Death system, p.9
Death System, page 9
part #3 of Zombicide Invader Series
The flames stopped abruptly, and she heard the voice of someone unseen talking to Nero. Dr Lemora Pick. She must’ve been thinking along the same lines. Pitching a hot sizzle on a few of your enemies was a lively time, to be sure, but if the blaze spread out of control…
Shawna held her breath, lifting her head to peek between the smoldering cushions; she saw the doctor quickly dragging Nero back into what must be the belly cargo hold. Of course!
They’d found the armory below. The storage compartment ran underneath her feet, and it must have access to the cockpit. Nero retreated reluctantly, with Lemora tugging him by the arm.
“Buddy, we gotta go,” she told her boss over the snap of crackling fires.
The hatch slammed shut.
Shawna raced to the trapdoor. As much as her brain shouted for her to stop, she had to follow them. She had no illusions of joining their gang or persuading them to let her tag along. But the chances of living were a lot worse in the cabin than they would be in the cockpit. The truth was she had no plan. But staying in the cabin meant dying by fire, by shotgun, or by tooth and claw. Maybe her chances were no better at the nose of the ship in the company of a crazed, egomaniacal tyrant and his band of hired killers. But she had to find out.
She opened the hatch – screech – and climbed into the dark hole.
Chapter Fourteen
Minor Talent
“Did you hear that?” Lemora asked.
“Hear what?” Nero cocked his head, listening for a sec. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I think someone, or something, crawled down the hatch after us. Did you lock it?”
Nero stepped over the threshold, entering the avionics bay. She was right behind him. Both hijackers were loaded down with weaponry. Still, she was sticking close to her comrade.
He said, “I didn’t even know the hatch had a lock. You rushed me out of there. And I was having some fun.” The hum of the electronics and cooling fans buzzing softly surrounded them.
“As a rule, you shouldn’t set fire to any space vehicle you’re traveling in.” She tried not to sound too sarcastic as she kept looking backward, hunting for the source of the disturbance she was certain she’d detected. A stealthy zombie? Did such creatures exist? Or were they clumsy oafs bent on destruction? They didn’t look particularly hampered by their zombification.
Nero was still complaining. “You’re the one who told me to do it. You said flames were better than bullets. Then you’re shutting me down before I get my mojo working properly.”
“All things in moderation, Nero. You know that nobody loves a conflagration more than I do. But we must be prudent.” She patted him on the back. “You did a fine job. In this case, less is more. The ship isn’t entirely fireproof. Take these computers, we wouldn’t want them to burn.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Lemmy. Moderation? Give me a break. You going soft on me?”
“Never, darling.”
“Lock that door if you’re so worried about what’s behind you,” he said, irritated. Nero never was one to look back. Not in business, or in life. His determined forward focus could be an asset, but occasionally an unresolved issue he’d forgotten about snuck up and bit him in the ass. Lemora knew this, as well as she knew what he would say if she brought up his habit of ignoring the past. “Tidying up loose ends is below my pay grade. I hire people like you to do it for me.” He had no pay grade. How do you calculate a salary for someone who owns everything?
Lemora kept silent. That was something else Nero paid for: the acquiescence of his subordinates. He wasn’t immune from taking counsel, but his advisors had to be wise and pick their spots. Too many disagreements with the boss meant a ticket out of the Guild, or worse. Lemora discovered that the hatch between the bay and the cargo hold had no lock. She informed him.
“Block it then,” he said. “But be quick about it. I told you I didn’t hear anything.”
Lemora looked around the bay for something heavy but movable. The computers and batteries were all in use, and the mini toolbox was too small to prevent someone from pushing through. What if it was a zombie on their trail, one of the big ones? What if it brought friends?
