by Rick Jones
“Warning: the ship has been breached . . . Warning: the ship has been breached.”
The pilot sighed, then checked his watch. There was still time. But time, when it mattered, seemed to drag on for an eternity.
Suddenly there was a noise at the top of the shuttlecraft, the bump of something landing on the fuselage.
The pilot froze, and listened.
Nothing but silence.
Then there was the sound of scampering feet running along the top of the ship from bow to stern, the footfalls moving quickly along the craft’s length in seconds, the speed impossible.
The pilot remained frozen with the exception of his eyes, which darted from side to side.
Outside the craft’s window shadows and shapes moved within the red light, figures that were blacker than black with twisted limbs moving in awkward gaits.
They were encircling the ship.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
The entire ship seemed to shimmer against the blows.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
And then there was the shattering of glass coming from inside the ship.
The pilot raced out of the cockpit and into the lounge area.
The seemingly unbreakable windows along the shuttlecraft’s fuselage had been smashed inward, and bodies began to contort themselves through the openings in a vulgar display of being birthed. Moans and cries issued from voice boxes long dead. Hands raked the air, and the bitter scent of rot permeated the space.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
It was an asynchronous chorus coming from the undead as they continued to worm their way through the holes.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
The pilot ran back into the armor-plated cockpit and locked the door.
He could hear their moans through the diamond-studded steel, the hisses. As he sat there, he could feel his stomach knotting into a slick fist and his heart threatening to misfire. The edges of his vision began to close in, showing purple, and his bladder and bowels loosened.
He closed his eyes, swallowed, doing his best to will away a bad dream.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
He whimpered and whined. But as soon as the first blow struck the cockpit door, he cried out.
. . . Bang . . .
The door held.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
For the moment the pilot felt a false sense of security, but something nagged at him like that sixth sense telling him that he was far from safe, even behind an armor-plated door.
The sound started as a mild scraping against the windowpane, and then as tapping.
Schreeeeee. schreeeeee. schreeeeee. . .
tap-tap-tap. tap-tap-tap . . .
He turned.
Clinging to the cockpit window like insects were clusters of the dead with the tips of their bony fingers tapping against the pane in malicious play, and lips from waxy-looking skin peeled back to showcase countless rows of teeth that were badly yellowed and stained.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
“No!” As soon as the pilot instinctively held his hand up, the cockpit window shattered, glass spraying everywhere.
And the dead flooded through like a rush of water, their voices concertedly echoing their needs: “Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
The pilot screamed no more.
#
When the mausoleum lost its tethering anchors in the geospheres, Jim Schott just happened to be inside the ship’s undercarriage double-checking the analysis of the spheres’ calibrations. He was standing before a computer monitor situated at the end of a catwalk that was suspended over a glass floor and surrounded by glass walls. From his viewpoint the universe was remarkable as pinprick lights glittered all around him in spangles of silver and gold. It was if he was suspended in space if not for the walkway that stretched from the docking bay door above the glass floor to the computer console.
The coordinates to the six geospheres read accurately with their programmed positioning, but as soon as the cloud mass came into range, the numbers changed, causing the geospheres to run independently from one another rather than in sync, throwing off the ship’s balance.
The cloud mass rolled across the viewport glass like a thick and boiling vapor, eventually snuffing out the star-point glitters of the galaxy like the flames of candles. Charges shot off like the synapses of a brain, sparking immense levels of static electricity that caused the hair on his scalp to itch and rise.
And then the numbers on the monitor’s screen went crazy, running randomly until there were no readings at all.
The geospheres were dead. Then it dawned on him that the difference between them and the probe was that the spheres weren’t shielded.
Then the mausoleum began to list badly, causing Schott to reach for a guardrail a moment before being pitched over the side and to the glass floor below.
The ship continued to tilt as if hit by a tsunami tide, rolling. Slowly the mausoleum tried to right itself, and when it settled, it was not quite balanced on a level plane, but close enough. But the ship was not stable. He could feel it turning, then gliding, the geospheres no longer within their orbits as Mausoleum 2069 began to drift into deep space and away from Earth.
Schott grabbed the rails and used them as a crutch to help him get to his feet.
Within minutes the cloud mass began to thin and glide away.
And when it disappeared altogether, the geospheres had floated off and were no longer within his range of visibility.
Oh no!
He began to type quickly on the Plexiglas keyboard, bringing up external images.
On the screen he could see that the mass was moving towards the Orion Belt, and in time the glitter of stars returned, but the mausoleum continued to rotate in slow revolutions, the ship clearly drifting, the stars no longer stationary but repositioning themselves as 2069 was on the move.
