NationStates Jolt Archive

Cent Gov Buildings, Royesse, Britmattia, The Present.

A woman stood over a sink, looking at a small white cylinder and counting. She reached the end of her count and...
The woman's green eyes closed, whether in disapointment or relief it wass hard to tell.
She opened them and looked at the mirror, dark hair falling out of it's braids, bright lights showing the sculpted bones of her face to perfection.
A soft sigh escaped her, and she turned the tap on, her other hand flicking the cylinder into a waste basket in the bathroom's corner.
She ran the cold, almost icy water over her hands, long fingers elegant even as they began to wrinkle. She splashed some on her face, and shivered convulsively, then stared in the mirror again, almost glaring at her reflection.
She didn't know how long she'd stood and stared at the woman in the mirror, the reflection of someone she'd never thought to be, when a soft knock came at the bathroom's door.
She looked round. It'd be him of course. No one else would be here, no one else would dare enter these apartments. Privacy. A strange concept even now.
"Come in."
The door slid open gently, and a tall man ducks inside. His hair is as dark as hers, but his eyes are as grey as a troubled sky. An old scar crawls on his forehead as a worried frown strains his features. Spiked hair waves as he walks over to her and stands a careful distance away. He folds his arms and bites his lip, looking younger than the 28 winters she knows he has.
A soft "Love, what's wrong?" is all he says, grey eyes locked on her face.
She doesn't look back, just shivers. He leans close, hesitant, eyes flickering nervously. "Love?"
She shivers, arms wrapped around herself. He moves back, uncertainty evident even in the smooth movements she loves about him.
Her heart spasms, fear, fear of loosing him, but fear of love and what it is as well.
She forces speech. "On the bed. The box."
He raises an eyebrow, the scar quirks again. He walks out, and she bites her lip and hugs herself even tighter.
He comes back in, small cardboard box held loosely in a powerful hand, face even more uncertain. "I..are you?"
She shakes her head, a quick, convulsive movement, the force of it flicking her braids like tiny flails.
His face softens. "Oh Arwen. Love.." He reaches up and touches her face, gently as only he's been gentle with her. A tear leaks from one green eye and a sob escapes her.
He steps close, and pulls her arms from around herself, carefully controlled strength more than even her own locked muscles, and wraps his own arms around her.
He presses his forehead against her own and she breathes his sharp, clean scent in and shivers, relaxing as far as she can. His breath is warm on her face, and her eyes close and she starts to speak, so quietly even his augmented hearing barely picks it up.
"I was afraid. So afraid. Some of my sisters..they always took them when they quickened. Always. And I was back there and I forgot you."
She shudders, and it is well that no one can see his face, because it is a terrible sight. No reflection of his face is in his voice when he speaks.
"You're here, with me. I'll keep you safe love, always, I swear to you. I swear-"
Her hand covers his mouth and green eyes meet gray.
Soft voice. "I know. But this world, there's so much..anything could happen to a baby. War, disaster, illness, anything."
A harsh laugh vibrates from him. "That last is nothing any child of mine need fear."
His eyes are softer now, storm cloud gray fading to a lighter shade.
"Love. I won't lie and say there's nothing in this world to fear because you'd know I lied. But there is nothing in this world that I will not do to keep you from fear."
His eyes flick across her face, drinking in and analyzing expression, repressing his own fear for this woman who's become the centre of his world.
He carefully, gently, lifts her off her feet and carries her, without apparent effort through the adjoining bedroom, flicking open the balcony and stepping out into the sharp spring night outside.
The kilometre-high black spire of the CentGov building provided a spectacular view, especially in the clear, icy night. Lights were visible stretching far off into the distance, and the stars glowed like God's own fireworks show. As far as the eye could see Life lit the sky.
Arwen looked out into the night, and huddled against her husband's chest, face turned towards broad, black-uniformed security and away from the night.
He looks down at her, still cradled against him. "No, look." His breath plumes, and he puts her on her feet, facing the darkness. He remains close, arm around her shoulders, as he points outward.
"You see it? The world?"
She nods, confused and cold.
"It's yours. As much of it as you can be a part of, is yours. No one can take that away love, no one."
She looks out again, and suddenly, brilliantly, her smile lights the darkness.
"Yes. Yes, I can."
Her husband smiles, and gently kisses her. "That's my girl. Now Mrs Warwick, I think we'll head back inside before the points of your ears go any bluer."

Later

Dark hair merges on white pillows and their breathing is soft and sychronized in the darkness.
Her head is cushioned on his arm, and his hand strokes her hair. She smiles.
"Love.."
"Mm?" rumbles through his chest.
"What did you mean about no child of yours needing to fear being ill? Even Heirs still get sick you know." A faint trace of amusment colours the words.
The stroking stops and his breathing changes. She tilts her head up, night vision, superb like all her race, allowing her to seek answers from his face.
When he speaks it's as though it's coming from far away, long ago. A dark place.
"It's not that. It's about something that happened."
She looks at him, but his eyes don't see her, they see yesterdays she didn't share.
"Something that happened years ago. In a place called Panmure."

OOC: Very well written, I enjoyed it

The People's Democratic Republic of Panmure, A decade before the Present

"Carefully. Damnit, CAREFULLY! That's expensive equipment in there." The Administrator clutched at the back of Ralph Lattimore's chair, knuckles white, expensive suit rumpling. Lattimore didn't bother to look up. The Administrator could continue spraying the back of his head with spit, he wasn't particularly bothered, dry inside his HAZMAT gear and insulated against his fearless leader's flem. The image of the Administrator foaming at the mouth caused a slight, supressed chuckle, and the vials he was manipulating via a pair of robotic arms clinked together.
The Administrator nearly had a cardiac behind Ralph, much to the older man's amusement, which was somewhat better-repressed this time.
"Sir, honestly. I've been doing this job for a while. It's ok."
The Administrator ranted on for a while and Ralph tuned him out with the ease of long practice. Panmure's BioGene Research department had employed him since he'd left college, and he'd seen many up and comers like this fellow fly past, then burn out from ulcers or stress or what have you. Ralph did his job and ignored everything else, especially Administrators.
He lowered the last vial into it's shockproof egg, carefully sealed up the eggs, and stepped away from the control box. "There you are sir, all safe and secure."
The Administrator burbled some more and Ralph nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments, edging round to get to the canteen, his routine was to meet his wife there, she also working for BioGene, and spend his lunchhour with her. This routine was as old as their relationship, and Ralph didn't break routines for anything short of thermonuclear war.
"Which" he thought to himself, given the way the alliances posture at each other, could happen on a daily basis. Finished edging the Administrator he nodded politely and headed for the canteen at speed.
The Administrator watched him go, and grumbled about dead wood. He stamped out of the control room, pulling the door back far enough for a really satisfying slam.

Perhaps the shock absorbers were old. Perhaps the vials were made from inferior glass. It wouldn't have mattered if the power grid hadn't dipped at that moment, the lab computers interrupted for just long enough for the breach in Vial 55/AE/Omega to pass unnoticed.

