Necropolis 2

by S. A. Lusher

  “Are you okay?” Kyra crouched beside him.

  Greg coughed several times. “Yeah, I think so. Shit...those fucking bullets kick like hell. Here, help me up.”

  Holt and Kyra each offered him a hand. He got to his feet, and once he was steady, made his way towards DNA Processing.

  “How's it going?” he asked.

  “I...we managed to get the samples uploaded. We're in the database,” Kyra murmured, her voice laced with uncertainty.

  “Good. Let's get inside, contact Powell.”

  Once they were inside and made sure that there was nothing waiting for them within, nothing hiding in the shadows, Greg contacted the other team and updated them on the situation. Powell's reply was immediate and unfortunate.

  “We've got another problem.”

  Chapter 09

  –Lockout–

  “Hold on, hold on...explain this situation to me again.” Greg massaged his temples.

  Campbell cut in. “Okay, look, it's really simple. They locked the bridge down. And, well, you know Dark Ops, they can't seem to do something without making it fucking complicated. The only way to override the emergency lockdown they've initiated is to go to five separate terminals and initiate a manual override. Of course that's not enough, obviously, because once that's finished, two people have to be at two separate terminals and activate the final override sequence at the exact same time. So, like I said, complicated.”

  “Oh, God...” Greg moaned.

  “It gets better.” Here, Campbell sounded embarrassed. “We shouldn't use the suits of armor.”

  “What? We just killed a fucking Berserker to get to this DNA processor,” Kyra snapped.

  “I know, I know, I'm sorry. Dark Ops can remotely shut down the suits or even overload them, killing the occupant.”

  “Why didn't you mention this before?” Greg roared.

  “I'm sorry. I forgot, okay? It just...slipped my mind.”

  “You know, Graves showed up, looking for me. Did you send us here, Campbell? Send us here to die?”

  “What? No. Cage...stop looking at me like that.”

  Cage came onto the line. “Should I kill him?”

  Greg considered it for a long moment. It could be a coincidence, and Campbell was providing them with useful information now. That could just be a simple ploy, give with one hand and take with the other. Campbell might be a bit on the slow side...or he might just be playing some kind of sick game.

  “Bishop?”

  “No. Keep him alive. For now. Can't believe I fucking wasted all this time coming down here. We could still be together,” Greg muttered.

  “It's actually better this way.” Powell's voice came over the connection. “Your area of the ship holds two of the manual release terminals. We're going to coordinate, hit these terminals, then meet up and time it right for the final digital dual-release override. Then we'll meet at the bridge. It shouldn't take too long.”

  “Fine, fair enough. Give us some directions.”

  “There should be a terminal in the room with you, by the main doors. I'm forwarding a map of where you'll need to go, in order. Try to find an infopad, there should be some in that room. Download the map to the infopad, but make sure you switch the wireless network adapter off, so you can't be tracked. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  They spent several moments hunting through storage cabinets before coming up with an empty infopad. Kyra was the most technologically intelligent among the three, so she took the pad and downloaded the data from the terminal. While she worked, Greg massaged his temples again. His headache was back. He seemed to be having a lot of them since he woke up in that ship. Had he always suffered from headaches or were they the result of the cure? Or more likely the result of all the head trauma he'd encountered so far?

  “You okay?” Holt asked.

  “Yeah...fine. Just a damned headache. Stress, tension, I guess. I swear to fuck, it's always something.”

  Holt chuckled. “That's usually how it goes. I remember having similar problems down in the mines. As if busting ass drilling out rock all day wasn't hard enough, there was always equipment breaking down or someone calling in sick or some such bullshit. Malfunctions, mistakes, and fuck-ups. That's life, I guess. Nothing ever seems to go the way it's suppose to. My best advice is to make yourself flexible, go with the flow. Otherwise, you'll end up breaking when too much pressure is put on you.”

  “Good advice,” Kyra came back from the terminal. “I've got the data. The first terminal isn't too far away. A level up, in the living quarters. We get to see how Dark Ops troops kick back.”

