Quarantine (The Shadow Wars Book 7.5)

by Lusher, S. A.

  “Oh, God...” he moaned, feeling despair begin to set in.

  Abruptly, his radio crackled to life once more. He prepared himself for another outburst of nonsensical screaming, but something different, something significantly more welcome came onto the airwaves.

  “Allan, this is Duncan, are you there? Did you make it?”

  Chapter 05

  –A Spark of Hope–

  Allan felt relief surge through him. He took a quick look around, reconfirming that he was alone, and retreated to the nearest door, to the right of the bridge. Opening it up, he found a small security office that had been subjected to a brutal firefight. He closed the door behind him and locked it, then sat down in a chair.

  “This is Gray...you have no idea how glad I am to hear from you. What happened? Where are you? How did you make it?” he asked.

  A pause, and Allan instantly began to worry that he might have imagined that last part, that he was still alone on this ship. Then there was a crackle of static. “Allan! You made it! Okay, this is what happened. We were attacked by the Stygian, what might have been automated defenses left on. Colin, Hunter, Smitty and I were on the bridge when it happened. Myself, Colin and Hunter managed to get into an escape pod before the ship was totally destroyed. Smitty didn't make it, some shrapnel caught him in the head, killed him instantly. We're assuming Fletcher didn't make it, or any of the other skeleton crew on the speed ship,” Duncan explained.

  “Jesus,” Allan whispered. “Well...it's at least good that you three made it. Are you all right?”

  “Just a few minor wounds. We managed to dock with the ship and we've just made it through an airlock bay. We're near the engine room. According to this map, there's an infirmary not far from our location. You want to meet up there?” Duncan replied.

  “Yes,” Allan said, suddenly desperate to see other people. “I'll get there as soon as I can. Give me the number of the infirmary.”

  “Um...Four B.”

  “Got it. I'll check a map and be there as soon as I can.”

  “All right. We'll be waiting.”

  Allan let out a long sigh of relief and decided to take this opportunity to check out the security center. His gaze was at first and immediately drawn to the trio of gun lockers along the back wall, but his hopes fell slightly as he saw they were all open and empty. He walked over to them anyway, just in case there might be something along the bottom or in shadow, but his investigation revealed nothing. Next, he looked across the floor.

  There were two bodies in there with him, one of them shot in the head, the other strangled to death. He patted them both down, but found nothing in any of their various pockets. As he was preparing to leave, he spied a bit of metal poking out from beneath one of the bodies. Excited, he flipped the corpse over, but then felt his hopes fall yet again. As if to add insult to injury, he found a shotgun that had been used as a club, it was utterly ruined.

  With a sigh, he abandoned the weapon, stood and left the room.

  The first thing he needed to do was get the locations of those three lockout consoles. He moved back over to the terminal and studied the holographic layout of the ship. It was large, not as massive as some of the cruisers he'd seen, but big enough to handle easily a couple hundred personnel. The three lockout terminals, all of them security centers, were, of course, spread out equally across the vessel, and none of them near the bridge.

  Fantastic.

  Still, that couldn't get him down. Not now that he knew there were other survivors onboard. He was saddened over the loss of Smitty, of the skeleton crew manning the speed ship, but was at least consoled by the idea that (hopefully) their deaths were quick and painless. Sometimes, that's all a person could ask for in this nightmare of a galaxy. After memorizing the route to the three places and the infirmary where they were all supposed to meet up, Allan turned away from the terminal and began making his way back down the corridor.

  Hefting his medical machete, he pondered his joy at hearing from the others. It seemed, ever since getting onboard the Stygian, that he was feeling emotions much more powerfully than before. Fear, hope, fury...speaking of fury, he passed the mutilated corpse on the way back. Allan paused briefly, flicking his glance down at it, then felt his stomach twist and churn and kept up his brisk pace, stepping around the body and hurrying until he'd reached the turn and it was wholly out of sight. Why had he blown a fuse like that?