Then at the opposite end of the catwalk where the door leading to the upper level of the ship’s docking area was securely locked and sealed, came a measured knocking.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
At first he thought it was the pilot of Air Force Six.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Then he considered the fact that the pilot didn’t know about the lower level, or that he’d be here servicing the geospheres.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Schott walked along the catwalk to the door, then hit the button to the speaker system. “Eriq?”
He could hear the alarm system going off in the background, though muted, but the message was still clear: Warning: the ship has been breached . . . Warning: the ship has been breached.
Then:
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Schott leaped back, stared at the door for a long moment, and then engaged the button by pressing it hard with his thumb. “Who’s out there?” he hollered. “This is a Federation ship!”
He took his thumb off the button, waiting for a response.
And he got one.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
He looked questioningly at the intercom system before pressing the button. “Who the Hell is this?”
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
Schott immediately turned and ran down the catwalk to the monitor. Beneath his running feet and about ten feet below the strip of the metal-grated walkway, stars shone through the glass floor. When he reached the monitor he quickly typed in commands, linking up with the spy cam outside the room.
At first the pictures were unclear and pixelated, but after a few adjustments the images came into focus.
“Oh my,” he whispered.
Black masses crawled over each other like rats and vermin. They were fast, as limbs appeared as wild tangles of shadows, always moving. And then he switched on the lights outside the chamber and hit the audio but
ton.
At first they reacted like deer caught within the beams of headlights, briefly frozen while their brains tried to register the moment, and then they were on the move as hands clawed at the camera, at the lights, trying to bring back the salvation of darkness.
“Oh my,” he repeated.
The faces on the screen were sallow as flesh hung in decaying strips. Eyes were cold and gray, having been filmed over, and their limbs appeared as thin as broomsticks beneath their clothing.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee,” they hissed repeatedly. “Coooooome tooo . . .”
He quickly shut off the audio feed, and then the monitor. Then he sat on the catwalk with his back to the podium and stared at the steel door at the end of the walkway.
Around him the stars sparkled gloriously through the glass walls and floor, a magnificent display.
And it was quiet.
Until:
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Jim Schott wept.
#
“Warning: the ship has been breached—Warning: the ship has been breached.”
The president, almost to the freight elevator along with everyone else, stopped to give pause, and listened. “Now what the Hell is that?” he asked Eriq, pointing to imaginary speakers and referring to the alarm.
But Eriq knew that the system could only be manually engaged. “It means, Mr. President, that we’re not alone.”
Just then the freight elevator was called to a lower level.
Something below had summoned it.
Chapter Eighteen
In a brief and up-close moment on one of the monitors, Jen had clearly seen a face on the screen. It had crawled out of the shadow and made its way to the camera, as if it purely knew its purpose to record the moment. It stood there staring into the lens, tilting its head from one side to the next. Its eyes had no color at all, but a milky sheen to them, and its skin was gray and purple with lines marbling through it. When it opened its mouth, she could see the meat of its black tongue moving as if to speak, but there was no sound, no microphone to record the measure of its tone.
And then another face appeared. This one with weeping sores and open wounds, the flesh pared away from bone until its cheeks were exposed, as well as the bleached-bone point of its chin.
In unison they reached up with their bony hands, grabbed the camera, and wrenched it free from the wall, killing the feed.
The screen became a picture of gray snow.
But Jen had seen enough when Sheena called her on the intercom. “Jen!”
Jen was almost in tears when she answered. “Sheena, Eriq isn’t answering the call!”
“What the Hell is going on up there?”
“They’re all over the place!”
“Who?”
“Get Eriq!”
“Who’s all over the place?”
Suddenly a metered banging started on the comm-room door.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
“Jen! What’s happening?”
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Jen screamed, and then she shut off the intercom system.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Jen immediately went into protocol mode, even though tears streamed down her face and her heart raced deep inside her chest.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
She yelped, then flipped through the pages of the protocol manual.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Inward dents began to appear on the surface of the door.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Finding the page, Jen sat at the comm desk and followed the directions to link up to the emergency channel to New DC’s Presidential Command Center.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
In thirty seconds she was online.
#
“New DC’s Presidential Command Center. How may I direct your call?”
“Please listen carefully,” said a female voice that was desperate sounding. Though the transmission was weak, the operator could hear banging going on in the background. “ID number six-five-zero. There’s been . . . a security breach onboard . . . soleum Twenty Sixty-Nine. Code number seven-six-four, Henry-tango-tan . . .”
“I’m sorry, what were those last set of numbers again?”
