into the thing's exposed guts. She rose, tearing a bloody path all the way out the left-side of its neck. It wasn't dead yet.
Before any talon struck, Vincent kicked it back with a booted foot. Almost funny to watch the murderous monster's four hands swipe outwards, desperate to maim. Except it would rise again, if given the opportunity.
Vincent would not let that happen.
The plasma saw cut down the weaponized limbs. From the sounds behind her—a deep resonant grunt, revving saw, and corpse cries that abruptly ended—Irons had killed the other slasher. The banging continued.
How long does it take to rend—
"Shit!" Ramirez said.
A shadow flew over Vincent. Upper portion resembled a human, remainder a wiggling tail that ended in a blade. In Vincent's gut, she knew that this newest nightmare would kill someone.
Vincent grimaced and turned. A whoosh noise filled the hall, and the zombie slowed mid-air.
Stasis, Vincent thought as she recognized the blue time dilation field around the monster.
Irons. The mechanic's RIG had a blue crescent right of the health indicator along his spine.
Ramirez and Shen, recovered from the initial surprise, proceeded to hack off the thing's two arms. Those limbs spun in slow motion away from the diving body. Blood trickled in droplets almost like a slow-mo action vid scene.
The slow-flying corpse quickened, stasis field dimming. Everyone hugged the walls. The blue glow disappeared. Severed arms dropped onto the floor. Body proper crashed, headfirst, into the metal floor. Its skull cracked upon impact. Yellow ichor trailed as it skidded to a stop. Blade-tipped tail—more like stretched out intestines—clanked all the while.
"Thanks, Irons," Vincent said after catching her breath.
"Yeah," Ramirez said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand. "Really saved our asses."
Shen nodded her agreement to that. She kicked the terribly mangled corpse. Its head lulled over and showed a saber-toothed snarl.
"Fucked up bastard," Shen said in a hushed tone.
"Why?"
Everyone stared up at the questioner. Greggs shirked under the collective gaze. More childlike in that action than Irons's awe over Hellboy.
"Because some fucked up alien shit," Shen said.
"That, and why did the zombie leap over Chief Security Officer Vincent? These things usually attempt to kill anything before them."
The bastard had a good point. Vincent was vulnerable as she finished off the slasher (damn Ramirez). Why didn't the new one, with its nasty armaments, behead or bite her?
As if knowing Vincent's thoughts, Irons said, "Perhaps another target?"
"Such as…" Ramirez said.
"What's going on guys?" Hellboy walked up, one hand adjusting his sweat soaked loincloth. He observed the latest carnage. "That's a new one."
"Yeah," Vincent said while thinking: Another target sighted.
A groan, deep like someone waking from a long unrestful slumber, caught their attention. Head rolled over to the right, eyes fluttering open, Hanson awoke.
"What's happening…?" Hanson said.
"Sleeping beauty is awake," Hellboy said then looked at Vincent. "You want me to hit him again?"
"Hit who…What the hell?" Hanson was now wide awake, undoubtedly at the sight of scarlet ass cheeks and tail. He attempted to bring his hands before him, but soon realized they were cuffed behind him. "What's going on? Vincent? Ramirez?"
He turned to the next person he knew. "Shen?"
The innocence and neediness conveyed in Hanson's face and voice triggered the medic. Shen, smallest member of the team, pushed Hellboy aside. She pulled Hanson up one-handed, while the other held her plasma saw.
"What's going on is that you attempted to bisect me!" Shen pushed Hanson back against the wall. "Shit, man! You went full psycho!"
Hanson looked confused then pained, as if trying to pull something up from nightmarish depths. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Oh Shit! I did try to kill you…" Hanson finally said.
"This a sick joke to you?"
Hanson shook his head. "No. I'm not joking. Believe me. There were…"
Vincent had moved closer as the conversation escalated. Gently pushing them apart, Vincent gave Shen the "calm down before you do some stupid shit" look. The medic stared at her briefly, then stepped back.
Incident averted, Vincent turned to Hanson and said, "What was there, Hanson?"
"Voices. There were voices."
Hanson sagged after that. Ashamed and embarrassed that he had admitted to such insanity. The cuffs were not coming off.
"Let's get to the Bridge," Vincent finally said. "We can sort this out there."
Vincent proceeded to assign the order in which they were to ascend to the Bridge. Once she confirmed everyone's consent to the plan, Vincent went inside the elevator and looked up. The big hole, rent as if a shell had struck from the inside, filled her with hope.
Ramirez joined her. He let out an impressed whistle.
"Perhaps we should hire him on after this," Ramirez said. "Our own living battering ram."
"Definitely," Vincent said, smiling despite herself. "Now help me up."
Ramirez squatted, hands laced and palms up. Vincent placed her left foot on his makeshift platform. He pushed Vincent up at the same time she jumped. She grabbed onto the edge and hauled herself through the opening.
The elevator door to the Bridge sat many meters above Vincent. Normally to ascend such a height would require creativity. Thankfully, the answer lumbered up right beside her.
"Need a boost?" Hellboy said.
"Sure."
The "boost" turned out more a high-speed launch. Vincent wasn't complaining, though. She hung on the ledge like she wanted.
Now the fun part, Vincent thought. She pounded the butt of her plasma saw against the elevator doors, while holding onto the ledge one-handed.
"Chief Security Officer Vincent. Open up!"
She kept making noise. If someone was alive in there, they had to hear. Hopefully, they would check before her arm tired out…
The doors slid back, and strong arms reached down and grasped Vincent's forearm, hauling her up. As she found her footing and stood, Vincent acknowledged her lifters: First Officer White and Second Officer Chic.
They wore the CEC's naval uniform: a naval blue coat with a burgundy collar, cuffs, and shoulder pads, and dark blue slacks. Gold trim arced around the chest and encircled the cuffs' edge. Stripes, reserved for senior officers, circled around the cuffs, indicating their ranks. Two on White's and one on Chic's.
"Pleasure to see you, Vincent," Chic said, adjusting his trim glasses. A genuine smile on his slim face.
That scared her more then any zombie.
"Now I know things are fucked up!" Vincent said, dusting off her jacket as she walked further into the Bridge's atrium.
Vincent gazed around. All equipment and lights were powerless, casting the Bridge in a gloom. Frightened, yet elated personnel huddled around their dead consoles like well-groomed feudal villagers before a visiting priest—salvation from the plague! None were the commanding officer she wished to address.
"Where's the captain?"
"Dead," said White, his voice almost cracking. Whether from physical exertion or stress Vincent couldn't tell. "Kyne killed him."