Dooming an entire nation's worth of men, women and children to a horrifying and hideous death.

The People's Democratic Republic of Panmure, Britmattian Military Zone, Airfield Four.

The Starlifter thumped into the tarmac, fully loaded with all the necessities any military force, be it operational, peace keeping, or in this case bound by treaty to maintain bases, needs on a daily basis.
These needs at present included one Second Lieutenant Owen Warwick, green as grass, having spent the last three years watching the flowers grow outside his uncle's office, waiting patiently for his first hitch to be up so he was eligible for Spec Ops.
To his own quiet amazement he'd passed selection and promptly been assigned to the 3rd Covert Assault Group, which spent most of it's time keeping Panmure's resident communists under quiet surveillance.
He was nervous. SpecOps, the CAGs as army slang named them, were an elite. Owen didn't feel like an elite. He felt like an eighteen year old who'd just spent twelve hours on a giant cargo aircraft with only surly RBAF personnel for company.
The big aircraft ground to a halt, the ramp lowered and the aircrew, still ignoring the Lieutenant magnificently, began to unloading. Owen looked around, grabbed his bergen and sighed.
"Might as well get on with it."
"So they're teachin the wee laddies tae talk to thae selves nae at yon academy."
This voice, coming apparently from midchest height and immediately behind Owen caused him to yipe and jump a fairly respectable height into the air, especially when holding a cumbersome and heavy bergen. The young 2Lt. landed clumsily, rolling onto his bergen. He rolled onto his back, just in time for a descending, thick-knuckled and hairy hand to grab a handfull of his battledress and haul him onto his feet.
Looking at the bemused 2Lt. was a dwarf, the stripes and single hoop of a Master Sergeant on his sleeve. The sleeve in question was rolled up to the elbow, displaying a wrist which could only be described as "massive" if one wanted to pass by the opportunity to use "hairy."
"You'd be the wee Warwick then laddy?" The words were growled out in an apparently jocular manner from beneath a thick, grey spattered, moustache.
Owen nodded, unsurprised at the treatment. Dwarven NCOs were a mainstay of the Kingdom forces, but when you served hitches longer than most junior officers had been alive you tended to get blase about how you respond to them. Hence it was unofficial policy that any enlisted Sergeant 1st Class or above needn't bother with "Sir"-ing or saluting anyone under Captain.
Keen brown eyes picked over the 2Lt., a decision was reached, and a massive hand extended. "Master Sergeant Fain Cloudmallet at your service laddy."
Owen blinked, extended his own hand, felt it envloped in a hand so callused it felt like gripping sun-warmed concrete and shook.
"Welcome to Panmure and," the dwarf paused, eyed Owen again, "yurr furst command."
Owen gaped.
"They noo told yee thae you're noo the man in charge? Aye, thattid be those wee busstids in Royesse. Bloody lazy busstids thae lot. We best get you settled in then."
Cloudmallet scooped up the hundred and sixty pound bergen one-handed and set off, his bemused "C.O." following behind.

BioGene, Lab 18, 18:00 Hours.

Larry Pannini enjoyed an uncomplicated existence. He came in after the eggheads left, and mopped up the messes they made in the pursuit of science. Most of the stuff they left lying around was so esoteric it made his teeth hurt.
Larry liked to avoid pain, especially in his teeth, so he tended to ignore his surroundings and tune out, hearing only the beat in his headphones as he guided his mop round the corridors.
The faint hiss, the squeak of Larry's trainers, and the occassional splish of his mop were all that was audible in the quiet building.
Larry continued his rounds, carefully avoiding the Administrator's office after noticing the lights still lit.
The lights were still lit as he finished, and Larry frowned. "S'not cool man. I've got places to be and the dude's still in there at like 9pm man."
He stroked his short, dirty blonde goatee, then plucked up some courage, padded forward and tapped on the Administrator's door.
No response. Larry growled, and pressed his ear to the glass. No sound. "Dude left his lights on. Man, don't he know there's like an energy crisis." He opened the door and stepped through.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, his eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to scream, to yell for help, to make a sound of denial.
He didn't make it.

Later.

The thing that had used to call it's self Larry Pannini crawled down a corridor, barely aware, focused only on one goal. It's universe was awash with pain, and a faint, still-human part of it knew it was dying, it's lifeblood seeping out as it crawled down the corridors it'd mopped scant hours before.
It didn't percolate through to the animal part of Larry's brain driving the body though. That'd blocked everything but it's goal out hours ago.
The bloody ruin of a man at last reached it's goal.
A trembling hand, missing two fingers, reached up and pulled on a cord. The phone clattered down and Larry crushed it to his chest, sobbing like a child. He painstakingly stabbed in the emergency code with his mangled hand. The reciever lifted to his head, and stuck there in blood, Larry waited with the patience of a stone for the voice.
"Panmure Emergency Services. Fire, Police or Ambulance?"
Larry smiled. The animal part relaxed. Everything was ok now. But he had to say the words. Very carefully, he enunciated clearly, even through vocal cords raw from screaming for help which hadn't come, "Help. Me."
He breathed out and slumped against the desk.
And heard something growl.
"Sir? Sir you'll have to give me more details, sir?"
The operator jumped at her desk as screams ripped from the reciever, the sounds so loud it felt like they were coming from next to her. She stabbed a button at her desk "Bob, Bob, come in, there's someone being murdered at BioGene!"

BioGene, Perimeter, the next day.

