Geno Plan (3)
There's an article floating around online called "Laws of War." "Recoiless guns have recoil." "Easy paths are laced with landmines." "If the enemy is in your range, you're in theirs too." They come off like jokes at first, but surprisingly, they cut right to the heart of real combat wisdom.
That said, they don't help much against the infected. "Always move with your comrades. Give the enemy another target besides you." This one's been gold. My robot escorts have mouths, and I'm the only one in a sealed helmet, so I've never been hit by a parasitic infected.
Some rules stopped applying once I switched from the Korean Ministry of Defense to Artemis's Shelter. "Never forget your weapon was made by the guy who bid the lowest." It's advice to always inspect your gear thoroughly. But now that Artemis handcrafts my equipment with the finest materials, stitch by stitch, it doesn't apply.
"If you didn't check the direction when setting a Claymore, nine times out of ten it's pointing at you." No need for me to handle explosives—the robots do it under perfect algorithms.
"You're not Superman." I'm getting closer to a super soldier, though. Flying or heat vision might be a stretch, but I could probably give a Winter Soldier a run for his money.
Meanwhile, some advice holds true no matter the era, environment, or enemy. "If the attack is going smoothly, you've walked into an ambush." "I've never seen an operations plan survive first contact intact." These two are straight-up gospel.
We'd confirmed all infected cleared, split into three teams of four robots each for search ops just five minutes ago.
Krunch! A robot with its entire frame crushed rolls right in front of me.
I'm deep in the lab's experimental zone—a maze of rooms and narrow corridors. A monster big enough to half-block the hallway charges.
Boom! A vending machine in its path flies apart like paper, and the reinforced glass wall it slams into spiderwebs with cracks. Dodging isn't the end of it, though. One robot gets snagged by the monster's hand mid-evade. In a tight corridor, escaping a charging behemoth's grasping limbs is no joke—especially with over ten hands lashing out.
A chaotic tangle of countless limbs blocks our path. Hundreds of fingers and toes wriggle like they're beckoning us. Size-wise, it's on par with a Lugnut. Slower and less brute force, but no weak points. No head or torso means no brain or heart. Even after blasting off limbs with bullets, it won't go down.
Crunch-crunch! Dozens of hands squeeze a robot like a rag until it bursts.
Compared to that, a death hug seems cute. Besides the multicolored arms and legs, its only organ is vocal cords—dozens sprouting from the limbs, resembling fleshy, vulva-like growths without teeth or lips, vibrating nonstop.
"Uuuuuaaaaahhh—!"
Not like a walker's tearing scream. More like aroused moans, dull agony, grieving sobs... an eerie voice. Like a stream gurgling in an uncanny valley.
Ultrasound detected. It's tracking us via echoes off that sound.
Click. Two robots, ammo dumped, start reloading. We could drop it in the next salvo, but the problem? It's not alone. A new one appears, guns trained on it—until another emerges behind. I abandon the fight, scanning the ceiling.
The textured panels catch my eye, one access hatch in particular.
"Fuck."
The newcomers have our position. No time to dawdle. Two charging at once? No dodging that. Time for the kill shot, much as I hate it.
"Ladder."
Robots interlock into an instant ladder. I climb to the hatch. Dust and plaster grit sticks annoyingly, but whatever. As I pull up fully, the monster charges.
"Uuuuuaaaaahhh—!"
Robots retreat below the hatch. Seconds later, a massive flesh blob whooshes past with a shwaak!, followed by crashing destruction.
Escape route transmitted. Follow it.
Below, endless monster shrieks and shattering glass. I sling my rifle, cinch the strap tight, and creep along the steel pipes overhead.
Bang! Another robot down. I know without looking—the crunch of main frame failure, hydraulic snap. I've heard it enough to tell.
Exhaust ducts, sprinkler pipes, AC evaporator lines block my path. Leaping them, I wonder how the hell I ended up here.
Everything was smooth entering the research wing. Sentry guns had swept it clean, few infected left. Artemis seized the security room, feeding positions via CCTV—pure herding hunt. Raging Rips got dropped without a scratch.
Experimental zone: researchers' offices, labs, bathrooms, break rooms, pantries mashed together. Production zone: artificial muscle manufacturing and storage.
"Chicken factory?"
First impression hitting production. Vast space, hundreds of limbs dangling like carcasses in a poultry plant. Cross-sections sealed in unfamiliar material, thick hoses attached. Air thick with an indescribable stench—not foul, but a mix of every race, every body's flesh.
