Necropolis 2

by S. A. Lusher

  “Come and get it, Bishop!”

  As he came within a few feet of Graves, he leaped into the air, letting his momentum carry him, and punched the monster of a man in the jaw so hard it sent him stumbling backwards. Graves righted himself, spat a mouthful of blood, and grinned.

  “Now, that's more like it.”

  He took a swing at Greg, who dodged it. Mindless fury fueled Greg's body now. His mind was nowhere in the equation. He punched Graves twice more, once in the eye and a second time in the jaw. Graves laughed and his fist shot forward, delivering a solid blow to Greg's chest so hard it threw him back several feet and onto the deck.

  As Graves walked towards him, Greg remained lying down, but brought his foot back and then thrust it forward, smashing his boot heel into Graves' shin. He let out an unexpected bark of pain. Greg did it again, and this time Graves lost his footing and fell. Greg scrambled to his feet, stomped hard on Graves' right arm, reached down, grabbed it and yanked upwards. A satisfying snap filled the air and this time Graves screamed.

  Greg never knew how satisfying that sound could be.

  Graves shoved Greg back with his good arm.

  “What?” Greg screamed. “Get up, motherfucker!”

  Graves climbed to his feet. Greg hit him again, in his broken arm, which now hung at an awful angle. The bone, he saw, had broken through the flesh and glistened wetly in the light. Graves gritted his teeth, but took a step towards Greg.

  There was no telling where it might have gone from there if an explosion hadn't rocked the area. There was a sudden wretched squealing sound, and just like that, the atmosphere of the hangar was compromised.

  Graves took one look over Greg's shoulder and said, “This isn't over.”

  He turned and sprinted away.

  “Greg! Greg, we have to go,” Kyra called.

  A crate came loose from its mooring and flew past him, bringing him back to the real world. He looked around, the bloodlust fading from his brain. The hangar was a maelstrom of chaos, debris and crates and bodies flying towards a large crack in the hull as the atmosphere sucked out into the dead of space.

  The others were already on the ship by now. Greg caught sight of Holt's body right as it lifted from the ground and sailed through the gap.

  “No! Holt! I need him,” Greg screamed, hurrying across the bay, nearly tripping several times as the gale-force winds tugged at him.

  Kyra was suddenly at his side, guiding him. “He's gone, Greg! Get in the fucking ship if you don't want to die.”

  Reason finally reasserted itself wholly. Greg saw that he and Kyra were the only ones left in the hangar, which was rapidly becoming oxygen-free. Billings and Cage waited at the back ramp of the ship, beckoning to them. Fighting the winds, they stumbled across the deck plates and up the back ramp. Cage slammed the close button.

  “Holt...he can't be gone,” Greg moaned. “He's the only fucking one who knew me.”

  “He's gone, Bishop,” Cage said quietly.

  The ship shuddered and rose from its moorings. Powell sat at the controls in the cockpit. Everyone else gathered in the back, sitting down and strapping in.

  “You talked to him, Greg. I think you got everything you could out of him,” Kyra replied gently, taking his hands in hers.

  Greg heaved a sigh. “Yeah...God, what kind of a piece of shit am I? A man's dead and I'm only upset because he might have been some use to me.”

  “Don't say that, Greg. We're all sad to see him go, but...I think we all know we're living on borrowed time at this point,” Kyra said.

  “Psh, not me. I'm going to live forever,” Campbell replied.

  Greg managed a weak chuckle. The ship continued to make its way out of the larger vessel, cycling through the massive airlock in front of it and then heading out into open space. For a long moment, nobody said anything.

  Finally, Greg spoke up. “What do we do now?”

  “Can we make for that mining colony?” Billings asked.

  “No,” Powell said from the cockpit. “It would take too long and we don't even know what's there. We can make it to one of the ships, though.”

  “Which one?” Greg asked.

  “The closest one is our best bet. It's small, a cargo vessel, maybe fifty to a hundred crew altogether. I hit the engines, so they aren't going anywhere. We might be able to pull guerrilla warfare, maybe gain a foothold in all the confusion,” Powell replied.