The recording clicked off and the grim-faced Panmure Peace Enforcement detective pocketed the player.
"That call came at about 9pm. The first officers on scene arrived seven minutes later, and were conducting a search of the premises, checking in every so often. Halfpast 9 rolled around and they stopped checking in. The local P.E.D kicked things up a notch and a Special Tactics and Rescue Squad was dispatched. They made their way into the facility, following the search pattern the original P.E officers had followed. They reported blood stains and the sense of being watched."
The P.E.D officer paused, reached into a pocket and pulled out a narco-gum stick, popping it into his mouth.
"By this time someone'd thought to get hold of BioGene. The Administrator was nowhere to be found, so his number 2 was woken up and brought down here, along with a negotiator, me, in case it was some sort of terrorist incident. What a fuckin joke."
He kept chewing, then looked up at the sky, ignoring his listeners for the moment.
"The S.T.A.R.S then reported engaging with someone. Gunfire was clearly audible over the mic, and they were calling for backup when the radio went dead. Two other S.T.A.R.S went into the building immediately."
He fished the recorder out of his pocket again and hit Play.
"..what the fuck was" static burbled out over the recording, fading again to "Killean is down!" "fuck, keep moving backwa" "Jesus, Jesus, oh JeAARHUO!!"
The tape ended with a wet "splat."
The P.E.D officer swallowed his gum. "The S.T.A.R.S operate as eight man teams. Three of that squad came back, two of them wounded. They've already been dispatched to the hospital. The other squad got two men out, one of whom died shortly after getting outside. The survivor reported that they'd been engaged by what he described as something that looked like it had been flayed, moving incredibly fast. The other teams survivors reported that they'd been fired upon by uniformed P.E.D officers, and by S.T.A.R.S operatives. We were considering that when shit got really weird."
He cast a look over his shoulder to what had obviously been an ambulance before it'd been set on fire and riddled with bullets, not necessarily in that order.
"The S.T.A.R.S officer who'd "died" ripped his way out of his body bag and killed both ambulance officers and wounded three P.E.D officers before he was put down. The thing is, he really was dead. He'd bled out and had a big damn hole in his chest where one of his lungs belonged. That's when the powers that be decided to bring you in."
He finally made eye contact with his audience.
Or tried to at least, mirrored visors were all he could make out in most cases. The black-uniformed men and women gave off an almost tangible wave of cynicism, heavy body-armour failing to disguise sceptical postures.
"Maybe your medics need a little work on what they define as dead eh?" came from a short, swarthy woman with Corporal's stripes. She sniggered at the P.E.D man and went back to cleaning her carbine, disdain for the "Pedo" plain.
The group's officer sighed. "His" squad had been a headache since his arrival. He doffed the heavy helmet, revealing the black hair and grey eyes of a Warwick.
"Detective, you'll have to forgive me, and my personnel," he said, directing a black glare at the Corporal, which went blithely ignored, "the dead walking in Panmure? I thought you people had barriers against magic in place?"
The P.E.D officer scowled. "It's not magic."
Owen blinked, ignoring the sounds of disbelief from his squad. "Um. Then..forgive me, is the dead getting up and making a nuisance of themselves a common problem?"
"No, no, you dumb damn squarebasher." The prejudice nearly all the "enlightened" Panmurese held against the militaristic monarchy which guarded them floated to the surface as the officer became more stressed.
"It's a BioGene thing. Some fuckin cure for the common cold or Spon plague or whatever they were developing. At least that's as much as we can get out of the stupid egghead we've got liasing with us. Whatever it is, it's infecting anyone who dies in there."
Owen rubbed his head, attempting to smooth helmet-fluffed hair. "So what do you want us to do about it?"
"Kill whatever's in there all over again so we can get a recovery team in and clean the place up. There's at max fifteen deadies running around, so I'm sure you and your people can deal with it."
Owen, grey eyes darkening, replaced his helmet. "Why not send more S.T.A.R.S in?"
"Because they've been detailed to information suppression, that's why." The P.E.D.O spat. "You going to do it or not?"
"We'll do our job Pedo." came from the squad, speaker anonymous behind visor and mask.
Owen nodded sharply. "Exactly. Squad, let's move."

Panmure Capital City Hospital, The Morgue.

Xao Ling yawned, slapping down the thick wedge of paperwork required on the last of the evening's batch of corpses. He'd worked in the morgue for about a month, just as a fill in section of his internship, it was supposed to have been a fortnight, but his supposed successor had managed half an hour and then bolted screaming back for the warmth and light of the hospital.
Xao had taken being sent back with a shrug, dead people didn't particularly bother him, not even when they came in mangled like the S.T.A.R.S trooper and ambulance personnel who'd arrived earlier. He'd harvested their organs, pumped the blood out of them for filtering, and sealed them up.
Xao was, as you can tell, the phlegmatic type.
So when he heard the first thud, he didn't panic, run screaming or even call out. He stood up, swearing tiredly about his sore feet and wandered back into the main cold room.
Thud.
Xao looked around. Whatever was making the noise wasn't visible.
Thud.
Even Xao was starting to get a little nervous now. He scanned around again, then his attention flicked to the drawer he'd stuck the bigger ambulance officer in. The door was vibrating. Xao walked over, crouching before it.
"Has to be a trick of the light."
Thud.
The drawer was definitely vibrating. Xao leaned in, and pressed his ear to the cold metal of the drawer.
Thud.
"Holy fuck."
Xao scuttled backward, falling onto his back from his crouch. He scrambled back to his feet, backing away until he was pressed against the far wall.
"Juh, Juh, Jesus."
He leaned forward, panting, eyes riveted on the drawer, heart racing, attention locked on it, oblivious to everything else.
So when the drawer at head-height behind him snapped open, the heavy metal door smashing into the back of his skull sending him tumbling into blackness, Xao never even knew what had hit him.
Considering what happened to him as drawer after drawer snapped open, this was definitely a mercy.

BioGene, Lab 18, 10am

"Here laddy. S'best yae wash yer mouth out away from the wee troopies, lessen the myth o' Warwick superiority be damaged."
Owen accepted the canteen Sergeant Cloudmallet proferred and sluiced his mouth out, spitting away the taste of bile and vomit. He dragged a hand across his mouth, then pressed the cool metal of his bracer to his forehead, eyes closing for a moment.
"Sergeant. Whatever the hell did that wasn't a fucking zombie." Bile rose in his throat again as he remembered the red shape they'd found hanging from a light fixture in an anonymous office. He forced it down, he was a Warwick damnit, a soldier, a grown man and wouldn't puke his guts up just because a monster got inventive. He schooled his thoughts back to calmness and took a deep breath.
Grey eyes opened again, fixed on the sergeant. "So clearly those Panmure bastards haven't been entirely honest about what this crap they were developing does.
Cloudmallet nodded sagely, massive mustachios bobbing like bellropes, "Aye. Ye can nae fockin trust ae republican, bastards thae lot. So what're yae gaen tae dae 'boot it?"
Owen spat again, then pulled his mask back up. "What are we going to do Sergeant? Our job. We find the deadies, we blow their heads off. Then we find whatever the fuck is behind the abomination in there and kill it's ass too."
He pushed himself off the wall and stepped back out into the corridor, where the CAGs were busily cutting the dead..person, was as much as Owen could be sure of, down, swiftly frisking it.
The Corporal, Specialist Costa, stood up, looked round, nodding equably to her commander and the Sergeant. Owen winced internally, whoever'd had this squad before him had run a very sloppy outfit, basic military courtesies seeming to have vanished completely. Cloudmallet cleared his throat, perhaps picking up on the young officer's frustration, causing Costa to look mildly abashed and snap off a rusty salute.
"No id on the guy sir, but he's not a S.T.A.R.S boyo, nor is he dressed right for the missing BioGene guy. Probably the cleaner."
She kicked the corpse with a steel-covered boot. "And his neck's been broken, explaining why he wasn't wandering around going "Brains." when we found him."
She stopped speaking as something rustled in the offices nearby and the squads' heads, and carbines, tracked round to point at the thin door of the office. The rustling built to a crescendo, then the door smashed off it's hinges, and a hideously mangled, undead..thing stepped out. The torn and blood soaked remains of a S.T.A.R.S uniform identified it, even as the massive death wounds made it strange and freakish, something that should be, yet all to plainly was.
It blinked faintly as taclights hit it's eyes, and it's squelching progress was arrested.
Owen licked his lips, sights hovering over the thing's head. "Squad.."
The man, thing, zombie groaned quizzically, and attempted to swat the lights.
Owen swallowed at this hideous pantomime of life. "Squad, fire at will."
"Grr, argh?"
Streams of blue beads lifted the creature of it's feet, tearing and ravaging as they burned it's unnatural life away. It slammed through the thin walls of the cube farm as the squads' carbines howled and gouged at it like starving wolves, savaging it until it's torso was mostly gone. The troopers, who'd been firing more from revulsion than anything else, ceased as Cloudmallet slapped at helmets, a stream of dwarvish curses at the sloppy fire discipline."
Owen wandered forward and prodded the corpse gingerly with a steel toe-cap.
"Well...It's definitely dead now."

