Quarantine (The Shadow Wars Book 7.5) (7 page)

Lifting his visor, he popped a cocktail of pills into his mouth, a mixture of anti-virals, antibiotics and painkillers, and washed them down with all the water in his canteen. When that was finished, he closed his visor, replaced the medkit and canteen, and activated his radio.

“This is Gray to Duncan and Colin, what's your situation?” he asked.

“We're...ah...getting there,”
Duncan replied after a moment.

“Fletcher's dead,” Allan said numbly.

A pause.
“What happened?”

“The crew got her. How close are you?”

“Okay, to be honest, we got lost,”
Colin chimed in.

Allan sighed. “Fucking wonderful. Do you have
any
idea where you currently are?”

“We're close to the medical wing, I think. Hold on...okay, we're just outside Storage Room 48-B,”
Duncan replied.

Allan sighed. “Get in there. Stay put. I'm coming. Hunter, what about you?” A pause, then nothing. “Hunter? Can you hear me?” Still nothing.

Allan felt his frustration and fear growing.

Without another word, he set off.

* * * * *

He found Duncan and Colin exactly where they said they'd be, in a squalid, poorly-lit storage bay, waiting sheepishly for him. Some distant part of Allan's mind noted that it was strange for these two to get lost. They were both Spec Ops veterans...how could they have gotten lost? But he was tired and in pain and his mind kept turning back to those red welts, to the idea of a virus that had been released...had he been exposed?

“Come on,” he said, leading them out of the storage bay and through the threshold into the medical wing. “There's something we should talk about.”

“What?” Duncan asked.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but there's red welts on the affected crew members' bodies. I'm thinking they were experimenting on some kind of virus or something and maybe it got out. The obvious implication here is that we're at risk,” Allan explained.

“I hadn't noticed...fucking fantastic,” Colin muttered.

“One more reason to get this job done,” Duncan replied. “How do you think it's transmitted?”

“I honestly don't know. I can only hope its not airborne or in the water. If it's in the blood maybe, then we should be fine, since we're in our suits,” Allan replied.

They spent the next several minutes navigating the medical wing. Allan found that his headache was growing worse, and he was extremely thirsty. He regretted draining his canteen and made a note to find more water, preferably some not from the general supply. All the while, he was trying to get hold of Hunter, who remained off the air.

The medical wing was wrecked more so than the rest of the ship seemed to be. They passed infirmaries that looked like they'd been subjected to brutal firefights, the walls dented and bloodied, tools and equipment scattered across the ground. The three of them found guns among the dead, but they were always ruined or broken somehow. Allan had the idea that perhaps all of the ammunition onboard had been expended, or maybe all the ammo actually within the guns themselves, and the crew had taken to using them as cudgels.

They managed to find the second security center without incident, and without hearing anything from Hunter. After a few moments, they had the second portion of the lockout lifted and were on their way to the third security center.

* * * * *

“Are you shitting me?” Colin groaned.

Allan stared at the welded shut door and considered his options. They'd had to bash, bludgeon and murder their way through close to a dozen more insane personnel on the way out of the medical deck and on their way to the oxygen plant.

And now this.

“Now what?” Duncan muttered. He didn't sound anything like his usual, cheery self. And, if anything, Colin had been even more frustrated and cranky than usual.  As opposed to his hopes, Allan had only been getting angrier and more frightened as time went on. He had to really sit on the urge to start physically attacking the door.

“Ships have maintenance tunnels belowdecks,” Allan replied. “It'll be the most direct route and honestly, we need to be quick.”

“Why?” Duncan asked.

“Do you
want
to stay here?” Allan replied.

“Well what the fuck do you think!?” Duncan snapped.

Allan stopped, turned and looked at him.

“Sorry,” Duncan muttered. “It's just...”

“Yeah, I know. Come on.”

They hunted around for a few moments before locating a small maintenance room with a hatch in the floor. Allan went first, prying open the hatch and staring into the dim shaft below. After a moment of seeing nothing, he lowered himself into the hole and climbed down the ladder. Colin went next, followed by Duncan. The trio soon found themselves moving along a tight and narrow metal tunnel. Allan felt his pulse begin to drive harder and faster. He was leading the way now, machete in hand. He had yet to grab another weapon.

They'd made it roughly halfway through the tunnel when he heard something, a quiet mutter that sounded very near by. He stopped, swallowing, machete raised. Anyone could be down there with them. The tight maneuvering would make for some nasty, difficult combat. If only he could find a
single
working pistol...