  “Fantastic. We're good to go, Powell.”

  “Understood. We'll keep in touch.”

  They left the DNA Processing Center, heading back down the corridor. As they reached the T-junction, they looked first left, then right. Finding they were alone, the trio retraced their steps to the maintenance area where they could take the lift. Greg hoped the next floor would be as quiet as this one was.

  “So...Holt, what made you want to become a miner?” Greg asked.

  “Not much, really. It's always been the kind of job you do when you've nothing else going for you. It's easy, and even if you don't know what you're doing, they train you in two weeks flat. It's hard work, but it's all grunt work, manual labor, really. Good pay, too, especially because they offer room and board. I guess...well, I came to Dis because I wanted to go somewhere far away. The guys used to have this joke. They called what we did 'the job at the end of the galaxy'. Which is accurate, considering how far out Dis is.”

  “How far?” Greg asked.

  “At the edge of known space. There are always probes pushing out further, thousands of 'em, I understand, but space is just so damned big. If it weren't for FTL flight we'd still be stuck back in Sol, probably dying at this point, the way we humans consume resources.”

  “Did you like the work?” Kyra asked.

  They reached the maintenance area and navigated the simple handful of rooms, stuffing themselves into the squalid lift at the back.

  “Well...yes, and no. I'm a simple kind of guy, I think. If I'm doing a job, I know how to do it, and feel comfortable doing it, then I'm pretty satisfied on a day to day basis. I gotta admit I'm pretty out of my element here, even with the training.”

  “You're doing great so far,” Greg replied.

  “Yeah...maybe. I can't help but feel like it's just a matter of luck and time.”

  The lift slid to a halt and the doors opened. A zombie stood in the opening. Greg snapped his rifle up and pounded out a round, punched an ugly hole through the thing's forehead and sent it flopping backwards.

  “Damn,” Holt whispered. “Good reflexes.”

  “Thanks.” Greg vibrated with an adrenaline buzz.

  They piled out of the lift, eager to be free of the cramped confines. They moved through the maintenance area, putting down a handful of zombies that occupied it. Greg wondered what they were doing back here. He found the exit and opened it. As he began to put his head out, someone ran by, screaming, while a trio of zombies ran after them. Greg heard gunfire and screaming. Somewhere, something burned.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Looks like this is going to be the hard part.”

  “Maybe so far,” Kyra said.

  The three of them slipped out into the living quarters' deck. It seemed that Dark Ops liked to color-code things: this deck was a dark aquamarine with carpeted floors. Though much of the once plush carpet was now stained thickly with red and black. They came into a lengthy corridor, interconnected with other corridors. Dozens of doors lined the wall at regular intervals. Each had two names above them. They set off.

  There was smoke and blood in the air. Something roared and a hail of gunfire followed. Distantly, something shrieked. Men were screaming and dying. Occasionally, an explosion rattled the area.

  “Man, hope this ship holds together,” Holt murmured.

  One of the doors opened and a half-dr
essed soldier stumbled back, wrestling with a zombie that might have once been his roommate. The zombie sunk its teeth into the man's neck and ripped out a mouthful of glistening meat. Blood sprayed across the carpet and the man's struggles quickly began to weaken.

  Greg and Kyra put both the zombie and the dying man out of their misery and broke into a light jog. Holt hurried after them. Kyra led the way, first taking a right as soon as she was able, then following the corridor through several intersections and, seemingly at random, taking a left. Greg trusted her to get them there.

  “Where is this terminal?” he asked.

  “In someone's bedroom. It was a random disperser pattern,” Kyra replied.

  A man on fire shrieked past them, trailing thick, black smoke, as they reached another intersection.

  “What the hell is that?” Holt cried, pointing.

  Something shifted through the smoke left in the trail of the running man, coming straight at them. Greg had a difficult time seeing it, merely registering whatever it was as a watery blur of motion that was barely even visible.

