Page 19 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I stagger to the locker across the room—clawing it open, fingers slippery with sweat. There’s a tray of instruments. Surgical. Brutal.
But at the edge—sweet stars above—is a plasma blade.
I grab it. It hums in my hand. Faint blue glow licking the air. It’s a cheap model, not military-grade, but good enough to cut through flesh and weak armor. Better than teeth and willpower, which is all I’ve had up till now.
I test the grip. Light, a little off-balance for my fingers, but it’ll do.
I limp to the door. It’s already half-open—jammed from the explosion. Heat licks at the corridor beyond, smoke twisting like spirits over fresh graves.
I expect guards. Drones. Grolgath storming down the hall ready to drag me back to the table and slap another bug on my face.
I get none of that.
Instead—I get horror.
The hallway’s…wrong.
The walls are splashed withred. Not just blood.Chunks. Strips of uniforms. One of those mask-faced guards I remember from earlier is slumped half into a wall recess—his helmet caved in, face a ruined smear of wet bone and meat. His weapon’s still clutched in one hand, fingers stiff with death.
Another lays curled near the far corner. His torso is open—justopen, like someone ripped his armor and chestplate off in one go and left the rest for decoration. His eyes are wide. Mouth agape. No breath.
The lights keep stuttering. Between flickers, the corridor flashes like a strobe-lit crime scene. My feet splash through something thick and warm. It sticks to my calves. Idon’tlook down.
I keep moving.
The air is different now.Heavy.
Not just with smoke. Not just with blood.
With presence.
Something’s here.
Something that makes the creature Malem used look like a housepet.
I freeze.
Down the corridor, in the shadows between flickers, I swear I seemovement. Broad shoulders. A shape draped in gore. Not running. Not frantic.
Hunting.
I take a step back. My foot slips in a puddle—I catch myself on the wall, heart hammering so loud I swear it echoes.
Whatever’s tearing through this place isn’t Coalition.
And itsure as starsisn’t here to talk.
The station shudders again. This time, closer. More precise.Targeted.
I grip the plasma blade tighter and press my back to the wall, trying to steady my breathing, trying not to puke from the cocktail of pain and terror and whatever the void that thing was doing to my memories.
I whisper to myself, a mantra through clenched teeth:
“Don’t freeze. Don’t fold. Don’t fail.”
And then, low and muffled through the distant hull, I hear a voice.
Not words. Just a sound.
