Arjuna

[Squad]

Part III of III

Johnson sealed the magnetic hinges and boots of the suit, checking each possible seam for damage or signs of repair. Finding nothing that aroused suspicions, he activated the suit’s magnetic soles and found himself more connected to the floor below him than he had ever cared to be. He took a few steps toward the airlock, but his gloves were hindering his fingers from grasping the turn style. With a second hand, he broke the tight seal and pushed open the door, closing it behind him with the opposite side of the turn style.

Through his visor he found a series of helmet straps buckled into the airlock’s titanium frame. Hesitantly, he wrapped a strap through the trigger guard of his pistol and fastened the loose end to one of the anchors.

God, I’m going to regret this.

He forced the second door open with little more than brute strength. The hydraulic mechanisms lost power in the collision, and they put up a fight less welcoming than what Johnson handled on a much more typical basis.

As he entered the vacuum, the sirens died away and were replaced with a consistent *hoooo*haaaa* of his respirator. Through the vapor, Johnson made out the silhouettes, making his way to the larger of the three. Though indeed larger, it was small in comparison to him. He bent down slowly and deactivated the suits magnetic boots. Freed, the body slowly lifted from the floor where Johnson caught it. The icy cold of space had clouded the body’s visor, but that was of little import.

As he opened to airlock door and shut it behind him, the space re-compressed. Johnson took off his helmet, laid the body down, and scrubbed the front of its visor with his hand.

Auburn hair. Green eyes.

Menacingly green eyes. Bloodshot and bleeding. Veins in Catherine’s face were red and hemorrhaging, her green eyes hiding a well of pus and degeneration. He leaned over her face and could hear the rattle of strained and time sensitive breathing. Johnson knew then what he would find on the docking bay floor.
Matthew tackled the airlock door, banging the turn style and begging Johnson to let him in. A short time after bringing in the third body, Matthew was able to open the style and he pushed the door free.

Standing in front of him, Johnson gave Matthew a grave look. He was beside one of the smaller bodies with his plasma pistol in hand. The muzzle was smoking, the metal shocked by firing after being frozen by the vacuum of space in the airlock.

“I’m sorry, Matt.”

Matthew ran to one of the bodies to look. It was Micah. His face blistered, bloody, and ripe with dead flesh.

Matthew stood up. He turned, lips quivering.

“They were alive.”

"Were."

In an instant, Matthew Blakely collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood. A family reunited.

*Click*Clack*Click*Clack*

His shoes made a reassuring rhythm on the floor as Johnson paced back to his room. He had shut the airlock before removing his suit and overridden the airlock’s computer assisted operations. From the control room, he looked on in silence as the second door permanently opened and space welcomed the Blakelys with open, and cold, arms.

He knew too much. How did his find you? There will be others, he couldn’t have been alone.

*Click*Clack*Click*Clack*

But they were infected. You were merciful. Their deaths were a blessing, much moreso than the one awaiting them. The station must remain quarantined or you could have ended up the same way.

*Click*Clack*Click*Clack*

Once you did, though, why kill Matt? He was your friend, a good friend, a best friend. He could have lived.

“He was already dead inside.”

Johnson reached his door and sighed. Cautiously, he opened the door and entered with his pistol at the ready.

Clear.

*Whirrrrrrrrrr*

He picked up his book, picking up right where he was when he heard the knock. Holding the datapad in one hand, he sat on the cot while slipping his boots off. Once done, he shifted his body so he could stretch out. Both hands returned to the datapad.

The Bhagavad-Gita.

“Everyone is forced to act helplessly according to the qualities he has acquired from the modes of material nature; therefore no one can refrain from doing something, not even for a moment. One who restrains the senses of action but whose mind dwells on sense objects certainly deludes himself and is called a pretender.”

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