Booting it up, he was immediately disappointed to see that the general database was in total disarray. He couldn't access practically any of the normal functions. All he could get was a map of the ship, which would have to be good enough. Allan stared at the map for a long moment. He wasn't too far from the bridge, it turned out, and that's where any and all data or secrets would most likely be kept. Perhaps the mission wasn't a total loss.
Allan began to leave, but then stopped, remembering that he had no real weapons. He stared at the bloodied length of pipe lying on the floor where he had abandoned it, glinting in the dull light. Sighing, he retrieved it.
It would have to do.
Chapter 04
–Not Quite Dead–
Allan stood before the single exit to the locker bay and hesitated, his finger hovering over the button that would open the door. Several thoughts were running through his head at that moment: his need to find a weapon, wondering what Callie was doing, if anyone else had survived, his experiences back on Lindholm. A random jumble of thoughts. But covering it all like a malaise was fear. It was almost inexplicable, at least to him. His stoicism, born of the atrocities on Lindholm, granted him a new level of fearlessness. In a larger sense, he didn't care nearly as much about his own life as he had once before. He wasn't wholly unafraid to die, but he was much closer to it. On top of that, he still had his bravery, which was only tempered by his recent experiences.
He still had his fear, but the level of apprehension he was currently feeling made him freeze up. He shouldn't be this afraid. Allan took a deep breath and let it out, briefly fogging up his new faceplate. He could do this. He had to do this. Pressing the button, he tightened his grip on the length of pipe and watched the door slide open.
A bit of dim corridor was revealed. After waiting a moment, Allan stepped out and looked first left, then right. The hallway was short, ending in T junctions at either side of him. He was alone. Despite this, Allan hesitated, lingering in the doorway, taking in the aftermath around him. It was immediately and painfully obvious that something had gone wrong on the Stygian. Pausing further, he tried to pay attention to the details afforded to him.
There were two bodies in the corridor with him. One had been pumped full of holes, as though someone had unloaded a full magazine from an assault rifle into the poor bastard. The other had its skull bashed in, and not just once, either, it looked like the assailant had just kept hammering away at the body long past the point of death. Allan approached the first body, the one riddled with holes, and stared at it.
This man was a young crewman, head shaved, facial features ruined by the bullets, the uniform signifying that he'd been a technician. Frowning, Allan briefly followed a separate train of thought as he considered this corpse. What was it that drove these men? What was it that kept them working for Rogue Ops? A lack of knowledge? Money? Fear? Or maybe they just believed that whatever it was they were doing was the correct course of action, ugly though it might be. Not for the first time, Allan wondered just what exactly their endgame was.
He moved over to the other corpse, an older security officer, beefy with muscle, which hadn't apparently meant much. His boots squelched in the blood as Allan shifted. In the two weeks following the rescue of Matheson, Allan had made a point to read up on the mission reports from Arctica, Dis and Syberia. He wanted to know everything about Rogues Ops, about his enemy. He'd memorized the characteristics of each enemy faced down.
The three bodies he'd encountered so far on the Stygian didn't match up with anything here. Not the decayed, hollow look of the Undead, nor the metal-flesh look of the Augmented, or even the red-vein appearance of the Mutants. The violence was dissimilar from that encountered on the unnamed planet, so he could, (hopefully), safely rule out the cyborgs. Which was good, he did not want to have to fight those creepy things again.
There really wasn't anything physically anomalous about these bodies. So what had gone wrong? Had they just lost it for some reason? Cabin fever? They all attacked each other like stark, raving mad lunatics? Allan winced as he suddenly felt a spike of white-hot pain sear through his skull. At that same moment, he became aware of the fact that his hair and right cheek were both hot and wet. He must have initially been brushing it off as sweat, but now he recognized it for what it was: blood. He was bleeding, a head wound.
Not good.
