centre, sobbing quietly to himself. Nostromo rushed over to him.
"MacLean, are you all right?"
He nodded, wordlessly showing Nostromo his hands. They were beaten and bloody - defensive wounds travelling up the length of his arms.
"Where did they go? Did you kill them? I mean, kill them for good?"
MacLean wiped his face, tried to regain his composure. "No, they went up to the crew quarters. I heard them shuffling around up there. What the fuck are they?"
"Zombies, I think. Have you seen the captain?"
"Dead."
"Shit. What about the ship? Do you know what's going on? We could be flying into the sun!"
MacLean snapped up at this, and pushed himself off the wall. "I hadn't even thought about that. Jesus Christ."
They ran the last few steps to the command centre. MacLean dropped down into the captain's chair, while Nostromo sealed the doorway as best he could.
MacLean looked blankly at the controls, trying to get a read on what was happening.
"How are we doing?" asked Nostromo, sitting in Tse's chair. He looked down at the bank of blinking lights, flashing red, obviously indicating distress. “God, our engines are off-line, probably a result of the eruption. We hadn't unfurled our sails yet, thank God, so the blast didn't damage them. It looks like we are just floating, we had enough momentum to get us out of the planet's gravity well, but we are not going fast enough to leave the system," said Nostromo. He quickly flipped a series of switches, and tapped instructions into the computer.
"How do you know all that?" asked MacLean.
"I went to school for this. I'm only working as a cook to pay back my tuition and get experience on a ship."
MacLean stood up. "You should be sitting here, I think." He idly scratched at his wounds.
"Thanks," said Nostromo. He put his weapons down beside him, in the space between the two chairs.
MacLean sat beside him. "What the hell is that?" he asked.
Nostromo glanced down to where MacLean was pointing. "Telescoping spear," he replied. "I made it out of a mop."
"Nice."
They were silent for a few minutes while Nostromo got the ship back on track. He plotted a course back to Earth, and entered it into the computer.
"Why not go back to the colony?" asked MacLean.
"Too much residual radiation, we would get fried for sure if we went back now, and we don't have enough fuel without deploying the solar sails. We wouldn't make it. Besides, I don't want to take those things back to the colony. They don't have any weapons, or any way to deal with this. If we get to earth they can be contained properly, destroyed."
"Good thinking," replied MacLean.
They could hear the zombies in the halls, getting closer to them. After a few minutes, they were banging on the door.
"What do we do about them?" asked MacLean.
"I've been thinking about that. I can redirect all of the ships air, so we'll be fine, but they will suffocate."
"Sounds a hell of a lot better to me than hand to hand combat with a mop," replied MacLean.
"I'll get on it." Nostromo typed away furiously at the keyboard. MacLean picked up the mop and went over to the door. The zombies were banging harder and harder now, their blows making the door shudder and quake, but still, it held.
"How is it going?" called MacLean.
"Done," Nostromo replied. "They should start feeling the effects in a minute or two. Is the door holding?"
"So far."
They waited in silence, MacLean scratching at his arms, itchy with drying blood. He rubbed harder and harder, hoping to gain some degree of comfort. Still the blows rained on the door.
"It's not working," shouted MacLean over the bangs.
"The computer says that the entire ship is airless, except for right here. They should be dying. Fuckity Fuck, we are idiots."
"What do you mean?"
"Those things out there are zombies! They’re already dead. They don't need air, they probably don't even breath!"
"Can you blow open the airlock, send them out into space?"
"This isn't a movie. You should know better than anyone, you can't just trigger the airlocks from here, it's a manual operation."
"So what do we do?"
Nostromo considered the options. They were stuck in the command centre, with no provisions for at least a six-month journey home. The zombies outside appeared to be indestructible, unkillable. "We could go out there, try to hack them to pieces. We might survive."
MacLean nodded. "I don't see any other choice. Fuck, my arms!"
"What's the matter?"
"These cuts, they won't stop itching," he rubbed his arms faster and faster, dropping the mop. He examined the wounds, a faint blue glow was beginning to emanate from them.
"Oh no," he said softly. "I think we have another problem."
"God, what now?" Nostromo said, getting out of the chair.
"This!" snarled MacLean, lunging forward towards Nostromo. His eyes were glowing blue, and his mouth had twisted into a horrible grin, with a drop of saliva pooling under his chin.
Nostromo dropped down and grabbed his biggest knife. MacLean was on him now, reaching out with claw like hands to grab at Nostromo. The knife flashed, and a spurt of blood shot out of MacLean's neck. Nostromo had severed his jugular. Blood pulsed out, faster and faster as his heartbeat increased in reaction to the sudden pain. It spattered on the window, the stars suddenly glowed dull red, but still MacLean came at Nostromo.
Blood blossomed in Nostromo's right eye as MacLean scratched at it. Nostromo stabbed up and up and up again, plunging the knife into MacLean's thigh and groin. McLean stumbled back, giving Nostromo enough space to get up and retrieve his mop. He flicked the release mechanism and spun, slashing through MacLean's throat as he did so. MacLean's head flopped to one side, hanging by a thin stand of skin. Fighting down the bile rising in his throat, Nostromo slid his knife into MacLean's head, slicing though the opening in the neck, piercing the brain. Nostromo grabbed on to the head and pulled back, severing in from MacLean's body. He twisted the knife in, digging and stabbing. His hands became slippery with blood, and chunks of MacLean's brain started oozing out of his neck hole. His body toppled over, and lay still.
Nostromo fell back, panting. He looked at the gore all around him, the blood and bodily fluids splashed underfoot. The hammering at the door had not ceased, if anything, the pounding was louder now, more urgent.
He walked over to the window, wiping the blood from it so he could see out. Stars floated in space, seemingly unchanging, unending. He examined the wound above his eye. Already a tell tale blue glow was visible.
He looked back at the door, where the other zombies still were trying to get through, hurling themselves with force against the door, in a frenzy to break in. He realised then, one way or another, he would be joining them. Whether they got in or not, he would become one of them, and the ship would continue through space, returning to earth with a shipload of zombies.
"Holy shit," he exclaimed. If the ship made it to Earth, if it somehow managed to land, or was towed to safety, there was no reason to believe that they wouldn't still be alive, or if not alive, still zombies, still waiting to kill. The entire population of the Earth could be at jeopardy.
Ignoring the ceaseless hammering, Nostromo sat at the computer and changed course, back to the system they had just left. He plotted a course straight into the heart of the magentar. With a surface temperature of a 5,400 degrees Celsius, the sun should destroy them, destroy them entirely.
He leaned back in his chair, relaxed now. The door was holding, he at least wouldn't die a horrible death at the hands of zombies. He looked out the screen, waved to the colony as he went past their planet. The sun was getting bigger and bigger. The computer compensated, slowly darkening the window, until all Nostromo could see was his eyes, their blue glow growing brighter and brighter as he hurtled into the heart of
the sun.
At the end of the world, the only one you can trust is a con man. Here is a sample of Lost Gods, the fantasy debut novel by author Drew Beatty.