“Seven-six-four, Henry-tango-tango. Please . . . urry.”
The operator dialed up the codes.
Code number 650: Jennifer May Jacoby
Age: 26
Occupation: Ship’s Communication Officer (Mausoleum 2069)
Code number 64: Henry-Tango-Tango
Presidential Threat: Hostiles Onboard
“Please hold while I transfer you,” she stated with urgency, then transferred Jen to the agency’s Prime Director, Adam Lechler.
The call came over an exclusive line, one used for select emergencies. Lechler tapped the button to engage the speaker system. “Lechler.”
“This . . . Jac . . . code num . . . five-zero”
“Ma’am, you’re breaking up.”
“. . . There has been . . . breach . . . the president . . . onboard . . .”
“Ma’am, I can’t understand you--”
“They’re breaking . . . through . . . dead people . . . president . . . danger. We need help. The president’s life . . . danger . . . dead everywhere.”
“Ma’am!”
And then the communication was cut off, leaving nothing but the static of white noise.
“Ma’am?” When there was no return answer he reconnected with the operator. “Marge.”
“Yes, Mr. Lechler.”
“Were you able to validate that call?”
“Yes, sir. It definitely originated from Mausoleum Twenty Sixty-Nine.”
Lechler remained quiet, his mind racing. He knew the president’s itinerary, knew that he had a ceremony onboard 2069. And this call. The code Henry-Tango-Tango was a life and death situation involving high-end political figures. The communicator had mentioned the word dead on two occasions. More so, she confirmed that the president’s life was in danger.
“Mr. Lechler.”
“Marge, get me the vice president. Tell him that we have a Level-Four situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lechler fell back into his seat and began to rub his chin thoughtfully. Who had the means to enter low-level space and breach Mausoleum 2069? It never once occurred to him that those involved had been onboard all along.
Chapter Nineteen
They listened as the freight elevator descended, came to a stop, and then began its upward trek.
“Warning: the ship has been breached. Warning: the ship has been breached.”
“Will somebody please shut that alarm off!” cried the governor’s daughter, as she stood there sobbing with her hands cupped over her ears. “Please!”
“Warning: the ship has been breached. Warning: the ship has been breached.”
The whirring of the elevator grew louder, the cab nearing their level.
The members of the president’s Detail removed their firearms, took position before the freight elevator doors, and directed their high-caliber weapons with the intent to kill.
“Warning: the ship has been breached. Warning: the ship has been breached.”
Then the whirring stopped.
And the elevator doors opened.
#
As soon as the doors parted, Sheena saw guns pointed in her general direction, so she hit the floor, fast, with her face down and her arms out by her side in mock crucifixion. The four men from the president’s Detail quickly moved in with their weapons aimed to the center of her body mass.
“It’s all right,” cried Eriq, moving past them. “She’s a member of my crew.” He helped her to her feet. “What’s going on?” he asked her, holding her close.
She shrugged, because she really didn’t know. “Jen’s been trying to contact you.”
Er
iq forgot. He had his communications system off because of the service. There were to be no interruptions during the governor’s ceremony.
“Did you talk to her?”
She nodded. “Something’s wrong, Eriq. She was screaming because someone was trying to get into the comm room. I could hear them banging on the door through the intercom system. She said that they were all over the place.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t say. The next thing I knew, she was screaming, and then the transmission was cut off. I knew where you were, so I had to find you.” She pressed the side of her head against his chest. “Eriq, what’s happening?”
“Warning: the ship has been breached. Warning: the ship has been breached.”
“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out. We need to get to the comm center.”
“No,” said John Eldridge. “We need to get President Michelin to Air Force Six. His safety is of the highest priority.”
“I understand that,” Eriq returned. “But if this ship has been breached, then we have to know by whom and note where exactly these people are. We just can’t run right into the hornet’s nest.” He then pointed to the president’s Detail. “And four men with minimal firepower will not get the job done. If you want answers, then we need to get to the comm center.”
“Where is it?” asked the lead guard, a large man with beefy shoulders and a thick neck.
“It’s on the deck directly below us. A short jaunt.”
The lead guard turned to Michelin. “Mr. President, he’s right. We need to know what we’re up against before we can make a safe advancement to Air Force Six.”
Michelin faced off with Eriq. “Do you have any idea as to who these people might be? Where they came from?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Time’s running short, Mr. President,” stated the lead guard, who pointed to the ceiling.
The stars were beginning to move quicker across the Observatory window. The ship was starting to drift faster.
“Let’s do it,” Michelin said.
They were on the move.
