by S. A. Lusher
It was coming for her.
And she was running out of room.
As she emptied her last magazine, she reached for a new one and found nothing. There were no more magazines in her pockets, no more bullets on her person. Jennifer grunted as she hit the wall, unable to back up any further.
The immense beast bore down on her, knowing it had her cornered. A sort of inhuman, joyous cruelty crept across its alien features.
It was reaching for her.
Jennifer looked left, right, but there seemed to be nowhere to go. Was this it? Was this death? Is this how it would all end?
Before another thought could enter her mind, the thing let out a roar and straightened up. At that same moment, the chattering whine of a minigun sounded. Jennifer took the opportunity to bolt to her left, away from the creature as it swung to face this new threat that caused it so much pain. As she got around it, she saw that Drake had finally gotten the ship up and running. It was hovering now, facing towards the creature, the minigun mounted on its nose churning out a dozen rounds per second, spraying the creature down.
Black blood flew everywhere.
This kept up for a solid ten seconds before the creature, which walked against the gunfire like it was weathering a storm, gave up the ghost and collapsed with an immense explosion of sound and fury, knocking over everything in the hangar, including the three people standing in it. As Jennifer struggled to her feet, she heard her comm unit crackle to life.
“Let's go, people, we don't have long!” Drake snapped.
The transport vessel spun back around and settled, the back ramp still open. Jennifer, Greg and Eve sprinted for it. Jennifer's muscles felt ready to give out. Her adrenaline was spent. She wanted to eat, to drink, to soak in a hot tub for an hour and then crash headlong into a days' worth of sleep. But she couldn't get any of that if she was the one who gave up the ghost. And she couldn't, not now that she was so close.
With a final, lung-bursting sprint, she hit the back ramp just behind Greg and Eve. The trio got into the back of the ship and Jennifer hit the close button.
“We're in!” Eve called.
Drake responded by moving the ship forward. There was a pause, and Jennifer realized the hangar bay doors must be opening by remote command now to allow them their escape. As she numbly watched the back ramp finished closing, she wondered if they would make it in time. How much time was left in the countdown? How much time before the reactor bay blew? After all this, after everything, would it kill them?
She watched the hangar bay disappear through the window in the cargo ramp. It was replaced by the airless, gray landscape of the moon the research colony resided on. For a moment, as they sped away into the darkness, she began to get a clearer sense of its overall shape, of the complex layout of the rooms and corridors and bays that made it up. Then, suddenly, a tremendous yellow-red flash appeared.
It quickly spread, consuming the entirety of the installation in almost an instant, and then, just as quickly, it was snuffed out.
Several minutes passed as the ship slowed.
“Is that it?” Jennifer finally asked, shattering the silence.
“That's it,” Greg replied. “Congrats. You did it, you survived.”
Jennifer didn't know what to say to that, so, instead, she just kept staring out the window, watching the random, pockmarked landscape drift by.
EPILOGUE
Jennifer looked around her quarters.
She couldn't believe it. She was really here. She was actually a member of Anomalous Operations. It had finally happened.
The past few days had been an utter blur. After blowing the facility and completing their mission, they'd abandoned the shuttle and retreated to the ship they'd originally flown in on. Greg had been adamant, explaining that it was a brand new model and they really couldn't afford to lose it. Or, at best, they couldn't afford to just leave it sitting in the shadow of a hill on some moon. They'd found Jennifer an emergency space suit in the shuttle for the walk. From there, Jennifer and the others, (mainly her), had tended to their wounds in the tiny infirmary. After that, she'd eaten a much-needed meal and then passed out on a cot.
When she woke, they had arrived at their destination: a vessel called the Dauntless. She'd been greeted personally by an old man with a shaved head, sharp eyes and a scrim of gray stubble haunting his narrow face. He introduced himself as Director Hawkins with a firm handshake and said, “I've been told you're interested in working for me.”