Panmure City, Hospital Road.

PFC. Lars Bildr clutched the back of his stubbled head and groaned quietly, his head felt like it was splitting and the motion of the van he was in the back of was enough to unsettle his stomach. The giant Svenska looked around him, filing away the details of where he was, black painted metal and white plastic. Oh Christ...
He was in a Black Maria, one of the Peace Enforcement Divisions roving cells on wheels.
The P.E.D.O leaning against the wall next to him grinned mirthlessly, jaw working on what Kolli's nose was telling him was tobacco. "Guess you're feelin the effects of your little binge huh?"
The P.E.D.O dug the nauseous trooper in the ribs with his nightstick. "S'what you get when you drink a bar dry and then break the place up, y'damn Kingdom hick."
The P.E.D.O jabbed him again. "Nothing to say huh fucker? You broke my buddies arm, you big blonde jerk."
The P.E.D.O went for a third jab and Lars grabbed the baton, cuffs not slowing him down.
"Fuck you, you PEDO jerkoff. Touch me with that thing again and I'll feed you it."
The P.E.D.O jerked his nightstick back. "Big talk, I'll show you,".
Whatever he would have shown Lars was lost to posterity as the driver slapped on the brakes and the van lurched to a halt, directly outside the hospital.
The P.E.D.O flew into the divider between the cab and cabin and Lars was flung painfully to the floor of the van.
The big soldier pushed himself up, icy-blue eyes now smouldering. He waited in a pushup position, whilst the P.E.D.O yelled at the driver.
"What the fuck was that about you son of a bitch?"
The driver made a rude gesture. "There's some motherfucker wandering around on the road, it was stop or splatter his shit all over the windscreen."
The P.E.D.O scooped his cap up from the cabin's floor.
"Well fucking warn me next time. I'm going to go teach him not to fuck with Peace Enforcement business."
He flicked the van door open and jumped down.
Lars rose jerkily to his feet and watched through the front windshield as the P.E.D.O stalked toward the man, who was wearing a white lab coat, staggering across the road. The P.E.D.O grabbed his should and spun him round. Whatever he saw his own body blocked, but the PEDO took an involuntary step back, then tripped, revealing the mangled shape of the man he'd been confronting.
The driver sat upright in his seat. "Fuck!"
He scrabbled for the riotgun clipped between the seats as his fellow scrambled to his feet, smashing the nightstick into the creature, staggering it but not dropping it.
Lars swallowed and edged back into the cabin, then his head snapped round as the hospital's doors flew open and a horde of the creatures poured out, slavering and moaning.
The driver noticed them with an other "Fuck!"
He stopped going for the shotgun, and planted his foot on the accelerator instead, the van blasted forward, zooming past where the other P.E.D.O had beaten the creature to the ground. That individual looked up in surprise as the van rocketed past, then looked round, noticing the crowd of things coming from the hospital, screaming and running after the van.
Lars, face pressed against the back window, gave him the finger and grinned cheerily, today was improving already. The big blonde man moved forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed at the riotgun.
"You'd better give me that."

Britmattia Military Zone, Gate 3.

(M.P)Specialist Kelly Summers flicked her blonde ponytail over her and looked down at her partner.
"Rolf...bad dog."
The dire wolf-Alsatian cross looked back up at her guilelessly, brown eyes free of the guilt the shredded paper decorating his fur, and Kelly's small office, should've encouraged.
She growled wordlessly, to no effect at all, her partner's pink tongue lolling from his mouth with every evidence of enjoyment.
"You are a mutt, you know that? I go to the head for one moment and I come back to find you've shredded Kliner's magazines. He's going to be pissed off you know."
Rolf looked innocently up, eliciting a grin from Kelly. "Well, he's an asshole anyway. Good job pup." She half-stooped to start collecting the shredded paper, then stopped as her headset squawked.
"Summers."
"Specialist, this is Control. Something just tripped the laserline in your sector, could you go down and check it out? Probably some asshole Panmurian brat again, but we don't want the little puke treading on a mine if it is."
"Roger that control." Kelly reached for Rolf's lead and clipped it to his harness.
"C'mon pup, let's go for a walk."

Panmure City, Route to Britmattian Military Sector.

"WHAM! CRACK!" The high-speed impact of the creature's body, coming after several others finally caused the tough securiglass windshield of the van to shatter. The nameless driver swallowed and looked at Lars, now seated in the front passenger seat, riot-gun clutched to him.
"How far away are we?"
Lars shook his head. "I dunno, I got no idea where we are, just keep heading for the port."
The speeding van hurtled round an other corner, rolling yet an other former citizen up the hood, then the driver spasmed, flicking the vehicle into a shop front in a cacophony of breaking glass and shattering plasterboard.
The noise faded away, leaving nothing but the approaching shuffle of feet, and the tink, tink, tink of a busted radiator.

BioGene, Lab 18.

The zombie's head exploded almost before the boom of Cloudmallet's shotgun, the creature folding like a puppet with no strings.
The massive dwarf pumped an other shell into the chamber, showing no sign of he shared the startled expression Owen was wearing underneath his mask, the creature had dropped out of a ceiling duct, arms reaching out for the living before the Sergeant had pirouetted and decapitated it.
Cloudmallet stumped over to the body, examining it briefly.
"That's thae last of thae STARS laddies, leavin us with nae one but thae wee administrator to be findin before we can leave."
Owen nodded, not taking his eyes off the dark corridor, the lights of the squad swallowed up in the overpowering blackness, carbine never wavering.
Cloudmallet nodded to himself. The boy was shaping up already. He'd make a grand soldier if Cloudmallet could keep his natural keeness from getting him killed.
The pointman's voice crackled in his headset. "Way's clear, but there's something not quite right up h-".
Silence.
The squad exchanged looks and Costa swore virulently.
Cloudmallet offered a silent prayer up to the Dwarf Gods for the almost certainly dead trooper's soul.
Owen stepped to the head of the squad and gestured down the dark hall. "With me Brothers." Then looking at Costa, he added "And Sisters."

And Something laughed.

Gate 3, Patrol Path.

