“Fucking great,” Whitey muttered as he stepped inside.
The rest of them moved in formation behind Whitey. Blood rushed through Mills’ veins. The hollow booms of their footsteps made the place seem like an old tomb to Mills. His breath plumed in front of his face; it was only slightly warmer in here than outside.
They moved through the cargo bays and reached the area where Arnie had met his demise. Mills was grateful the ship had crashed upright. It would’ve been a bitch to get through otherwise.
In the hangar, they found Arnie. He had been ripped in half. Hoses pumped hydraulic fluid onto the deck. His head was twisted at a horrible angle.
“That’s titanium,” Mills whispered. “He’s designed to withstand a blast from a HE round. Something shredded the fuck out of him. Move on.”
They left Arnie behind and came to the stairwell that led to Deck Three. Whitey held up his hand, fist closed. Pointed at the stairwell.
Mills switched his display over to thermal and looked upward. He saw the heat outline of a vaguely human shape standing on the next level, right at the stairway. Maybe waiting and listening for them.
He crept ahead and tapped Whitey on the shoulder, Mills’ knuckle sounding hollow as it rapped Whitey’s armor.
He looked back at the rest of the squad. O’Brien was behind him. Beyond O’Brien were Chomski, Barrow, and Meyer. He’d fought with all of them. Battle of Manhattan. The Blue Ridge massacre. The siege in Old Chicago. He trusted all of them with his life, and they were all he had. When the uglies had come, he’d lost contact with Jamie, his wife of ten years. He could only assume she’d been killed in the first wave. There had been no word from her in years.
He flipped off a series of hand signals — they were heading up; possible hostile at the top of the stairwell.
They crept up the stairs at tactical intervals, weapons raised. At the top stood a woman with her back to them. She wore the familiar blue jumpsuit of the United States Navy.
“Ma’am, I’m Sergeant John Mills, USCI. Please turn around slowly.”
The woman turned and Mills got a good look at her face. The skin was a slimy gray that reminded Mills of overcooked beef. The eyes were gone, the sockets tinged with blood. She opened her mouth and a long hiss streamed forth. Two spindly legs crept over her tongue and poked out of her mouth.
The flesh around her mouth ripped like wet cloth in a soundless scream.
Mills raised his assault rifle, fired a short burst, and watched her head spatter the walls. The corpse fell to its knees. The arms jerked. Mills blasted it again, the thing inside the poor woman emitting a blood-curdling shriek as it died.
“God, that stinks,” O’Brien whispered in Mills’ ear.
“There was a crew of two hundred on this ship. Bound to be more of them. Keep your eyes open,” Mills said.
“Where’s the big ugly you saw on Arnie’s display?” Whitey asked.
“Hope we don’t run into it,” Chomski said. As the squad’s grenadier, he carried a launcher that held HE rounds. He could program it to shoot at predetermined distances. Very fucking deadly.
“Keep moving.”
They wound their way up until they reached Deck Four. Mills found it odd that they hadn’t seen any more crewmen, reanimated or otherwise. No sign of the big nasty that had cut Arnie in half, either.
The hair on the back of Mill’s neck stood up. He was being watched. No, not watched. Hunted.
“Double time it,” he said.
According to intel, Hamilton was supposed to be in 403-AA. As they came to the corridor, it was a mess. Empty steel cases, clothes, a half-eaten apple, bedding, soaps, and deodorant bottles were among the many items scattered in the hallway.
“Sarge, I got a heat signature at the other end. Through that door. You see it?” Whitey whispered.
Mills nodded; the outline of a figure crouched near the door. Was it waiting for them? “Stand fast.”
They took up firing positions along either side of the corridor. The figure sprang to its feet and a moment later the door opened and a petite brunette in a Navy jumpsuit bolted through the door. She was carrying a semiautomatic pistol with an extended magazine.
She sprinted halfway down the corridor, crouched, and took up a shooter’s stance.
Mills heard a high-pitched, chattering noise. One of the parasites skittered through the door, legs working overtime. He never got used to the sight of them: the razor-sharp pincer mouth, the multiple onyx eyes, the stinger that jutted from its thorax.
The woman put six shots into the creature. Black, viscous fluid painted the floor. The parasite let out an agonized screech and collapsed. Still.
“I’m guessing you’re Hamilton,” Mills said.
She whirled, gun raised. Squinting, she said, “Who’s there?”
Shit. They still had their Adaptive Camo active. They would be vague shapes to her. “Sergeant John Mills,” he said, deactivating his AC and stepping away from the wall. “We’re here to get you out.”
“Good to see you, Sergeant. We should go. There’s more of them,” Hamilton said.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. Her voice was soft, almost soothing. He’d expected someone who sounded hard as steel. Although by the way she’d coolly taken out the parasite, he suspected she had some metal in her.
“Any other survivors?” Mills asked.
“I’m it,” she said.
“Okay then. Move out,” Mills said with a nod. “Whitey, you’re Hamilton’s bodyguard. Watch her. The rest of you keep her in the center of the formation. Nothing gets behind her.”
Whitey moved up next to Hamilton. The rest of the squad formed around the two of them.
They fell back down to Deck Three and when they turned the corner into the corridor leading to the stairwell, Mills said, “Fuck me.”
There were at least a dozen reanimated crewmembers waiting for them. The parasites that controlled the dead weren’t hiding this time. Spindly limbs burst through the skin, and one poor bastard’s chest was opened up, the creature’s pincers poking out through the ribs. Mills shuddered.
They took up firing positions as the crewmembers shambled forward with herky-jerky motions. The squad gunned down the first row, the crew coming at them shoulder-to-shoulder. Blood slicked the floor. A parasite broke free and scurried across the floor toward them. O’Brien blasted it to pieces.
Mills popped in a fresh magazine. The next row lunged forward.
A parasite tore from its dead host with a wet pop; scrambled up the wall, and got purchase on the ceiling. It came at them fast. Upside down and hissing.
The thing dropped in front of Hamilton. She put two shots in its mouth. Whitey blasted one of its legs clean off, but it still managed to lunge at the woman.
She drew a large knife and drove it downward into the thing’s back, ripping the knife the length of the torso. Stinking, black goop gushed out of the creature.
Hamilton’s expression hadn’t changed the whole time.
The squad picked off the remaining crewmembers then Mills led them down the corridor, the ground slick with blood and entrails and God knew what else.
When they entered the hangar, a heavy chemical-like smell hung in the air. It made Mills’ eyes water and his nose burn.
“What’s that fucking smell?” Meyer said, putting a hand to his face.
As Mills turned to tell him to shut up, something from the ceiling whipped down and lashed around Meyer’s neck. It looked like a thin tentacle, except it was covered with hundreds of barbed spikes. The tentacle tightened around Meyer’s neck. His face turned red as the pressure increased.
“Cut him the fuck loose!” Mills’ ordered.
Mills opened fire. The rounds ripped into the tentacle. It still had Meyer in a death grip.