part 4: where steel meets bone

[Mantafin]

"Oh God."

He stood in the entry of the room that served as the preparation area
for soon to be hibernating passengers. It looked wider than the
hibernation bay because it lacked the pods lining the bulkhead, but it
retained the hospital-like cleanliness, even down to the table in the
middle of the room which served the functions of a checkup table and a
surgical table depending on the situation.

Then there was the blood. It was dry but it still looked menacing,
dashed across the pristine white walls, and even the ceiling of the
room. There was a lot of it. Thomas had seen a little bit of combat as a
fresh officer, but this much bloodshed felt unhuman.

He hesitatingly crossed the threshold into the room, and sidestepped
around the medical table, being excruciatingly careful not to touch the
walls, depite the fact he was still covered in oil from his trip. Ugh,
the room smelt like rotten food. Why hadn't anyone cleaned this up? He
remembered he was still as hungry as a wolf. Maybe there'd be some
rations that weren't rotten in this--

"Oh Jesus."

There was a body on the floor, leaning against the side of the table
that faced the rest of the room. It was a man, and a rather portly
fellow at that. His skin was gray and there was a pool of dried blood
underneath him.

"Oh God."

Purcell tucked his clothes and medication underneath his right arm,
which he was still using to hold his pair of boots. He crouched beside
the bloody corpse and placed his forefingers against the cold, gray
flesh of the man's neck to check for a pulse. He wasn't surprised to not
feel anything.

This guy had probably been dead a while. He held up the identification
card attached to the man's belt.

"BMP Johnson, 104345, USS Fyodor. Jesus, Johnson, no wonder you couldn't
help me through my discharge."

As sickening as it sounds, Purcell was relieved to learn what had
happened to Johnson. He regretted his anger towards this sad, crumpled
corpse, but he still wondered why he had been left behind. With all of
the other pods emptied, he must have missed the boat somehow.

Why hadn't anyone else found Johnson? How had his blood been sprayed
across the ceiling? Whoever did this must've been one sick bastard.
Purcell knew he would report this as soon as he hit the terminal
entrance.

He stood up, and noticed the shower in the corner of the room and it
occured to him that he wasn't going anywhere until he changed out of his
damn oil suit. He looked at his fresh clothes and saw that he had
covered them in even more oil when he threw them underneath his arm.

An oil suit's purpose was to keep the skin in contact with fresh oil at
all times during hibernation. It was actually a very large and complex
membrane, which had been fascinating technology all those years ago when
it had been introduced. He kept it on as he stepped into the shower.

He set the water temperature and started the shower. He was glad there
was still water, because sometimes there were an unlucky few who would
have to cross the landing pad to the terminal wearing oil suits
underneath their space suits, which was an unpleasant and squishy
experience.

He knew he was deliberately trying to avoid thinking about the corpse
sitting mere feet away from him, but he didn't care. He just wanted to
get into the terminal and have someone explain why he had been left
behind. Of course, that could wait until after he had eaten. He looked
down and his oil suit looked pretty clean. He started to pull it off,
inside out.

After every foot of skin he revealed, he would scrub down his exposed
skin and the inside of the oil suit. This was standard operating
procedure. Eventually, him and the oil suit were both clean as a whistle
so he stopped the shower and stepped out.

Now came the fun part. He laid his clothes out on the fairly clean
counter and looked at all the oil he had left on them. Then, he took his
oil suit and pressed the inner lining against the soiled areas. He
smiled as the suit sucked the oil right off his clothes. Every time he
did this, he remembered his friend Ivan, who had taught it to him. Ivan
was probably still posted in Egypt..

Once he had his fatigues clean, he washed the part of the oil suit he
had used in the sink. Then he stuck his head under the faucet and drank
deeply.

He quickly threw on his fatigues, and laced up his boots. Thank God he
was almost ready to get out of here.

He could eat a fucking horse. His muscles were tensing up and burning
from the lack of nutrients. He left his oil suit on the counter and
picked up his box of shots. He was preparing to leave when he couldn't
resist another look back at poor Johnson.

"Johnson, you prick, you could've left me a fucking sandwich in this
lunch box you left me."

Johnson moaned.

"Oh Christ, oh Jesus, are you OK?!"

Purcell bolted over and crouched in front of Johnson.

"What the hell happened to you?!" Purcell asked.

Johnson stared at Purcell opaquely, and coughed.

"Hold still! I'm going to get you some water!"

Purcell stood up and went to the sink, taking one of the cups that were
secured above it. He was filling it with water when he glanced back at
Johnson and saw the fat man rushing towards him.

Johnson hit Purcell with both his arms, but Purcell barely registered
the pain.

Purcell lost it. His vision went red and he grabbed Johnson by his
flabby neck. Johnson gurgled and kept swinging as Purcell raised the
steel box above his head.

Purcell was still strangling Johnson when he brought the box down across
the bridge of Johnson's nose. Johnson didn't seem to notice.

He brought the steel box down twice more as Johnson lost his balance and
fell over backwards. Purcell had a death grip around Johnson's neck and
followed the large man to the floor.

Purcell probably couldn't be considered human at this point. He couldn't
even register whether it was him or Johnson that was screaming. He
was swinging the steel box with every mil of military muscle-juice
screaming in his bloodstream.

Then it was over. Purcell's senses returned to him and he dropped the
box. He was straddling Johnson's oversized chest and looking down at a
mangled and broken skull.

Purcell leaned to his side and vomited. Water and bile mixed with
Johnson's fresh blood.

Now that his brain had returned, Purcell knew he was in heavy, heavy
shit. This couldn't be explained away as self-defense.

He picked up his box of meds and looked at it. He wiped away the various
pieces of Johnson's head and opened it.

The syringes had been shattered, and the inside of the box was moist.
The fluids had probably drained out of the box.

"Oh shit."

---
to be continued

[dsm]

Great work there. No suggestions on improving the story as of now. Keep 'em coming.

[Little Faith]

It is refreshing to see hunger used as such a powerful plot-tool as seen here.

[Mantafin]

i'm going to take a break for a few days. as for the hunger thing, i promise he'll find some food in the next part, right after he has non-consensual intercourse with a cacodemon.

[Rotting Corpse]

Cool stuff.this turning out to be a huge fic.I havent read this muh in a while.

[mewse]

ok so in the course of four parts your hero has

- woken up
- vomited twice
- commited murder
- injected military grade drugs
- cried
- screamed
- showered

you seem to be covering all the bases.. is he going to take a dump in the next part?

looking forward to the cacodemon thing