Allan stood up and recalled the map he'd memorized. It took a moment, also not good. Along the route, he'd made sure to note important locations: armories, infirmaries, the engine room. There was an infirmary along the way to the bridge. It seemed as though he'd have to pay a visit. Allan turned and began walking down the corridor, his hands aching for a gun of some kind. He made it to the end of the corridor and cautiously peered around the next corner. Nothing but another grim stretch of flickering metal. He waited a moment, then stepped out.
He'd made it about five steps when an ear-splitting shriek echoed down the passageway. Allan froze, tensing, preparing for something to come at him. Sizing up his environment, he realized that there were any number of places an attack could come from. Behind, ahead, the dozen or so doors lined up along the walls, even the ventilation grates overhead. Allan waited for another tension-soaked minute, pipe raised, ready to swing. The scream died away and nothing else happened. No footfalls, no sudden hostile appearance.
Allan let out his breath in a long sigh and kept going, picking up the pace this time. As he continued through the bloodied passages, he decided to try his radio again. Activating it, he called out into the lonely darkness.
“This is Gray to anyone, can you read me?” He tried to keep the fear out of his voice, which wasn't as hard as he thought it might be. There was no telling who might be listening in...though, if the rest of the ship was like this, then he didn't have that to worry about. Silence mocked him yet again. He sighed and left his radio on, just in case.
Another long, lonely howl that was almost utterly inhuman but still just human enough to be truly chilling rang out as Allan neared the infirmary. A fresh wave of terror rolled through him. Riding on the tail of it, a second one came, followed by a much shorter shriek that sounded like anger. Allan stopped, listening, as what was unmistakably a fight broke out. There were grunts, the heavy meaty thuds of something being slammed into flesh and muscle, more screams. They almost sounded like apes hopped up on some kind of battle drugs.
This went on for several minutes before finally there as a loud, wet snap, followed shortly by a long howl that might have been triumph. Was it the crewman fighting each other, Allan suddenly wondered. It must be, both of the combatants had sounded human. Or maybe it was just his frightened mind filling in the blanks. He couldn't tell where the sounds were coming from, due to the odd acoustic nature of the ship around him.
Allan realized he'd been standing still for far too long, and his head was really beginning to hurt. He set off once more, his metal boots clanging down the corridor, announcing his presence to anyone or anything that might be nearby. Allan reached an antechamber that served as a crossroads in the corridors. Thankfully, all of the other corridors were hidden behind closed doors. He walked over to the left-most door, stepping over a man whose face had been bashed in with a blunt instrument, and hit the access button.
The door opened to reveal another length of empty corridor. This one was properly lit at least. At that thought, Allan found himself wondering how bad of shape the ship was in. What if the reactor was damaged, counting down to a meltdown? What if oxygen was running out? All the more reason to get to the bridge quicker, he supposed. Allan hurried down the corridor to the first door on the right: the infirmary. Finally.
He opened up the door and looked inside. Two people, a woman in a crimson-stained white jumpsuit and another thin man in a black uniform, were milling about inside on opposite sides of the room. Allan hesitated, wondering how to handle this. Right away, he could see that whatever had afflicted the original man he'd encountered also seemed to have a firm gr
asp on these two. The way they were quietly muttering to themselves, the ruined state of their uniforms, the awkward, jerky movements.
His decision was made for him, however, when the woman in the white jumpsuit turned, looked at him and let out a piercing shriek. Allan shouted in surprise. She began racing for him, leaping over an examination table in between them as though it were the easiest thing in the world. When she came within arm's length, he hauled off and smashed the side of her head in with the pipe. Bone crunched, blood flew and her body was picked up and tossed a few feet away. Allan began turning to face his second attacker, which he'd heard shout at roughly the same time as the woman, and then he felt a tremendous force crash into him.
Both him and the insane crewman landed on the floor. Luckily it wasn't a perfect tackle and they'd landed separately. Allan took the opportunity granted to him, threw himself atop the demented Rogue Ops tech, grabbed his neck, lifted his head half a foot off the floor and then smashed it as hard as he could into the metal deckplates. There was a sickening crack, but still the man thrashed and struggled. Allan raised it once more and slammed as hard as he could. There was another disgusting noise, and then the man stopped moving.
