The Sowing

The holomap is a blur in Rodrigo’s palm as he scans through it. “There’s a subterranean loading ramp they use to ship supplies, about a hundred and fifty yards around the corner. From there, we can splice into the freight elevator bank, bypass security, and hitch a ride into the main complex.”

“Then I guess we better not waste any more time.” Dahlia sprints in that direction, the rest of us on her heels.

The loading ramp dips down at a steep forty-five degree angle, into a thick wall of blackness.

“Great,” Rodrigo mutters. “Power must’ve been knocked out by the blasts.”

“Or cut deliberately,” Arrah says.

Leander punches a button on his helmet. “Everyone switch to shadow-imaging tech.”

The blackness is replaced by a sea of sickly green infrared images. A couple of freight sleds lie crashed into piles, their cases of med supplies strewn across the bay floor.

“Dahlia,” Leander whispers. “You and me take point. Arrah and Rod-Man assume flanking positions. Spark—”

“Yeah, I’ve got caboose duty.”

A series of sounds squirm through my headpiece, raising all the hairs on my body. Then something eclipses the sunlight. I turn to glance behind me.

The top of the loading ramp we just came down is jammed with festering people.

“We’ve got company.”

Just like the infected woman who attacked me, this horde is filled with hemorrhaging eyes, some dangling from strings of dripping tissue, some with noses torn, exposing gaping nasal cavities gushing dark ooze. One young man, his clothes a tattered mass of blood-soaked rags, grins through split lips, revealing teeth caked with who knows what.

Then the entire pack is rampaging toward us.

“Open fire!” Dahlia shouts.

The first wave of diseased attackers disappears in a spray of limbs and guts as we hit them hard with volley after volley of blasts from our pulsators.

Rodrigo and Leander make it into a game, deliberately shooting off body parts to cripple first rather than shelve, in a sick attempt at prolonging the fun. Dahlia joins them, choosing

to fry people with her flamethrower instead of firing kill shots.

Aiming for the heads and chest, I do my best to put these poor people out of their misery as quickly as possible, just like Arrah’s doing. No matter how many we shoot or maim, though, they just keep coming, wave after wave.

“Fall back into the loading bay,” Leander commands.

That’s when the infected who’ve been lurking in the darkness begin to drop from the ceiling pipes and lumber out from behind pillars. We’re trapped and outnumbered.

“There’re too many of ’em!” Rodrigo yells.

“Get to the freight elevator!” I cry.

Droves of infected people swarm into the bay, forcing us to scatter. I dive behind an overturned supply crate and something brushes against me, causing my muscles to tense until I realize it’s Arrah, crouched beside me.

Crack!

A man crouches on the crate right above our heads, what’s left of his nasal cartilage sniffing the air. Beads of saliva drip from his open mouth onto my faceplate.

Gripping Arrah’s gloved hand in mine, I tiptoe one hundred and eighty degrees around the crate and spot Rodrigo hugging one side of a downed freight sled to our right. On the opposite side of the sled that Rodrigo’s hidden behind, an obscene mass of groping, sniffing, clawing people is slowly making its way around to him from his blind side.

“Rod-Man! What’re you waiting for?” I hiss into my helmet mic. “Move, damn it.”

But he doesn’t move a muscle. No reaction at all.

The contaminated horde is practically nipping at Rodrigo’s boots. In a few seconds, it won’t make any difference whether we warn him or not.

“His com unit must be damaged,” I say to Arrah. “I’m going after him.”

I lunge forward but snap back as if bound by a giant rubber band. It’s Leander’s steel arm around my waist, pulling me back into the shadows against the brick wall of his chest. “You’ll give away our position, Spark.”

A skull peers at us from our left. No. It’s Dahlia, her eyes deep canyons, her mouth opened in a silent shout. She jabs a finger in the direction of the freight elevator and the expression on her face is clear.

We gotta move. Now.

I thrust my hand into the darkness and pick up the first thing I touch. I wince. It’s a severed foot. At least it’s still encased in a ragged work boot. I hurl it across the gulf. My grisly projectile grazes the side of Rodrigo’s helmet.

A twisting shadow falls over Rodrigo. He whirls, weapon raised. “Die, Mother F—”

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The deadly spray of Rodrigo’s weapon fills the claustrophobic space with a deafening roar. Body parts fly as our attackers scatter in every direction.

“Get your asses to the freight elevator!” Leander shouts as he sprints from our hiding place. I start after him, but turn when I hear a moan behind me.

Arrah’s on her knees, clutching her left thigh. Dark streaks spill from the wound onto her hand.

“Friendly fire,” she groans.

Right behind her, the twisting bodies of more infected