Read Online Quarantine (The Shadow Wars Book 7.5) by S. A. Lusher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: S. A. Lusher
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pipe flew from his hands. The fact that they were both trying to attack him simultaneously worked for him. They kept getting in each others' way. Allan kept rolling, shifting, trying to get out from beneath them as they pounded him with their fists. Again, he marveled at how powerfully they could punch. A closed fist should've done next to nothing against his armor, but he could feel those hits.
He finally managed to get out from beneath them. He kept rolling, reaching out, grabbing the nearest one's head and slamming it down into the ground as hard as he could three times in a row. Something cracked and the body went slack. There was just enough time to appreciate that there was only one more when that final man jumped back onto him. Allan reached up with his left hand, holding the man up, fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing, while groping along the floor with his right hand, hunting for something.
He found it, a discarded utensil, and immediately brought it up and drove it into the thing's right eyeball. It was a fork. There was a spray of gore that leaked all over Allan's visor and he made a sound of disgust, then punched the fork the rest of the way, piercing the brain and killing it. With a grunt of exertion, he shoved the body up off of him and then sat up. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked around to see if anyone else had joined the party, but he was alone in the mess hall. Allan crawled to his feet, then reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a cloth he kept for such occasions as this. He began wiping at his visor.
After a moment, his vision was clear and he tossed the wipe away. He quickly recovered his pipe, then frowned at the bent nature of it. Before long, he'd have to find some other blunt object. He slid it back into his belt, turned and went over to the body holding his machete captive. As he knelt to retrieve it, wrapping his fingers around the bloody handle, Allan hesitated. This particular crewman wasn't wearing much, and as such, more of his skin was exposed. Something new was showing, something that made Allan's entire body go cold.
A rash of angry red welts had broken out across the man's back. Allan gently probed one of the welts with the tip of the machete and felt his gorge rise as it burst and viscus black liquid slowly oozed from the wound. He took an involuntary step back. His first instinct was that it was some kind of sickness. Is that what had been making everyone insane? What, exactly, had they been doing on this godforsaken plague ship, Allan wondered miserably.
If it was a sickness, it had obviously spread fast. Some kind of virus or disease...he didn't have any kind of knowledge on that sort of thing. Not even vague, general information. The only thing he could think of was how could it get into him? Touch, probably. He was in this suit, and none of the blood had gotten on him. Hell, he hadn't even had any kind of skin contact. So he was probably safe. Right? Hopefully...
Unless it was airborne.
Or...he remember swallowing that water in the infirmary. What if it had infected their water supply? What were the symptoms? Were there any? Allan realized that it didn't matter, because without information, he wouldn't figure out shit. He took off running, sprinting across the mess hall, prepared to go grab Fletcher, open the lockout to the bridge and find out exactly how fucked he was. As he stepped into the cold storage unit at the back of the mess hall, his radio abruptly crackled to life. Through a haze of static, he heard Fletcher.
“Gray...come get me, hurry! They're outside the door...I think they're trying to get in,” she whispered, sounding absolutely terrified.
“I'm coming, I'm almost there,” Allan replied.
“Hurry!”
Allan took in the cold storage bay as he passed through it, checking for anymore demented crewmen. Fridges and freezers lined the walls. Everything was covered with a smooth layer of ice and a thin gray fog clung to the environment, still
He finally managed to get out from beneath them. He kept rolling, reaching out, grabbing the nearest one's head and slamming it down into the ground as hard as he could three times in a row. Something cracked and the body went slack. There was just enough time to appreciate that there was only one more when that final man jumped back onto him. Allan reached up with his left hand, holding the man up, fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing, while groping along the floor with his right hand, hunting for something.
He found it, a discarded utensil, and immediately brought it up and drove it into the thing's right eyeball. It was a fork. There was a spray of gore that leaked all over Allan's visor and he made a sound of disgust, then punched the fork the rest of the way, piercing the brain and killing it. With a grunt of exertion, he shoved the body up off of him and then sat up. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked around to see if anyone else had joined the party, but he was alone in the mess hall. Allan crawled to his feet, then reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a cloth he kept for such occasions as this. He began wiping at his visor.
After a moment, his vision was clear and he tossed the wipe away. He quickly recovered his pipe, then frowned at the bent nature of it. Before long, he'd have to find some other blunt object. He slid it back into his belt, turned and went over to the body holding his machete captive. As he knelt to retrieve it, wrapping his fingers around the bloody handle, Allan hesitated. This particular crewman wasn't wearing much, and as such, more of his skin was exposed. Something new was showing, something that made Allan's entire body go cold.
A rash of angry red welts had broken out across the man's back. Allan gently probed one of the welts with the tip of the machete and felt his gorge rise as it burst and viscus black liquid slowly oozed from the wound. He took an involuntary step back. His first instinct was that it was some kind of sickness. Is that what had been making everyone insane? What, exactly, had they been doing on this godforsaken plague ship, Allan wondered miserably.
If it was a sickness, it had obviously spread fast. Some kind of virus or disease...he didn't have any kind of knowledge on that sort of thing. Not even vague, general information. The only thing he could think of was how could it get into him? Touch, probably. He was in this suit, and none of the blood had gotten on him. Hell, he hadn't even had any kind of skin contact. So he was probably safe. Right? Hopefully...
Unless it was airborne.
Or...he remember swallowing that water in the infirmary. What if it had infected their water supply? What were the symptoms? Were there any? Allan realized that it didn't matter, because without information, he wouldn't figure out shit. He took off running, sprinting across the mess hall, prepared to go grab Fletcher, open the lockout to the bridge and find out exactly how fucked he was. As he stepped into the cold storage unit at the back of the mess hall, his radio abruptly crackled to life. Through a haze of static, he heard Fletcher.
“Gray...come get me, hurry! They're outside the door...I think they're trying to get in,” she whispered, sounding absolutely terrified.
“I'm coming, I'm almost there,” Allan replied.
“Hurry!”
Allan took in the cold storage bay as he passed through it, checking for anymore demented crewmen. Fridges and freezers lined the walls. Everything was covered with a smooth layer of ice and a thin gray fog clung to the environment, still
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