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The first couple of minutes in the medlab are frantic. Just getting
there: Vitelli, Morrison, and Sarge had been forced to drag the
wounded through B deck to the ladder. Getting down those had been a
painful hell. With Doc's help, they located the supply cases in the
medlab, and began to pour antiseptic over everything.
Booths had screamed when Vitelli accidentally splashed peroxide on
his truncated toe. The tip and instep of his left big toe have been
completely removed, showing ragged pink flesh crusted over like lava
with a layer of charcoal.
After a kilometer of bandages are applied, and a reasonable
combination of painkillers and mild tranquilizers dispensed, Sarge
assigns Morrison and Vitelli to scrounge up anything they can find.
The two head out and return with their arms full. Everyone else
divulges their now-useless gear. Moore spreads the improvised
inventory on top of one of the medlab desks. The meager supplies,
hard metal angles gleaming in the dark, remind them all of their
desperate situation.
A Browning DS200 shotgun (8 shots, pump action, unloaded 12-gauge,
using the same ammo as the Mossberg)
Flare gun with 3 cartridges
2 VP70 pistol magazines in holster pouches, in holster (Booth's now-
useless pistol holster and ammo)
2 smartgun ammo drums in belt pouches (also Booths', also useless to
him)
2 smartgun batteries in belt pouches (ditto)
2 flashlights (of the boxy but high-powered variety)
4 breath masks (filters or enough independent air for around 15
minutes each)
Fire fighting axe (nice big hefty metal one)
2 one-liter fire extinguishers (useful against small fires only)
A pair of boots that will hopefully fit over Booths' field dressings
A jumpsuit that might fit Patwardhan, two men's-size jackets (all
with the USCSS Korea logo etched across the sleeves and back)
A small bag of marijuana
"What the hell is this?" Moore wants to know. Vitelli shrugs,
explaining that he found it in one of the cabins and thought it might
come in handy. Then Sarge gets down to business. Booths volunteers to
take the Browning. Patwardhan's ammo bandoleer will go to Booths,
without discussion. Other ammo is distributed evenly. Moore grabs two
of Vitelli's spare rifle clips: rank hath its privileges. He gives
one to Morrison, keeps one for himself, and orders everyone to load
up, leaving their partially-used clips as backups only.
Other items can be taken as needed, although Moore thinks Patwardhan
might be better off with the flare gun, since it can be used one-
handed and will certainly pack a punch in close quarters.
Then he details the plan for the immediate future: "Morrison and I
will take perimeter detail. We'll weld that hatch shut, just in case.
We'll try to barricade any other entrances. Vitelli, we'll need your
tracker. And in the meantime, I want you to team up with McKenzie and
get communications restored with the Gaines. Let me know as soon as
you do. Doc, stay with Booths. Stay down here on C deck, make sure
none of those fucking things come through. And this goes for
everybody: if you see anything, shout out. We don't know what we're
dealing with, and we're cut off. Don't think for a second I'm not as
scared as you are. We'll get out of here. I guarantee you we won't
lose another like Berliner..."
His voice breaks. He coughs to cover it up. "Let's go, troops."
PVT VITELLI posted by Nino 1.26.2000
Vitelli listened to Moore's orders. With a lit cigarette in his
mouth, Vitelli picked up his gear, and walked over to McKenzie. He
gave Moore his tracker and said "Good luck."
Vitelli grabbed his communication gear. He took a swig of water from
his canteen, and offered it to anyone who needed a drink.
"Lets go McKenzie," he said and started to walk over to a
communication output. He did his usual thing, hooking up lines to the
output, typing away on the little comp he has. He started to chain
smoke as well. He was nervous.
PFC PATWARDHAN posted by Max 1.26.2000
Aishwarya decides to sacrifice style for comfort and grabs up the
jumpsuit in hopes that the extra layer of clothing will keep her warm
and provide some protection now that her armor is basically useless.
With a sigh of resignation, she takes the flare gun, knowing that it
may be her best chance to hit the broad side of a barn.
"If nothing else I could make a bong out of it," she grumbles.
She takes charge of the marijuana claiming it to fall into the realm
of 'medical supplies'. "If we get out of this one alive," she
says, "then we'll see."