I tiptoe, touch one. Latina skin tone, woman's leg by the girth.
"Warm."
Body heat, soft sole texture—identical to real. Toenails, even pedicures. Next: black skin, peach, ruddy, brown, pale—every shade in a row. Mannequin legs would be creepy; living, smelling, feeling ones? Shocking.
Muscle mass, length, even second toe variations—all unique.
New Mark 5 developed. Orders to burn through Mark 4s in tests. These are clearance stock. But warm?
"Yeah. Body temp."
Should be cryogenic coolant. Malfunction from long abandonment?
No infected on CCTV. Motionless everywhere. We split: my team grabs artificial muscle tech here; others collect clinical data from experimental zone.
Smooth op crumbles at flesh-slapping sounds.
Smack. Behind me, a wet, meaty slap—not applause, but thick thighs colliding... that familiar sound.
Slap! I spin: limbs twitching to life, dangling like chickens suddenly animated.
Smack! Slap! Slap! Smack! Nearby legs smack thighs repeatedly, soles and toes dancing in recoil. Arms twist like ropes; others clap feet.
"Time to go."
Whisper to shoulder cam, head for exit. Reacting to me? Limbs clump, hands grasping, legs linking. Dozens merge into monsters—speechless spectacle. More forming everywhere; exit blocked by one already.
Close call. Robots body-block the closing noose. Fresh-spawned, they're sluggish—lucky. Pour all firepower into the door-guard, barely escape.
Horrific: robots vanishing into writhing limbs and digits. But monsters already spreading via vents and halls. That's how we got here.
Full download in 7 minutes.
Remote transfer underway—robots can blow, small mercy. Some experimental bots fled to ceiling like me, but collapsed under weight sans rifles/ammo. Plummeting through, they lasted 40 seconds avg. Crushed by pincer rush.
Stop.
"Uuuuuaaaaahhh—!"
Monster right below. Ultrasound range unknown. Can it sense me through thin panel? Heart steady despite tension—advanced blood stabilizes needless spikes.
Gulp. No worry it'll hear my heartbeat thuds.
Crouched in cramped dark ceiling forever. Sweating buckets from pose and stress.
It's gone. Move.
Finally, research wing end. Drop, sprint 30 seconds to long entry hall—the one Rips stalked us through.
Sorry. No CCTV here.
"Hoo."
All robots gone. No more shrieks. Ironically, harder to track them now.
Time to drop. Anything below?
Ultra-careful, ease hatch. First time opening anything so delicately.
Creeeak! Rusted groan pre-open. Swallow curses, peek.
"..."
Upside-down from ceiling, monster 5 meters ahead. Exit direction clear—thank god. Resting? Dozens vocal cords shut, two breathing open, facing walls.
Waits forever, no move. Looks asleep. Can't stay.
Deep breath, lower rifle quietly. Grip nearby struts. Ease foot out: foot, ankle, shin, knee, hips. Grab rifle one-hand, navel-low. Hellish: can't sling, hold weight plus gun/ammo one-handed from narrow hole.
Nearly slip, but foot finds solid perch—no fall.
"..."
Far from floor? See it: three legs twisted—two women's, one man's by look.
"Keeeerrr—."
Not fluent in infected, but clear: 'Gotcha, bastard!'
Three hands reach my knee atop its leg.
—Vrooom!!! Acceleration bursts.
Stock-smash hatch, leap. Burst-fire at incoming grasp.
Flesh/blood sprays mid-air, bolt for exit.
Whoosh! Another arm misses by cm—five hands on it. Hypnotic 25 fingers beckon in slo-mo hell.
Tanked 12.7mm charges; 5.56mm futile. Run.
"Uuuuaaaahhhuu—!"
Shrieks answered by horde wails. Back-pressure like doom closing. Glass walls mirror pursuing limb whirlpools faintly.
Run, run. Max accel on/off repeat. Muscles scream against time-reversal motion, but must. Normal run? Caught.
Everything slo: only I bolt, bolt, bolt.
Lab entrance light! Horde on tail, uncountable.
Muscles tearing, lungs burning. Hit daylight, accel fades—collapse.
"Kiiiyaahhh—!"
Meters back, hands lash. But safe. Rotor roar—two sets.
Krraaaaaaaa!!!
Twin 30mm chain guns blaze, shredding pursuit. Hundreds limbs, thousands digits rain down hall. Scout drones join fire from heli-side.
That's all I recall. No memory boarding. Just fading rotors, receding monster cries.