Allan let out his breath in a heaving sigh and slowly stood up, still shaky from the adrenaline. He took a quick look around, saw no one and hurriedly retrieved his pipe. He made a face as he held it up. There were bits of gore and a lot of blood dripping off of the end. Frowning, Allan looked around and finally walked back over to the woman who wore white. He wiped as much of the viscera off on her uniform as he could, then briefly felt a wave of guilt. He was basically desecrating a corpse. He'd learned a lot about respect for the dead in his career. Allan finished the ugly task and then began another one: looting the bodies.
He patted down both, but came up with nothing. Sighing, Allan stood and surveyed the infirmary. It didn't inspire confidence. Blood smeared the walls, there were bodies on most of the examination tables, which looked like they'd all taken a beating. Allan turned and walked over to the door he'd come in through. He poked his head out and looked around the corridor outside. Finding it empty, he pulled his head back in, closed and locked the door. After that, he walked across the room to the only other two doors in the area.
The first led to a small office and storage area, largely untouched by the death and destruction. The second was an extremely bloodied shower area. A trio of corpses, all of whom looked like they'd had a free-for-all with nothing but their hands and determination, lay in a tangled heap on the ground. Allan stared at the violent scene, again wondering what the hell had gone wrong, and finally left and closed the door.
Feeling possibly the most secure he had since coming onto the Stygian, Allan moved over to the examination table that the insane female medic had leaped over to get to him. He hit the access button and frowned when nothing happened. Hitting it again elicited a burst of blue-white sparks. Allan took a step back reflexively, then sighed. It was obvious that something had gone wrong with the table. He took a look around the infirmary. There were another nine examination tables, and none of them looked to be in good condition.
He wasted a good ten minutes sorting through them all, trying to get them going. They were all broken. Some simply refused to turn on, others produced utterly random results. Reluctantly, he decided he was going to have to do this himself. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to tell if he had some kind of brain damage, a brain-bleed or cracked cranium or concussion. As far as he knew, there was no way to just eyeball it.
Now came the very unhappy part.
He needed to take off his helmet.
Allan spent a minute trying to think his way around actually doing it, examining the problem from all angles. Ultimately, he surmised that there was no way around it. He'd have to take off his damned helmet. The last time he'd tried to do this...this morning, he realized, it hadn't gone so well. Had it been only this morning that he'd failed at taking that shower? Allan thought for a second and decided that yes, it had only been a few hours ago.
Losing track of time was either a bad sign or just something he did at this point. Allan set down his pipe, (after taking another quick look around the infirmary), and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, whispering to himself that he could do this. He reached up, placing his fingers on the latches, and froze. More blind terror, something that made him want to just cut loose, run away, bolt screaming through the corridors and join the other psychos. Allan gritted his teeth and flipped the first two latches. Quickly, before he could reconsider it, he flipped the next two and took off his helmet. He expected some madness to descend on him, something to take him over and turn him insane, his head to explode...something.
But nothing happened.
Allan let out a small laugh. He was fine. Trembling, yeah, and maybe kind of sick to his stomach, but he was okay. Setting down his helmet next to his pipe on the counter that he stood before, Allan glanced over the medical kit he'd opened. Time to do this fast. Allan gently probed his skull until he'd found a matted mass of coagulated blood on his scalp, just behind his temple. He sighed, grabbed a bottle of antiseptics and prepared for the worst. Before he could think better of it, he dabbed some on a pad of gauze and pressed it to the wound.
Brilliant, sharp pain exploded through his skull and groaned sickly. Allan finished up as quickly as he could, then taped a fresh gauze pad over the wound. Working as fast as he could, he injected himself in the neck with a general antibiotic/anti-viral stimulant, tossed the needle aside and replaced his helmet. He felt a bit better, especially now that he had actually managed to take his helmet off, but he knew he wouldn't be able to leave it off for long. It was progress, at least. Maybe in a few weeks he'd be able to take a real shower.