He started moving again and found himself thinking of Hunter. Two of them were dead now, Smitty and Fletcher, not to mention the skeleton crew onboard the speed ship. Four of them against however many insane, demented crewmen were onboard, ready to rip their guts out or die trying. Possibly three...where was Hunter? Maybe she'd lost her radio, or maybe she was hurt and holed up somewhere, waiting, or maybe-

A massive, hulking figure suddenly stepped out in front of him and punched him, once but
hard
, in the chestplate, sending him stumbling backwards. He landed hard on his back, gasping, staring up at this immense menace standing over him. Only it was no longer interested in him but the man standing behind him.

Colin.

Before Allan could react, he realized that this titan was holding onto something. This one had
learned
. He held a short metal pole of some kind, what might have been a pipe, stained with blood. The crewman pulled the pipe back and with the overhanded gesture of someone throwing a spear, smashed the end of it directly into Colin's faceplate. The sound of shattering glass and screaming briefly filled the small corridor, followed by a wretched and immediate silence as, Allan imagined, Colin died. The crewman pulled the metal pole free.

Colin immediately collapsed to the floor.

Screaming, Allan surged to his feet and shoved the tip of the machete up into crewman's head, directly through his jaw, ramming it through the roof of his mouth and piercing his brain. The crewman's body vibrated violently, as though he was having a seizure, limbs twitching furiously, a horrible gurgling sound emitting from his ruined mouth. Allan tore the machete free and shoved the crewman back.

He fell bonelessly to the floor.

Allan and Duncan stood there for a moment longer, staring at both bodies, then just at Colin. Neither said anything for a long time. What was there to say? Another among them was dead. Allan thought he'd feel something more, a burst of emotion,
something
. But he just felt a hollow, sad loneliness. Finally, he stirred.

“Come on, we need to go,” he said.

Duncan looked like he wanted to say something, but apparently nothing came to mind. In the end, he followed Allan silently out of the maintenance tunnel.

* * * * *

Hunter wasn't at the final security center.

There was no sign of her anywhere around, and she still wasn't on the radio.

Allan sat before a workstation, bathed in a soft green and white glow, and watched the final lockdown protocol lift, granting him and Duncan access to the bridge. After a moment, Allan slowly stood. He felt like shit. His head was pounding, his throat dry, his muscles aching and now, on top of everything, he felt hot.

He turned up his air condition units in his suit another notch and turned to leave. “Come on, let's get this over with.”

Chapter 07

–
Contamination
–

The bridge.

They were finally at the bridge. Allan thought it was a little strange. He'd gotten used to getting to his goal only after a ridiculous amount of sidestepping and new problems and fuck-ups. Now, as far as he knew, he only had to open up a comm link, make the call and wait. Of course, he also had to determine whether or not he and Duncan were infected with an unknown virus, survive any and all remaining insane crewmen, find Hunter and last long enough to get picked up. That was, of course, providing that nothing
else
went wrong.

Allan decided to stop thinking about all this.

He and Duncan stood before the door that led to the bridge. They'd downed another four dementia-riddled crewmen on the way there. Duncan had hardly said two words to him since releasing the final portion of the lockdown. Allan wasn't feeling in that good a mood, either.

“You ready for this?” he asked, staring at the terminal that would grant them access to the bridge once and for all.

Duncan shifted beside him. “As close as.”

“Good. Let's go.”

He still only had his machete and Duncan had grabbed a long, red wrench that made a particularly disgusting sound when it broke a human skull. Allan reached out and hit the access button. The door parted and split open. The bridge was revealed to them: a sparking, smoky wasteland of blood and death. A handful of crewmen waited for him: what remained of the bridge crew that presumably had been locked in when the lockdown activated. There were five of them, one of them wearing a black uniform trimmed with red.

The captain, Allan realized after a moment.

“Let's get this over with,” he said, raising his machete.

Duncan grunted a reply and raised his wrench.

Both parties rushed at each other simultaneously. Allan started off the party by bringing his machete around in a broad arc, burying the blade halfway into the nearest man's neck. The blade's edge was already getting dull, he noticed. In a spray of blood, he ripped the blade out, kicked the man back and turned his attention to the next psycho warrior headed his way. It turned out to be the captain. He was older, tall, with muscles that looked grafted on. He filled out his torn, bloodied uniform. Allan groaned internally, this wasn't going to be easy.

In an attempt to repeat his previous victory, Allan brought the blade around again, hoping to sever a jugular, but the captain brought up one meaty arm and stopped the blade cold. The machete reverberated in his hand as hit bone and bounced off. With a roar, the captain leaped onto him, causing him to drop the machete. Allan quickly found himself on his back, powerful hands around his neck, squeezing, cutting off his circulation. Panic ignited within him. He needed to end this. Distantly, he could hear Duncan shouting something furiously.