Kyne? Last time Vincent was on the Bridge, the good doctor acted as Mathias's advisor. Personal guru even. Now, the guy murdered the "good" captain. Hard to believe…
Hanson wasn't crazy either, Vincent reminded herself. Then voices in his head goaded him into attempted homicide.
On that person…
"Wait a minute! Wai-"
Hanson's screams grew from the elevator shaft. Vincent turned in time to see Irons and Ramirez catch him. Greggs and Shen were at either side, weapons drawn in case there was a repeat of Hydroponics. Good. That left only Hellboy. The paranormal investigator that no one on the Bridge knew existed…
"Hold on! Don't come up yet, Hell—" Vincent cried.
But it was already too late. Scarlet hands, noticeable even in the gloom, gripped the elevator shaft's edge. The part of that edge within Hellboy's stone grasp bent as he lifted his large frame onto the Bridge. Amber eyes, shining like jewels, gazed over all.
In a coincidence that belonged in a vid, power returned to the Bridge. Green and orange holographic displays flashed into existence. Data appeared from a saved point on the ship's central computer. Overhead lights bathed the Bridge, a final gleaming bastion in a losing battle.
Cheers usually followed a blackout's end. This time, though, everyone was too busy staring. Not everyday an almost naked demon visited a mining vessel.
Hellboy waved his flesh-hand. "Hey. How's everyone doin'?"
No one answered. Their minds too busy with questions. Most common question: Is that an alien/demon?
Hellboy, ignoring the collective reaction, turned to White. "Are you the captain?"
White stood there, dumbfounded. Sweat stains grew underneath his armpits. His legs began to shake. Any moment he might faint.
"He's not," Vincent answered for White. "Technically."
"Technically?" Ramirez said, strategically weaving in-between Hellboy and White. "What does that mean?"
"He's dead," White blurted, having found his voice. "The captain's dead."
"What First Officer White means," Chic interjected, "Is that we had an incident."
"Incident?"
"Homicide," Vincent said, walking over to the Captain's Nest.
An elevated, rectangular platform that overlooked the atrium, the Captain's Nest was the Ishimura's brains. Holographic displays and touch-capable panels lined the railings around the platform's edge, providing data from all over the ship. In the Nest's center, a circular holographic projector that displayed an orange simulacrum of Aegis VII. Vincent ascended the steps behind the platform, stopped a little way once atop it, and pointed at a dark maroon spot.
"And I'm guessing this is where he died."
Chic shrugged. "More or less."
"I'm curious," Hellboy said, joining Vincent in the Captain's Nest. He crouched down and noted, "Small touch of blood. No smearing either. Your ol' Captain died quick, and whatever the murder instrument was it left little mess."
Vincent nodded, then asked Chic, "How exactly did Dr. Kyne kill Mathius?"
The Ishimura shook. Bridge officers hugged onto their console projectors. Vincent grabbed onto the railing in the Captain's Nest. Irons knelt, hand and knees planted firmly on the floor. Chic and Shen fell onto their asses. White held onto Ramirez who held onto Hellboy, who stood there like there were no tremors. A crimson column that stood despite the world crumbling all around.
The trembling stopped.
"What the Hell was that?!" Vincent said.
Chic sprinted up from his prone position to his console. His fingers went to work on the holographic interface before he even sat down.
"Bringing up visuals in the Engine room," Chic said.
In the center of the atrium, a four-paneled, real-time display appeared. Everyone on the Bridge stared as it sunk in what-or who-sabotaged the engines.
"Kyne," White said, almost in a whisper. "What's he doing?"
"Looks like he's sabotaging the engines," Ramirez said.
"To destroy the ship?" Greggs said.
"If it is," Shen said, "I'll help the guy. No way those scythed bastards would survive the crash." She turned to White. "Send an SOS before we leave on the lifeboats, though."
"There are no lifeboats," White blurted in almost a whisper.
Vincent, her team, and their tag-alongs stared at White. A waterfall of sweat fell from the First Officer's head.
"They were all ejected a few hours ago. No one aboard. We're trapped."
That was a gut-punch. Vincent had thought through possible ways to evacuate the surviving crew, and the lifeboats figured into every plan. That left repairing the Comms Array to send out a distress signal. Whether the distress signal was answered in time was a different matter.
Vincent took a deep breath. There was only one way to proceed.
"Ramirez, Shen, Irons." Vincent's team gave her their attention. "We're heading to Engineering. Kyne has to be stopped."
"What's the point?" White said, his voice almost a moan. "Comms are down. These things have free range of the ship. We have no means to escape. We're all dead."
You'll be dead in a minute, pessimistic bastard, Vincent thought, ready to punch White.
Irons and Hellboy must have recognized her intent. Both maneuvered around to where both their huge masses separated White from Vincent. Hellboy gave her a look and a nod that said, "let's talk to the side."
Vincent grudgingly followed. The pair, despite differing in dress and species, failed to draw attention. Everyone else was too enraptured (only word that fit) with Irons and White. The former gave an impassioned speech about community and hope, that bordered on a sermon.
"I know I'm—what's the right word? Stowaway? Passenger?" Hellboy began.
"CEC property," Vincent said half joking.
"Okay. Remind me to find a good lawyer once we make it out of this." Hellboy stroked his side whiskers. "On the topic of making it out of here…"
"White's First Officer, technically captain now that Mathius is dead. The remaining crew will look towards him to somehow get us out of this mess. Last thing we need is him having a public nervous breakdown."
Hellboy leaned in closer. "I get that. But do you think it's okay for head of security to punch the crap out of the new leader? That's a K.O. nobody wants to have front row seats to."
"You a detective, or a promoter?"
"I'm whatever keeps people alive." Hellboy spared a glance at the personnel around them. "Look. I don't understand a whole lot about what's going on. All I know is some strange artifact was pulled up from a planet no one had any business being on. After that, all pandemonium breaks loose, and now we're in the middle of a space age zombie apocalypse.
"The first thing that I hear—after waking up naked in a dissection lab—is that the guy commanding a huge-ass spaceship wants to leave people on said rock to save his own hide. Regardless of the complaints or pleas anyone else has."
Hellboy looked Vincent square in the eye. "I wanted to punch the good ol' Captain Mathius, too. Crap. I would have held him while you punched him. Unfortunately, we don't all get what we want. As the old saying goes."
"Yeah," Vincent said, almost a sigh. "That's exactly how it goes."
Hellboy nodded. "We need to stop this Kyne guy and fix those Comms."
