SPACESHIP ZOMBIE CRUISE

FILE ENTRY 36.0

Grayson Flux

With a catastrophe like what's unfolded at Neptune Shores, Grayson Flux would have suspected—if and when the Federation catches wind of the dire situation—that the chancellor would dispatch a special forces unit like the Black Mambas to mop up the blood and put an end to the mayhem. Of course, with their communication arrays down, they have no way of sending a distress signal. Sooner or later, someone Earth-side will get curious and wonder why the resort has gone dark. How long that will take, is another question altogether.

Flux has grown complacent hiding away in his luxury office suite. He slept the chaotic night on a plush leather couch after throwing back nearly an entire bottle of bourbon. When he awakes the next morning, he feels detached from his body in a strange way. The only thing that brings him back to reality is the way his head pounds from the alcohol. His temples radiate with sharp pulsing zaps of pain.

With some effort, Flux pushes up to an elbow. The leather crinkles under his weight and crackles in his ears.

At a sitting position, his face falls into his hands, and he stays there for a few intense seconds. He squeezes his eyes together and tries to let the pain dissipate. It doesn't go away but it eases up a bit.

"Bloody bourbon." Flux moans. "Only one way to fix a hangover."

He manages to get up from the couch and stagger over to the bar on the other side of his office. He pours a glass tumbler half full and tosses it back, letting the amber liquid burn its way down his throat. Flux stands there, eyes closed, allowing the alcohol to chase away the hangover, and most importantly, the headache that racks his brain.

Slowly but surely, a warm rush washes over him. His face tingles and then the feeling passes. He feels better. Not quite refreshed but at least the edge is gone. This allows his gaze to wander from the bar over to the wide viewing windows that overlook the beach. To get a closer look he ambles over behind his desk and nearly touches his face to the glass. It's a vision of carnage. Dead and dismembered bodies lay strewn all over the white sand, staining the beach crimson with streaks that soak deep into the ground. The water has a bloody haze floating at various spots like seaweed in the oceans back on Earth. The waves continue to roll in and out, carrying the cloudy mess to and from shore. In the midst of the red water, body parts—arms and legs and torsos—float like ingredients in a sickening soup.

Flux grimaces, his stomach twisting. He wants to look away, but then something happens. Several infected resort guests lumber about the beach, searching for their next meal, but then one of them, a woman in a bathing suit, jerks her head in the direction of an infected man. Before Flux can realize what's going on, the woman bursts into a sprint and tackles the infected man and bites into his neck. As she feeds, the man beneath her squirms and kicks. He does this for a long moment until his life bleeds away and he becomes still.

Another infected man races toward the woman and pulls her off the man, jumps on top of her and begins to feed.

Flux steps back from the window. The infected have ran out of the healthy to eat and now are turning on each other. He smiles with renewed hope. If he waits long enough, they'll kill each other and he'll be able to survive.

A fist bangs on the office door.

Flux glances at the video screen. A little boy pounds on the door. The holographic image shows the boy wailing and screaming. The only problem, the angle isn't good. He can see the top of the boy's head but can't see his face. Flux's heart flips in his chest. It isn't wise to open the door, but it's only a boy.

Flux is a business man. Shrewd and calculated, but he isn't a monster.

If he lets the boy in and saves him he'll look like a hero. He doesn't want to look like a lone survivor who selfishly locked himself in his office while everyone around him perishes. He recalls Dr. Jett Mintaka. He saw the video from the airlock. He knows what happened to him. Then he remembers the security chief, Maxwell Armando. Again, Flux saw the video footage of his death. Gruesome. Finally, there's the older woman, the owner of the Chinese Cafe. Who knows what happened to her?

But here's a little boy, crying for help while the zombie infestation comes to a gory end.

Flux stares at the hologram, his heart torn. Will he turn to self preservation or will he become a hero?

The boy appears okay in the dim lighting of the hallway. He has to chance it, he has to save the boy.

Flux opens the door to the long hallway which passes by the parlor. At the end of the hall, he stops, checks the hologram one more time on the small screen next to the door. Still the same. The boy appears to be nothing more than a frightened child.

He opens the door and his face screws into a horrible grimace. The boy peers up at him with white eyes and blood dried on his mouth. The infection inside the boy churns into a feverish rage as he leaps toward Flux and bites down on his wrist.

Flux pushes the child away. He's stronger than the boy but the damage is done. He throws the lad into the corridor and slams the outer door shut.

The wound isn't deep, but the outer edges are unevenly torn.

Pain sizzles in his flesh—the infection setting in. Soon, he'll develop a fever and then he'll turn into one of those things. He makes his way back to his office and closes the door, locks it. With a hand towel wrapped around his wrist and tied off to secure it, he settles back onto the couch with another refill of bourbon in his glass. He takes a deep unsettling breath and exhales long and slow. Takes a sip and swallows. Now he can only wait for the infection to set in and his life to fade away.