  It definitely wasn't a good sign. After hitting his mid-twenties and realizing that he was a furious ball of rage more often than not, Allan had made it a point to try and control his emotions, or, at least, his reactions. He thought he'd started to succeed at doing so after a few years, but wasn't sure, as he'd begun growing numb not long before coming to Lindholm. He'd gotten what he'd wanted all along: less emotions. Unfortunately, whatever was affecting him didn't seem to care if the emotions were good or bad...it just took them all away.

  The process of shedding off his feelings had only accelerated during his campaign against the killer. Really, the only thing that had stayed was mute terror, and a grim kind of hope that he might somehow make the galaxy a better place. So why were his emotions coming back with a vengeance all of a sudden?

  It didn't make any sense.

  Allan turned another corner and froze, spying another one of the insane crewmen up ahead. A former security officer was facing him, that same empty, furious gaze of unmitigated horror and rage on his face. He immediately began shrieking and racing towards Allan, arms outstretched, the very second he laid eyes on him. Allan was ready. He raised his machete, waited for the perfect moment, then brought the blade around in a tight arc. This time, the medical blade cut cleanly through the entire neck, sending the head flying.

  Allan let out a soft sound of disgust and surprise as blood fountained out of the stump of a neck, the body stumbling a few steps, hands opening and closing, groping blindly, nerves twitching as the body realized it was dying. The headless corpse finally collapsed. Allan watched the head go bouncing down the hallway, coming to rest by the boot of another corpse. The blood fountain slowed until it was a trickle, then died away completely. Allan felt his stomach twist and knot again. He'd never fully decapitated someone before.

  Before he could think about it any further, Allan pressed on, first jogging, then running, as if fleeing the scene of the crime. He reached the end of the corridor, turned, passed through a storage room, ran down another corridor, heard another shriek but kept on going. When he finally stopped, winded, chest heaving, he saw that he wasn't far from the infirmary. He knocked on the door twice and waited, so he didn't get shot coming in. It had just occurred to him to use the damned radio when the door opened.

  Duncan was waiting for him. He grinned big, grabbed Allan and pulled him inside, briefly wrapping him in a hug and pounding him on his armored back. “Man, is it good to see you! We were worried you'd gotten caught up,” he said.

  “Likewise, about the seeing you part,” Allan replied, closing and locking the door behind him. He looked around the infirmary.

  Everyone was there, at least everyone who had reported in. Colin, Duncan and Hunter. Duncan was the only one in full armor. He had a bandage over his forehead and another across his cheek. Colin and Hunter were tending to their own wounds, and Allan guessed that they'd covered Duncan while he fixed himself up, so that he could watch over them while they did the same. Allan spied a canteen resting on one of the cabinets and immediately went over to it. Raising his visor, he opened it up, smelled, discovered it was just water and drank deeply.

  “So I imagine you've run into the freaks, huh?” Duncan asked.

  Allan finished draining the canteen and nodded. He began filling it back up with water from a nearby sink after replacing his visor. “Yeah, I have, almost half a dozen. Any of you have any idea why they're acting this way? It's...”

  “Insane,” Colin finished. “Absolutely insane.”

  “I know a lot of people are tempted to save cabin fever, or space f
ever or whatever, but...this is a bit much for that,” Allan said, attaching the canteen to his belt.

  Duncan was nodding. “Yeah. I've seen that before, and it's nothing like this. To be honest, I've never seen anything like this.”

  “Me either,” Colin said.

  “Ditto,” Hunter muttered.

  “Well, whatever's going on, we've still got a job to do, so listen up. The bridge is locked down. The only way we're getting it open is by disengaging the three lockout points.” Allan paused, looking around for a minute, then spied a general access terminal. He hurried over to it, booted it up and found the map. “The three points are here, here and here. They're all security centers. Once you get there, I imagine the instructions for actually disengaging the lockout will be there. And, as far as I can tell, this isn't one of those 'all at once' simultaneous rigs.”