  Greg considered it for a moment. They were all looking at him again. “Fine. Go.”

  He sat back, suddenly tired. Cage got up, moved to the seat opposite of him and sat back down. He looked Greg in the eyes.

  “What happened back there? You lost it.”

  “I...” Greg sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Too much stress. I just...Holt knew me, Cage. He knew me from before. Graves...he's been hounding me, personally. I just...I did lose it. I don't actually remember much about what happened.”

  “Don't let it happen again. We can't afford any mistakes.”

  Greg wanted to say something in response, but could think of nothing. He simply nodded, then sat back and closed his eyes. He remained that way until a sudden sharp beeping filled the air. Greg's eyes snapped back open.

  “What's going on?”

  “Someone's locked missiles onto us,” Powell replied, his voice tight. “I can't...shit, brace for impact.”

  Abruptly, the ship wrenched to one side and a horrible squealing sound cut through the air of the cabin.

  “I've lost control. We're on a direct collision course with that ship,” Powell called back. “Brace yourselves.”

  He hardly had time to finish the sentence before the ship smashed into the larger vessel.

  Chapter 12

  –Setting Up Shop–

  For once, Greg managed to smash his head into something hard and unyielding and not pass out. Instead, he found himself lying on an awkwardly tilted floor, his head spinning, staring up at metal plates overhead. It took him a long moment to realize he was staring up at the deck plates, and that he was lying on the ceiling.

  “Please, please tell me everyone else made it,” Greg heard himself say as he closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his skull, trying to make the spinning and the buzzing go away. From somewhere in the cabin, someone groaned.

  “Present.” Kyra's voice sounded thick and groggy.

  Cage's voice came next, just as calm and cool as always. “I'm here.”

  “Anyone got a cigar? I finally managed to find some on one of the soldiers, but now I think they're all broken,” Billings muttered.

  “Yeah, I'm fine, thank you very much,” Campbell said.

  “Powell?” Greg called out after a long moment of silence.

  Nothing. No response. A surge of apprehension forced him to sit up. He looked around, the others slowly got up. Glancing through the cockpit doorway, he saw Powell was still strapped into his upside-down chair. He hung there, limp.

  “Oh hell,” he muttered, rising unsteadily to his feet.

  “Is he okay?” Billings asked.

  “Dunno yet,” Greg said. “Hold on.”

  He stepped over Campbell and made his way clumsily into the cockpit. Something dripped steadily, making an uncomfortable series of small, wet splats.

  “Powell?” Greg tried to maneuver around the cramped, ruined cockpit.

  The front windows were shot through with a million cracks, turned foggy and opaque. Greg ignored them, as well as the instrument panels that periodically bled blue-white sparks. He finally shifted into place and realized the dripping was blood that dribbled down Powell's head from an ugly gash in his cheek.

  “Powell?” He touched the man on the shoulder.

  The technician still breathed, but was unconscious. Cage appeared in the cockpit then. Together, operating in terse silence, the pair worked to undo the straps holding Powell in place and then gently lower him onto the ceiling.

  “Is he okay?” Billings stood in the doorway.

  �
�Yeah, don't ask about me...think I broke my damn arm.” Campbell shifted and muttered to himself.

  “Quit bitching,” Kyra said. “How is he?”

  “He's just out cold, he should be fine,” Cage said. “Seems we all got lucky. Come on, let's get off this ship. Dark Ops is probably going to be on our asses very soon.”

  There was a general shuffle of movement as everyone gathered up whatever weapons and supplies had survived the crash. Greg was unhappy to discover that his rifle got mangled in the crash. He tossed the useless thing aside and hunted for his shotgun, but it was nowhere to be found. A huff of irritation escaped him as he realized he'd been reduced to his pistol yet again. At least it had survived intact.

  “Back hatch is stuck,” Billings called.

  “Doesn't matter anyway, that leads to space,” Kyra said.

  “Help me with the cockpit window. One of them is loose,” Cage replied.

