Necropolis
Authors: S. A. Lusher
Dark Nexus Fiction
Presents
NECROPOLIS
–
a novel of sci-fi action
–
written by
–
S. A. Lusher
–
cover by
–
M. Knepper
–
editing by
–Cassi Reed–
Dedicated to my wife, Sarah Lusher,
for being awesome.
Chapter 01
The bloody red light he opened his eyes to seemed to match the agonizing pain making a slow burn through his skull. His heart stopped in his chest; he thought he'd been blinded somehow. The crimson radiance lessened and he saw it for what it was: emergency lighting.
He blinked as the world faded in and out of focus. As he tried to move, he realized it wasn't just his skull that hurt, but most of his body. His limbs were stiff and his back ached. This chorus of suffering was accompanied by a collection of stinging cuts. He sweated profusely. Opening his mouth, he tried to say something, but found his throat incredibly dry. A coughing fit struck him, sending more waves of agony through his body.
Rolling over, he made twin revelations. The first: he was inside a small vessel. The second: he wasn’t alone. A face, broken by death, stared at him from mere inches away. An involuntary gasp escaped his throat and he shoved himself back in surprise. He bumped into something, rolled over, and found himself staring into a similarly dead, pale face. Eager to be away from the corpses, he lurched to his feet.
His head swam and he crashed back to the floor. The pain was terrible and hot lances of sick agony shot through his body. His stomach twitched and convulsed. Dry heaves wracked his body in waves, but he had nothing to give. Coughing, he lurched to his feet and dropped into one of the seats lining the walls of the small craft.
Recognition sent a wave of startling tension through him.
He looked up and around, attempting to study the tiny ship he was in through the scarlet haze. The metallic smell of blood was thick upon the air. He stared at the bodies on the floor, the dents in the metal. A word bubbled to the surface of his mind, through the maelstrom of thoughts and fear that represented his psyche at that moment.
“Crash.”
He said it aloud, surprised at the sound of his own voice. It was hoarse and thick with pain, but also...unfamiliar. He coughed and tried again.
“I was in a crash.”
It made sense, to him at least. All at once, with a fresh wave of raw-edged terror, he realized that he didn't know his own name. His gaze jerked around in primal fear, hunting for anything that might give
him a clue to his missing identity. There was nothing. No hints, no evidence, nothing. He fought the surge of panic that came screaming through his head. His heart rate spiked, his breath came short and fast.
He touched his chest, was he having a panic attack or maybe a heart attack? His hand brushed against something hard and metal. Glancing down, he realized his hand was pressed over a nametag. In a fit of excitement he tore it off, ripping the fabric of the garment he wore, and stared at it. The thing had been dented in the crash, making the first part of the tag unreadable, but there was enough left to give him a name, first and last.
Greg Bishop.
It made him feel better, but it wasn't the magic key to his memories. Staring from the tag to the broken, fresh necropolis surrounding him, he still couldn't recall anything. He had no idea where he was, where he’d been, where he was going, or what had gone wrong.
His eyes caught on the exposed neck of one of the others, and, dropping the nametag, he stood. Greg had the urge to check for a pulse, so he did. There wasn't one, but at least he had something to do in this crimson-lit tomb. He spent the next few moments shuffling around, attempting to ignore the smell of death and blood. Greg counted six bodies. They were all dead, and for some reason, he had the inclination that they'd been that way for a few hours at least. Some of them, he noted with interest, wore armor.
He studied the armor for a couple of seconds, but from the combination of poor lighting, blood, and damage, he couldn't make out the insignias. Greg stood there for several seconds, stymied by his predicament.
“What now?”
Those words, he spoke aloud, and they seemed to jar him. He stared at the back of the ship, toward the heavily dented cargo ramp. Greg wondered if he was trapped in here. If he would die in here.
“No.”
The thought urged him to further action and at once, he knew that Greg Bishop was a man with an intense desire to live.
The cockpit was a real mess, almost as if the pilot had detonated inside of it. The consoles and windows were all sprayed with blood, thick and syrupy, and the tangled pile of broken bones and torn flesh he hauled out of the pilot's seat was a gruesome sight indeed. The ease with which he managed this task made him wonder how much experience he'd had with corpses. Memories were one thing, but repetition-built instinct, which kicked in when memory failed, was another. Greg slipped into the seat and spent a moment staring out the windows.