  His eyes widened in sudden revelation.

  He raised his rifle and fired off a series of shots. Something squealed and black blood flew in the air. Abruptly, a corpse seemed to pop into existence. It was a Stalker, only advanced, like the one he'd encountered in the vent. It looked sleeker, paler, and healthier even. The body streamlined for speed and murder.

  “Jesus,” Kyra whispered. “That thing was practically invisible, like some kind of cloaking field. How...how could it do that?”

  “I don't know, but I think we need a new name for these,” Greg replied as they started moving again, unwilling to stay in one place for very long.

  After a long moment of silence, Holt finally spoke up. “What about Creeper?”

  “Creeper?” Kyra asked.

  “I think it's a good name, Holt,” Greg said.

  Holt chuckled. “Thanks.”

  Kyra seemed dissatisfied. “I guess it'll do...anyway, we're here.”

  She stopped before one door among hundreds and hit the access button. The door slid open, and nothing jumped out at them. They hurried into the quarters. Greg closed the door and he and Holt stood watch while Kyra crossed the room and sat down at one of the desks. Greg studied the quarters. He was impressed. The room was bigger than he thought it would be and everything seemed modular. The beds, the desks, even the tables looked as though they were capable of folding into the walls or the floor.

  At the back of the room, he discovered two separate bathrooms, each with their own tub. Everything had a clean, fresh, pristine feeling to it, as if everything here was brand new. He wondered if these ships were indeed new or it was just the quality of the material and the up-keep of the staff that kept it so.

  “Okay, got it.” Kyra stood.

  “That was fast,” Holt replied.

  “Powell talked me through the procedure. It's easy. Now we need to head for the next one, it's on this deck, though on the opposite end.”

  “Great,” Greg murmured.

  Back into the fray, they made their way down the confusing network of corridors as quickly as they could, passing by the occasional firefight or roaming Undead without too much trouble. Greg kept his finger inside the trigger guard, hoping that their stealth and the chaos around them would keep them free of conflict, but banking that they wouldn't be so lucky. After a long walk, they finally hit the edge of the area.

  Broad, low corridors and rows upon rows of similar doors gave way to one, titanic open area. The far wall was three stories tall and seemed to be a network of open-faced rooms. Catwalks and stairwells granted access to the heightened stories. Spread out before them, in a huge, open space was a grid-work of tables and chairs.

  The whole area was a bloody, fiery mess.

  “It's a...a fuckin' mall,” Holt breathed.

  “Damn,” Greg said. “They live nice on this ship.”

  “Lived, anyway,” Kyra muttered. “Come on, we're making for the third floor. There's a taco joint up there, Mega Taco.”

  Greg laughed as they hurried across the open area, weaving in between tables and chairs. “Mega Taco?”

  “Yeah, goofy name, I know, but it's super popular. Everyone loves Mega Taco.”

  Something flew right in front of Greg's face. It was so close he could smell rot and decay. He spun and spied a small army of Lancers coming for them, throwing aside tables and chairs as they came.

  “Go!” Greg screamed, raising the rifle.

  Kyra looked torn, but finally nodded and took off. Holt went after her with another sharp shout from Greg. He zeroed in on the twisted, ugly caricature of a face of the first one, staring at it through the enhanced, digital zoom. It was hideous, a visage of awful, mottled ruin. He put a bullet through its eye and quickly snapped to the next target, shooting it through its open, screaming mouth. Then on to the next.

  More spikes whizzed by him, dripping what he imagined was pure infection. He dodged, ducked behind a flipped over table, and watched three of them bury themselves in the metal, punching through, becoming lodged. Greg licked his lips, prepared himself and popped back up. He shot the next one twice, once in the neck and once in the forehead. Two left now. He prepared to kill the next one when both of them were cut down by gunfire.

  “What the f...”

  “I have peripheral on the target. I repeat, Bishop is in sight. Non-lethal takedown only.”

  “Oh fuck me.”