From there, she'd sat down with him and had a debriefing. She explained it all, everything from joining up with the Cimmerian to blowing the reactor bay. At the end of it, he'd told her that if she was willing to continue taking risks like the ones she'd just taken, then he'd be willing to employ her. She had heartily agreed to this arrangement. His first order was to send her to the infirmary, telling her she looked like hell.
And, when she finally got to a mirror, she realized that she did.
The infirmary hadn't been her first stop. Well, it had, but not in the way that he'd intended. She'd told the medic, a black man with a shaved head named Mertz, that before she did absolutely anything, she needed a shower.
He'd smirked and agreed with her.
Instead of being offended, she just took it in good nature, getting the feeling that it hadn't been meant as a genuine disparagement but just a jovial poke. The shower had possibly been the longest one of her life. When it was over, she'd dressed in a hospital gown and admitted herself to the infirmary, where they'd kept her for a solid day, treating her various wounds. She'd accumulated quite a bit of scrapes, burns, cuts, scratches and bruises along the way. Eventually, when they'd let her out, Greg had been there to take her to her room.
And he'd just dropped her off there.
The room was nice. Tidy, trim, a bit utilitarian. But that was honestly how she liked to live. At the next chance, she'd make sure to go out and buy a few amenities. She felt like she could very much use the bland monotony of shopping as a nice counterbalance to running around bloodied corridors, shooting at zombies and guys in black armor. But for now, all she really wanted to do was to lay down, read a book and relax.
Jennifer smiled as she crossed her new bedroom and sat down on the bed.
She'd made it.
She was here.
She was a part of Anomalous Operations.
* * * * *
“Pretty impressive,” Hawkins said.
Greg grunted and nodded, then he yawned.
Hawkins chuckled. “You should take rest. You've earned it.”
“I fucked it all up,” Greg replied. “Matheson died, we only rescued one fucking person out a thousand, Enzo...”
“You were sent there to kill Enzo, Greg,” Hawkins said.
“Kill or capture,” Greg muttered.
“I think we both know you'd have never captured him. He'd have made you kill him. And he's dead, so it worked out fine.”
Greg shook his head firmly and fixed Hawkins with a stare. “No. That wasn't supposed to be how it went down. Drake was supposed to be the one to pull the trigger. He was supposed...supposed to deal with this.”
This time, Hawkins shook his head. “I've been there, Greg. Revenge doesn't work. You still feel like shit. Still feel broken...no, Drake needs to figure this out on his own. Now that Enzo's out of the picture, he can actually figure out what that means. Take away the artificial solution that won't work, now he can discern what will work.”
Greg frowned. “You've been down that road before?”
“Twice. I'm stupid and stubborn, takes me two times as long to learn things...go get some sleep, Greg, you look like shit.”
He laughed. “Thanks.”
“And you did well, given the circumstances. You still got it. And this was Eve's first big mission since she completed all her treatments and training. She's definitely got it, too. So does the newbie, apparently.”
“You think she'll fit in?” Greg asked.
“Yeah.
Jennifer will do fine around here. She just survived an insane incident involving zombies. She isn't catatonic or begging to get somewhere safe...she came back for more. She's stable, competent and emotionally well adjusted. She's had fifteen years of training and seen as much combat as most Marines. She'll do fine. Go get some sleep.”
Greg nodded and yawned once more, then stood. “See you later, boss.”
“Later, Greg.”
He walked out of Hawkins' office, looking forward to the reprieve ahead of him.
* * * * *
“I'm leaving,” Drake said.
“Oh?” Hawkins replied, looking up from his desk. “And where are you going, exactly?” he replied casually, setting aside the infopad he'd been holding.
Drake shrugged. “I don't know, but I thought you'd like to know. Next time we hit port somewhere, I need to take off for a while.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don't know...I don't know if I'll be back,” Drake replied softly. “But, I figure I got great job security. If and when I want to come back, you won't say no.”