Kelly wandered out into the smog-darkened day, quietly nostalgic for the clear northern skies of home. Rolf ambled along by her side as the M.P. moved toward the section of mines that whoever had tripped the laser would stumble over.
Big grey dog and lithe blonde M.P. halted as they reached the zone, painted lines on the turf indicating where the 'field began.
Kelly peered out into the grey, gritty smog, licking her teeth and grimacing at the nasty taste of the air.
"Well pup, I can't see anything out there. Damn crap the republicans pump into the air, it's like being wandering through the Ashlands back home."
She frowned outward into the dingy wall of air pollution, absent-mindedly ruffling her partners ears, then stopping as he started to growl, deep rumble echoing from his barrel chest.
Kelly looked outward, and the wind swirled, flicking the curtain of smog away and revealing..
"Mithra and Eru!"
A line of shambling Panmurese were moving towards the minefield, gait strange, like they were puppets dragged on strings, drawn by who knew what towards the Kingdom forces.
She updated control and then moved to the edge of the minefield.
"Unauthorized individuals, you are about to enter a live minefield, stop immediately, repeat, you are entering a minefield, stop now!"
The crowd moved on, and as they edged closer Kelly could see that some of them were horrificly mangled, wounds that would kill instantly...
Kelly swallowed and stepped back, Rolf pressing to her leg, growl now a dull thunder, almost drowned by the padding of thousands of feet.
"Control, are you getting this?"
"Yes Specialist, suggest you pull back. Panmure PD is screaming for help, whatever the hell these things are, they're everywhere.
Kelly moved her MP5 from where it'd been slung over her shoulder into her hands and backed away, unwilling to stop watching the horde of whatever they were approach.
The first of them staggered onto the minefield, and with dull "crump"s and belches of earth and flame the mines tore them apart.
The rest of the creatures reeled onward, even as their fellows were torn apart in brief burps of explosives.
Kelly kept backing, eyes growing wider and face paler as the creatures reached the mid-point of the minefield and the secondary defences came online, blunt nosed miniguns popping out of concealed pits in the ground, laser targeters panning the minefield, and seeing upright bodies, spinning up the cannons and beginning to flay the creatures with thousands of rounds a minute.
And still the former citizens of Panmure pushed onward.

Harbour Street, Panmure City.

Lars shook his head and spat blood, scrabbling for the buckles of his belt, cursing the unresponsive driver as he did.
Finding the latch of his seatbelt he writhed loose, scooping his shotgun from it's position wedged partially through the windscreen.
"C'mon you fucker, those things'll be here any minute, we've got to get moving."
The P.E.D.O didn't move, and Lars reached over to him, then snatched his hand back as the man growled and lunged for the Britmattian.
"Fuck!"
The P.E.D.O flailed at Lars, growling savagely, straining against the buckles which had pulled his lunge up short of Lars's throat.
"Never trust a fucking copper." Lars hopped backward out of the van's cab, levelling the shotgun at the zombie's face.
"It's time to kick ass and chew bubble gum," the shotgun roared, splattering brains and blood and bone all over the cab.
"And I'm all outta gum. Heh. I always did love those movies."
Lars edged to the end of the wrecked shop frontage and peered out, the streets were eerily empty, but he could hear gunfire, the "braaaaaap!" of heavy automatic weapons towards the harbour and Kingdom base, and the "crack,crack,crack!" of semi-autos in the east, the centre of the city.
Lars grimaced and padded out onto the street, heading towards the Kingdom base.
"Fucking Panmurese. Even when they're dead they're a bloody nuisance."

Britmattian Military Zone, Gate 3.

"crackatacrackatacrackata" and the magazine coughed dry. Kelly hit the catch and the black curve dropped away from the gun, the corporal slapping in an other, hands shaking, before it binged onto the concrete she knelt on.
Fresh magazine in, she looked up, sniffling as the cordite hanging in the air burned her eyes and nose, blinking away the water that blurred the horrible army marching towards her.
A gloved hand gripped her shoulder, the sergeant who's squad had joined her at the gate looking down at her, "Specialist, untie your dog, we're pulling back, the autodefences are dry and we can't hold out without em.."
More gunfire roared out from the rest of the squad, mixed fire, the old G-36s and the new pulse carbines dragging Panmurese back to death as the troops backed through the heavy steel gates, slamming shut and sealing the Panmurese behind a wall of concrete and bullets from the firing positions ontop of the wall.
Kelly dragged Rolf back, looking up as Blackhawks roared overhead, "Where are they going?"

Harbour Street

"Well this is a fine kettle of fish."
Lars stared down the stairwell, zombies clawing at the furniture he'd kicked to the bottom. The big blonde man sat crosslegged on the dark wood of the house he'd ducked into to dodge the latest wave of zombies. He sighed and ran a hand across the stubble on his head, then looked up as a a buzzing became audible over the moaning and shuffle of feet from below.
Lars smiled and ran to the window, a flight of Blackhawks were quartering the city, here and there ducking down, plucking figures from the top of buildings, from behind makeshift barricades, tracking Kingdom troops by their implants and hauling them away.
Lars smashed the window out and leaned out, gripping the gutter and putting his weight onto the ledge, then scrambling onto the roof, just as a rope dropped from a diving Blackhawk.
The big man clipped the carbiner on the end to his equipment harness and kicked free off the roof, the crashing of furniture announcing zombies adding haste to his movements.
As Lars clambered into the chopper it spun and headed deeper into the city.
He leant up against the rear wall, exhausted by the mornings runnings, not even enough energy to speak his thoughts,
"Where're we going now?"

BioGene

Costas stepped away from the pointman's body, distaste evident over the radiolink "Broken neck Sarge. Poor fucker."
Owen frowned and gestured with the muzzle of his carbine out into the darkness which swallowed the facility whereever the squad wasn't.
"Whatever got him went that way."
Cloudmallet nodded, the movement arrested by laughter coming from the darkness all around them, then a man seemed to split from the shadows, black suit, red tie and an expression like an upright snake.
Utterly dead eyes chilled the Britmattians, and a pale face split in a thin-lipped grin.
"Monarchists. I might have known they'd ssend you."
The grin crawled wider, impossibly wide, revealing blocky, stained teeth.
"It was an accident this. All of it. a cure for Spon Plague. Who'd have known how it would open my eyes?"
Owen gripped his rifle, training it on the creature's head. "Are you the administrator?"
"I was." dead eyes trained on the young man. "Before my transformation. Before I touched it. The magic. And sent it out to kill them, kill them all, make them my servants, you too.."
The creature looked confused "But the magic slid off you, wouldn't hold. I tried changing things, but I couldn't make you die..."
Owen grimaced inside his helmet. "Well that answers who the bad guy is." He pullled the trigger and a stream of blue clawed out and blew the Administrator's head apart in an inky cloud.
The headless body twitched, rippling, then a new head popped out of the neck, the Administrator's face looking surprised and offended.
Owen gaped, Cloudmallet, more pragmatic hurled a grenade at the creature.
The red orb smacked into the creature's chest, it looked down, and an explosion hurled it down the hall, flaming and screaming, beating at the fire with hands that refused to stay the same shape.
Owen shook himself. "Squad, leg it!"

Embarkation Area, Britmattian Military Zone.

