I Own Cows
Doctor Myles Morgan, Molecular Biology PHD. Harvard University.
Located: U.N Rally Point #601-341 Control Room
Doctor Morgan watched the security monitors with fascination, his scientific mind pumping with curiosity. All the gunfire, explosions and yelling a distant distraction, to which he paid little heed. Even Colonel Williams frantically cursing profanities at a radio at the far end of the room barely even made it through the Doctor's deeply rooted interest.
"Amazing, just amazing. How do they know, without even interacting with them?" Doctor Morgan mumbled to himself, too caught up in what he was seeing to properly vocalize his thoughts.
Heavy but well adjusted footsteps, leather slapping on metal, approached the Doctor from behind, and then a heavy hand shook his shoulder. Morgan looked up, and saw the fiery face of Colonel Williams spitting acid at him. The Marine commander wasn't infected, he just came across that way sometimes.
"My men are dying out there!" Williams yelled. "Your science boy has fucked us, he's fucked us all. We've got to call in a strike."
Doctor Morgan smiled, a move that irritated the Colonel and pushed him half way to breaking point. "Nonsense, Colonel. Why would we do that?"
"Because in about fifteen minutes, the only sane people on this Rig are going to be you and me!" the Colonel screamed, his face twisted in bitter anger. "You fucking science types, too far up your own asses to realize when to say 'stop!'; you fucked the world, you fucked my men, and now you're fucking me!"
Doctor Morgan continued to smile, as a teacher would smile to a five year old who thought he'd figured out how the world worked. "Why do you think the infected are trying to kill the survivors, as opposed to contaminating them?"
The Colonel narrowed his eyes, "I don't give an honest fuck. Call in a strike, or I'll relieve you of your command."
With a sigh, Morgan removed his reading glasses and started wiping them against his suit, "It's because they truly are immune, Colonel."
Colonel William's eyes widened, "bull shit. No one is immune to T-1C."
"I'm afraid you're wrong, Colonel. You see, their blood tests came back negative, but there was something rather interesting that we discovered as well. It seems their blood is er, special," Morgan continued, making to stand.
"Thirty seconds to explain, Doc, and then I'm calling the strike," the Colonel said sternly, one hand on his radio.
"When exposed to T-1C, their red blood cells simply dissolve the proteins that attach to them. It's odd, and I can't explain it - not yet. It halts the infection at its core, preventing it from moving to the brain, and annihilating it in short order. Those men and women are special Colonel, they hold the key to the survival of the human race. Calling in a strike would be... most unwise," Doctor Morgan explained, still smiling.
The Colonel struggled to get the words out, "wait, you mean there's a way out of this nightmare?"
The Doctor nodded, "that's right Colonel. The only problem is, they're all the way down there, and we're all the way up here."
Colonel Williams was half way across the room before the Doctor had even finished talking. He studied a 50 inch flat screen monitor with a live tactical interface that gave him all the information he needed to know about his men; half were dead, half were probably insane, but there was one certain Captain he knew he could count on.
"Captain Pliskin, switch to channel six."
"Affirmative."
The Colonel turned the channel dial on the radio set to channel six; it would reduce the amount of eaves droppers, as channel six was reserved only for the Rig's officers, and would produce only static to anyone else who tried to listen in. Of course, there were two other Captains, a bunch of lieutenants and somewhere, Major Barnes. Still, it would help to cut the chances of inadvertently ringing a dinner bell.
"Captain, what's your status?" The Colonel asked.
Distorted gunfire erupted from the radio, "things are real peachy down here, Colonel."
"Understood Captain, but it appears we have precious cargo in Survivor Processing that needs to get itself topside. Can you intercept and extract?"
Some more gun fire, and then an explosion. "Affirmative."
Then the Colonel remembered his caution, "and Pliskin, what's seven times seven?"
"Forty-Niner."
Williams sighed in relief, "God speed son. I'll re-rout any and all non-infected personnel to your position."
Jamie Alycia Reyes
Location: Survivor Processing
In the space of a mere sixty seconds, the room Jamie and Kahleen had found themselves in had been reduced to a bloody nightmare; white clad bodies lay scattered about, their overalls turning pink with blood. The wounded cried out for help, whilst those lucky enough to avoid the soldier's indiscriminate barrage were busy trying to keep themselves calm.