  “This is familiar,” Greg muttered.

  He moved back up to the cockpit and helped Cage bash the window open the rest of the way with brute force. It finally popped free of its frame and smashed to the deck. Both men pulled their respective weapons out and scanned the area. They were alone.

  “Miracle there's no breach in the hull, theirs or ours. I guess the ship created a solid enough seal in the hull, but that won't hold...come on, everyone,” Cage called.

  With a bit more speed, the survivors made their way out of the ruined vessel into a cargo bay thrown into disarray. Billings and Campbell passed an unconscious Powell down to Kyra and Cage while Greg scouted the area.

  “We need to at least get out of this bay,” Greg said.

  There was a general murmur of agreement. Billings and Campbell managed Powell between them as Greg, Cage, and Kyra secured a route across the bay. They moved in tense apprehension. Where was everyone? Greg let his senses spread out, trying to determine if they were truly alone in the titanic bay. He heard nothing moving but them, saw nothing shifting along his peripheral. The area smelled faintly of disinfectant and disuse.

  They crossed in between piles of pyramid crates, some of which had collapsed. As they came within a few meters of the door, there was a loud, curious metallic groan. Everyone looked back at the jump ship. It shifted.

  “Go,” Cage said sharply.

  They ran. The ship shifted again. Greg hit the wall first, slamming into it, a dozen lances of pain shooting through his body. He hit the open button to the door they'd come to. Cage was right there with him, the first one out.

  “Clear,” he called back.

  The others hustled through the door. Billings and Campbell manhandled Powell through the opening. The ship finally gave, sucked out by the straining atmosphere. A maelstrom tore the cargo bay apart, pulling dozens of crates towards it, hurling them out into the deep darkness of space. Greg threw himself through the door and hit the close button with his elbow.

  “Shit,” he breathed, and gave a wild laugh. “Too many close calls. Before you know it I'm going to end up an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Too late.” Kyra rolled her eyes.

  “Hey, when we get out of here and live normal lives, you'll be happy. We'll be thrill seeking and doing it in public.”

  “You wish.” She smiled a seductive little smile.

  “Let's focus,” Cage said. “I don't see any Dark Ops.”

  Greg looked around. They'd come to a huge corridor that, he realized after looking left, then right, must run the length of the entire ship, cutting straight down the middle. Large and small doors lined the walls. Cargo bays and hangars.

  “Where to?” Billing asked.

  “There. A sign. Bridge and crew quarters are this way. There should be an infirmary. We can patch ourselves up, take stock, figure out our next move,” Greg said.

  They got a move on. As they made slow progress down the massive corridor, their boots echoing ominously, Greg caught a whiff of something familiar, something that sent a peremptory shiver of terror down his spine.

  “I smell Undead,” he said quietly.

  “Me too,” Cage replied.

  “How could they be here?” Billings asked.

  “Other ships could have docked or crashed, holding Undead. We'll be lucky if we don't get those Drones before too long,” Cage replied.

  They finally came to a door at the end of the passageway. Greg opened it and went first, coming into a two-story antechamber that granted access to the foredecks. Each door held a label. He found the one marked infirmary and made for it.

  “Where is everyone? This is creepy,” Campbell muttered.

  “We'll worry about it later,” Greg replied.

  They opened the door that led to the infirmary and Greg peered in, pistol first. The place was a mess, and there was a thick spray of blood across the far wall, but it was empty, save for a few corpses occupying the examination tables.

  “Clear,” Greg said.

  They carried Powell in and set him on one of the examination tables. Cage looked over him while the others moved through the infirmary. Greg walked over to one of the bodies and stared at it. The corpse was charred all down one side and wore what appeared to be a security uniform, but no armor. He moved on to the next, a technician in a blue jumpsuit, who had suffered burns and terrible shrapnel wounds.

  He realized these were the men who'd survived the missile strike on the engines, only to succumb to their wounds. Greg felt a momentary pang of regret and guilt. How many of these people were just doing their job? How many actually knew what was going on? He thought about it for a moment, suspecting that perhaps not all of them did, but some of them must, they had to. It was difficult to keep secrets, even within a secret organization.