"Easier said than done. I only have one team. My team. And I lost half of it trying to get here."
"Who says we only have one team?"
Chic joined them, apparently no longer drawn to Irons's impassioned speech.
"What other security personnel do you see, Chic?" Vincent asked.
"None. I do see a Bridge crew with one quarter veterans. Atop that, CEC requires all fleet officers to log hundreds of hours at the range."
"You're not suggesting—"
"I am." Chic gave a brief glance to Hellboy before continuing. "Form a party from select Bridge personnel to repair the Comms Array. Arm them with whatever weapons possible, and hope everything works out."
"Good plan," Hellboy said, sardonically.
"Except," Vincent said, "no one from the Bridge has fought these things. Even if you tell them to go for their limbs, they'd either piss themselves…"
"Or fallback on muscle memory, and shoot them in the head," Hellboy finished.
"What if we send someone with experience?" Chic said.
"I can't spare anyone, Chic. Unless you want Kyne to succeed."
"How about me?" Hellboy said. "One swing from this—" He raised his right-stone hand. "—and those things won't get back up."
Vincent shook her head. "Comms are just an elevator lift away. Engineering, on the other hand, is at the other end of the ship. You are our only guarantee that anyone will stop Kyne."
Hellboy grimaced. "Who to send then?"
"I have an idea," Chic said. They followed his gaze to a certain organ replacement technician.
"Greggs?" Hellboy said with a hint of anger and concern.
I want to send him to many places, Vincent thought, including Hell.
"He is the only one here that has fought those…creatures, that we can spare."
Hellboy looked pleadingly at them. "Bring him along with us. That Comms Array can wait. Crap, probably easier with all of us together."
"We don't have time, though," Chic said, his tone rising. "Longer it takes to coordinate a ship-wide response, the more people that die."
Vincent placed a gloved hand on Hellboy's shoulder. The difference in size scaled like a baby touching a rhino.
"Hellboy," Vincent said. "I don't want to send anyone into harm's way, especially with how fucked everything is—but Chic is right. We may not have another opportunity to repair the comms."
Those words struck a chord. Hellboy's body grew tense, before finally relaxing. He sighed, defeated.
"You're right. Both of you." His shoulders sagged. "Damn it!"
"So, you'll talk with Greggs?" Vincent said.
"Yeah." He raised his flesh index finger. "As I'm doing that, possible that you do me a favor?"
Vincent raised an eyebrow and asked, "What's the favor?"
"Find me some pants. I am tired of showing off my ass cheeks."
What am I doing? What am I doing? This thought had repeated in Greggs's head since he agreed to this suicidal act.
"How you feeling?" asked one of the Bridge officers, a man addressed as Ensign Kadare. His raven hair was slicked back as if he were about to soar.
I feel like I'm about to die. Greggs kept that thought to himself and replied: "Confident. I think we may accomplish this."
Ensign Kadare and another, a rather stout woman addressed as Ensign Delaney, chuckled at this. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede, who wanted her rank mentioned whenever she was addressed, stared at Greggs. Cold blue eyes communicated the thought likely in her head: Is he serious, or is he joking?
At this point, Greggs wasn't sure himself.
"Alright, people," Wrede said, tightening the kinesis module around her wrist, "check your gear. I don't want anyone dying because their rifle had the safety on."
Does she even have to ask? Greggs thought, checking over his plasma cutter.
The tool, though reliable, appeared insignificant compared to actual weapons. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede and Ensign Delaney both had pulse rifles—a rotating, three-barrel fan-like mechanism attached to a feeding drum and trigger. Ensign Kadare checked the red tank to a one-handed flamethrower, adjusting the nozzles for best performance.
Greggs pressed his hands against his left breast. Jane's gift nestled safely in the pocket. He could…No, would both accomplish this and survive, even if he only had surgical equipment. He activated his RIG, going to a tab listing connected devices. The zero-gravity boots, spares provided to the team for this mission, appeared on the list. Good.
The Comms Array inner chamber, according to Second Officer Chic, had no artificial gravity. A deliberate design choice that facilitated easier repairs, officially. The reality, in Greggs' opinion, devolved into greed: cheaper energy and maintenance costs meant more profit for CEC shareholders. He hoped the CEC paid for half-decent zero-gravity boots…
"Ready?" Greggs said to his companions on this suicide mission.
"Yeah," Ensign Delaney said, whipping back her long auburn ponytail. "We finished checking our gear while you psyched yourself up."
Bruttenholm would have laughed at that. Despite himself, Greggs already missed the thong- wearing individual.
The repair group entered an elevator (one that still functioned) in the atrium's center. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede worked the main console, as Ensign Kadare and Ensign Delaney huddled together in the middle of the cargo lift while Greggs stayed off to the side.
Before they ascended, Second Officer Chic shared a rousing short speech. "Best of luck. Hopefully we will all be here when you return."
"You better," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said, "If not you, then who's going to escort our bodies to the morgue with fanfare."
Second Officer Chic smiled, shook his head, and walked away. One satisfied humph from Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede later, and they were off to certain death.
"Was it just me, or has Chic turned into a comedian since all this started?" Ensign Delaney said.
"A comedian at the gallows, you mean?" Ensign Kadare said.
"Yeah. Its kind of concerning."
"I think its an improvement. He's usually quite an ass."
"That's the point! He's not acting normal! First Officer White isn't, as well! Remember the Captain—"
"Not another word, Ensign!" Lieutenant Junior Wrede said.
Greggs noted how the Lieutenant Junior Grade looked at him more than at Ensign Delaney. Perhaps this meant the odd behavior from the officers was related to Captain Mathius's death? Undoubtedly this went back to the outbreak of insanity on the colony that had spread to the Ishimura.
Perhaps the virus that reanimated corpses influenced brain chemical makeup as well. Senior Medical Officer Brennan had conducted research into the virus—in suboptimal conditions. If they cleared the Comms Array, Bruttenholm would contact Nicole (hopefully alive) and end this nightmare.
But how does Bruttenholm fit into this whole mess? Convenient that he ended up appearing in the middle of this plague, isn't it?
Greggs shook his head, dispelling the accusatory thoughts.
"Are you coming?" Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said. The elevator had reached its destination. The ensigns were already out. Blue laser sights from the pulse rifles scoping down the hall. "If not, then head back to the Bridge. We don't have time to babysit."
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede proceeded on out without waiting for his answer.
Last chance, George Greggs, Greggs thought to himself. A button push and he could probably delay a violent death at least a few more hours—but what's a few hours anyway.
