Geno Plan (2)
We walked along the road toward the Geno Plan research institute. Abandoned cars littered the way everywhere, and every roadside tree had turned into a charred stump without exception.
"Shouldn't have been used as an evacuation site."
All the civilian shelters we'd used so far had become infected hives. Real-life dungeons.
It's all or nothing. As an important facility linked to military tech, either no one was let in, or it was used as a shelter and now it's swarming.
Vroom. Scout drones whirred overhead. During the op, they'd hose down any infected approaching the Geno Plan lab with 5.56mm minigun fire.
Walkers have next to no intelligence, but they swarm in groups. One or two wander by, let out a howl, and more pile in from the surroundings. Ignore it, and you've got dozens in hours. It's not just noise—feels like more. One Walker stares a certain way, and the others glance over too. Differs from movie zombies that need line-of-sight or sound. Tiny difference, but a huge pain for stealth ops.
The Geno Plan grounds were protected by a Level D fence. Level A is chest-high for an adult around a lawn. B is gym-court height. C and up are military-grade—sappers needed to breach. D marks the area as a fortress per doctrine, fit for assembly and logistics basing.
Welcome. Commander.
Normally, one of the alloy walls would've dropped like a drawbridge.
Technical error in fence gate opening. Please call the attendant.
The presumed entrance gaped open, revealing the interior—one wall ripped away like by superhuman strength. Greeting us in the open yard: a massacre.
What a shame.
Soldier corpses everywhere. More infected bodies, and even more civilians than both combined. Infected shredded by bullets and bombs; humans by teeth and nails.
"Grim."
ROK and US survivors had built a joint defense line—two types of uniforms, assorted gear scattered.
We headed for the sealed lab entrance.
Please come in.
After secondary auth, the massive elevator-like door slid open. Whooooosh. Wind from the yard sucked fiercely inside. Interior lights off—only faint emergency fire guides glowing. Endless dark underground passage sucking in wind. Felt like entering a giant monster's maw.
But no fear. I wasn't alone. Active duty: human troops. Now: robot soldiers. Marching alongside, their backs and shoulders bolstered courage. World's changed, but this sensation endures.
Unlike the fierce firefight outside, the lab interior was tidy.
"Monsters hit during evac, and they wouldn't open the doors inside?"
Otherwise, the stark divide at the entrance made no sense.
Click. Lights flicked on. Motion sensors lit blocks as we passed. Wide, long corridor—transparent glass walls on both sides. Beyond: vast spaces, machinery, lights off.
More like an aquarium than a lab?
Fill it with water, and it'd feel just like one.
"I can guess why. Seen a few labs like this on active duty."
Our footsteps echoed softly in the dim expanse.
Whirrr. Shoulder cam pivoted forward, then glanced at my face—Artemis's tell me now gesture.
"Penalty for facilities that seriously violate research ethics. Go too far, international ethics auditors raid and shut you down. Lesser offenses get fixes."
I pointed at the transparent wall.
"One fix: swap interior walls for see-through material for easy inspections. 20% to 95% replaced, per auditors."
95% meant everything but bathrooms and lockers stripped bare. Stronger than IAEA nuke watches—pre-apocalypse world feared bioterror more than nukes.
Construction costs must be insane—might as well rebuild?
"Yep. Some shut down over it. But national defense-linked spots like this? No issue."
The nation's footing the bill?
I shrugged affirmatively.
"Not a fan."
What?
"The lighting."
Full blackout, but sensors lit our blocks as we moved. I pointed beyond the glass—pure dark.
"Everywhere else pitch black, but here lit up. Like a damn billboard: 'Look at us!'"
Thud! Something slammed into where I'd pointed. Long limbs, hyper-compressed muscles—a Rip variant. Caught one in Blood Pack basement, remembered well. Climbs walls/ceilings with brute strength, catapults by flexing whole body.
Instinctively shouldered my rifle.
Don't shoot. Reinforced glass.
Thud! Thud! It bashed wildly, but glass held. Its own skull cracked first. Stopped when blood streamed from two gashes on its forehead.
"Grrrrowl—"
The Rip blinked red eyes, glaring. Pressed its pot-lid palm to the glass, rubbing regretfully. That casual move sparked deep revulsion.