The base hadn't been a particularly large installation, mainly consisting of fuel tanks to fuel the vast ships of the Royal Navy and runways to relay supplies to them.
So Fleet Base Panmure had never been a particularly well staffed outpost, serving as nothing more than a reserve fuel spot in the Royal Navy's global reach.
Which meant that the garrison wasn't big enough for the disaster it found itself engulfed in, and that the defences were inadequate for the magnitude of the threat. The entire city state had now fallen to the plague, and the Britmattians were rushing aboard their ships as sections of the wall were swarmed by the dead, grasping, blind creatures piling three deep on each other to reach the living and pull them down into the darkness.
The smog that had blinded Kelly before had now darkened, so the day was as night, but she could still make out personnel rushing onto the ships, dependents and noncombatants flooding aboard the transports the Kingdom had seized and moved from the deserted harbour as the vastness of the plague revealed itself, rippling outward and summoning a never-ending tide of moaning, shambling undead to tear down the Raven banner from where it hung limply in the stifling darkness.
The sergeant who'd hauled her from the gate grimaced at the sky "Would you look at that? It's only 14.00 and the sky's blacker than the inside of your dog."
She smirked wryly at the man, ruffling Rolf's ears as the line they were part of trood, zombie-like in it's speed, onward to the waiting transports.
"So long as it doesn't start raining blood the sky can do what it wants. And it could be worse, we could be some of the poor bastards the Blackhawks are trying to retrieve."
The man nodded, then both of them looked round as a metallic rumbling came from the docks.

Bridge of the Warspite Class Battleship H.M.S Interesting Times.

Captain Fraser stood, legs braced, hands clasped behind his back, chin pointed forward, curly brown beard jutting forward, pipe clenched firmly in his teeth, the very model of a King's Officer, Commander under God of one of the most powerful weapons in the Navy.
He was also internally cursing the Panmurians, raining on them every oath thirty years in the Navy had taught him and a few he'd known before joining up.
His reverie was broken by his X.O, Lilian Alhanara snapping a swift salute, her other hand scrunching her beret nervously. The slight Dwerry woman spoke.
"All the drones are positioned and giving a clear feed sir, nothing but targets as far as the eye can see."
Fraser nodded, gimlet eye ranging over the targetting information displayed on the holoscreens of the darkened bridge, it's massive windows sealed behind inches-thick armour for combat.
"Have the Chill Touch and Hornsounder got their drones out yet?"
Alhanara bobbed her head, lilac eyes huge in her pale face. "Yes sir, they report full readiness to fire."
"Then they may fire when ready." said Fraser, already resuming his statue-like command stance, but moving as Alhanara turned.
"And Lilian?"
She stopped, half-turned. "Don't worry so girl, your family was on the first transport loaded. The Navy knows it's own."
She blinked, surprise, then relief flowing across her thin features.
"Thank you sir., Thank you!"
Fraser nodded gruffly, pipe bobbing in his mouth with the motion.

Meanwhile, out on the deck, the vast turrets of the Interesting Times panned shore-ward, the monstrous guns black and awful in the gloom.
The massive lengths of steel edged upward, 20 inch muzzles gaping like the mouths of some leviathan from the deep oceans, come to consume the world above in fire and terror.
Slowly, surely, the ponderous weapons settled into place, all three huge turrets aimed squarely at the city, waiting for the commands of the sailors who manned them to blaze hellfire across the sky.

Turret B was first to complete it's targeting, and the gun-crew commander clamped her helmet down and grinned ferally. Henga Khazal's Dottir had always been a fan of big weapons, even back to her earliest childhood, exploring the upper caves of the Earldom of London, the tombs of her ancestors had held less fascination than the vast ceremonial axes on their tombs.
This trend had continued all the way to adulthood, and now Henga sat in control of the mightiest gun the Kingdom sent to war.
She smiled, her presence in the turret was a failsafe in case the autoloaders failed, so she'd not have any labour distracting her at this great moment.
"Fire."
And the great guns bellowed, massive shells hurled supersonicly into the black sky, blasting tunnels of fire through the clouds, the vast noise deafening the crowds assembling ashore.
And the next turret spoke. And the next. The noise was incredible, the pressure waves from the huge weapons equally so, the monstrous weapons were relying totally on powder, gaussing turned off for this short range.
Even so, the technicians watching through the drones above were awed by the destruction wrought by the car-sized shells slamming into the city, shattering buildings, blowing the undead citizens of Panmure into paste, smiting the earth as thought they were the very hammers of God himself.
Wreckage hurled into the air, rubble raining down like hail, all in a miasma of dust, whether earth hurled up into the air or other materials pulverised by the enormous detonations it mattered not.
The bombardment clawed vast holes in the legion of the dead, hurling them back from the walls as the foremost of their number were annihilated in fire and thunder, the Navy's guns blowing them back into death.
But for all their awesome power, there were only three ships and they could only fire so often and so close to the docks.
Unfortunately all the people of Panmure were set against them, and the guns were not enough. The tide of the dead flowed onward.

Skies above Panmure City/BioGene

Lars peered interestedly down at the crowds moving below as the helicopter whipped through the air. He'd not realised there were so many people in Panmure City, never guessed there were enough people to provide so much cannon fodder for the zombie horde shuffling it's way to the harbour.
He said as much to the doorgunner, who grimaced and replied, traces of a Svenska accent just evident.
"It's not just the city now, they're coming from the suburbs and the manufacturing estates now. Whatever s'causing this it's spread all over now."
Lars frowned, then looked toward the front of the helo as it slid into a shallow, tail-dipping dive, levelling into a hover.
The door gunner motioned Lars to the cannon, busying himself clipping a rope to a winch bolted onto the chopper's floor, leaving the ropes coiled inside the cabin for now.
Lars tracked the muzzle of the minigun over the mess below, which was a shambles of overturned and/or burnt out P.E.D vehicles, bodies scattered around them outside the chainlink fence of a vast version of one of those featureless commercial buildings the Panmurese loved so much.
The gunner hunched into a corner, leaning out, scouring the ground, looking back as Lars spoke.
"We're rescuing P.E.D.Os?"
The gunner shook his head, "Nah, there's a CAG in the building. No radio contact since things went to shit, but we're hoping the chopper noise'll bring any survivors out to us."
Lars nodded and went back to tracking the gun back and forth, gunners on the other helos mirroring him.