Making sure that Booths is comfortable and not in danger of dying in
the next 20 minutes, she decides that perhaps a little scouting may
be in order.
She figures she may check on the crew member in cryo, but can't help
but do a little exploring along the way. Drawing her pistol, she
triggers the controls for the area directly across from the medlab,
figuring that she can cross through there, and check out the other
side of the crew deck before heading fore to the cryo bay. She also
figures that she can make sure that the doors to the aft sections are
secure, using her hand welder to secure them, if need be. While
moving through the large room on C-deck, she'll keep an eye out for
anything that may be useful.
Once she crossed through that room, she'll head up to Cryo, stopping
only to check out any open doorways with an appropriate amount of
caution.
PFC BOOTHS posted by Asmodean 1.28.2000
Booths looked dubiously at the remaining gear. He shook his head in
disgust. Then he set about getting himself back into the fight.
Figuratively speaking.
Booths felt more than a little unhinged at the situation. It wasn't
everyday that you saw tall, ugly, mean spirited alien motherfuckers
take a comrade for a walk.
Booths clenched his jaws, then shrugged off Patty's
ministrations. "Lay off Patty. If ten minutes with the tall, dark and
uglies didn't kill me, than neither will the stitches." He was gruff
about it. Esprit de corps was strong stuff under these circumstances,
and he didn't say those words to hurt her.
He limped off to one side, wincing every time his torso contracted
from impact. In his hands he carried the shotgun, a jacket, and the
boots. The ammo belt was already hanging off one shoulder.
His hands were wrapped in bandages, which made them look like they
were encased in fingerless gloves, and his foot was a swathe of
white. He let out a sharp breath as he sat down, and unlaced the
recovered boots. The gear he dumped on a medical table. With
grimacing and a bit of cursing, he managed to fit the boot over the
bandages and laced it up good and tight. They weren't quite military
boots, but they'd do.
Then, because he was fashion conscious, he laced the other one up
too. He gave a brief nod of the head as the doc moved of to go
exploring. Then quickly raised his voice in a hoarse shout.
"Find some food!"
Booths tested the boots, and found that they provided some support
for his ravaged toe. Especially if he kept the pressure off the
instep. This produced an interesting, stiff legged limp. Not to
mention pain filled.
He'd love to get out of his fatigues, but the jacket he had found
would have to do. His Gurkha blade flashed as he pulled it out of its
sheathe, and he lopped off the sleeves of the jacket he had acquired.
The superfluous cloth, he threw into a corner.
He ejected 9 shells from the bandoleer, and set them up in a row.
Then he pulled the bandoleer painfully over his shoulder, and covered
it with the modified jacket/vest. A slightly ludicrous combination,
but it would help to keep him warm. Booths re-sheathed the almost
foot-long knife, and turned his attention to the shotgun. Well made,
and sturdy, like any Browning construction.
He took up the gun, and began feeding shells into the loader
mechanism. He filled it to capacity, then engaged the safety. He
cocked the handle, and inserted the ninth cartridge he had kept in
reserve. If his encounter had taught him one thing, it was that you
could never have enough ammo.
His hand moved stiffly as he scratched at his scalp. He wasn't sure
that sending Mac and Vito out together was such a sure fire thing to
do. Both were still green. He wasn't the sarge though, and definitely
did not envy Moore's position. He realized that he was beyond tired
right now, and he wished for a coffee more then anything else.
Booths got up stiffly. He wasn't going to die anytime soon, as long
as he took it easy, and he damn well wasn't going to sit still.
He picked up the shotgun, and moved out of the medlab, he considered
following Patty, but instead chose to go straight ahead, through the
door in front of him, and limp a perimeter patrol, checking the doors
as he went. One thing bugged him.
Where had all those black fuckers come from.
His half step/limp echoed as he walked step, by stiff step, by step.
Those marines heading up to B deck do so with utmost care. Sarge
leads the way, tracker in one hand and rifle in the other. The lights
are still dead, have been for the last half hour or so. The comtech
knows emergency backups should have kicked in by now. Even the vent-
fans are dead. Sarge doesn't miss the implications. "We're gonna run
out of air. Vitelli, you've got two new objectives: besides
establishing comm, get us lights and atmosphere. I want a report in
fifteen minutes, or as soon as you're done, understand?"