Can't get through anyway. No need to open an entry for them.
True. 12.7mm could shatter glass and shred it, but not worth messing our exit for one.
Thud! Correction—not one. Another slammed upper left.
Thud! Thud! Two more a second later, lower right.
"Shit."
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Four more joined. Eight Rips plastered to the reinforced glass. Huge palms and cheeks distorted grotesquely through transparency.
Robots shouldered weapons too—prep if they broke through. Felt like that Mist scene with bug monsters on the mart windows. More dangerous and horrific here.
"Almost hosed 'em and cracked the glass."
Thanks to Artemis's heads-up.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Fresh Rips, unlearned, headbutted in unison. Glass shuddered like an earthquake.
"Won't break, right?"
Worrying silence from Artemis.
"Artemis?"
...Probably?
"..."
I shut up. BOOM! Glass held. Last heavy headbutt sent one tumbling; others gave up smashing. Now they prowled nearby, glaring.
Wish the tumbled one stayed down—it staggered up.
"Don't follow, you fucks."
Rips shadowed us beyond glass, matching pace. Their loping gait, eyes—not mindless pursuit. 90% malice, 10% something unthinkable for infected: interest. That's why so repulsive.
Occasional taps. Tap! Tap! Like bratty kids poking zoo gorillas. Six more joined—now outnumbering us. No clue how many more lurked.
Uncomfortable escort ended at corridor-end door.
Thud! As we vanished from view, they pressed faces to glass, staring till the end. Chiller than a Lugnut charge.
"Kieeeek!"
Inside: two Walkers in researcher garb. Robots halted fire, closed for CQC. One neck snapped 360°; other guided into a crush. Nearby bot fetched metal bin, pestled its skull like mortar.
No guns allowed.
"Place ran like a total shitshow till overrun."
Interiors glass-walled too. Reckless shots could carve paths, screwing retreat routes. So easy Walkers got CQC'd en route.
Priority: disaster control/command room for facility control.
Encountered few—researcher/military uniforms. Reason:
Mid-level corpse—lieutenant colonel by insignia, local battalion CO for defense. But odd: human teeth, death by two chest GSWs—not infected.
"Backstabbed."
Wounds: close-range to the back. Not friendly fire...
"Fragging?"
Pocketed unease, entered disaster control. Secured control, handed to Artemis.
Unfortunately, took refugees. CCTV showed Walkers everywhere—mostly deep in isolation zones. Civilians, researchers, medics, firefighters, guarding troops. Lights busted—pitch black, writhing shapes galore.
But not all bad.
Found something good.
Some CCTV special: solo feeds per monitor, crisp interfaces. Five of 'em.
"Sentry guns!"
Five 7.62mm minigun sentries—live ammo, military-linked.
"Key tech, solid security."
Jinsu.
Whirr. Shoulder cam eyed me—felt Artemis's urgency through the lens.
"Mow 'em down."
Sentries roared on command. BRRRRT! BRRRRT! No suppressors—thunder echoed through walls. Muzzle flashes lit the dark like strobes. Night-vision-poor CCTV turned spectacle: flashes snapped flying Walkers mid-air.
Flash! Arms/legs forward, soaring—most common.
Flash! Arms/legs back, propelled.
Flash! Half-spin diagonal.
Flash! 90° fold, tumbling.
Dark-group portrait session—undignified, wrestling-loser poses.
"Careful not to crack glass."
Who'm I telling?
Our creepy escorts shredded too. But they fought: crouched, catapulted at ceiling sentries. Most missed, plummeted, shredded seconds later. Few hit, even clung.
CCTV close-up: ugly Rip mug. Crunch! Feed cut to 'No Signal.'
Ammo dry.
Emptied loads cleared most, but stragglers remained. Crunch! Enraged survivors wrecked sentries one by one. All five 'No Signal.'
"Good enough. We handle the rest. Nice work."
Stroked shoulder cam. Whirr. No rejection now—just tilted diagonally. Sometimes buzzed like a massager, tickling my palm.
Click. Rifles checked.
Post-barrage cleanup: infantry job. Led bots to sentry-ravaged isolation zone. Secure research data, op done. Minor wrinkles aside, on plan.
For now.