“Won't I?” Hawkins asked, grinning slightly. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah. There aren't really people lining up to do this job, Hawkins. I'm great at it. That's not going to change...probably. But I'll be in touch.”
“Good luck, Drake,” Hawkins said as he turned to leave.
Drake lingered for a moment. “Thanks.”
As he stepped out into the hallway, he reached into his inner pocket, gently touching the infopad that Greg had given him on the ride back. It contained Enzo's last message. Greg said it was meant for him.
He still hadn't watched it yet.
With a sigh, Drake let go of the infopad and began walking back towards his room.
SMALL ACTS OF KINDNESS
A companion short story set after Necropolis 4: Terminal.
Drake Winters is a man lost.
For six months, he has relentlessly tracked Enzo, the man he holds responsible for the death of his best friend and brother-in-arms, Trent. But now, Enzo is dead by his own hand, leaving Drake at a loss for what comes next.
He thought there would be closure, he thought the pain would lessen, he thought something would be different. But it's not. He's just...lost.
Now he only wants to find his way back.
Drake Winters opened his eyes to a vision of thin, gray sunlight and rainy gloom.
For a moment, he was dislocated, detached from the reality that surrounded him. Something had woken him. Where was he? On the window in front of his face, rain beaded and ran. All around him, a thrumming, subtle, no more than a vibration. He grunted, shifted, sat up. The view changed and he remembered at once.
He was in transit, aboard a vessel, a commercial one.
Destination: a rainy little colony world, well, a terraformed moon actually. Looking into the history of the place, (they called it Wulf), he'd found out that the only real interesting thing about it was the fact that they'd screwed up the terraforming a bit and now it rained more than it should have. There were just a dozen scattered colonies spread out across the surface of the moon, mining and factory colonies.
Drake had a clear view of the place now and it was like looking into the past, looking on a landscape of old pain. It reminded him of the miserable, dreary shitheap of a colony he and Trent had grown up in, spending their first sixteen years there, most of it together, looking for a way out. They'd finally found it...
And they'd never looked back.
Turning away from the window, Drake rolled his neck, popping it. He'd been asleep for a few hours, he surmised. The shuttle was coming in for a landing. He'd been adrift in his life for three weeks now. It had taken the Dauntless a day to touch port somewhere after they'd dealt with Enzo and the Necro Virus one more time and Drake had been true to his word: he'd stepped out the airlock and went for the nearest shuttle going anywhere.
Didn't even pack a bag.
Brought nothing but his pistol and the clothes on his back. His bank account was linked to his thumbprint, pretty much everything was, and what wasn't was linked to his retina. He'd bought a ticket on the first shuttle going anywhere and that turned out to be down to the planet below, since they'd docked with a space station. The planet was mostly forests and mountains and he'd wound up on a little tourist resort colony.
It was boring, but Drake didn't care.
He wanted to shut off, vacate his own mind, run on autopilot for a while. And that's what he'd done. Going straight from the local starport with its sad collection of banal fast food shops and tourist traps, he'd walked the streets of the nameless colony, hands shoved into his pockets until he came to a hotel that had a bar in it. He'd gone in, rented the best room and ordered up a prostitute. He couldn't even remember what the guy looked like, only that he'd slept with him for two nights in a drunken haze that ate holes in his memories.
He woke with a hangover and suddenly didn't want to be on the planet anymore because it was raining and when he rolled over and looked out the window, for a second, he thought he was waking up from an overnight drunk, a victory night with Trent, and he'd started mentally planning the day, the first part of that day being waking up Trent from whatever room he was staying in and figuring out what to do next.
Except Trent was dead, he'd never wake up again.
So he'd dressed, threw down some painkillers and taken a taxi back to the starport, getting on the next shuttle out, going anywhere.
As if he could outrun his pain.
The next few weeks were like that, lost in a blurred confusion of hotels, drinks, fist fights and one night stands.