Outside, through the hazy film of blood, it was bleak and rainy. As far as he could see, there was nothing but a dark, rocky landscape for miles and miles. If he had to guess, he would put the local time after midnight. Greg let his gaze linger and wondered what planet he was on. That notion alone let him know that he was somewhere out in space. He turned his eyes to instrument panels ringing the interior of the cramped cockpit.
Most of them were dead and dark, others cracked and broken, registering only static. What few screens that remained active all showed him things that he didn't want to know. Communications were down, and this ship wouldn't fly anywhere. BioScan informed him that he was truly alone, at least for a one-mile radius. However, Greg discovered, his face bathed in a deep green glow, he wasn't far from a structure. An outpost to be specific, a communications relay.
Perfect.
Greg memorized the distance (two miles), and decided that it wouldn't be that bad of a walk. Two miles through the rain and he could get a fresh change of clothes, some painkillers...and figure out who he really was.
He spent the next few moments preparing for his journey. While it would be easy, he felt the urge to be as prepared as possible. He located an unused medical kit in the cockpit, among the broken instrument panels. Unzipping it, he pulled out a tiny bottle of painkillers and rattled out three of the fat blue capsules. He briefly thought about something to swallow them down with, but couldn't imagine a canteen being among the contents of the ruined ship. He dry-swallowed them and then set about cleaning the various cuts that marred his face and body. He finished by injecting himself with a general anti-bacterial hypo. Resealing the kit, he attached it to his belt. As he did so, Greg realized that he was wearing a uniform.
Checking the corpses, he realized they were all wearing similar uniforms, even those with the body armor. Another clue, but it didn't help much. He hunted through the bloody interior of the unknown ship looking for...well he wasn't sure
what
he was looking for, until he discovered it. Greg found that several of the men had weapons, but most of them had been rendered useless in the crash. He finally managed to find a functional sidearm, a basic model pistol with a decent clip size, and scavenged whatever ammo he could find.
“
Why does this feel so familiar?”
He stared at the pistol. It felt good in his hands, comfortable, familiar. He extracted the clip, checked that it was still fully loaded (it was), and expertly slipped it back in. Greg knew that he had done this several hundred times, at least. Possibly more. He considered that fact for a moment, then finally shrugged and made his way back to the cargo ramp.
If nothing else, he'd be prepared for...well, anything.
Within seconds, he determined that his worst fears had been realized: the ramp had been rendered inoperable. It didn’t open. His only way out had been wedged shut. Panic surged, but he was in a much better position to fight it back down this time. At least he had his name and a pistol now. For reasons unknown to him, it made dealing with the situation a lot easier. As he stood there, staring at the unyielding cargo ramp, an inkling crept upon him and caused him to turn around. He slowly made his way back up to the cockpit.
Greg stood there in the bloody room for a few seconds, wondering what he exactly it was hunting for. Finally, after a long moment of feeling stupid, he found it when he looked up and saw the emergency escape hatch.
“
Fuck yes,” he whispered in an unexpected burst of glee.
Flicking on the safety and sticking the pistol down the back of his pants, he reached up and activated the hatch. It opened unobstructed and frigid water poured in, spattering his face. He screwed up his eyes against it and began to haul himself out.
Liberation surged through Greg as he crawled out onto the ruined hull of the ship. The winds shrieked around him as he studied the rain-slicked landscape. Lightning flared in the distance, accompanied by the bass rumble of thunder.
In the distance, he spotted the dark, angular shapes of a mountain range. Other than that, nothing but bleak, rocky desolation appeared for what seemed infinite miles. He carefully made his way down to the ground, attempting to ignore the various aches and pains that plagued him, until he was on his feet again.
Consulting the combination wristwatch/compass he'd found in one of his pockets, he oriented himself along a northern route and began walking.
Chapter 02
Greg shivered miserably as he rubbed at his arms. He’d been walking for something like fifteen minutes now. Part of him kicked the other parts for not taking one of those suits of body armor when he’d had the chance. He considered going back and getting one, but the crashed ship had already disappeared out of his sight and he didn't want to extend his trip any longer than he had to. The suits might not have heating elements, and even if they did, and even if they
worked
, it probably wouldn't make any difference anyway by the time he got to the relay. Greg passed the time by staring into the lonely darkness and trying to remember.