No time for that now. Allan reached up and grabbed the captain's neck, squeezing as well, but it didn't seem to matter to the man. On top of that, he couldn't seem to get a good grip. Thinking fast, Allan pulled down, bringing the man's face closer, let go of his neck and grabbed his face. He shoved both gloved thumbs into the captain's eyes. Feeling the eyeballs pop beneath the tip of his thumbs, it felt to Allan like he had sunk his thumbs into a bowl of warm mush. Fighting revulsion, listening to the captain bellow his mindless rage, he got his air back as the hands fell away. Allan shoved the man off of him, grabbed his machete and shoved the tip of the blade directly into the captain's forehead. There was a sharp crack, the body vibrating violently, then death.

He was getting the upper hand.

Duncan let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Allan looked over and quickly realized he was
not
gaining the upper hand. He tore the blade out and sprinted across the bridge. Duncan had dealt with two of the bastards that had come his way, but the third had somehow gotten the upper hand on him. It had jabbed a combat knife
through
his body armor and into his side.

How strong were these things?

Allan rushed the man, burying the blade into his neck and pulling the knife out. Duncan screamed again and collapsed.

“Shit!” Allan cried, giving a quick look around the bridge, finding it empty and dropping to his knees. He grabbed his medical kit and opened it up.

“How you doing? Anything punctured, do you think?” Allan asked, tearing open a package of coagulant powder and pouring it into the wound.

Duncan let out a long, hoarse shout. “Uh, how about my fucking
stomach
!” he snarled through gritted teeth.

Allan managed a short, grim chuckle. “I mean
organs
, smartass.”

A pause. “No...I don't think so, but I can't tell for sure.”

“Shit, man...look, I
need
to find out what happened here, okay? Can you wait?” he asked.

Duncan nodded, teeth still pressed together. “Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine. Just...don't leave it too long, huh?” he replied.

“You got it. Here, hold still.”

Allan took off the man's helmet, gave him an injection that was part painkiller and part antibiotic. He replaced his helmet, then, because it nagged at him, he sealed the hole in Duncan's suit. After that, he gently helped him up, brought him over to one of the workstation chairs and carefully set him down. When he was sure the demo expert was comfortable, he turned away from him, crossed the bridge and sat down in the captain's chair.

“Finally,” he whispered, booting it up.

It was time to get some answers. The first thing he wanted to do was to run a BioScan and see what kind of results that produced. A moment passed in relative silence. Allan glanced back at Duncan. He was still sitting on the chair, unmoving. Allan stared at him a moment longer, suddenly wondering if he had just up and died. He was about to stand up and go check when Duncan shifted slightly and muttered to himself.

A soft chime startled him into turning back around. The BioScan was finished. Allan started to study it, but his vision abruptly blurred and then doubled. At the same time his head let out a pulse of raw, red pain that seemed to shoot through his entire body. He groaned, closing his eyes, willing the pain to pass, or at least subside. It did, after several moments. Allan took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He returned his attention to the BioScan results. What he saw didn't help. There were
zero
human life signs onboard.

Okay, okay...maybe it was broken.

But maybe not.

Probably not.

Allan sighed and closed that window. He tried to boot up the mission log, but was unable to do so. He had to settle for the captain's journal for data. He read the first entry, dated nearly a month ago, hoping something worth reading was in there.

ENTRY ONE FOR PROJECT: NULL

10.01.2347

I have been put in charge of a particularly miserable assignment by the Head Director. I don't know what I did to piss him off, but here I am, babysitting a bunch of eggheads out in the middle of nowhere. What's worse, they're fucking around with that virus. It blew up in their face twenty years ago and it did again two months ago on Dis. This damned Necro Virus is too hot to handle, but whatever the boss says, goes.

Here's hoping I don't wind up a drooling psychopath.

Allan felt his entire body go cold with raw-edged fear. The Necro Virus? Dis...that's where Greg and Kyra had been. For a mindless, cold-gut second, he thought he was going to become a zombie. But...that didn't follow. There were no zombies here, just creepy insane guys. Allan made himself calm down and focused. He kept reading, skipping ahead some.

ENTRY FOURTEEN FOR PROJECT: NULL

10.14.2347

Nothing but bullshit and bitching lately. The eggheads are screwing around in the labs, as far as I can tell. They send me reports that don't make any sense and I ship them off to Central Command. All I could pull out of it was that they're trying to synthesize some new battle drag, something to make the men more violent, more effective in combat. Seems like a lot of bullshit to me. All a soldier needs is proper motivation, not drugs.