He stepped out of the elevator. The immediate room was a lounge area. Twin padded lounge chairs, set alongside the left-side wall where two pairs could face each other, appeared strangely unblemished with any human vitals. Right-side wall was bare except two supply crates, which Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede rummaged through.
"What the Hell is that?" Ensign Kadare said, motioning his flamethrower left, down the hall beyond the door frames at the lounge's end.
It required a moment for Greggs to realize the ensign was referring to him.
"I will let you know in a moment," Greggs said. He took a quick breath and peeked his head beyond the frames.
Stuck to a strange mass on the wall—placed beside the door they needed to go through—moaned the upper-portion of a human. Three blood-drenched intestine tendrils swung lazily from a vertical slit up to the clavicle. Its red-stained head lulled around clockwise, as if to break its own neck.
"I have not encountered this particular specimen before," Greggs said as he pulled his head back, "but my suspicion is if we dismember its tendrils it should die. Again."
Ensign Kadare's skepticism was apparent. "That sounds like a huge risk."
"A huge, kill-you-quick risk," Ensign Delaney added.
"Regardless," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said, pushing past them out to the hall. Pulse rifle cocked and ready. "We don't have that many options."
She unleashed a plasma round volley. Pained groans came from down the hall.
"Shot an intestine off."
Another volley, and more groans. Greggs noted Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede's eyes: cold and detached, as if far from this worldly nightmare.
"Alright," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said, as she lowered her pulse rifle, "its dead. Delaney and Kadare, take point and blow apart anything else that looks like a corpse."
The ensigns nodded then assumed position further ahead in the hall. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede turned her gaze—that uncaring stare—towards Greggs.
"You. Stay close to me."
Greggs never thought to argue.
There was another one of those specimens attached to the growth along the wall. Both ensigns dispatched it quickly with a few plasma rounds and a brief blaze. In comparison to the other phenotypes Greggs had the misfortune to encounter, these were easy to dispatch.
Don't worry. The challenging part is about to start, Greggs thought.
The team went through the door. A short hall was on the other side. At the end, in prominent view, hung a rather large CEC-sponsored poster that stated: USG Ishimura Communications Array. From each corner an arm extended out until the hands, curled into fists, met in the center. Each arm wore a garment associated with a specific labor trac: Medical and Science, Mining, Engineering, and Security.
This literal unity symbol was awash with blood.
Groans started down the hall. Every laser went to the right side, weapons at the ready. A man—a live man—turned the corner. Blood flowed from a gaping head wound that painted his face's left side red. That was the least grievous wound Greggs noted.
"Bailey," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said. "He's alive."
Ensign Kadare ran over to Bailey, who had fallen on hands and knees. Alive, yes. But not much longer.
An all too familiar form shambled from the corner.
"Kadare, down!" Ensign Delaney said, pulse rifle already cocked.
Ensign Kadare went flat to the floor, pushing Bailey down with him. The slasher's scythe barely missed his head.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede and Ensign Delaney opened fire. The plasma rounds forced the slasher back as decayed flesh chunks flew from the impact. No limbs dismembered, though. That was Greggs's responsibility.
He aligned the plasma cutter's tri-lasers to the left-side talon arm. A trigger pull and the limb fell clean away. Greggs already set his sights on the last talon limb. Before severing the appendage, though, an unexpected development occurred. The slasher squatted down, drawing its three arms close to its body.
This behavior, completely novel compared to earlier encounters, surprised Greggs. Adjustments to his aim were sluggish. Despite the compressed position, the slasher closed in at remarkable speed.
Flames engulfed the slasher's back. The sudden attack knocked it down. Ensign Kadare, flamethrower nozzle still bright red, stood, and spewed more fire upon it.
The immolation was effective. That final taloned limb, tenderized from a score of impacts, broke away despite the slasher's attempts to turn and protect the appendage. Its death was graceless, a literal faceplant.
"Damn," Ensign Kadare said, lowering his weapon before looking away at the dead-again slasher. "You never told us they could walk in a crouch."
"It's a startling development," Greggs said, thinking, a deadly one.
"How's Bailey, Ensign?" Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said, already moving to check the man herself. "How bad off is he?"
Ensign Kadare looked down at the blood splattered on his uniform. Not a good prognosis.
Greggs, before ordered to, joined Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede at Bailey's side. Scarlet gashes and slashes all over his body, particularly one on his head's right side. That one exposed bone.
Close calls all over his body. Too many close calls.
This is unreal, Greggs thought. How had he escaped these things with those wounds?
"Bailey," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said. "What happened?"
Bailey's mouth moved, but there was no sound. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede leaned in closer, and the wounded man pulled her down even closer.
"They're coming…Wrede. They want our bodies… They need them…"
"We know, Bailey. The damn things have turned this entire ship into a charnel house. You know how many are inside with the Comms Array?"
"Legion. They are legion. Like the stars…" Bailey coughed blood.
"He's delusional, ma'am," Ensign Delaney said, watching their rear. "I don't think we'll get anything useful from him."
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede was not deterred. "How many, Bailey?"
"A dozen…"
"A dozen? Is that it?" Ensign Kadare said, shaking his head
"Anything more?" Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said. "Details on their force composition?"
"They are the final force…the final solution. They will make us whole, Wrede…"
Bailey passed. RIG perhaps malfunctioning, no flatline blared his expiration. His last words cryptic, but familiar. Make us whole. A Unitologist refrain that expressed the incomprehensible event of Convergence. A chill ran up Greggs' spine.
Don't catch a cold, Georgie.
The voice, whether actual or a thought, caused Greggs to jump. The team shifted their gazes to him, as if perhaps he was about to die as well. That, or descend into homicidal mania.
"Everything okay?" Ensign Kadare said.
Greggs nodded. "I just thought I heard another slasher. They like to crawl through the vents, you know."
"We do," Ensign Delaney said, "from you. Remember?"
"Yeah…"
Thankfully, the Bridge officers left it there. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede laid Bailey's arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and uttered a silent prayer. Naval tradition.
Bare-bone funerary rites completed, they moved forward. There were two doors: one on their left and one straight ahead. The former had a running display over it that stated "Comm's Array Installation". They opened that one and entered onto a platform.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede slammed the hologram display to send them up. This caused everyone to jump this time. A snarl was on her face.
The lift ride ended in mere moments. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede stepped off first. The ensigns followed behind once she was a meter or so ahead. Space was appropriate to give in a volatile situation.