  “Hey, kid, you're awake.” Billings' voice drew Greg's attention.

  He turned, glanced across the infirmary. Powell was slowly coming around. Crossing the room, Greg came to stand over the tech.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Powell blinked several times, shifted, and winced in pain. “I think so.”

  “You've got some painkillers in your system. Take it easy while everyone else gets checked out. I want to make sure we're all up to snuff,” Cage said.

  Powell nodded, then seemed to regret it. The others checked themselves and each other over. Cage seemed to have taken on the role of medic for the moment. Greg and Kyra moved over to one side of the infirmary.

  “Lay down,” Kyra said.

  “Yes, dear.”

  Kyra rolled her eyes. “Christ, tell me we're not at pet names already.”

  Greg lay down on the table and Kyra had the equipment within run a quick scan over him. “Do you dislike them?”

  “My God, you really are a worrier. I joke a lot, Greg. Don't worry so much.”

  “You never told me why you joined SI,” Greg replied after a moment's silence.

  Kyra seemed startled. “I...for someone with amnesia, you have good memory. What brought that on?”

  “We've got a moment's peace, I'm curious, and I think it might be a good idea to get to know someone emotionally at least on the same level you know them physically.”

  “Well...okay. It's not pretty. There was a raid on my colony. Big mercenary army. We were pretty far out. The local militia, just SI, led by my mom, as I said earlier, just wasn't up to the task. She did well, led her troops against that mercenary army to the best of her ability, while the civilians evacuated and they waited for help, but help came too late. The mercenaries...they were slavers, they shot anyone they couldn't use, rounded up anyone they could. I managed to hide in the sewer system with a few others...

  “By the time help arrived and drove off the mercs, the colony was gone. My mom was killed in a last stand at SI headquarters. I was seventeen. I went to live with my aunt and uncle, closer to the more civilized areas, finished high school, and hit SI as soon as I could. I was disillusioned after I joined up...I wanted to give people protection and peace, I just ended up working crappy assignments in backwater posts
.”

  “I'm sorry,” Greg said after a moment. “I...guess I shouldn't have asked.”

  Kyra shook her head. “No, it would've come up anyway, presumably. And it does help to talk about things, even old things, because we never really get over the past, I think. It's nice to examine scars, because they never really fully heal. Here, get up, my turn.”

  Greg stood and Kyra lay down. He began running the scanning equipment.

  “I can get a bit grim at times, but I promise, I'm generally fun.” Kyra looked up at him.

  Greg laughed and took her hand in his. “You can be grim if I get to be boring and occasionally thrill-seeking.”

  Kyra seemed to consider this for a moment, twisting her lips. “Deal.”

  The table beeped. “You're good. Man, I can't believe we all got through that crash without any real damage.”

  “Our luck had to go the other way eventually.”

  “It probably won't be long before it heads back in the opposite direction.”

  “Hey. You two done yet?” Billings called.

  Greg sighed and helped Kyra up off the table. “Yes, we're done. What's the plan?”

  “I suggest hitting the bridge. There are a few things I need to do, and sooner rather than later,” Powell said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like cutting this ship off from the rest of the fleet, so Erebus can't listen in on our conversations or override the gravity and oxygen controls and kill us all if the mood takes it. You know, stuff like that.”

  “Oh...yeah, I guess that would be in our best interest. All right, let's go.”

  They filed out of the infirmary, back into the antechamber. It was still empty. The way to the bridge was a larger door set into the front of the room. There was another above it, on the second story, which was little more than a flimsy catwalk.

  “Cage, Billings, upstairs. Two-pronged attack,” Greg ordered quietly.

  The pair nodded and hurried up the steps. Once they were in place, and Greg and the others were in place on the bottom floor, both doors were opened. A handful of men in orange or blue jumpsuits and some in suits of black armor occupied the bridge, spread out across it, manning various terminals and workstations.