On B deck, in the corridor just outside of the ladder-access, Sarge
takes Morrison back toward the cargo holds. Vitelli and McKenzie head
forward into the bridge, panning their shoulder lamps into the dark
recesses beneath the consoles. Mac stays toward the center of the
room, where he has the best view of either entrance. Vitelli sets his
gear down near a navigator's station and unfurls several lengths of
cable. After a few moments, he's feeding power into the computer and
skimming the automatic startup procedures. Finally, a menu is
displayed on the undersized navigation screen, giving him several
options. One of them is communications, which is more complicated
than he was expecting. The main dish is unpowered, but the short-
range transmitter might just have enough juice to get a message to
Leon.
As soon as Sarge and the others had headed out, Patwardhan and Booths
began their own missions. First, the doc gets to welding the aft
hatch leading into the cargo deck, just down the hall. Confident of a
tight seal, they then carefully pull open the doors directly across
from the medlab. Patwardhan shines into the large, empty space with a
flashlight she had found among other emergency supplies. Almost ten
meters wide and twice as long, with a huge door marked "C DECK," this
room is certainly a garage. A yellow-frame Caterpillar power-loading
exoskeleton sits inert in the far left corner, attached by cables to
a recharge station. On the floor are greasy tracks, probably made by
a six-wheeled cargo mover. The right-hand side of the room is covered
with toolboxes and refueling equipment, and pegboard walls dangling
with wrenches. Some of the tools are truly enormous.
The garage door is probably too heavy to push through, since it's
probably twenty centimeters thick. A simple welded seal wouldn't
increase its integrity very much, so Doc decides to move on toward
the opposite doorway, past the power-loader suit. Booths limps behind
her, wincing with every step. The two of them push the unpowered
hatch aside and move into the port-side corridor. All is quiet and
dark. Another aftward hatch gets treated to a welding. The pair then
moves cautiously forward toward the cryo bay, passing empty doors,
and the disquieting acid-burn through the decking from above.
By the time Patwardhan has found her patient again, she's filled in
her companion about the events that took place up here. She shows him
the motionless, sleeping colonist still in his cryo-cocoon. The life
readouts are all green, and he's ready for a wake-up anytime. Doc
leaves out the part about Moore probably being livid if he found out
she's disobeyed his order. This poor guy would be dead if she had set
him to freeze again instead of simple sedation. He looks peaceful
enough, having missed all the action. The last thing this guy
probably remembers is digging up turnips or whatever they do on LV-
426. Boy, did he miss out.
Back on the bridge, Vitelli has run into a disturbing technical
problem. Getting the transmitter aligned was a bitch, to be sure, but
having it reply with static is worse. Leon's not picking up the other
end. The Gaines spits back its usual stream of comm data, itself
comforting in its automation, but not really useful. McKenzie leans
over Vitelli's shoulder and says, "Nobody's home? How you gonna break
the bad news to Sarge?" He shivers in the dark.
Moore puts the finishing touches on the seal to the barricaded
starboard cargo hatch, verbalizing to Morrison. "How long have we
been doing this, Morris? Have you ever seen anything like those? I
mean, Jesus Christ, that was the biggest fucking virus I ever saw,
you know?" He stands up, kicks the hatch to test the seal. "That's
everything on B deck. Should hold, unless they make a real effort.
You know, they tell us to watch out for anything bigger than amoeba.
They don't tell us to watch out for shit like that."
He grunts, setting the welder back onto its belt hook. "Vitelli," he
says into his comm. "I want that update."
PVT VITELLI posted by Nino 2.1.2000
"Mother-fucking-shit-hole-god-damn-it-piece-o-shit-fucking-computer!"
Vitelli says out loud as he gets zip from the Gaines as far as
communications go. "Where the fuck are you Leon. We need you now you
stupid piece of hardware." He tries to relax and slowly breathes in
the stale air. Vitelli reaches into his pack of cigarettes, he sees
that of the original twenty, only three cancer sticks are left.
"As if the day couldn't get any worse," Vitelli said at the soon to
be empty pack. He slides one of the remaining cigarettes out and
lights it with his lucky Zippo. He inhales the cigarette, the
nicotine calming his nerves. He rests his forehead on the screen, his
temples pumping as he thinks.