Through it all, Jamie had hugged Kahleen with the strength of an enraged bear, too stupefied by panic to think of anything else. She'd waited for a rifle shot to punch through them both any second, but it never came.
There was some cursing, the sounds of an obvious struggle, a series of ear-ringing gun shots, and then nothing.
Jamie opened her eyes, and looked over Kahleen's arm. The tall, lanky guy with the rifle was busily kicking away the remains of their attacker; he was covered in blood and skull fragments.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jamie yelled, dragging herself and Kahleen to their feet. "He's infected, everyone get away from him!" She pointed a finger at the man, and those who could, stepped back.
Captain Iroquois Pliskin, United States Marine Corps
Located: Above Survivor Processing
Iroquois didn't know what made those in Survivor Processing so damn special, but he knew that whoever they were, they were important. The Rig had gone to Hell; humanity bested yet again by its own deluded self. If the Colonel was sending him on a suicide mission to get to the Survivors, then either he'd gone insane himself, or there was something truly of the utmost importance to be found there.
He turned the corner of a corridor, and froze. He dropped to one knee and put two of his comrades directly in his sights.
"Eight times six," He called out.
Both men turned to him, their rifles up and ready. He might've just caught them off guard, they might've just panicked. In any case, neither made an effort to give an answer, and so he squeezed the trigger; two clinical taps, and the marines crumpled to the floor. It wasn't ideal, but Iroquois wasn't taking any chances. He couldn't.
He moved down the corridor, checking every nook and cranny with his rifle. If he saw anyone, he'd shoot first and ask questions later. In a close quarters environment, face to face with someone else that may be friend or foe, shooting was the only option a sensible man could take.
A rifle round cracked off the wall next to him; the echo of the shot rushing over him. He fell to the floor, rolled, pointed his M4A1 through his knees and squeezed the trigger. A marine fell down.
"Damn this, damn it all," Iroquois muttered.
He picked himself up, and carried on. A turning on his right took him to a stairwell, and he followed it down. The walkway took him outside of the Rig, and looking up he could see smoke billowing towards the sky. Yeah, the Rig was fucked.
Iroquois carried on along the walk way, and it wasn't long before he discovered a light blood trail on the metal grating. He followed it until he came to the entrance to Survivor Processing; the hydraulic door was open. Poking his head around the corner, he saw the mangled body of Sergeant Jones strewn across the suspended walkway.
Staying low and quiet, he moved to the edge of the door, and looked down into the room.
"Yikes," he muttered.
The room was a bloodbath; a lot of people had died down there, and he just hoped that whoever was left would be enough to satisfy his mission's parameters.
He noticed a man on his knees over by the ground-level entrance, a survivor, holding a smoking assault rifle and covered in the blood of what looked like a nearby marine. The other survivors had started turning on him, as anyone with half a brain would. This told him two things: one, that the majority of them weren't infected, and two, they were probably armed. He had no idea of knowing who was more important than who, and so he decided to intervene to prevent more casualties.
"Ask him a maths question," Iroquois yelled out, "the infected can't logic for shit." He ducked back behind the safety of the door, in case a flurry of bullets came his way.
"Help! Help! This is coming from Survivor Processing! There is an infected trying to breach the door! We need someone down here, otherwise, we'll become infected, and you'll have an even bigger problem on your hands!"
The Colonel and Pliskin had switched to channel six before they heard this little gem; a really juicy bit of intel that the both of them would have loved to have known about. Unfortunately, both remained clueless to the fact that one of the survivors had just rung themselves the metaphorical dinner bell of doom.
Every infected soldier on the Rig was now fully aware that someone was down in Survivor Processing and that someone really needed to hurry up and die.
In drips and trickles, waves and thunder, the entirety of the 22nd United States Marine Corps Regiment would be making its way there momentarily, after they'd managed to sweep aside those of their comrades that still took issue with the idea of throwing a new born child into a blender.
Of course, the regiment was only a regiment in name; its man power being on the heavily depleted side of things. Potentially, there were a hundred soldiers on the Rig, but there was no telling how many had been killed, and how many had become infected.
That's something the survivors would have to find out for themselves.