Frustration at not knowing who the hell he was pissed him off, and, more than a little, it frightened him. Who was Greg Bishop? He began to get the vaguest inclination of that answer, and he suspected that he might have been a soldier of some kind, considering the situation he'd awoken into and the ease with which he handled a pistol. Then again, operating the controls of the cockpit had come to him with a similar ease. What if he was a technician who knew how to use a gun? Or what if he was just an adept soldier? A pilot?
Greg sighed. Once again, that line of reasoning got him nowhere. He considered pulling out the pistol and flicking on the little flashlight mounted on the muzzle, but ultimately decided against it. He wasn't sure if the dark, creepy setting, the nature of the situation he currently found himself stuck in, or just pure, plain paranoia had hit him, but he had the feeling that he wasn't alone out here. Sure, the BioScan had assured him otherwise, at least up to a range of one mile, but it could have been malfunctioning, or maybe there was something out here that
didn't
show up on the BioScan. Any number of possibilities...
Greg shuddered and picked up the pace. His limbs started to go numb, which he counted as a blessing in disguise. The various pains in his body diminished to a dull, occasional throb. He scanned the horizon for any signs of life, anything that might let him know just how close he was, that he wasn’t just wandering aimlessly.
He saw nothing.
No lights. No buildings. The rain, occasional flickers of lightning, and shrieking winds were his only companions. His only real comfort was the compass, which assured him he was still going in the right direction. At some point, he realized that he’d developed a limp. Greg continued trying to jump-start his memories. Hints and flashes, brief bursts of recognition and half-realized truths, shot through his head, but for the moment, his memories were as dark as his surroundings. Being stuck behind a wall of the unknown unsettled him like nothing else.
Greg didn't see the structures until he stood practically on top of them.
“
Oh, thank
God
.”
He redacted his sentiment, however, as he realized the complete absence of lights. His grip on the pistol tightened as this realization sent a series of frigid chills down his spine. Greg did a quick check of his immediate area, but couldn't see anything save for the dark, forbidding landscape and the bleak collection of squat structures ahead of him.
He took a few more apprehensive steps towards the building, attempting to make out the logistics of the relay he'd come across. The outpost probably housed no more than a dozen, maybe a dozen and a half personnel.
He stood near a trio of small, one-room single-story buildings. Supply sheds, if he had to guess. A pair of larger structures sat ahead of him, an L-shaped building to his left, and off in the distance to his right, he could just make out another building. He'd peg it as the power plant. Designers liked to keep power stations away from the main colony, just in case something went wrong. That thought came to him out of the darkness of his mind.
Outpost life seemed natural to him, and Greg took a few more steps into the dark colony. He looked around, scrutinizing the buildings. After a few quiet moments, he decided none of this looked familiar. He sighed in mild frustration. That could mean anything. He might not even be from this planet, or he could have lived right at this very outpost. He continued looking around. Now, he had a decision to make.
Where to first: the L-shaped building, the two other structures ahead or the power station? The station tempted him, since the power was off, but Greg wasn't willing to gamble on his knowledge of engineering. He didn’t want to blow himself up. He shrugged, turned, and made his way toward the L-shaped structure.
His first inclination of trouble came with the brief spark of lightning that lit the black sky. In that flash, he saw that some of the windows, small and high up, were broken out. Jagged shards of glass ringed the windowsills like monstrous teeth. He swallowed and glanced down at the pistol, noticing his hand was trembling slightly.
Was he just being paranoid? There might be a good reason for the broken windows and the power outage. Well…there
might
be, though he couldn’t think of one. How crazy would he look, some limping man in a torn and bloodied, rain-soaked uniform, holding a pistol and wandering into the outpost in the middle of the night?
He thought he heard something, a low, eerie moan that seemed different from the howling of the winds. He squeezed the pistol tighter. What if he was in some kind of combat situation? Both scenarios seemed likely, but his senses prepared him for this to be a battlefield. Greg approached the structure with caution. He stepped underneath an awning, glad to be out of the rain, and reached for the activation button. He hesitated.
A bloody hand-print covered the panel.
Greg pushed the button.