Maybe.
As Allan prepared to leave, he took one last look around the infirmary, and paused. His gaze caught on something that glimmered in the brilliant overhead lights. He felt a slow grin spreading across his face as he crossed the room and studied it. A medical instrument, what looked like a fancy machete, lay on the floor among other scattered materials. He knelt and picked it up. Hefting it in his hand, he swung it a few times.
It felt nice and looked exquisitely sharp.
“What...what the fuck kind of medical instrument is this!?” he marveled, whispering to himself. He swung it a few more times, chuckling to himself.
“Yeah,” he whispered, “this'll do nicely.”
He was half tempted to abandon the pipe, but it still might be useful. As it was, he could rig up one of the loops on his belt to hold one of these weapons. Allan spent a moment adjusting it, then slipped the pipe through. He wanted to put this strange medical blade to the test. As he was practicing swinging it around a few more times, his radio abruptly crackled to life. Allan let out a small shout of fear at the unexpected noise and dropped his machete. It went clanging to the ground and he hurried to retrieve it, suddenly sure that he was about to be attacked.
But he grabbed the machete, stood and remained alone. The radio was still on, and someone was muttering incoherently on the other end.
“Duncan? Hunter?” he asked, his voice a strangled whisper.
The muttering abruptly came to a halt, then a piercing shriek came through the radio that was abruptly cut off. Allan tried to get into contact a moment longer, but could get nothing more. With no other recourse, he left the infirmary.
* * * * *
He almost made it to the bridge without getting attacked.
As he rounded the corner to the final corridor that terminated in, as far as he could tell, the sole entryway to the bridge, he stepped practically into the waiting arms of another crewman. He was larger, a security officer, his muscles showing through his tattered uniform. With reflexes born of fear, Allan brought the machete around in a tight arc and buried it in the man's neck. It went in about halfway, lodging itself in muscles and meat, spraying blood.
Allan ripped the blade out and then shoved the man backwards. The crew
man stumbled back and crashed to the deckplates. He tried weakly to get back to his feet but so much blood was spraying out of his neck that he collapsed. On the heels of the shocked fear he'd felt at being jumped by the insane crewman, a white-hot wave of raw fury exploded into being. Allan suddenly found himself seething with total anger, as furious as he ever remember being. Suddenly, he leaped forward and dropped to his knees beside the body.
He began screaming as he brought the blade down on the corpse's torso over and over again. Blood sprayed across his suit, his visor, the walls. His arm rattled each time the machete hit bone. Allan heard someone screaming incoherently and realized, after a moment, that it was him, his own voice, twisted and turned into something else. He became aware of the horrible, wet, meaty sounds the machete made hitting the corpse and suddenly felt his gorge rise. Fighting down the chemical burn of bile, Allan fell back into a sitting position and kicked away from the mutilated corpse. He realized his chest was heaving, his breathing unsteady and rapid.
What was wrong with him?
He slowly got to his feet, his legs trembling, the anger now totally gone. Was he that stressed out? He'd been prone to angry outbursts in his early days working with SI when he was unusually stressed about something...but never like this.
Allan stared at the chopped up body and wiped at his visor. The corpse barely even resembled a person anymore. He hadn't known he had it in him to do that. As the trembling subsided, Allan knelt and retrieved the blade. He shook some of the blood off, cast one more uncertain glance at the bloody mess, then turned and hurried down the corridor to the bridge's entrance.
The sooner he could get off this death ship, the better.
As he approached the door, he noticed a flashing red light on the console next to it. Not a good sign. Jogging the rest of the way there, he reached the terminal and stared at it. Slowly, his hopes began to drop away as he read the message being flashed. It informed him that the bridge was presently in lockdown, and the only way to unlock it was by releasing the three manual overrides, which were spread out across the ship.
Quarantine (The Shadow Wars Book 7.5) Page 4