Greggs followed behind the ensigns. Protection was also appropriate in a volatile situation.
The walkway, barely a few meters long, ended straight ahead with a vent perfect for a slasher to jump out. Nothing happened, though. Their circumstances might have improved if one had.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede, before passing through a left-handed door, picked up an audio log. An audio playback holographic display appeared as she threw the physical recorder to the side. Perhaps the last words from the man
Communications log, First Comms Operator Bailey reporting. The ship is under attack, but requests to issue a distress call have been reportedly denied by Captain Mathius. He won't say it, but everyone on the bridge knows why—this is an illegal operation in a prohibited system. We've all known for months, and we kept our mouths shut. Not anymore.
Hurried typing and electric whirrs followed them as Greggs and the Bridge officers stepped onto the platform. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede activated the platform, which shot forward. That fast start almost sent Greggs crashing into Ensign Kadare.
Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is USG Ishimura, this is—what the hell?
The typing grew frantic. Strange beeps, audible despite the platform's high speeds, signaled a worsening development for First Comms Operator Bailey.
I don't believe this. A loud pounding sound played back, undoubtedly a fist brought down hard on a console. The whole comms system is offline! Now he's gone too far… Bailey out.
"That bastard," Ensign Delaney said. "That Marker worth all the whole crew, the whole colony? What rank he expect the Chu—"
Ensign Kadare covered her mouth, his eyes on Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede. The platform screeched to a halt. Ignoring her colleagues, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede stepped off to the left and opened the door to Comms Array control.
When Ensign Kadare pulled his hand away, Ensign Delaney pivoted to him with an accusatorial glance. His hands shot up in a defensive manner—best made while brandishing a flamethrower—and smiled. Ensign Delaney huffed and headed into the room. The entire situation left Greggs with goosebumps.
"Sorry about that," Ensign Kadare said, whispering in Greggs' ear, "Wrede is a Uni. The real pious kind."
Greggs felt the light pounding precursor to a headache. All great developments conducive to their continued survival.
Ensign Kadare cocked his head back. "Let's go."
These people will kill me, Greggs thought, but followed, nonetheless.
The room, small and rectangular, to the right, had a wide-view window where everyone else crowded around. A head taller than the others, Greggs easily saw the disaster that the captain had left them from the back. Beyond the glass, in the Comms Array's inner chamber, loomed an orange display. On this were two rings, a smaller one inside the larger, six lines of red and green circles going from the center to the outer ring. "Communication Control" was centered on the top and bottom.
Communications Array offline. A service technician has been notified, stated the automated voice.
"No shit," Ensign Delaney retorted.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede forced a way out the crowd. "Follow me. We don't have much time."
"We ran out of time weeks ago," Ensign Kadare said, a slight chuckle in his voice. It sounded maniacal to Greggs.
They followed Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede to the room's other end, and out to the right. The next room was smaller, had several CEC employee lockers, and a circular industrial entrance reserved for hazardous spaces. That was the entrance to the Comms Array chamber.
The makeshift service technicians trampled onto the platform with their zero gravity boots activating from their RIG's environmental feedback. Atop the platform the Comms Array's chamber's octagonal massiveness struck Greggs. This new perspective allowed him to realize that the lines of dishes, and the wire meshed space in-between, composed a singular, large dish. An antenna rose from the inner chamber's center, mere meters away from touching the colossal blast doors.
"Where do we begin?" Greggs dared to ask, watching all the debris floating listlessly in the inner chamber.
Not even looking at him, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede pointed at the display and said, "We replace the damaged dishes closest to the center antennae, and do all that without dying."
The plan laid out, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede walked to the platform's edge then dived downwards to the left. Both Ensigns followed, pulse rifle and flamethrower ready. Greggs was the last. Before he jumped, though, he noticed a wriggling mass on the far end of the chamber.
Greggs squinted his eyes. The mass, even in the far-off distance, crawled along the wall with distinguishable forward limbs, while the back wriggled.
More of those things Ramirez designated leapers.
Greggs dived. His own inertia propelled him fast. Too fast. He barely had time to spin, so he landed feet first. The impact rattled his body.
"Welcome to the party," Ensign Kadare said, pulse rifle already cocked, the tri-beam following a target. "Or the slaughter fest. Whichever you prefer."
"How about the one that doesn't involve someone dying?"
"Focus, people," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said as she ripped a broken dish away with her kinesis module. The satellite dish was about a head taller than Greggs. The dish—actually a rectangular crescent composed of copper wire mesh and an antenna—sat on a thin trapezoid, atop a square base. On the side, in an inverted blue pentagon, shone a black magnet image with lightning bolts—a pictorial representation of magnetic pull. "Incoming."
Three leapers, adept at zero gravity environments themselves, converged on their position from above. Their saber-toothed jaws already opened, screaming for blood.
"Shoot their arms and tail," Greggs shouted, firing his plasma cutter at one.
Ensign Delaney opened fire on another. Ensign Kadare permitted the last one close before jumping back. That leaper skidded across the wire mesh floor. Before the thing even reorientated, Ensign Kadare, floating a little way above it, sprayed orange fire upon it.
Greggs, not as flashy, took a few steps to the left just before his leaper bit his head off. It had a hard time adjusting itself since one well shot plasma round amputated its left arm.
Greggs fired the cutter, set vertically, at its tail until the weapon only clicked. The appendage floated away in the zero-g after separation.
Almost with machine-like precision, Greggs reloaded the cutter. He turned around in time to watch Ensign Kadare's beheading. This time, the RIG's flatline chimed, echoing death in the enclosed space.
Greggs instinctively stepped back. Already sweeping the area for whatever ended Ensign Kadare. He found it gliding to the other end of the chamber, an ugly but elegant onyx monster.
Ensign Delaney, having pulverized her leaper's arms with repeated rounds fired, cursed at Ensign Kadare's killer. The rounds she fired now, though, failed to hit their target. Distance disfavored the pulse rifle.
"Ensign Delaney," Greggs said as loud as possible. "Hold fire. Please hold fire!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears. She kept wasting ammo in a futile attempt at vengeance. Greggs ran over to her, avoiding the smoldering leaper corpse that Ensign Kadare left. That gave the obsidian-tinted one time to launch itself towards Ensign Delaney.
Greggs pumped his legs, shouting at her. She kept pulling the trigger, though the clip had already emptied out. The obsidian leaper passed the large central dish.
Without sparing a thought, Greggs leapt towards Ensign Delaney. He collided against her, eliciting a gasp. She bent down with him. A breath later and the obsidian leaper sailed over them.
