Read Online Quarantine (The Shadow Wars Book 7.5) by S. A. Lusher - Free Book Online
Authors: S. A. Lusher
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actually understood him. And now, here he was, having tossed his lot in with a group of people who were utterly unique in that they had survived absolutely insane shit they shouldn't have...just like him. This was as close as he was going to get to having a genuine group of people who understood him. Who better to make friends with? But did he deserve them?
Allan didn't think so.
Not after what he had done. The atrocities he had committed on Lindholm.
He was pulled out of his malignant thoughts by a nearby grunt. Allan hefted his machete and prepared himself. The sound was coming from an open doorway. Of course it was the way he needed to go. In order to get to the living quarters, he had to cut through a pair of mess halls and a cold storage bay. Stepping in through the open doorway, he surveyed the area. The mess hall was large, only one of four. An expanse of tables and benches, bolted to the ground, cast in gunmetal gray, awaited his inspection. The place was a wreck.
It looked like a lot of people had been eating here when...whatever it was had happened struck. There were close to two dozen bodies spread out across the area, broken in death, arms and necks twisted or bent at painful angles. Plates, silverware and food was everywhere, largely reduced to so much debris crushed underfoot. Another grunt, then a moan, from nearby. Allan froze, looking around, and finally decided it was one of the bodies.
He looked around for a long moment and finally saw one of them move a little. He let out a low whistle as he approached it: all the arms and legs had been broken. Still alive, though. Allan raised his machete, then paused. The man, what appeared to be a former medic, was lying on his back, eyes wide and wild, rolling around, the breathing rapid.
“Can you understand me?” he asked.
The medic let out a grunt that sounded like tired anger and shifted slightly, as though trying, even as broken as his body was, to attack Allan. What had done this to them? What made them insane like this? The man continued to grunt and shift.
“I'm going to kill you,” Allan said calmly.
No change. No effect. Allan sighed, raised the blade and brought it down swiftly on the man's neck, severing his head in a visceral spray of blood. Allan stood, feeling suddenly very tired, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep for an era. Instead, he started walking again, crossing the mess hall, boots squelching in the blood. He navigated between the tables, over the bodies, and passed through a door at the back into the next mess hall. As soon as he stepped into the room, he froze, spying four demented crewmen.
They were spread out across the room, but they all immediately took notice of him. Allan decided he needed to go on the offensive. Turning, he began sprinting across the room towards the nearest crewman, a bulky security officer. There was nothing in between them. Allan brought the machete around in a tight arc towards the man's neck, but the officer ducked down at the last second, preparing to tackle Allan, and the blade slammed into his head instead. It buried itself in the insane man's skull and killed him instantly, but now it was lodged there and the blade was torn from Allan's hand as the man collapsed.
It took him just a second to glance back and calculate that there wasn't enough time to break his machete free of the corpse's skull. Allan turned, just having enough time to pull out his pipe, when the rest of the crew members rushed him. The first one was easy. A skinny female technician went down fast and hard when Allan played baseball with her head. He smashed the pipe into her face, barely hearing the dull crunch that must have been her teeth shattering. Her head twisted and her neck broke. She fell back, hit the ground and didn't rise.
The next two, however, proved to be more difficult.
Both of them were men in decent shape, and they both leaped into him mindlessly. Allan grunted as he was forced to the ground. The
Allan didn't think so.
Not after what he had done. The atrocities he had committed on Lindholm.
He was pulled out of his malignant thoughts by a nearby grunt. Allan hefted his machete and prepared himself. The sound was coming from an open doorway. Of course it was the way he needed to go. In order to get to the living quarters, he had to cut through a pair of mess halls and a cold storage bay. Stepping in through the open doorway, he surveyed the area. The mess hall was large, only one of four. An expanse of tables and benches, bolted to the ground, cast in gunmetal gray, awaited his inspection. The place was a wreck.
It looked like a lot of people had been eating here when...whatever it was had happened struck. There were close to two dozen bodies spread out across the area, broken in death, arms and necks twisted or bent at painful angles. Plates, silverware and food was everywhere, largely reduced to so much debris crushed underfoot. Another grunt, then a moan, from nearby. Allan froze, looking around, and finally decided it was one of the bodies.
He looked around for a long moment and finally saw one of them move a little. He let out a low whistle as he approached it: all the arms and legs had been broken. Still alive, though. Allan raised his machete, then paused. The man, what appeared to be a former medic, was lying on his back, eyes wide and wild, rolling around, the breathing rapid.
“Can you understand me?” he asked.
The medic let out a grunt that sounded like tired anger and shifted slightly, as though trying, even as broken as his body was, to attack Allan. What had done this to them? What made them insane like this? The man continued to grunt and shift.
“I'm going to kill you,” Allan said calmly.
No change. No effect. Allan sighed, raised the blade and brought it down swiftly on the man's neck, severing his head in a visceral spray of blood. Allan stood, feeling suddenly very tired, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep for an era. Instead, he started walking again, crossing the mess hall, boots squelching in the blood. He navigated between the tables, over the bodies, and passed through a door at the back into the next mess hall. As soon as he stepped into the room, he froze, spying four demented crewmen.
They were spread out across the room, but they all immediately took notice of him. Allan decided he needed to go on the offensive. Turning, he began sprinting across the room towards the nearest crewman, a bulky security officer. There was nothing in between them. Allan brought the machete around in a tight arc towards the man's neck, but the officer ducked down at the last second, preparing to tackle Allan, and the blade slammed into his head instead. It buried itself in the insane man's skull and killed him instantly, but now it was lodged there and the blade was torn from Allan's hand as the man collapsed.
It took him just a second to glance back and calculate that there wasn't enough time to break his machete free of the corpse's skull. Allan turned, just having enough time to pull out his pipe, when the rest of the crew members rushed him. The first one was easy. A skinny female technician went down fast and hard when Allan played baseball with her head. He smashed the pipe into her face, barely hearing the dull crunch that must have been her teeth shattering. Her head twisted and her neck broke. She fell back, hit the ground and didn't rise.
The next two, however, proved to be more difficult.
Both of them were men in decent shape, and they both leaped into him mindlessly. Allan grunted as he was forced to the ground. The
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