  Colin snorted. “It'd better not be, we had enough of that shit on that frozen planet.”

  Allan found himself smiling. “Hear hear. Now, I'd like Colin and Duncan to take the first one, here, in the medical wing. Hunter, you'll take this one by the oxygen plant, and I'll take the final one, by the living quarters.”

  The others began to agree, the radio abruptly crackled to life. “Is anyone there? This is Fletcher, I...” she paused, the fear naked in her voice. She started speaking again, whispering frantically this time, “I'm trapped, over in the dormitories. I'm in one of the bathrooms. I locked myself in. There's all these insane people trying to kill me!”

  “Fletcher, this is Gray, calm down. I've got Hunter, Colin and Duncan here with me. What's your precise location?” Allan asked.

  “I don't know! I didn't have time to fucking check, Allan! Please...someone come get me, I don't have any weapons and I'm hurt. I think I cracked my ribs or something.”

  “All right, all right. Listen Fletcher, I'm coming to get you. Just stay where you are, don't attract any more of them.”

  “Yeah, right. No, I thought I'd just go waltzing around and-”

  “Fletcher...”

  “Fine! I'm sorry! Just...come get me.”

  “On my way.” Allan turned to look at the others. At hearing Fletcher's words, something dawned on him and he frowned as his gaze roved over the others' suits. “Why...where are your weapons?” he asked slowly.

  “They were lost during our escape, I guess,” Duncan replied.

  Allan's frown deepened. “All of them? All three of you lost all of your weapons?” he asked, incredulous. “How?”

  “I remember dropping my rifle,” Colin murmured.

  “But your pistol, wasn't it latched in?” Allan asked.

  The three of them stood silent, apparently considering this. Allan knew that it was technically possible that they could have lost all their weapons in the commotion, but it just seemed so unlikely. He didn't know the actual odds, but he imagined they were pretty low for three high-trained Spec Ops personnel to lose the entirety of their arsenal. The thought made his head hurt, made reality seemed to waver for a moment.

  “You okay?” Duncan asked.

  “I...yeah, just a headache,” Allan replied quietly, deciding to let it go.

  Colin chuckled. “I think we've all got those at the moment.”

  “Yeah...I guess so. Come on, we should really get going,” Allan said.

  The others nodded, each of them hefting whatever melee-based weapon they'd picked up along the way. They followed him out into the corridor, found it empty of life, and split up, each heading for a different destination.

  Chapter 06

  –Entering Solitude–

  Alone again.

  Why was he alone so often? Allan thought he'd get used to it, and he supposed he had, to a certain degree, but still, as he split off from the others and stood at the mouth of another derelict corridor, he felt a wave of loneliness slowly wash over him. How long had he been alone? Allan wondered about that as he began walking down the corridor, his only company the soft sounds of the ship, the occasional distant shriek and his clanging boots.

  When he was growing up, he hadn't had many friends. There were some that came and went, and he'd had one particularly good friend for a few years, through elementary school, but then his friend had moved away, leaving him alone again. In middle school and especially high school, he'd been shy and socially awkward. After joining up with SI, things hadn't gotten much better. He'd made a few colleges and did the cliché thing of going out for drinks after work, but it hadn't really gone beyond that. He'd lived alone in his quarters with only the occasionally girlfriend that never really turned into anything serious.

  He could remember wanting to have some real friends. People who actually understood him. And now, here he was, having tossed his lot in with a group of people who were utterly unique in that they had survived absolutely insane shit they shouldn't have...just like him. This was as close as he was going to get to having a genuine group of people who understood him. Who better to make friends with? But did he deserve them?

  Allan didn't think so.

  Not after what he had done. The atrocities he had committed on Lindholm.