"Thanks," Ensign Delaney said.
"Don't thank me, yet. Reload, and help me kill this bastard!"
Greggs rose, while he aimed his plasma cutter at the obsidian leaper. The undead thing climbed high up the wall. Amber eyes, much like Bruttenholm's, stared down with murderous intent. A malicious monster from the brimstone.
Greggs's aim remained true. He opened fire, emptying his whole clip. Six rounds. Six direct hits, and the obsidian leaper's arm remained intact.
"Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede! Assistance!"
She was further along, swapping her third dish. The old dish, charred and fragmented, floated in the zero gravity as she tossed it aside. An operational dish, kinetically pulled from further down the line, soon slammed into the old dish's position close to the central antennae.
"Ensign Delaney?" Greggs said. Unlike their leader, she gave him her attention.
"Bright idea, Greggs?"
"You may say that. Watch my back, please."
Ensign Delaney, accepting this as permission, started to unload another clip from her pulse rifle. Personally, Greggs doubted this renewed assault would slay the obsidian leaper. As a distraction, though, it worked well.
Greggs reached Ensign Kadare's headless corpse. He secured his cutter at his right thigh by strapping his belt around it. That done, he ripped the flamethrower from the Ensign's cold, dead hands.
Sorry, Greggs thought as hefted the flamethrower. You were a nice guy.
"Greggs!"
That cry prompted him to fall flat then roll onto his back with the bulky weapon in his hand. The obsidian leaper sailed low, scythed tail barely missing Greggs.
That was a close one, Georgie!
Greggs shook his head. He hefted himself up, turning to face the creature. It slithered around the central antennae's base, limping with one arm. A wounded viper ready to strike.
Greggs readied the flamethrower. It takes great effort to kill you, doesn't it? he thought.
The obsidian leaper slithered forwards, closing half the distance between it and him before halting. In an impressive feat, it used its remaining arm and intestine-tail in conjunction to launch its mass forward. Greggs squeezed the trigger.
An orange stream of flame shot from the nozzle. Already committed to its course, the obsidian leaper flew head first into the fire.
The undead creature curled into a ball. Movement stopped altogether.
Greggs almost managed a full sigh, before Ensign Delaney frightened him. Despite its immolated state, she fired more rounds into its sides. A snarl that belonged more on a wild animal than a human gave her a terrible visage.
"Ensign Delaney," Greggs said. "It's dead."
Ensign Delaney stopped and composed herself. "Yeah," she finally said, "so is Kadare."
Gregg's silence was his solemn agreement. The frantic sound of ripped metal matched the tearing at both their hearts. An uncomfortable feeling that Greggs had spent many years avoiding.
"Let's check on Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede," Greggs said.
Eyes latched onto Ensign Kadare's remains, Ensign Delaney nodded.
The board in the chamber showed the repair's progress: only two lines remained that contained red dots close to the center. Despite literal risk to life and limb, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede's singular focus yielded results.
The duo proceeded to march counter-clockwise to regroup with their team leader. When they reached her minutes later, both stopped as they listened to her rantings.
"I told you about galactic harmonics. I even gave you a copy of The Angel-Trodden Universe. Professor Urey articulates the theory better then I—"
"Wrede," Ensign Delaney interrupted.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede's mouth, now soundless, worked up and down. Rapid blinking followed. She eventually nodded her head.
"Ensign. Greggs."
"Are you alright?" Ensign Delaney said tersely.
"Yes. I am. Where is Ensign Kadare?"
Greggs noted how Ensign Delaney stiffened. Not wanting any more interpersonal conflict, he interjected.
"Unfortunately deceased, ma'am," Greggs said, sight leaving neither. "I called out during the conflict. You failed to respond."
Uncharacteristically, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede's face turned red. "Sorry. I was preoccupied with repairs. The noise must have drowned out your cries."
You were, but not dish repair, Greggs thought. A blatant lie like that would prompt Bruttenholm to investigate further. Greggs wasn't a paranormal investigator, though.
"We will cover you as you finish."
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede nodded slightly. Happy to tear out more damaged dishes.
"Ensign Delaney, please join me," Greggs said.
He expected her to resist in some way, but she complied. Once they were some ways away, but close in case of an attack, Greggs confided in Ensign Delaney.
"She's lying," he said.
Ensign Delaney stared at him a few moments then said, "No shit."
"Indeed. I suspect the Lieutenant Junior Grade is succumbing to psychosis like the colonists."
"You think she's dangerous?"
An important question. "No," Greggs said. "Not yet. In the meantime, though—"
"She's a liability," Ensign Delaney finished.
Greggs nodded again. In this conspiratorial meeting, he observed a detail he had failed to appreciate before: dark, heavy bags under Ensign Delaney's eyes.
"Ensign Delaney, if I may ask, have you had any difficulties sleeping?" Greggs said, suspecting the answer.
"Yeah. I've had a migraine the past few days that has kept me awake. I'm surprised I'm not a zombie."
"Not funny."
"I know." She briefly looked away, back towards Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede. "No one from the Bridge has slept well in a week."
Greggs absorbed this. There was no argument against the Marker's connection to these catastrophes. What was the mechanism, though? How do you have an alien pathology that mutates corpses and causes mass psychosis.
"You want to know what's strange? Besides all these zombies," Ensign Delaney said.
"What is strange?"
"When your...devil friend arrived on the Bridge. My migraine went away."
That fact would serve Greggs and many others later on. Before Greggs internalized that information, though, an animalistic cry bellowed.
Both immediately turned. They saw Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede working unabated. And continuing her one-sided conversation about Unitologist subject matter.
Greggs felt goosebumps on his back. He turned and gazed upwards. Intestine-tail wrapped around the central antenna, one hand grasping the tip, loomed the obsidian (partly now, with white burn marks all over) leaper. Ichor fell from its fangs like venom from a black-banded sea krait. A primordial hiss low in its throat.
"Ensign Delaney—"
The leaper roared as it descended toward them, drowning out any reasoned words. Ensign Delaney stood her ground, roaring back with her pulse rifle.
Only a few rounds flew. Her clip was empty.
"Shit," Ensign Delaney said. She had no time to reload.
The leaper was among them. A chess-board colored monster from a monstrous nightmare. Its fangs latched onto Ensign Delaney's left leg. Blood curdling screams left her throat. Its intestine tail danced around, scythe at the end a deterrent to any rescue.