BioGene, Foyer

Owen flicked a hand and a chunk of the squad dashed out the doors, the sound of the helicopters unmistakably a sign of friendlies, the Panmurese disdaining the internal combustion engine, and hence lacking an engine powerful enough to loft a helicopter.
Cloudmallet joined the young officer as an other four man group dashed out to the waiting helicopters, the rest staring nervously back into the building.
Owen was pretty sure the Administrator wasn't dead, but he wasn't sticking around to find out.
An other four men jogged out, and Costas ran back in, looking worried, olive skin pale, giving her complexion a sickly look.
"Sarge, we've got a problem." Cloudmallet looked at her till she blinked and turned to Owen.
"Oh. Sir, we have a problem, apparently *all* the Panmurese are like this."
"Fuck." came almost simultaneously from officer and sergeant.
"The navy's shelling the bastards but we don't have enough ships down here to hold them away from the harbour, and no one knows what's causing this crap, so the 'hawks are taking us back to the harbour."
She grinned suddenly. "The radios work properly again outside."
Owen looked to his Sergeant, who tugged on his beard, then shrugged eloquently. "Whut can we dae?"
A howl came from deeper in the building, the troopers' grimacing and tightening grips on weapons.
Owen frowned and barked into the radiolink.
"Everyone outside, get on the choppers."
The squad pushed out the swing doors, Owen backing out, feeling a ridiculous sense of relief as the heavy glass doors thudded closed after him.
Dashing over to a Blackhawk he slung his carbine and clipped the carabiner to his harness, feet lifting off the ground as the chopper pulled away even as the winch hauled him up.
He spun gently around to face the Lab 18 Building, about 30 feet off the ground, just in time to see the glass doors explode outward, an ink-thick black tide surge out, then firm into the shape of the Administrator, who screamed with rage as he caught sight of the dangling young man.
"Oh fuck."

Bridge of H.M.S Interesting Times.

"Captain?"
Fraser's head tracked round like one of the gun-turrets he'd been studying out through the holocams, gaze alighting on a leading seaman, arguably disqualified from that title by her chest.
"Speak up then."
"The last of the base personnel are on board sir, only the three MH-60s we sent to get the C.A.G still to come sir."
Fraser chewed his pipestem thoughtfully, hands still clasped behind his back, thousand yard-stare in place.
"And have they updated their status yet?"
The woman nodded, the silver service pin on her blue beret flickering in the low light.
"The first two choppers got away clear, the third is being affected by whatever is screwing with the radio and we've lost contact with them. Still on radar though sir."
Fraser took his pipe out, stared ruefully at the cooling embers in the pan, sighed and replaced it.
"I'm not a religous man, but I do believe in one set of Gods. The Irony Gods. 2lt. Warwick was on that helo wasn't he?"
"Yes sir." came the response.
Fraser bit down harder on his pipe stem. "Well, keep me posted."
"Yes sir." this time was accompanied by a salute and stepping back, then wheeling off to her duties.
"Bloody Warwicks."

Over Panmure City

"Fuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Owen's Uncle the King would have been shocked at the language, the older man was the very model of dignified respectability in every situation.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
However, this may have changed had he found himself dangling beneath a helicopter travelling at a respectable pace being pursued by what seemed to be animate crude oil. With a grudge.
Owen started to swear again, but thought better of it as a Svenska-accented crackle in his ear-piece informed him that the winch in the helo was broken and he'd remain dangling for now.
He sighed, still swinging, and, slowly, flailingly, began to shin up the cable, casting looks over his shoulder at the black goop chasing them.
He'd nearly reached the top, spinning and swaying, when something whizzed past him from below, he looked back, to see the black goo coalesce an arm and hurl an other chunk of torn-from-buildings material at the helicopter.
Owen let go of the rope, dropping through empty air to roof level as the chunk of rock smacked into the chopper, smacking it's tail S shaped, almost immediately causing a nose-dive.
Owen scrabbled at his harness as he was dragged bruisingly over the rooves, snapping it unhooked, rolling through a forest of tv antenna before bouncing into a chimney, just as the chopper pancaked into the ground, bucking against the air before skidding into a building, which promptly partially collapsed onto the shattered aircraft.
The young man rolled to his feet, jumping down to the balcony below him, then to the ground, running towards the downed helo.

Meanwhile, inside the wreck, Lars shook himself out of his daze, dust drifting into the air. He unbuckled himself, looking around the helo as he did. The spec ops trooper next to him, a hispanic Corporal who's nametag read "COSTAS" was clearly dead, her head lolling at an unnatural angle, but the other CAGs were already scrambling out of the helo, a burly dwarven Sgt, and three other men, two nameless but for the Sgt referring to them as "Valentinian" and "Slim", Valentinian looking remarkably like a weasel, coarsely black-haired and scowling horribly and Slim being tall, dark and wearing silver sunglasses, a downward pointing handlebar moustache and no expression at all. Both were equally silent and deadly looking.
The last man was huge, even bigger than Lars's not inconsiderable 6'4", and rumbled at the Sergeant "Pilots are both dead and Costas's neck snapped as we hit. Luckily I'm a stoic."
The dwarf just looked at him, then smiled broadly into his beard as an other man slid to a stop outside the helo.
The new arrival, a 2lt, looked very relieved.
"Ah, Sergeant Cloudmallet. Excellent."
Cloudmallet motioned to Slim, who unslung the long-scoped Winchester on his shoulder and clambered up into the building, plainly keeping an eye on the goo which'd pursued them, and Lars surmised, brought them down.
The other men gathered round the Sergeant, Lars hopping down to join them, but Cloudmallet broke the group up, sending them scurrying to positions around the shell of the building.

The dwarf and the young officer headed into the cockpit of the helo, where the radio had once again crackled unreliably into life.
"This is Interesting Times to Saigon 3, come in Saigon 3."
Cloudmallet keyed the transmitter. "Saigon 3 is down."

Silence.

Panmure City

There were times Fain Thurin Cloudmallet deeply regretted not staying in London and working in the mines like his da.
These times were mainly times like today, watching his taller companions stretch their legs and power ahead of him as they fled from the goo.
An old proverb from the Dragon Years floated to the top of his mind, "When a man and a dwarf are pursued by a Dragon, the man doesn't have to outrun the dragon, he just has to outrun the dwarf."
The sergeant gritted his teeth, and attempted to speed up, legs and boots becoming a black/silver blur as he hurdled obstacles, pounding after his companions.
And then, as the group crossed into the zone of shattered rubble that the Navy had been shelling he tripped, something going "CRACK!" sharply in his left leg and a red fog of pain washing over him.
The men, stopped, and scrambled back to where the Sergeant lay.
Owen dropped to one knee, looked at the crippled dwarf, then at the oncoming wall of darkness and made a decision which would win him the loyalty of the Master Sergeant for the rest of his life.
He handed his carbine to Lars, then swung the dwarf up onto his shoulders in the carry position.
"Comfy Sergeant?"
"Put me down you young fool, yu'll never maekit with me on yaer back."
The young man grinned, motioned the others back into their run, and set off after them.
"My drill sergeant in the recruits didn't like me much", Owen paused as he vaulted more ruined masonry, "So most of my training runs were done in full kit with massive weight penalties. You're probably lighter'n most of those."
A series of rumbling booms announced they'd reached the docks area, which was now a blasted wasteland, zombies crawling across the nightmarish, crater-riven landscape outside, and in some cases, inside the walls of the base.
The troopers dashed across the ruined ground, the zombies ignoring them, their single goal seeming to be to get to the people inside the base, those outside were no longer of any importance.
The Administrator surfaced out of the dark wave and, catching sight of the fleeing men, bellowing at them, surging across the terrain, triple the size of a normal man, cresting the wave and howling like the hounds of Hell.
The zombies who the wave washed over vanished within it, not reappearing when it passed.
The Administrator howled again, and the teeming undead of Panmure City wheeled towards the Britmattians.
Valentinian looked to the giant Anastasius and muttered. The big man looked back equably, "Truck Special Forces? Yes, we could probably do with one right now.."
The group stopped as the tide of zombies grew ever closer, their shuffling pace not allowing a rapid swarming. Owen lay Fain down, and drew his sidearm, firing single, calm shots at the horde. The other men joined him, except for Lars, who looked back at the now halted Administrator, who's towering features were now smugness writ large.
Lars looked to the Sergeant, closed his eyes and spoke quietly. "I was going to be dishonourably discharged for fighting. So I broke up a bar." His eyes opened. "Don't let them tell my parents that."
Cloudmallet's eyes widened, "No lad, no!"
Lars wasn't listening, he was already scrambling towards the Administrator, who looked down curiously.
The others were still firing, so Cloudmallet was the only witness to Lars, scrabbling at the breech of his pulse carbine as a tendril of darkness licked out, wrapped itself around him and lifted him to face the Administrator.
"Little man, little creature. Insect. Your weapon cannot hurt me."
Lars glared back, face bone white, then he flicked the safety of his carbine off, pinioned arms holding it tight against his chest.
He looked the Administrator straight in the eye and spoke.
"Says you."
And pulled the trigger.

