Bodies littered the floor, only visible because of the flashlights on their rifles. They didn't look infected, but you couldn't be too sure. So he set them on fire.
"Think that should be it?" Smithson asked, wary of any more coming.
"I hope so." Estrin was terrified, nearly shaking in his armor. But he couldn't show it. Showing your fear was weakness, and in war, weakness is death.
The pair continued on, the lights flickering in the halls of the UNSC Dead Man Walking. He checked left, she checked right.
"We need to make it to the medbay, we'll be able to lock up there. Then there will be no other way in. When we arrive at Mars, we should br able to radio in and let them know," the British woman said.
"Understood. We should be passing the mess hall soon, makes it four doors to the nearest elevator, and two more floors down."
With that they became silent. One would occasionally turn around to watch their back, just in case their motion sensors missed something. But they always felt like they were being watched, be it from vents or the shadows in the corners.
They were just going to go on shore leave, but ONI had decided, apparently, to ship Flood forms on their ship too, the bastards.
After several agonizing minutes of practically crawling through the ship, barely blinking, they made it to the elevator. Finally. He pressed the down button while she kept aim towards the door, ready for any Flood to pop out. Their hearts were racing, and they could feel it in their ears, waiting for the elevator to arrive. After what felt like hours, it did, making a soft dinging noise before opening. Nothing was inside. Unfortunately, the noise was loud enough to alert the horde on their level, and they soon heard animalistic screaming and hooting, as well as the sound of running feet getting closer and closer.
The pair ran into the elevator, and the door closed just in time to take them down two levels. Once they got down, their weapons were up again, ready for a fight. The drill began again. He checked left, she checked right, they walked together in step, slowly and quietly.
His HUD told him his heart was beating at 130 BPM, and that Smithson wasn't doing much better. They needed to get to the medbay and fast, before anything more happened.
Red flash on his motion sensor. Not good.
"Behind us," he whispered, jabbing a thumb back for good measure.
He turned around. Nothing. Not wanting anything to get the jump on them, he continued walking backwards. Only 100 more feet. Plenty of time to get attacked.
There. A face, in the darkness. Human, but... not. Too grotesque, too broken. Someone, no, something had already gotten to them. He motioned to quicken the pace, and she obliged. As long as the combat form didn't attack, they'd be fine.
Another red flash. Behind him. He ignored it. Smithson had that side covered. They'd be fine. They had to be. Estrin was really regretting deciding against sitting in his lawnchair near one of the cliffs with a cooler of beer. But now wasn't the time for thinking about what-could-have-beens, now was the time for thinking of what-is.
At long last, they made it to the medbay. Smithson cycled it open, while he kept watch. No more sign of the combat form. She went in first and he came in after, hitting the button to close and lock the door. There would be no way in from outside it. And he'd be damned if he was going out.
They took off their helmets and breathed, happy to still be alive. Now it'd only be 12 more days until the trip through Slipspace finished, and they'd be able to contact the Mars Port Authority and tell them about the situation. If the two of them were lucky, the UNSC would send in Spartans to do the job. If they were unlucky, they'd just get nuked. But for now, they were alive. And that was worth celebrating.
This is an amazing installation that I wish I knew about earlier. These pictures are just some of the many ways that this sculpture presents itself, changing with the weather and environment around it. There are other things in Utah besides Mormons I guess.
Portrait of a Seated Man, Smithson, 19th century, Harvard Art Museums: Drawings
Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Gift of Belinda L. Randall from the collection of John Witt Randall
Size: 33.8 x 22.9 cm (13 5/16 x 9 in.)
Medium: Brown ink on brown paper