Then, suddenly, one day, he had a message.
It was from Hawkins.
At first, Drake was confused, then he was somehow angry, though the anger was distant. He thought he'd made it clear: he needed to be alone, isolated, for a while. But then, vaguely, he recalled sending off a message into the ether to Hawkins. For a moment, he'd simply laid there in the crappy single-wide bed he'd woken up in, alone, listening to the rain. It seemed to rain everywhere he went, as if a manifestation of his gloomy misery was haunting him, tormenting him. He couldn't recall the message, only that it had been a question.
When he checked the message, he found information, data.
A name, planet, colony, address and a ticket to that planet.
So, here he was, on a shuttle to that planet that was actually a moon, trying to track down someone he'd met only once and had almost completely forgotten about.
Benjamin Mosley.
Drake rubbed absently at his temples. He still had a headache. The shuttle was finally coming to a halt. As it came down, he'd been given a view of the colony and it wasn't much to look at. He wondered what Mosley was doing in a place like this. As he the shuttle rolled to a halt and went through the nine thousand tedious things they needed to do before they could let you off, Drake thought back through the miasma of pain and grief.
He thought about the first, and only, time he'd ever meet the kid named Ben Mosley.
It had been during the galactic chase, their first stop on that desert planet. He and Trent had arrived to recover an ancient alien artifact. Unfortunately, Rogue Ops had beat them there. He and Trent had rallied the battered local forces and mounted an assault on the research compound. They'd been saddled with a young research tech, still a teenager, terrified but bravely pushing on. He'd survived the assault and they'd left him behind to go chasing after the bad guys. But, in his alcohol-addled state, Drake had suddenly remembered something.
“I'll see if I can't pull some strings, get you set up with a nice cushy tech job with a corporation or something.”
Trent had said that to the kid. He'd wanted to help and Drake fully believed that the man, his brother, would have followed through it. Because Trent was many things, he'd been a mean drunk, a little slow, very stubborn when the situation called for it (and sometimes when it didn't), but he was also a man of his word.
If he said he was going to do it, he'd do it.
And the more Drake thought about it, the more wrong it seemed that this kid should have to go on with his promise unfulfilled. Especially now that he saw where the poor guy was living. Finally, the million and one landing procedures had been completed. Drake stood and began making his way towards the exit.
At least Hawkins had put him up in first class.
He still didn't have any stuff with him but his pistol, which everyone reluctantly let him hang onto since he was ranked as Spec Ops. Anything he bought he ended up abandoning in the hotel room, no matter what it was. But as he shifted around, getting in line with the few other passengers in first class, he felt something in his inner coat pocket. He remembered, almost unwillingly, that he had snagged a second item when he'd skipped out on the Dauntless. Something that had stayed with him, clinging to his psyche like a malignant tumor.
The infopad they'd recovered from the previous mission.
With Enzo's message on it.
He still hadn't watched the damned thing. Neither Greg nor Eve would tell him what it said, only that he needed to see it for himself. There could be anything on it. Hell, it could just be a video Enzo waving his dick around right before he blew his brains out. He still didn't know how the man had died. He wouldn't put it past the maniac to do that. In a morbid way, the thought was funny, and he found a grim chuckle escaping him as he left the shuttle behind and moved into the terminal. As he detached from the gaggle of passengers, he moved into a large, empty seating area, momentarily pausing in front of a trio of immense, floor-to-ceiling windows.
They offered him a view of the dismal landscape beyond. Nothing but pathetic copses of decaying trees and the beginnings of a saw-toothed mountain range. Rain ran on the glass outside, a silent testament to his own inner turmoil. With a sigh, Drake turned away. His stomach was rumbling and his headache was getting worse. Well, it probably wouldn't do to show up at Mosley's place hungover and starving as well as in a terrible mood. (There was nothing to be done about the mood.) So, numbly, he began walking.