She was carrying the cumbersome triple saw. Although she regretted leaving it behind, Lemora wedged the saw against the bottom of the closed hatchway door. If any zombies tried to barge their way inside the avionics bay, the saw would slide a few centimeters until it butted up against the batteries, which were bolted to the floor. It might not stop them, but it would certainly slow them down. She’d come back later for the saw. Better yet, she’d send one of the muscle boys to retrieve it, Bak-Irp, or Mateo and Matias… if they were alive. They’d need to make another run to the armory for additional weapons and to retrieve the spacesuits. PK-L7 was a hostile environment in more ways than zombifying molds. If they got lucky, the xenium mining outpost would still be standing… and they’d land the Tri-T and drive it up to the station modules.
“Let’s go, Lemmy,” Nero said. Guns and ammo weighed him down. He was out of breath, sweat-soaked. He’d heaved the flamethrower across his shoulders like a yoke, and his jumpsuit bore scorch marks from where the hot tubing scorched the fabric. But he was so pumped with adrenaline that he wasn’t feeling a thing. He walked under the trapdoor and banged on the cockpit hatch with his fist. “Hey, Bak, open sesame. We’re back, and we brought treats.”
The Thassian jerked the hatchway door free and poked the barrel of his gun in Nero’s grinning face. When he recognized his boss, he took it away. “Sorry, I’m checking IDs.”
“Is that an example of Thassian humor?” Nero asked.
“Sort of.”
“Well, is this ID acceptable?” Nero turned around, modeling his new arsenal.
Bak-Irp offered a helping hand, boosting the former Arms Guild leader off his feet into the cramped nose section of the ailing ship.
Next came Lemora.
“Lock the trapdoor. We may have a stalker following us,” she said.
Nero passed a light machine gun to the Thassian. Bak-Irp kneeled and stuck his pale nubby head into the void for a look-see. “An infected?” He swept the barrel around, scanning.
“I didn’t have a visual of who it was. I only heard them,” Lemora said.
“She’s imagining things,” Nero said. “Paranoia isn’t a bad thing. But it can be annoying.”
Bak-Irp dropped the hatch lid, twisting the recessed handle, which sealed off the access.
“With all that racket in the cabin, how’d you hear anything?” Bak-Irp asked Lemora.
“Exactly,” Nero said.
Their comments bugged Lemora more than she wanted to admit. She had heard the hatch squeaking. Maybe even footsteps. Pissed that she’d reined him in, Nero became oblivious to everything except the next thing he wanted, as usual. His attention zeroed in on one thing at a time, and he gave it one hundred percent plus. But she was used to cleaning up all his messes and couldn’t afford to be a single-minded force of nature. Such was the luxury of his being Nero IV.
“What the hell did you two do?” Bak-Irp asked. “I smell smoke.”
“A little shake ‘n’ bake,” Nero said, smirking, as he showed off the flamethrower.
“Nice.” Bak-Irp admired the weapon. Like all of them, he had a passion for violent tools.
“There’s more back there,” Nero said. “Once things settle down, we can load up for real.”
“Uh, excuse me, gentlemen, but I don’t think things are going to settle down,” Dierdre said. “These cameras are garbage, and there’s a shit-ton of smoke back in the cabin, but it looks like your guys are in trouble.” She tapped her monitor. Nero, Bak-Irp, and Lemora leaned in. The image was grainy. Mateo was hammering the butt of his shotgun into the chest of a smoldering zombie. His brother was struggling to reload. Matias shook his head as if he was trying to clear out the cobwebs. He steadied himself against a bulkhead. Infected aliens raged around them.
“Why is Matias’s face grayed out?” Nero asked the pilot.
“I believe the effect you see is the result of our limited optics capability and low-res color imaging.” If Captain Buck had hopes of regaining a portion of his lost status, he failed miserably.
“It’s blood,” Dierdre said. “Your guy’s got a face full of blood.”
“Get them back in here,” Nero said to Bak-Irp. “Watch you don’t let anyone else inside.”
“If they’re bit or scratched, don’t they get infected?” Bak-Irp asked.
“Humans can’t be infected by any transmission route. Aliens are vulnerable to them all.”
“Terrific.”
“Might I offer an alternative solution regarding the Silvas?” said a velvety voice.
Everyone was startled, surprised to hear from Hans Krait. He’d managed to make himself invisible; blending into the background was one of his talents. As he tilted in the navigator’s chair, putting his feet up on a console, he looked almost serene.