The door slid open and the whiff of death he caught set his instincts on edge. He raised the pistol, flicking on the flashlight. A pale beam of white light cut through the darkness. The far wall was coated in thick sprays of blood that lit up bright red under the unforgiving luminescence of his flashlight. There were examination tables against that wall, and several of them were occupied. Greg realized he was in the local infirmary.
The place was a complete wreck. It looked as if an intense battle–or slaughter–had gone on within its stark confines. A pair of large cabinets had been toppled over, their medical contents spilled out across the white-tiled floor. Greg swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Terror rippled through him, cold and quicksilver, as he considered the fresh slaughterhouse.
Before, he'd had an excellent reason for all that death: a crashed ship. Even if he had no idea how the ship had crashed, it made sense that everyone else was dead. Here, he had no reason. Greg continued to stand in the doorway, a cold wind blowing against his back. He considered exploring the infirmary. What could he get out of it? He already had medical supplies, but...well, more would be nice. He might find clues…
Greg took a step inside, moving the beam across the infirmary in a wide arc. He kept his finger on the trigger, running it briefly down the metal, already slick with his sweat and rainwater. He took another step, deeper into the abyssal darkness. A loud
bang
shattered the silence as a metallic item dropped to the floor. Greg lost his nerve and backpedaled until he returned to the frigid rain. He continued covering the door with his pistol. It slowly slid shut. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he waited for the door to open and reveal...something.
The seconds ticked by in midnight gloom and he was left alone with his thoughts. A ripple of paranoia tickled the back of his neck and Greg spun, keeping the pistol steady. Still nothing. He sighed, the tension draining out of him. Part of him wanted to leave, to just run away, damn the consequences, but his rational side knew how flat out stupid that was, and he forced himself to walk towards the pair of structures laid out ahead of him. He kept glancing back at the infirmary, though, expecting some dark horror to be coming for him.
The structure to the left was smaller and single story with a big comms tower on top, so he chose that one. Greg hit the activation button next to the main entryway and raised the pistol. A corridor awaited his inspection. There wasn't any blood, so that was a start. Greg stepped inside, his stance rigid. He had five doors to choose from. This time around, however, bold text sat above each door, labeling them.
Two led to a large mess hall, one was an elevator, one led to a security center, and another led to the communications room. Greg made for the comms room first, but immediately felt his hope drain as he glanced around at the destroyed equipment within. Most of the screens were cracked, caked with blood, and it looked like someone had fired a machine gun into the larger pieces of equipment. While he backed out of that room and made for the security center, he wondered why the emergency lighting wasn't on.
It was obvious that
some
power still came to the base, since the automated doors were working. Then again, they might just run on internal batteries, or the emergency power might only supply the doors and not the lights...too many variables.
Greg opened the security room door and peered within. Inside, Greg spied a small bank of dead monitors atop a desk, an overturned swivel chair…and a pair of gun lockers at the back. One of them hung open and empty, the other remained locked. Greg checked the room for any kind of key, but came up empty-handed. After a moment of staring in frustration at the locker, he realized he'd have to shoot his way in.
He raised the pistol, and then hesitated. What if the noise brought him undesired attention? Well, it wasn't like the flashlight hadn't already done that, as well as all of his stumbling around. Greg gritted his teeth in indecision. His head throbbed in dull pain that began to grow claws. He wasn't in the mood for this shit.
He squeezed the trigger.
The single, resounding shot made a loud crack in the quiet, but nothing came running at the sound of it. He pried open the locker and grinned like an idiot. A shotgun that seemed shinier than all the other metal around it waited for him. He set the pistol down on the table and grabbed the shotgun, running his hand along the black barrel. It was powerful, military issue. He found it unloaded and located a box of fat blue shells in the bottom of the locker. Greg fed ten of them into the receiver and cocked the gun. The sound was both familiar and comforting. He pocketed the remainder of the shells and searched the locker for more. His investigation didn’t go unwarranted. He located another pistol, a holster and more clips of ammo.
The second pistol matched the first in make and model. He holstered it, pocketed the ammo, and slung the shotgun over his shoulder by the carrying strap. As he reached for his first sidearm, he heard something, a low groan, followed by a shuffling sound.
Greg spun around, raised the pistol, and beheld true terror.