A globe of blue light, rushing outward.

A sound like the universe tearing.

The Administrator scorching from existence as the plasma charge cell of the carbine exploded, releasing the energy of a star through the black, vapourous, misty, goo of his form.

And the black silhouette of PFC. Lars Bildr spreadeagled against the blue-lit sky, earning his honour back in the only way men like him know how.

And then the shockwave sent the remaining Britmattians hurtling through the air, bouncing along the ground, knocking zombies flying as they bounced bone-crunchingly into the base, rolling to a stop more-or-less as a group.
Owen opened his eyes, upside down, back pressed against as a support pillar to see the zombies clump into a group, flowing towards them again.
He could also hear a faint crackling from his radio, the Interesting Times begging for an update.
He moved an aching arm, keyed the radio.
"I need fire support at Gate 3."
"CAG, be advised, any rounds fired at Gate 3 will be danger-close for troops in the area."
He swallowed, spat out the dust in the air.
"Yeah. I know."
A roar came a few moments later as one of the ships' guns bucked fire into the sky, at this short range firing almost straight up, a volcanoe of red fire into the dark sky.
The shells screamed back down, blasting the zombies one last time, the impact sending Owen and his men a few feet into the air, shaking the ground.
Owen rolled back to his feet, the other men doing so, pausing, as the ground kept shaking beneath his feet, harder and harder, great cracks opening in the earth, splitting wider, one gaping large enough to swallow a Sprinter LTV parked above it.
"To the ships lads!" Owen hauled the Sergeant back onto his back.
"I might go back to RF after this Sarge, less running there."
"Cheekit little bustard."
The soldiers dashed up the gangplank a frantic sounding radio-operator vectored them to, the Interesting Times the last ship left in the port, beginning to pull away as the troopers cleared the gangplank, the earthquake rocking Panmure now causing impressive waves in the harbour as the monster vessel slid out toward the open ocean.
The men were taken to sick-bay, but Owen was ushered up to the bridge.
The bridge was a zone of quiet, the armoured shutters had opened and Captain Fraser was studying the feeds from the gundrones, still up and transmitting images of the island-state tearing itself apart. Here and there on the images zombies staggered uncertainly, but mostly the screens showed the ground bucking and splitting, lava forcing itself up from below, volcanoes belching out of the earth and gouting into the sky.
Fraser looked back, noticed Owen and smiled around his pipe.
"Well Lieutenant, did you kill whatever it was? I should hate to think we lost Fleet Base South for no kills."
Owen blinked, then shook himself and saluted.
"One of F.B South's own disposed of the cause of it all Sir."
"Ah. Jolly good."

CentGov Buildings, Royal Apartments, Royesse, the Present.

It's morning now, the light soft and only just peeking through the mists, well, clouds at this height.*
His story told, her husband looks up at nothing, his yesterdays at the forefront of his mind and his hand absently kneading the soft flesh at the base of her spine, massaging her to banish his own remembered tension.
She doesn't say anything, chin resting on his chest, green eyes locked on his face, waiting for him to speak anew, becoming sure he's run down.
"Owen..?"
His face quirks, a wry smile moving the scar on his forehead.
"I'm alright love. It was a long time ago, but the first hero you meet always make an impression."
Iron grey eyes cool down into silver, then widen in surprise as a shapely finger digs into his stomach.
"Well then, all that tale and you still didn't explain why you needn't fear illness, silly man!"
She grins at him and he smiles back, a foolish grin only she gets, the Ard Ri of Britmattia grinning like a fool at the woman who makes him a man.
She goes for the poke again, but snake-fast reflexes capture her hand before she can wreak more indignities on his stomach.
Laughter, "Alright, alright, the Queen must be satisfied!", a leer accompanies this, and silvery laughter echoes his own, becoming joyous as he pretends to cower back from her.
She sits up, kneeling, crouched back on her heels, straddling him, green eyes considering him, mouth arched in a smile.
"Yes..satisfied. But first, answer the question, your Queen demands it!"
More laughter, sheer pleasure at sharing his life with her, in all her shapliness, displayed to it's fullest in the soft light and her stance.
"Let it never be said that the King cannot sate his wife."
She looks down, eyebrow arches, mouth opening, but he halts her, still laughing, "No, no, I'm answering, really. Alright!"
She sits back, eyes mischevious, and tweaks some of the Royal Anatomy, eliciting a yelp. "Swiftly man, swiftly!"
"You said that last night too, anyway! Turns out that that lunatic Administrator had been onto something when he mentioned it was a cure for the Spon Plague." He grimaces at remembering that man, but looks back at his wife and his brow clears. "He'd underestimated the scope of their discovery, it was a cure for everything, with the unfortunate side-effect of turning everyone vulnerable to his particular brand of magic, i.e. his countrymen, into zombies. We, being immune to his magic, acquired only the positive effects of the virus. Only virus is a misnomer, because it's also a dominant gene, so our children inherit it too. Hence, our children need fear no illness."
She considers this, then leans down and kisses him, breathing him in, breaking it off only as his hands slide onto her back and neck, sitting back into her crouch, dark hair running like a river down her back.
He looks puzzled, and she smiles again, satisfaction on her features.
"Thank you love, thank you for everything."
He opens his mouth to question, but she leans back into him and kisses him again and speech is fled but for verbal caresses and names spoken treasuringly.

Outside the Royal Apartments an rust-orange droid cocks an aural receptor at the sounds from within, even superlative sound-proofing not enough to deaden squeaks and groans to his superior hearing.
The droid, standing in parade rest, shows no reaction but for a faint buzz of "Meatbags." and a slight headshake.

* The CentGov buildings are grouped around the kilometre-high black spire that is known as the "Castle" to the locals. The Royal Aparments occupy the highest floors.