Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Risk vs. Reward.

Curiosity will one day be the death of me.

As I bounded away, I chanced to look over my shoulder at my pursuer. Admittedly I only looked back after the second security gate, but still it was curiosity that compelled me. The zombie was still following, of course. But its very drive to close with prey hindered its advance when gravity was not its friend. The former security guard bounced more than it floated, but it was still coming on. Slowly.

Slow and clumsy impending doom did my heart rate no favors. I remained afraid. And curious at the same time. Surely security agents were trained to operate in microgravity. This was a space station, not a terrestrial island resort.

What was it about the virus that retained the ability to walk, run, and hunt but removed or suppressed the muscle memory that governed moving in micro? Zombies were demonstrably not tool users, they were quite often stymied by doors. Faced with those that did not open automatically, they would batter them down rather than use a knob or handle.

The door to the security booth was probably automatic. After all, wouldn’t they need to get to their stations at the run in an emergency? But then, what about traitors and infiltrators? After all, if the access were tied to their uniforms, wouldn’t that just mean such villains would get free access to guns and such?

Chances were next to nonexistent that the zombie stayed still long enough for a retinal scan or hand print scanner. Surely it was not nanite tied, as our colonies were made to evolve over time. Static nanites would be wastefully inefficient.

I considered this as I continued on towards the last security gate. Running in microgravity is more akin to parkour than terrestrial sprinting. Every surface is viable for manipulation and movement. Five years worth of daily living in that environment meant I had the skill in spades. It was one of the ways I kept myself fit- at least as much as I could manage within the bounds of my lab. Even with fear and adrenaline surging through my veins and making my movements jerky I could out pace a frustrated zombie.

At least, I realized this afterwards. At the time I could only envision myself being eaten alive.

As I reached the end of my flight, a new problem arose. One I should have predicted. I had no idea how close the security zombie had to be to trigger what I hoped was the automatic cycle. I also wondered about the gun turrets. They didn’t react to the security zombie chasing me, so where did the bodies on the station side come from? Perhaps it was manually controlled? I had no way to know. Such thoughts had little to do with surviving the next few moments.

My pursuer was bouncing ever closer. Over and over again it smacked against the bulkheads, the deck, the ceiling, spinning and flailing as it came. The part of me that is always gathering data noted that it seemed somewhat slower than I expected. Slower than its haphazard method of locomotion could account for.

Individual infected varied in their speed and strength as did the individual humans they once were, but the guards on Walker station were almost uniformly fit. Distinctly so, as I recalled. Muscles upon their muscles, they could probably rip me in half, were they still human and not the wasted things they'd become.

Had my observations of the infected on Earth been in error?

The rest of me occupied itself with shaking and trying not to lose bladder control as I dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding a grab. Distraction had nearly gotten me killed.

It smacked into the deck with a howl of annoyance, twisting and pushing off the bulkhead for another attempt. It was more luck than skill in that its next awkward jump landed it close enough to trigger the automatic door sequence. The zombie growled, finally able to grip something- the hatch frame in this case- and turned to face me. So I tackled it into the corridor.

It was not courage that drove me to my clumsy attack. As I have stated before, I am not brave in the slightest. The lectern and the laboratory are my battlefields, and my armaments are what little wit and cunning I can muster, along with a reasonably good education.

I became a researcher not by dint of genius or innate talent. It was simply the opportunity one gains when one has no friends or family to distract from their studies that meant I had more time to devote to schoolwork and later, research. I was never prone to schoolyard fisticuffs or roughhousing.

If I had to put a reason upon my rash action, I would place it upon a gut feeling that if I didn’t make it into the security corridor somehow I would be trapped inside lab network, dying along with the space station as power inevitably failed due to a long term lack of maintenance.

The zombie shrieked in glee, finally able to grab hold of me as we struggled. The emergency suit I wore was made of tough, durable material that thankfully did not rip as it tore at me with its other hand.

Or rather, claw I should say. The keratin had grown into thick claws that were doubtlessly quite sharp. It slammed its helmet into mine, attempting to bite. This caused me to stagger back. I was rammed into the deck with the weight and velocity of both of our bodies, but this time the pain seemed to sharpen my focus as much as the stunning force of the previous blow rattled me.

More than that, it angered me. This thing wanted to feast upon my flesh and turn me into another mindless, clumsy thing like itself. Like it did to all the other people on the station. Sure, they were annoying most of the time. But they were people and people made things. Things like this station. People were not food.

I grabbed the one weapon it had ignored. The actual freaking weapon on its belt- a pistol of some kind. It was secured by a strap, but I ripped it free roughly and jammed it into the thing’s chest. When the trigger did not move, I started smacking and grabbing at it with my other hand. I could not explore its functions delicately while the growling beast of a thing tried to simultaneously rip my suit and chew through both its and my helmet. Something clicked on the weapon, some lever or switch freed the trigger and it fired. No, it roared.

The shocking sound of it jarred me so badly I nearly dropped the weapon. It had been years since I had heard anything that loud. Maybe longer, perhaps since the ship that brought me from my home at the academy to Walker. The zombie twitched with the shot, still trying to gnaw, but its movements seemed to be slowing slightly. So I shot it again. Several times, in fact.