  A dozen black-armored soldiers made their way to him from across the titanic room. He shifted his scope to the one in lead, sighted up the fucker's faceplate and squeezed the trigger. There was a satisfying spray of blood and glass. The others scattered.

  “Suck my dick!” Greg screamed as he bolted for the stairwell.

  Overhead, someone opened fire. He tossed a glance up and saw Holt firing on the Dark Ops troops. Greg mentally thanked him and kept running. Something peppered his position. Not gunfire, exactly, but something like it. There were bright flashes wherever the bullets hit. Greg realized they must be some kind of stun rounds. He had almost reached the safety of the stairs and had just made a mental note not to get hit by one when a wave of agonizing electricity abruptly shot through him. Greg let out a short scream of sudden pain, lost his footing, and crashed to the ground at the base of the stairs.

  “Greg!”

  More gunfire, someone screaming. Greg was lost in his own world of pain. He felt like his body had gone into lockdown, every muscle screaming and rigid. He couldn't even move his eyeballs. A fresh wave of gunfire and then three people stood over him. Greg began to get feeling back in his limbs and everything hurt.

  “Grab him, Williams needs him alive and intact,” one of them said in a gruff voice.

  Hands on him. Someone, Kyra maybe, screamed his name. Even more gunfire and someone shouted in pain. Greg fought through his own pain. They dragged him away. He had a rough idea that most of the soldiers had pinned down Holt and Kyra overhead while these three soldiers worked on carrying him away.

  No.

  Two things happened, then.

  The first, a gunshot sounded extremely close to him. He heard a grunt and was suddenly dropped to the floor while at the same time being sprayed with blood.

  The second was that he fought through the pain, reached up, grabbed the hilt of a combat knife sheathed on one of the armored legs, and tore it out. He jabbed it as hard as he could into the soft part of the armor where the hip met the torso. Blood pumped from the wound and coated his hand, and the man he'd stabbed shrieked in agony.

  Greg twisted the knife.

  The last of the hands fell from him. Someone screamed for a retreat. Greg collapsed back onto the floor, his breath heavy, the pain surged through him as his muscles came back online. A moment later, Kyra and Holt hunched over him.

  “Oh, God, Greg...I thought they had you that time.” Kyra reached down and gripped his hand. He gripped back.

  “Me too,” he managed.


  After another few minutes, they helped Greg to his feet. The made slow progress up two flights of stairs and helped him hobble into the Mega Taco. Greg took a seat in one of the chairs near the serving counter.

  “Man, this place is great.” He laughed and winced.

  “Oh yeah, the best. They had one back at the mining installation.” Holt sat down heavily next to Greg.

  “I'm going to head back into the kitchen and hit the release. You okay out here?” Kyra lingered in front of him.

  He nodded. “Yes, but give me a kiss first.”

  She smiled, knelt and kissed him with a bit of passion. He watched her as she headed back into the kitchen.

  “So, you're an item then?” Holt asked.

  “Yeah. We are.”

  “I thought so. There's just something about two people that have recently hooked up. The way they orient themselves around each other, the way they talk and look at each other. It's always a great feeling. Wish like hell you could enjoy it more, instead of putting up with this shit. Speaking of which, how are you holding up?”

  “I could use some painkillers,” Greg replied.

  Holt nodded and unclasped his medical kit from his belt. He pulled out a bottle of pills, rattled three out and handed them to Greg.

  “Oh, hey, wait a minute. I think they've got Vex here.” Holt stood.

  He disappeared into the kitchen area. Greg waited, pain throbbing through him. A moment later, Holt reappeared with a plastic cup. He set it down on the table between them. Greg took it gratefully and swallowed the three pills.

  “Man, that is good,” he said.

  Holt laughed easily. “You certainly used to love it. Drank it all the time back at the installation. I must say, I agree. Though a beer usually does it for me.”

  Kyra emerged from the back area. “Done.”

  “Excellent. Let's see how Powell is doing.” Greg keyed his radio. “Powell, how's it going with your team?”