SPACESHIP ZOMBIE CRUISE

FILE ENTRY 22.0

Bella Starr

The darkness of the Celestial Sea surrounds me, an invisible but tangible force that absorbs all the good energy in the engine room and obliterates it, leaving nothing but a black hole. It reminds me of dark matter in space—it's there, ever present—but incredibly difficult to harness and control. Instead, it saturates the air in the room and steals my resolve.

Whereas everything above this floor was ritzy and eye-catching, this floor is utilitarian. Bare bones. No auto-sliding doors. No glimmering lights or shiny crystal or glass. Nothing like that.

Red lights blink on and off, flickering on occasion, drawing a dull contrast on both sides of the narrow hall as we creep into the unknown. The shadows slide over Halo's back and down Astra's neck, and engulf me as I walk behind them, my mouth open, scared to breathe, afraid to make a sound, or do anything that might draw attention to us.

Around a corner, somewhere at the end of the hall, a mummy-like moan sifts through the air, hidden in the darkness.

I clutch the hefty crescent wrench, held high, angled over my shoulder, ready to strike. I have to remember that our intent is to incapacitate, maim if needed, kill only when necessary. But I've never killed before, so I don't have past experiences to draw from, nothing to compare this situation. I don't have a past history in a zombie war, or a zombie apocalypse. If the sick people I encounter are dead and have only a fraction of their brains revived to control an animalistic instinct to kill and feed, then snuffing out their existence will be an act of mercy. But if they're still alive...if Caprica is still alive...

Another moan carries through the air, sending chills down my arms. Halo peeks around the corner at the end of the corridor. From where I stand, I can tell the space opens up into a vast chamber...the heart of the engine room. He holds his pointy broom stick like a spear, ready to stab the first threat that presents itself. Behind him, Astra hugs close, her long screwdriver aimed to the ceiling.

But something strikes me as odd. I'm not an engineer, or an astronaut—not yet anyway—but I assume the engine room of a ship would be a loud environment. The gravity drives should produce massive amounts of energy that propel the ship through space, simulate gravity for its passengers and crew, and encapsulate the bow with an almost impenetrable force field to deflect meteoroids and small asteroids. But here. Now. I hear nothing but the occasional murmur of someone who I can only assume is infected or zombified.

I follow Halo and Astra out into the open, our feet treading on steel-grated square tiles. The gravity drive engines loom above our heads, long and cylinder shaped. There's a slight hum, but nothing that makes me think the drives are operational. The thrumming noise sounds more like residual power as the engines idle at low capacity.

"Is this normal?" I ask Halo and Astra. My voice is a smidgen louder than I would've preferred. I adjust my volume and whisper, "I mean, shouldn't the engines be chugging at full power?"

"I'd think so," Halo replies. "Listen."

The infected person moans again.

Astra twitches, her head on a swivel.

The infected lurks somewhere on the other side of the giant cylinders. Four of the drives have been installed in a consecutive line. Peering up at them makes me think of something else.

"If the drives are off," I say, "would we still have gravity on the ship? My understanding is that the engines make that possible."

"Probably not." Astra's eyes flick to mine and then go back to scanning the perimeter.

"Maybe we're on auxiliary power?" Halo says. "There seems to be mild activity within the gravity drives."

I nod, my jaw tense and my eyes serious. I like that answer, but I'm not sure if it's the right one. Comprehending how things work helps me cope with anxiety. I breathe through my nose, trying to steady my nerves. Exhale. It helps me dial back on the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

Metal clanks off the grated floor.

My heart stutters.

The racket comes from my left. As I turn, an engineer waddles through the gap between two of the gravity drives. He's infected—the moaner we'd heard earlier. The man reaches for me and before I know it, I swing the wrench and clip the side of his face. The man falters but adjusts his sights for Astra, the next person in line and the easiest for him to lunge after.

Astra grits her teeth and slashes the flat end of the screwdriver across the man's cheek, slicing a thin crimson line on his face. The man doesn't yell out in pain as his blood arcs through the air and splatters on the floor. A gash opens up on his cheek but the wound doesn't seem to phase him.

Halo rams the rounded end of the broom stick into the engineer's stomach. The man doubles over.

Before the man straightens—with the middle of the broom handle gripped in his hands—Halo yanks the weapon back and snaps the rounded end into the man's brow. The engineer's head whips back, and he teeters off balance, and then catches the sharp end of the stick across the cheek, drawing more blood.

The engineer hits the floor, writhing, Halo towering over him with a vein bulging from his neck.

My wrench hand falls to my side.

Astra's mouth gapes open as if to say something but she's silenced by movement behind Halo. Another infected man appears from the far end of the gravity drives. Following close by this new threat is a woman with a hard hat drooping low over her brow. Her neck is crooked forward, and she screeches menacingly, piercing my ears.

Three against two. The odds are in our favor as long as the engineer we wounded stays on the floor.

But behind the infected man and the screeching woman in the hard hat, another infected appears. Now it's three against three.

As Halo, Astra, and I retreat, the wounded engineer behind us pushes to his feet and stands. Make that four against three.

"That changes things," Halo says. "Do we stand and fight, or turn and run?"

As the four infected members of the ship's crew inch their way closer, Astra replies, "How can we protect ourselves and not kill at least one of them? It doesn't seem possible."

I can't talk, my eyes are too busy scanning the vastness of the engine room for anything to use to our advantage. If we could climb on top of the gravity drives, we'd be safe, unless the cylinders produced radiation that could make us sick or kill us. That doesn't seem likely since the ship's crew works around the drives without being harmed.

My eyes dart back to the woman with the hard hat; she stops screeching and starts hissing like the steward in the storage room. The infected crew members approach us as if they don't want to spook their prey, like they want to hem us in and trap us, drawing a dragnet around us. I have yet to observe this type of behavior in the infected people. Are they hunting us as a group or is it my imagination? Are their brains capable of such calculated behavior? I don't have time to consider the possibility. I have to think. I have to do something, and I have it to do it quickly before we become the main course on the late night buffet.