“Hans, what the hell, buddy, I forgot you were present,” Nero said.
“Yet here I am.”
“What alternative solution are you suggesting concerning the clones?” Lemora asked.
“Leave them out there,” Krait said.
“What–?” Bak-Irp objected.
Nero laid a restraining hand on his bodyguard’s massive chest.
“Why?” Nero asked, showing a curious expression.
“They are expendable. Good foot soldiers, yes. But foot soldiers, nonetheless. Minor talent.” He wiggled the fingers of one elegant hand, as if he were flicking away crumbs.
“They’re better fighters than you are,” Bak-Irp said. “We need them.”
Krait shrugged. “Depends on the kind of fight you’re in. Can they reprogram a dormant comms control system? If what I heard you telling the pilot is correct, then we’re going to be arriving shortly on a dangerous planet. What resources will you have? A derelict mining station that’s been sitting there for a couple hundred years? With very old tech and code. How will the shotgun boys help you get things up and running? Are they going to blast apart the computers to reboot them?” Krait steepled his fingers and gazed over the top of the church directly at Nero.
“What does that have to do with fetching Mateo and Matias?” Bak-Irp said.
“He’s talking about a risk assessment.” Lemora coolly considered his argument.
“Precisely,” answered the German smuggler. “I saw Valmont trying to join us. He was your keyboard warrior, wasn’t he? Well, he’s not here. I am. And I’ll do it better. One of the clones out there has had his head split open by a zombie. He’s a negative asset. His doppelganger won’t be very useful either if he’s grieving about his vat-brother’s demise.”
“What’s your final assessment?” Nero pushed Krait to make his point. “Spit it out.”
“They’re not worth it. You were lucky to get that door closed the first time. They’ll provide more value out there dying than they will in here. Allow them to meet their fate.”
The cockpit was silent. Swallowing ice-cold facts often left people speechless.
“He’s not necessarily wrong,” Lemora said. She’d seen the logic of where Krait was going from the start. The clones’ importance declined sharply if they couldn’t fight well.
“Bullshit.” Bak-Irp didn’t wait for Nero to make a decision. He unlocked the door and flung it open. “MATEO! MATIAS! GET IN HERE!” He peppered the zombies with a barrage of bullets from the light machine gun, firing it from high over his head, so that any over-penetrating bullets would go down into the belly of the ship. “MOVE YOUR ASSES, MUCHACHOS!”
Chapter Fifteen
The Black Forever
Despite the stale gloom inside the cargo hold, Shawna could make out enough details to keep from tripping as she navigated her way steadily forward. Hearing distant voices, she slowed her pace, not wanting to surprise Nero and Lemora. Spotting the armory, she made a quick stop-off. They’d left the doors unlocked. Based on the gaps, a few choice weapons were missing – she’d expected as much – but they’d left plenty behind. She picked up a replacement pistol and a light shotgun, loading them quickly, stuffing her pockets with extra shells and ammo boxes. Neither of these guns were ideal for the situation. But the shotgun was the best of the bad options. Shawna stifled a cough. The tangy smell of smoke was strong. After what she’d witnessed upstairs, she had to assume multiple fires were burning.
The Tri-T shuddered, listing hard to port. Shawna braced herself against an armory wall and rode out the turbulence. The ship had suffered damage, but the pilots were in control for now. How long that would last was unpredictable. Punch a new hole in her hull, who knew if the Deathcan would absorb it? It was just as possible she’d go into a tailspin or fold up like an empty MRE packet. The self-healing layer of the Tri-T could handle stray tactical pellets, if not a point-blank blast. The same shell fired into the face of a zombie obliterated its head.
She’d take the tradeoff despite the risks.