Greggs, despite his mind's protests, attempted boldness. He let the flamethrower—counterproductive in this situation—float off to the side. He then positioned himself over the black-and- white leaper (bent over to avoid the scythe), planted his left foot down at the intestine-tail's base, and grasped further down with his right hand. Despite wearing a glove, he felt the extremity's wetness.
Left-handed he pulled out his plasma cutter. Little aim was required at point-blank range. He fired in rapid succession. Beneath his boot, Greggs felt the leaper cease struggling.
"Finally," Greggs said, tossing the dismembered intestine-tail end into floating weightlessness. "Ensign Delaney—"
The words were caught in his throat. Ensign Delaney's left leg was a red stub. Her foot and part of her leg floated listlessly in the zero gravity, crimson droplets a trail to the leaper's blood-stained mouth. All this physical trauma had sent her into unconsciousness.
The bleeding. I need to stop it.
How, though. No cloth or pressure could possibly stymie the bleeding.
Communications array re-aligned. Messages can now be received.
Greggs couldn't believe it. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede succeeded.
"The flamethrower."
Greggs turned, surprised to see Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede marching to them. She was calm, almost uncaring. That nonchalant attitude slightly offended him.
"The flamethrower. Cauterize the ensign's wound. I'll help you."
With no better idea, Greggs nodded. He returned the plasma cutter to his side as he retrieved the flamethrower. When he returned, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede had Ensign Delaney floating on her back, gaping wound perched up.
Greggs swallowed. He carefully aimed then squeezed the flamethrower trigger. He kept the stream close, but not too close to enflame the poor ensign.
The bleeding eventually stopped. Greggs then proceeded to rip off part of Ensign Delaney's sleeve. He wrapped the blue cloth around her stump. Half-decent work that should keep her alive until proper medical care was applied.
"Good," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said. "Let's head back to the control room."
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede and Greggs ascended the wall closest to the exit, the unconscious ensign pushed gently between them. If it wasn't for the zero-gravity environment, and the zero-gravity boots, this unconventional extraction would never have occurred. This almost made Greggs praise the CEC's design choice.
The door's internal mechanisms crunched together as they stepped onto the platform. Once it opened, they hurriedly went through. Now in normal gravity, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede and Greggs wrapped their arms around Ensign Delaney, and hefted her along. An awkward effort with Greggs forced to carry the flamethrower by the handle one-handed, while the back of that same hand was pressed against the ensign's back.
When they reentered the control room proper, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede assisted Greggs in clearing a table. Once all the objects were on the floor, they gently placed Ensign Delaney flat-on her back on the table.
"Cover me," Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said. "I need to contact Chic."
Greggs obeyed. He watched the entire room, cutter pulled out just in case. On occasion, he spared a glance at Ensign Delaney. Her chest moved up and down normally. That was reassuring.
Error: blast door blockage detected. Please contact a repair technician.
Oh no, Greggs thought.
The automated message pulled Greggs' attention over to the controls. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede, rubbing her left temple hard, stared at the floating display of Second Officer Chic. Worrisome holographic clicks filled the control room.
"What's blocking the blast doors?!" Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede said, almost a hiss.
"We don't have visual confirmation on what is blocking the blast doors," Second Officer Chic said, "But radar confirms it's massive."
"That's not much to work with, Chic."
"Unfortunately, that's our modus operandi these days, Wrede. Go to the nearest ADS cannon and knock off whatever has attached to the Hull. Chic, out."
The holographic display faded out. Silence filled the room. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede hunched over the Comms Array control. Perhaps this was the moment she would snap.
"Greggs," she said.
Greggs stiffened.
"Yes?"
"Let's pick up Delaney and head to that ADS cannon."
The pace was slow and arduous. All the weight from the weapons and wounded ensign forced several pauses to adjust handling. These pauses were not long enough to catch their breaths. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede kept them moving, as if she stopped longer than necessary something terrible would catch up. Context considered; this was a reasonable expectation.
Despite their handicap, no monsters popped out from the vents, or shambled around a random corner. Eventually, they returned to the hall that Comms Officer Bailey perished. They retraced their route back to the hall where Comms Officer Bailey perished. Greggs spared a glance to his left, expecting a murderous corpse shambling towards them. No animate corpse, though, or corpse period.
They took the other door, walking onto a cargo lift. Moments later they exited to another hallway. Thankfully, it was rather short. As Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede opened the circular door at the end, Greggs sighed in relief. His muscles were aching, almost to the point of giving out.
The ADS cannon's interior was compact with a square-shaped floor. Manual controls—a beige colored, padded metal chair with handlebars connected to gyroscopic system—sat before a long and wide, segmented series of titanium rectangles. This "screen", on the ADS cannon's void-side exterior, protected the multilayered, glass viewport.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede instructed him to help set Ensign Delaney against a wall off to the side. Once she was comfortable, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede looked Greggs dead in the eye, and said, "Operate that cannon."
That was no question. Greggs handed the cumbersome flamethrower over to Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede then went to the seat, and with a few quick taps, activated the cannon.
Manual override initiated.
The metal, segmented screen parted at the monotone words, revealing the artificial topography. Center view were round twin barrels with transparent wall-mounted ammo feeds on either side. What grabbed Greggs' attention, though, was the undead monstrosity loitering above the Comm's Array's blast doors.
Massive was an understatement. Tree-size tendrils held its globular mass in place. Numerous skulls and limbs, fused together in a thanatologist's attempt at taxidermy. Size wasn't what frightened Greggs, though.
From what Greggs assumed was the creature's front end, spurted five appendages reminiscent of a sea slug's eye stalks. Except the bulbous lobes weren't atop the stalk but in the center and glowed a sickly yellow. The tops to these "not eyestalks" weren't bare, but had tri-digit pincers, eager to crush anything.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede acknowledged this monstrosity with a prayerful, "Altman, help us."
We need more than a dead prophet, Greggs thought, hands clenched tight around the ADS controls.
The automated voice, unconcerned, chimed in. Hull integrity is at one hundred percent.
"Thank you. I couldn't read what was in the right corner myself," Greggs said.
The Slug—an appropriate name for this specimen—roared a ghastly challenge, turning to face the ADS cannon. It's pincer-headed appendages flung all around the immediate area, balling up hull plating like aluminum wrapping. A hundred meters distance of hull may have separated the Slug from the ADS cannon, but that wouldn't prevent the monster from attacking.
Greggs joggled the controls to the left, then up. The green lasers followed quickly; ADS cannon aimed at the furthest left yellow bulb. All the Slug's appendages reared back.