That answered some of the questions...though not all of them. Allan read on.

ENTRY TWENTY SIX FOR PROJECT: NULL

10.26.2347

Everything's gone to hell. Those stupid fucking eggheads. Whatever they were making, it got out. I'm holed up in the bridge now with some of the crew and one of the scientists. He's just told me that it's basically hopeless. Not only did they fuck up what they were doing, causing it to not just make the men more violent but actually insane and physically much stronger, not only did it get out...it's fucking airborne! He rattled off a list of symptoms: dry throat, headache, muscle ache, extreme emotions, hallucinations. I've already got some of those and so do the others. We're fucked. They said they have a cure for it, in the main lab, but I don't imagine we'll make it there. We managed to get a distress call out, but then the comms array broke down somehow. This might be my last entry. I can't think of anything smart to say, unfortunately.

There was nothing else. Now real terror had seized Allan. It was airborne. His ruptured suit in the beginning of this, all the times he'd opened his visor, when he'd taken off his helmet...he was definitely infected. He had most of the symptoms. Though not hallucinations...right? How could he tell if he was hallucinating?

“Duncan!” he called, turning around. “Duncan, there's a virus in the air and...” he trailed off, seeing that Duncan was wholly immobile. Fearing the worst, Allan stood up and tried to process this. He was infected with some kind of insanity virus...but there was a cure. He needed to find the main lab. But first he needed to send out a distress call. What was wrong with the comms array? He crossed the bridge and stared into Duncan's visor.

The man was still alive, he realized, just passed out. Great. Allan left him alone and moved over to the communications workstation. Motivated to work more quickly than before, Allan sat down, booted it up and ran a quick diagnostics. The problem was still there. And it was more complicated than he had hoped. But, after a quick examination of the data, he was relieved that he could at least figure out how to fix it. He'd never been very intelligent with making small, technical repairs. The primary array was down, for whatever reason, and the secondary array apparently was stuck inside of its holding bay along the exterior of the ship.

As such, it needed to be manually released...on the exterior of the ship.

“Guess I'm going upstairs for a walk,” Allan muttered to himself as he stood up. The procedure itself was simple: turn a wheel and flip a lever.

Allan turned and stared at Duncan, frowning. Another problem. How to solve this? His gaze drifted across the bridge and finally settled on a door tucked away into the back corner. Crossing the room, he reached the door and opened it, peering inside. It was a small bathroom. He cleared it out, checking the two stalls and finding them empty. Somehow, in all the chaos, no one and nothing had managed to make it in here. The room was clean, white and empty. Allan went back into the bridge, grabbed Duncan and dragged him gracelessly across the deckplates. He hauled him into the room, then left and shut and locked the door.

With that done, Allan headed for the airlock, which was conveniently placed within the bridge as well. Something was nagging at him and it only got worse as he drew closer to the airlock. When he was within arm's reach, he realized what it was: Allan had no weapons. He'd dropped his machete. Sighing, he wasted another five minutes scavenging the bridge for tools or weapons. All he found was that combat knife that might have murdered Duncan, his machete and the wrench Duncan had been using. Seeing as he no longer trusted his machete, because it kept getting stuck in people, he abandoned it in favor of the wrench.

For good measure, he tucked the knife away in a sheath on his suit. Feeling about as good as he was going to about this, Allan made for the airlock. He was actually inside of it, preparing to cycle through, before the idea that he should probably run a suit check hit him. He did, and discovered a hole in his armor, near his stomach. Talk about a close call. He quickly patched it up, then cycled through the airlock. Activating his magnetic boots, he set off.

Outside was, as it always was, beautiful.

Stars, distant pinpricks of light, millions or even billions of years old, their light only now reaching him. Some of them might even be dead by now, or long dead. He clanged along the surface of the ship, turning his attention to the hull. He wasn't holding onto the wrench, instead deciding that it'd be better in his belt loop. He might lose it. The chances of someone having made it out here were slim to none...though that didn't mean there wasn't anyone out here. Paranoia gripped him and he paused halfway through his sojourn to look around.

No one and nothing out here with him, as far as he could see. Breathing a little easier, Allan hurried on. He spied the stub of technology that was the manual release device for the secondary comms array. He wondered how far away the
Atonement
was. He knew that it had dropped him off with the speed ship going on another mission to drop off Dr. Matheson...or was that what Greg had said to him? He couldn't remember.