Investigating the armory meant that Nero and Lemora had a bigger head start on her. Shawna didn’t mind; she preferred it. The last thing she wanted was to eat a hot cone from the end of Nero’s flamethrower. Besides, she knew where the two hijackers were going. And it felt good to be out of the passenger cabin melee, even if the relief was short-lived. Not that she had time for a picnic in the cargo pit of darkness. It was scary as hell down here. She wished there was decent light to see whatever might be lurking around the next corner. A smart warrior craved intel. Because intel allowed you to plan. Planning, more often than not, made the difference between killing your enemy and being killed. Nothing was worse than walking into a hostile situation full of unknowns. Shawna liked to know all the facts up front. Especially if the news was bad. The only bad news she didn’t want to know beforehand involved her own death – she wanted her final chapter to come as a surprise. No warning. Somebody flips your switch, and you dive headlong into the black forever. Worrying didn’t make dying easier. It made you stupid.
Rummaging around the armory, Shawna discovered a pair of night vision goggles. When she slipped on the NVGs, her view of the surroundings brightened. The cargo hold took on an eerie, swamp-green tint, but now she could see where she was going and whatever might be coming to get her. Shawna realized she was riding an adrenaline high. Despite the extreme shittiness of her circumstances, she felt fantastic. There was no rush like combat. After years of confinement, she was out doing something instead of being locked in a grayed-out cell with time and her bad memories for company. A taste of freedom meant a lot. She let herself enjoy it.
That’s when somebody started pumping bullets down through the ceiling with a machine gun. Glowing trails slashed her vision. Booms reverberated in the empty hold. Her heart thundered as she dodged around, trying to avoid getting shot. She watched the direction of the gunfire and ran from the armory, heading the other way. Above her, a cacophony of screams mixed with the machine gun chatter. Somebody up there was spraying the floor with lead. Either they had a terrible aim or a reason for the angle that she couldn’t fathom. A bullet whizzed past her ear, clipping a blonde curl, nearly ventilating her skull.
“Damn!”
Shawna somersaulted into a corner, making herself as small a target as possible. Too close for comfort. She pressed her spine against the cold skin of the inner hull. Crunched up into a tight ball, staring out into the green-black void, she spotted something: a big, round, fuzzy blur, zooming behind the armory, darting through the heavy barrage raining from above.
Shawna wasn’t sure the shape was an alien. But it didn’t look human.
Her finger found a toggle on the side of her NVGs. She switched to thermal imaging.
The adrenaline dump made her sweat; her muscles felt like hard rubber balls. She reined in her speeding thoughts. High-stress scenarios played havoc with your senses. If you peered into the shadows long enough, you’d start seeing things – globular demons bubbling up out of the tarry mire. The dark came alive, and it was always hungry. She concentrated on keeping still.
Shawna stuffed down her jitters and stayed quiet. Breathing through her mouth.
Watching and listening.
Then it happened again.
A yellow-orange-red thermal sphere rushed through the cargo area – like a fiery inflatable beach toy scooting across the hold in a hurricane. It gave off a heat signature – therefore it must be alive. So, human? But the moves were all wrong; they didn’t read as human. More like a cloud of sentient gases, which sounded ridiculous as she considered it. The thing bopped behind the armory to… she wasn’t sure where… lickety-split, it veered out of sight.
What the hell moved so quickly?
One thing was clear: she wasn’t alone. But who – or what – was down here with her?
She quickly ruled out Nero and Lemora.
Humans weren’t that compact. Or low to ground. And the motion… it wasn’t running as much as skimming along like a greased ball bearing following a track. If the thing had legs, they were pumping too fast for her to detect. The heat signal was a smear of warm colors. Flashing for a sec and then disappearing. It passed so quickly that Shawna almost doubted she’d seen anything at all. Except she was a pilot and knew she saw something out there. She trusted both her eyes and her brain. The next question presented itself: were zombies that fast?
For a moment she wondered if the goggles might be malfunctioning. Equipment failed at the worst of times. Her squadron had died because Shawna’s fighter ship didn’t respond to her commands. Instead, it took on a life of its own, gunning down every friendly target in the sky…
She reminded herself not to think about the past. Stick with the now.
How old were these NVGs?
She was about to shed them when the thing jumped up for a third time – hopping and tumbling like an acrobat showing off and having fun doing it – a real circus act.