Artillery-grade plasma rounds flew alongside jagged, metal chunks.
The bulb bled yellow then exploded after a few rounds connected, sending a pincer sailing into the void. The chunks connected with the ADS cannon tower with tremendous force.
Greggs' vision shook for a few seconds. His hands, despite the disorientation, guided the lasers, and the cannons, to the next pincer-headed appendage. The Slug tore off more hull.
Hull integrity at eighty percent the A.I. stated.
That's great, Greggs thought, I need to hurry.
His thumbs pressed hard on the firing buttons. The plasma blew its target into oblivion, sending the stalk's remnant into the void, a crushed wrecking-ball of the Ishimura's hull still clutched in the pincer.
The Slug retorted with more automobile-size clumps dug from the hull. This latest barrage contained a fuel container that, when it connected against the tower's glass, bloomed into an orange explosion. Greggs closed his eyes, holding onto the controls as his world shook again.
Hull integrity at seventy percent.
"Crap," Greggs replied.
He had kept the cannons moving rightward. Now, they were aimed listlessly at the void on his right. A few meters away from the closest remaining pincer-appendage.
Greggs's heart pounded hard. He thought the organ would shoot out, a cardiovascular projectile.
You promised, Georgie. You promised.
Imminent death and voices in his head. A combination that made Greggs nauseous. Only the weight in his breast pocket kept him focused.
He lined up then fired the cannons. Another pincer-appendage slain. Unfortunately, the alignment time gave the Slug enough time to throw three more chunks.
Though no fuel container was in this assault, some internal fuselage or wires gave way. Flames burst from the wall to Greggs's left, barely missing him. He hurried to the next pincer-appendage.
You promised. Cross your heart and hope to die!
Hull integrity at fifty-five percent.
Tears welled in Greggs's eyes at the voice's words. Broken promises. Lies. His life's summation. Poor Jane, poor Bruttenholm. How little they knew—
A flatline screeched, followed with a burnt meat aroma. Greggs, torn from his self-loathing spiral, turned around in the seat to witness a maddening sight.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede, flamethrower laid on the ground before her, groveled on her knees before a rather docile slasher in supplication. Her arms were crossed, fingertips touching—a Unitologist gesture imitating the Marker's double helix form.
That part wasn't upsetting. No. What angered Greggs was the burning one-legged corpse formerly known as Ensign Delaney off to the side.
Greggs surmised events. Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede, finally embracing psychosis, used Ensign Kadare's flamethrower to immolate an unconscious Ensign Delaney. That done, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede opened the door, perhaps hearing the slasher scratching on the other side. Regardless, this homicide was perpetrated behind his back as he fought his own monsters.
In a decision that Jane and Bruttenholm would have heartedly agreed with, Greggs brought his cutter to bear and shot at the slasher's right leg.
"Holy creature, enlighten us to the galactic mysteries! Guide us to unity! To Convergence! Make us—"
Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede never finished her pious refrain. Her idol, suddenly mono-legged, fell upon her. Literally.
The slasher's scythes and maw soon tore Lieutenant Junior Grade Wrede to bloody shreds. A terrible end that Greggs believed adequate rectification to Ensign Delaney's.
Two more shots, and the slasher was one corpse atop another.
As Greggs resumed his position, more chunks hit the tower. New flames exploded inside on his right. Small web-like cracks appeared on the glass—the sole barrier against the void. He literally felt the heat.
You're in trouble, Georgie.
Hull integrity at forty percent.
"May the both of you quiet down," Greggs said, through clenched teeth.
He shot another stalk off. Fortunate, too. That one clenched another fuel container.
The Slug, aware of its handicap, started to rotate the remaining stalk in random ways. Greggs attempted to aim, but its motions prevented a lock.
Can't catch him, Georgie. Can't catch him.
"I know."
Yet, he kept trying. The weight in his breast pocket assured, nay, forced him to find a way. He was already talking with voices in his head, though? How much longer until he snapped, too?
In an epiphanic moment, Greggs vividly recalled an excursion with Jane. A month into their courtship—a month since she first visited him in his office—she had suggested "blowing off steam." Blowing off, in that instance, meant target practice at one of the Ishimura's shooting ranges.
They had gone late. The only others there were two off-duty P-SEC officers. Enough other people to discomfort Greggs. He wasn't an athlete, much less a marksman.
Jane, perhaps detecting this discomfort, led him to the farthest available booth. Her grip, despite missing fingers, felt strong, almost magnetic as she guided him. When those hands let go to hold a pistol, he immediately wanted to grasp them again.
Her performance, in her own words, was piss poor. The lost digits had made holding, let alone firing, the pistol an awkward experience. But she kept at it, even if the rounds hit all the cardinal points instead of the bullseye. Jane had laughed at her twentieth failed attempt, then handed it to him.
"I don't know how to shoot, let alone fire this thing," Greggs had said to his shame.
Jane had smiled. How that expression haunted him. Her lush lips curved into the most perfect shape in the galaxy.
Her hands had gone to his elbows, as she pulled in closer. Greggs permitted her to guide his body into a firing stance. His face had blazed red, as she rested her head on his shoulder. She said, "Remember to breathe, Greggs. It helps calm the nerves."
She was right then, and she was right now. Greggs breathed. That breath, in that brief span, cleared his head of the madness and pain. This clarity showed him how to kill the Slug.
He pulled the trigger as he aimed the cannon back and forth. All those rounds, overkill to the extreme, provided no quarter. The yellow bulb burst in a beautiful azure plasma bloom. The Slug's lifeless mass drifted away from the Ishimura. Obstruction gone; the blast doors opened. The Comms Array was free to send an emergency message.
Greggs sat back in his seat. He sighed. The overcooked meat scent, now faint, reminded him that it wasn't a cheap achievement—or his alone.
Better inform Second Officer Chic, Greggs thought as he lifted himself off the seat.
As his boots hit the ground, he acknowledged the living nightmare that stood—nay—appeared before him. The child stood to his waist, wore a bear-themed blue and white pajama shirt and pants, and gave the warmest smile Greggs remembered.
"Where to next, Georgie?" Gary Gregorios asked, as innocent as a dead five-year old could.
Greggs screamed.
A/N: Here's another one. This one, much like the titular Slug, was a massive undertaking. I attempted to keep the content faithful to the game with slight changes for dramatic effect. Longest chapter that I have written so far. I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations. As always, I would like to thank my readers. Your patience, and continued support, have kept me pushing to finish this. Hope you all enjoy! Please feel free to favorite, follow, and/or review!