  He was pulled out of his malignant thoughts by a nearby grunt. Allan hefted his machete and prepared himself. The sound was coming from an open doorway. Of course it was the way he needed to go. In order to get to the living quarters, he had to cut through a pair of mess halls and a cold storage bay. Stepping in through the open doorway, he surveyed the area. The mess hall was large, only one of four. An expanse of tables and benches, bolted to the ground, cast in gunmetal gray, awaited his inspection. The place was a wreck.

  It looked like a lot of people had been eating here when...whatever it was had happened struck. There were close to two dozen bodies spread out across the area, broken in death, arms and necks twisted or bent at painful angles. Plates, silverware and food was everywhere, largely reduced to so much debris crushed underfoot. Another grunt, then a moan, from nearby. Allan froze, looking around, and finally decided it was one of the bodies.

  He looked around for a long moment and finally saw one of them move a little. He let out a low whistle as he approached it: all the arms and legs had been broken. Still alive, though. Allan raised his machete, then paused. The man, what appeared to be a former medic, was lying on his back, eyes wide and wild, rolling around, the breathing rapid.

  “Can you understand me?” he asked.

  The medic let out a grunt that sounded like tired anger and shifted slightly, as though trying, even as broken as his body was, to attack Allan. What had done this to them? What made them insane like this? The man continued to grunt and shift.

  “I'm going to kill you,” Allan said calmly.

  No change. No effect. Allan sighed, raised the blade and brought it down swiftly on the man's neck, severing his head in a visceral spray of blood. Allan stood, feeling suddenly very tired, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep for an era. Instead, he started walking again, crossing the mess hall, boots squelching in the blood. He navigated between the tables, over the bodies, and passed through a door at the back into the next mess hall. As soon as he stepped into the room, he froze, spying four demented crewmen.

  They were spread out across the room, but they all immediately took notice of him. Allan decided he needed to go on the offensive. Turning, he began sprinting across the room towards the nearest crewman, a bulky security officer. There was nothing in between them. Allan brought the machete around in a tight arc towards the man's neck, but the officer ducked down at the last second, preparing to tackle Allan, and the blade slammed into his head instead. It buried itself in the insane man's skull and killed him instantly, but now it was lodged there and the blade was torn from Allan's hand as the man collapsed.

  It took him just a second to glance back and calculate that there wasn't enough time to break his machete free of the corpse's skull. Allan turned, just having enough time to pull out his pipe, when the rest of the crew members rushed him. The first one was easy. A skinny f
emale technician went down fast and hard when Allan played baseball with her head. He smashed the pipe into her face, barely hearing the dull crunch that must have been her teeth shattering. Her head twisted and her neck broke. She fell back, hit the ground and didn't rise.

  The next two, however, proved to be more difficult.

  Both of them were men in decent shape, and they both leaped into him mindlessly. Allan grunted as he was forced to the ground. The pipe flew from his hands. The fact that they were both trying to attack him simultaneously worked for him. They kept getting in each others' way. Allan kept rolling, shifting, trying to get out from beneath them as they pounded him with their fists. Again, he marveled at how powerfully they could punch. A closed fist should've done next to nothing against his armor, but he could feel those hits.

  He finally managed to get out from beneath them. He kept rolling, reaching out, grabbing the nearest one's head and slamming it down into the ground as hard as he could three times in a row. Something cracked and the body went slack. There was just enough time to appreciate that there was only one more when that final man jumped back onto him. Allan reached up with his left hand, holding the man up, fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing, while groping along the floor with his right hand, hunting for something.

  He found it, a discarded utensil, and immediately brought it up and drove it into the thing's right eyeball. It was a fork. There was a spray of gore that leaked all over Allan's visor and he made a sound of disgust, then punched the fork the rest of the way, piercing the brain and killing it. With a grunt of exertion, he shoved the body up off of him and then sat up. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked around to see if anyone else had joined the party, but he was alone in the mess hall. Allan crawled to his feet, then reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a cloth he kept for such occasions as this. He began wiping at his visor.