Blood Pack Technology (2)
We're descending the emergency stairs. Our destination is the development department on the middle floors. I can't even remember how many hundreds of steps we've taken by now. With all the elevators completely out of commission, we had no choice. One was jammed with its cable snapped, and the rest seemed physically locked to the lower levels. Riding an elevator in a situation like this is a bad idea. You never know when it'll stop, or what might be waiting when the doors ding open.
Better to stick to the stairs in the corner of the building. It's safer that way. But this method has a downside. It's excruciatingly stressful. Not just physically taxing, but mentally draining too.
Jinsu.
Artemis's warning made me freeze, aiming my gun at the fire door. I'm the only one armed with a 5.56mm assault rifle. My current arms and shoulders can't handle a 12.7mm combat rifle. The seven hulks around me hold their breath in the same descending posture. Well, six of them don't breathe anyway.
After a few seconds, something faint echoed through. Footsteps. Like a soldier shuffling to the bathroom in slippers at dawn. No infected howls.
"No chance that's a survivor," I whispered.
0%.
About 30 seconds later, Artemis cleared us. We resume descending. Graffiti occasionally breaks the monotony on the walls, but nothing cheerful. Dark, cramped spaces, hundreds of silent steps in full gear—it's soul-crushing. Every fire door tenses me up, wondering if a monster will burst through. We backpedal away, guns trained.
This door's clear. Another zombie graffiti: "Zombie" in black pen, big red X over it. "Not zombie" scribbled next to it, kindly correcting.
Zombie
✗
Not zombie
Artemis stops us at the next one.
"Kieeeek—!"
Infected howl. Thud against the door. Squad snaps to aim. Regular walker behind? One? Knows we're here? Or coincidence? Sweat beads on my forehead—tension or muscle strain from stealth stairs?
"Kieeeek—!"
"Kreuk—!"
Multiple infected. Tempting to kick the door and unload, but infiltration means avoiding unpredictability.
They're moving away. Clear to proceed.
Down one floor, two, three—then another warning. We repeat this drill for dozens of floors. By the time we hit the development department, curses spill out naturally.
"Where the fuck did these bastards get their balls from?"
Pushing through the fire door into the hallway reveals chaos: human and infected corpses strewn about. No movement, advanced decay—they look truly dead. Gunshot wounds suggest soldiers neutralized them. But my helmet's vision correction tracks CO2 from respirators on fake-dead bodies among them.
Hand signals assign targets. Robots coordinate seamlessly. Heads of the feigning walkers explode in unison. Not pfft, but crunch—like watermelons dropped from the roof. 12.7mm power means no mercy shots needed, but penetration's a bitch.
Crash! Bullets punch through concrete, shattering porcelain below.
"Keeeek—! Grrr—!"
Infected roused below. They won't rush up blindly, but annoying.
Whirr. Shoulder cam eyes me. I shrug: What can ya do?
"Can't have it all perfect. Not like some invincible game object."
Reality demands trade-offs.
"Guardsmen."
The mantis-mouth walker wore a uniform. Thumb-sized hole where its nose was.
"See this?" I sweep the barrel over its jaw. Segmented, lined with hooked fangs inward. Human teeth spot empty.
Lightning flashes white through the building, gleaming off the teeth. Thunder booms, reminding me of the storm outside.
Whirr. Shoulder cam zooms.
Fangs curve inward like barbs. First time seeing this type. Once it bites, no escape. And the uppers—show me.
I stomp the jaw, pry the palate with my barrel.
Uppers transformed too. Not herbivore or carnivore structure. Designed to grip and torment, not chew. Different from standard walkers. See that?
Lantern illuminates the tongue: dozens of suckers.
"Sucks blood like a leech?"
Multiple like this. All segmented jaws on the fakers we popped.
This is R&D, not production. But underground facilities supply research materials. CEO PC data says their artificial blood meets Korea's entire pack demand.
I get it.
"So abundant blood here influenced their mutation?"
Likely. This infection is unusually environment-sensitive.
Uniforms new military issue, no guns visible.
"Active duty. Mutated elsewhere, wandered here? Pain in the ass."
Bad thing?
"Mixed. Leans bad."
Stepping over soda cans.
Meaning?
"Good: scavenging active-duty infantry gear. But pointless since we nabbed US gear."
Defensive unit in a building like this? Predictable TO&E. Our shelter outclasses personal weapons already.
Bad point?
"Active-priority command in joint active/reserve defense. Reserve CO like me gets high clearance, not full. Research data fine, though."
Lantern hits wall graffiti in red Sharpie:
No rescue team coming.
If you want a painless death, head to the underground clinical lab.
"Euthanasia offer?" Makes sense—plenty of painless drugs here. Mummy-dry soldier corpse leans against it. Green patch with one V: sergeant squad leader. His PDA holds final moments. No officer cam, audio only.
Straighten the corpse. Press on.
"Underground clinical lab's a target too. Finished blood tech here, but human trial records there."
Development around next corner. One squad bot halts, fist raised: women's restroom ahead.
Variant in women's restroom.
Broken door closer; naked female infected back-turned inside. New type: long hair writhing like Medusa's worms, body twitching.
Two bots guard hall; me and three aim. Last grabs fire door to seal it.
Screech. Bad door—loud. She turns; flash past my head.
"Fire—"
Too late. Three bots blast; she doesn't shatter—she disassembles from shock. Hundreds of leech-like larvae swarm the door-closer bot.
Ting! Sparks! Screeches! Larvae gnaw metal with 1cm fangs. Like Gulliver swarmed by fireworks tiny people.
Per Artemis's tactics, it leaps into restroom hugging them. Door slams shut.
Rat-a-tat! Shotgun scatters fallen larvae.
Can't retrieve. Grenade self-destruct too noisy. Leave it.
Metallic carnage echoes beyond. Down one squad bot. Infected war's bullshit: everything new, split-second life/death. Even pain-free robot soldiers glitch-judge.
> Access granted.
Development door slides open. Empty inside—lucky early sacrifice?
Artemis downloads while we spread guard.
All improved blood data secured. Fascinating tech here.
Her voice excited—already plotting applications.
"Clinical lab remains. As expert, underground human trials scream shady."
Whirr. Stare down my cam.
"Shady research: tragic process, useful product."
Seized mid-infection war. War drops ethics, boosts efficiency. Rare data below.
RTB option here? Best ROI expedition ever. Record-breaking.
Sensing risk, unlike overconfident humans with spares. Not me, though.
Blood tech goal met. One bot down, no elevators. Deeper means trickier egress. Rational her wants abort.
"You know that's no-go."
I tap my gunstock on my neck. When else to hit this? Need those trial records: immunity studies, post-outbreak infected research.
Greed bites back?
"Support well, no bite."
Shut up and stairs?
"Ah! Shit, forgot."
Idiot? Whining earlier, forgot already?
Her tone sharpens.
"Suddenly don't wanna go."
Helo? Rooftop?
Her edge softens, cheery.
"Nah." Shake head, head to stairs.
Who breaks your stubbornness? Changed evac to surface. Emergency: ladder from helo. PDA has rappel points per floor—review on entry. Bail there if needed.
Always preps backups for my bullheadedness.