As I continue down the hall, the woman on my back begins to stir. This brings up a whole new issue. I consider my options as I reach the end and step onto the elevator. Faint sounds of screaming and stuff breaking echo down the hall, until they are cut off by the closing doors. The prosthetic was in a room on the thirteenth level, I am on the second. As the elevator slowly descends, I drape her on the floor, and gently slap her face until she wakes up. 741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjpHUkr7jT8
She groans and mutters under her breath. Her eyes, looking slightly unfocused, look into mine.
"Listen up ma'am, I don't know where I am, or what you were doing. But, I know that everyone in here is going crazy. I don't..."
"I know, that is why I pressed the alarm. My name is Erin. Look, you are under water in a Pax facility in what was Concord Massachusetts. The arm is modified to interface with your elbow. In that room, open crates," she paused to think, and started to hold her head with her left hand, crap, "thirteen, forty-one, and fifty-nine. Everything you need is in there. Please hurry!"
The light on the door jamb illuminated at thirteen, the speaker chimed, and the door opened. She got to her feet while I stepped out and scanned the area. Small room with a sealed door and palmkey on the far end. She walks over to the door and unlocks it with her hand. We both enter. there is the hand, shining a dull silver. The end of it fits seamlessly into my elbow. The hand feels numb, but slowly clears up. Every action I try with the fingers and wrist it glides through easily. The fingers are robust and sturdy, but nimble at the same time. The woman is holding her head with both hands now, and is moaning to herself softly.
I rush over to the crates and slam their lids back. Pistols, and loaded magazines, in the first. Standard body armor in the second. The third contains gauntlets, or more accurately named: ripjacks. Two blades powered by a motor, when activated they slice out of their housings and extend a good three inches out past the fist. Designed for hand-to-hand combat, the user can stab his opponent, and then rip them apart. Someone armed with one can wade through opponents, mauling with ease.
The prosthetic is clearly not built for looking and acting normal. it has everything from retractable claws to a palm light. Do to the receptors buried in the metal, I can feel almost as well as my hand used to, but nothing hurts.
I gear up, wishing for my old armor, but grateful that this is better than nothing. I jerk around as the woman yells, nothing intelligent, and her head bobs back and forth. her fingers draw blood where they press into her head.
What am I going to do with her? I don't want to gun her down in cold blood, but she is going to suffer before she goes feral. Then she will try to kill me.
"I am sorry Erin."
I check all my gear as the elevator rises. I have to return to the control room and formulate a plan. The elevator passes the forth floor, when everything goes dark. Power outage. I jump up and punch the ceiling, ripping a hole through the panel. Another jump and I pull myself through the ragged tear. I wager a guess that I am close to the third floor, and jump up the side of the wall that the door faces. My fingers grip a ledge, and I end up pressed against the door to the third floor. I search for the seam, and once it is found, my prosthetic wedges in and I shove the door open.
The hallway is barely lit by red emergency lights, giving it the appearance of a dark tunnel in hell, and visibility is extremely poor. I can't hear anything but the crackle and whine of that mind-corrupting signal. Why isn't it affecting me, is it because I hear it?
The halls bear witness to the decaying nature of its occupants. Smashed terminals outlets, and equipment, puddles and sploshes of blood. No bodies though, which is a bad sign. I have no sense of direction, but you can't go wrong with going right.
Creeping down a hall, with potentially hundreds of savage sub-humans waiting to tear you apart, is not a good way to distract yourself from being hungry. I was starving, so bad it actually hurt.
Fortunately, I pass a cafeteria along the way. A quick glance inside shows nothing alive, so I sneak in. Ignoring the trays of cold food on the tables, I head for the grab-gos. Automatic dispensers filled with wrapped and preserved food for the busy worker, time-crunched scientist, or hungry zombie-chased soldier. Jerky, water pouches, dried fruit, vacuum-sealed sandwiches all disappear into my pockets as I eat several others. As I turn from the vendor, the eyes of the person standing in the door catch mine.
Scratch that about them being a person. Scratches and gashes show through the ripped jeans and t-shirt. The face was a boy, young, a little pale from lack of sunlight. Arms covered in blood as if he had been washing dishes in a body. It stands there, smiling. Not deranged, not insane. The smile of happiness, contentment, even rapture. The smile should have tugged at his eyes, but they were crying. Not tears of joy, but of fear.
He stands there, looking at nothing, just taking the room in. As the boy is framed by the door, something moves behind him. A length of pipe crunches into his shoulder, he drops. Bloodstained ferals trot into the cafeteria, not moving with the synchronicity that they usually did. over forty of them; disjointed, snarling to each other as they pawed the body.
The food is settling in my stomach now, and I am ready to roll. The kid wasn't gone, there was something left inside him before the others killed him. Implies a sort of collective mind then, and it is acting rather dazed right now. Perfect.
They missed me standing in the back of the room, so I aim my pistol and cough. The sound jerked their heads up like any other animal startled by a sound while eating. The gun barked, strobing the tables and walls with muzzle flash. The .45's drop several before they react to me. Scrambling up they charge around and over tables to reach me. I methodically drop four of them, satisfied at the gun's performance. The closest leaps into the air, arms stretching out as I holster the pistol. My prosthetic grabs the closest chair to my left as I slash the monster. The ripjack scythes into action, punching though the feral's skull like an axe with a melon. Ducking under the now-dead acrobat, I take the legs out from under the next zombie. it hits the deck and I follow through with the chair as a hammer. They are all around me now, so I ditch the chair and dance in the middle of the screaming monsters. Slashing, battering, and twisting, I tear them apart as they scratch my skin and try to bite my armor.
As I fight, I feel my body respond to my needs, brain detaching, kidneys pouring out adrenaline, muscles consuming oxygen and shrugging off the effects of lactic acid. I was made for this, and my body knows it.
One jumps on my back, using its strong hands to choke my neck. I reach up and feel the metal of my fingers sink though the eyes and lever against the skull. Punching the feral in front to drive it back, I swing with my left and crush the one with the body of my would-be strangler. One swings a pipe at me, but I lean backwards, reaching out with the jack to disembowel her. It is getting hard for them to reach my, as a pile of corpses has built up around my legs. The monsters continue to press, but they are losing numbers fast. My metal hand is dripping with gore now, and it is hard to stand in the blood. I hop up and grab an overhead pipe, swinging forward onto a table. I land, but am tackled by a feral. It lands on top of me on the floor and the others close in. My hand and ripjack tear his chest apart, and I swing out at the legs and arms around me as I scramble up. Only less than ten to go, and as I bash the head of one on the table, its nine. I mope the remainder up and turn to the door. Several more, attracted by the sounds echoing down the hall, have come to investigate. I fast-draw on the first to enter, and watch the rounds punch into it, the feral drops as all its muscles go limp. I kill three more in this fashion.741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVbEZ0ctiqQ
I gasp for air as I pat myself down for injuries. A number of cuts, gashes, and bruises, but nothing serious. I will have to find some disinfectant or alcohol for the open wounds, but that can wait. I take stock of my work, and know that my seargent would be angry for attracting attention to myself when stealth was more vital. Brutus is going to get torn apart when I see him again. Who knows what he is doing now with the rest of Genesis. I need to get out of this madhouse before the residents convince me to stay. Back to Red Pack
ns 15.158.61.20da2