In popular fiction, zombies had to be shot in the head to be put down permanently. These creatures were on some level still based on the familiar human form. Holes in the torso leak blood, as the pressure in the veins and arteries is higher than the atmospheric pressure outside. When blood pressure drops too low, body systems begin to fail. The brain doesn’t get enough oxygen to function, the muscles not enough blood to drive their movement, the organs begin to cease.

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The zombie did not die quickly. But it did die. And now my emergency suit was absolutely covered in infected blood. This would prove a problem in the event I ever wanted to leave said suit. Say for example, if I wanted to get off this station, the escape pod would then be covered in gore, too. It would not do to get the infection after surviving the Station- assuming I actually did so- the minute I stepped out of the pod and doffed my suit. Or once the batteries on the emergency suit failed and I was faced with asphyxiation. It was a problem for the future, but that future would hopefully not be far off.

I put it to the back of my brain and pushed the dribbling corpse away, detaching its grip from my suit with difficulty. Had I thought this thing weak? Its claw was like a vise. I ended up prying it open by using the pistol’s barrel as a lever.

Very carefully mind you. I discovered a switch that could be accessed with the forefinger on the side of the pistol, marked SAFE and FIRE. Simple. Simple was good. I first switched it to safe, then found another button on the bottom. When pressed, a small boxy thing popped out into my hand. It had little yellow cylinders in it, bullets I think. Or was that cartridges? Eleven of them, with a Z shaped spring in the bottom. It looked like you could put more in at the top, or so I presumed.

Since I’d lost my makeshift spear and was only armed with an unfamiliar weapon, I searched the body. The first shot had not pierced its torso armor. I hadn’t realized it was wearing armor, but there you go.

The shots that had exsanguinated the thing had struck it in the upper leg, armpit, and neck. I hadn’t realized my shots were that wild.

Then I noticed shiny streaks on the corridor. Ricochets, probably. I was probably lucky I hadn’t murdered myself, shooting in that confined space. I looked back at the corpse. Definitely lucky.

A keycard necklace was hidden under the armor. I found it by following the lighter color around its neck. It also had an identity wallet, which I read without thinking about it. Rest in peace, Freddy Kinkead. You didn’t deserve to be zombified, but now you’re not.

An unfamiliar feeling welled within me at this thought. I suppressed it. There wasn’t time to be emotional. Deal with it later.

There were also pouches on the belt, two of them containing bullet boxes like the one I’d put back in the gun. Another strange, boxy little device that did not respond to my nanite query. What looked like a first aid kit- I’d never looked in a first aid kit before, so I just assumed that’s what it was for. Some handcuffs and a little metal bodied torch. Or a flashlight. Whatever it was called.

The torch would come in handy if I went into an area where the lights had failed. I took the whole belt, wrapping it around my waist and locking it into place. The pistol went back in its holster where it fit snugly. I strapped it down, just in case. I’d already lost one weapon. Going back for it wasn’t an option if I would just be going back to get stuck there without a helpful zombie to let me out.

To that end I approached the security booth. The inside was filthy, and I could now see why. There was a corpse in here. There was little left human about it, just bones and ragged strips of filthy clothing. I’d seen many similar corpses through my instruments from afar, but this was my first time seeing one with my own eyes.

Even calling it a corpse even gives the wrong idea, in fact. It was a collection of bone fragments. The skull faceplate was intact, and the pelvis. But the long bones, the femur, humerus, and the rest were cracked to get at the marrow. Lower ribs snapped to get at the organ meat inside. Some of the foot bones were visible just outside the booth. At least I thought they were foot bones. Could have been fingers. A cloud of smoggy black hovered around it, wispy tendrils of something grimy twining around the bones.

I half wanted to collect some in a specimen jar to study. If I could get a blood and tissue sample, along with a portion of the infected nanite colony, and somehow keep the colony alive outside the host, I could try to understand the nanite package more fully.

But lacked the tools and instruments. Walker station was infected in the first month of the Fall, and remained cut off as far as I knew from that point on. If the nanites did not actually evolve once infected by the worm program as I suspected, there would be no difference between the ones here and the ones on Earth.

The infected blood would have likely mutated, as viral infections are known to do. But having the data from an isolated source like this could be useful- if I had the tools and instruments to gather samples, that is. My experiments and study of the infection/worm hybrid would have to wait a bit longer.

The armor glass on the station side of the booth was broken, a large jagged corner of unarmored space marring its surface. I did not know that you even could break armor glass. Well, theoretically military weapons could, I supposed. But the strange cut made me wonder. Didn’t simple safety glass spiderweb and start to look all frosty when it was hit? Was this a property of armor glass itself, or something else?

With no answers in sight, I smacked the physical button to open the doors. They did not move. I sighed. Time for another plan B.

The station side corridor door did not open for me. I had to go back and drag the corpse down to it for that to happen. Stupid paranoid security measures. I wedged the body into the hatch and exited before I remembered the active defenses.

Fortunately, they did not fire upon me. Perhaps they were out of ammunition? Or maybe I was simply on the approved list, being a researcher and still human? Or maybe I was out of engagement range? No way to know. It irked me. Unanswered questions always irk me.

I laughed at that thought, releasing some of the tension still holding on after the fight. It might have gotten a little wild at the end, but it was my first fight. First kill, too. Of a zombie, sure, but zombies were once people.

On that note, I resolved not to think about it anymore, and crept up the corridor towards the central spine. If there was a horde (or a herd) on Station, it would most likely be there.

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