"All right," he said to himself. Vitelli scooted his chair back and
started to crawl under the computer. Using his electronic tools,
Vitelli starts to play around with wires. Connecting them, unplugging
them, twisting them together. Constantly he got up to check his
screen to see if there were any answers from the Gaines.
He also gets to work on the air condition and the lights since he is
down there anyway. He starts up another computer and plays with that
to see if he gets the fans running. He uses another one to get the
lights on. In his wheel chair he slides back and forth between
computers, punching keys. He goes under the computers, breaking
panels and re-wiring everything.
As he works he hears a crackle in his comm. Vitelli notices that it
was the Sergeant.
"Vitelli, I want an update," the Sarge said.
"Listen Sarge I got three computers up and running. One for each
problem we got. So far I got shit. McKenzie is breathing over my
shoulder the whole time which ain't helping. You gotta give me time,
and don't pull that "we don't have time" shit on me. I know how much
time we got. I working as fast as I can!" Vitelli said in what
sounded like one long sentence, not letting Sarge to interrupt.
The lights are still out, but it's a small matter to get the
air circulation back online. Anybody standing near a vent will get a
fresh breath of stale recycled air, but at least it's moving.
PFC PATWARDHAN posted by Max 2.1.2000
"Let's do a little bit more looking around before we wake up sleeping
beauty here," Patwardhan says. "If we know what questions to ask
before bringing him around, we may have a better chance of getting
the right answers. Checking around will hopefully provide some info
that we can compare to this guy's story."
She makes sure that her patient is sedated enough, and then starts
her search. She starts on the port side of the ship and thumbs open
the foremost door on her left as she faces aft, pistol drawn. After a
brief look see there, she moves to the door opposite it, and repeats
the same thing. She keeps an eye out for any equipment or supplies
that might help out the current situation.
The first door Patwardhan approaches has a complex keypad for a lock.
Booths leans in behind the doc to take a look. Of all the things
that're unpowered right now, this lock has to be gleaming its red
light indicating that it's sealed. Patwardhan thinks to try a medical
override sequence, which does the trick.
The door slides open about three centimeters before jamming fast.
Both marines have to work hard to shove the door open manually.
They're disappointed to see a room full of equipment monitors, floor-
to-ceiling thumb switches and tiny readouts on ship status, not even
a chair to sit on. There's a small section of the room near the back,
with more of the same kind of diagnostics displays. This stuff's
pretty much incomprehensible to the smartgunner and the medtech, but
it definitely looks like the kind of place Vitelli would be
interested in. Booths does his duty, reporting the find, while
Patwardhan heads across the hall.
This door opens up easily. The floor is white tile, and a little
slippery. The bright beam of Patwardhan's flashlight, awkwardly
clutched between her chest and right forearm, shines on a pair of
shower stalls. On the right, a stand of lockers. Further down are
toilet stalls. Welcome to the head. There's a funny smell in here.
Vitelli's glad to hear about the diagnostics room, since he's been
hoping to find that place. If he can get down there and take a look
at the power distribution firsthand, he can formulate a battle plan
to get the Korea up and running, and get them out of there. Moore
even seems to think it's a good idea. He authorizes McKenzie and the
comtech to get down to C deck, get right on it. He and Morrison are
going to stick around B deck and reinforce the welds with furniture
from the cabins. Talking about welding the bedframes over the doors.
McKenzie shakes his head and tries to fake a smile for Vitelli's
sake. The two rookies don't look as scared in the dark, bathed in the
glow of the bridge computer screens. "I'm getting goddamn tired of
lugging this thing up and down that ladder, man," Mac scolds. "Let's
get out of here." He stands up, hefting the smartgun's nose toward
the ceiling. He slowly paces through the doorway leading toward the
access ladder, sighting down the corridor. "Those fuckers weren't so
tough."
Sarge sounds suddenly agitated over the headset. "I need lights now,
Vitelli."
Down on C deck, even up near the cryo bay, Booths and Patwardhan hear
it. A thumping. Rhythmic pounding, hard, coming from the crew deck.
Down here. Bashing away at the seals Patwardhan worked on, just down
the hall from the acid burn, the fucking things are beating
themselves against the door. Throwing themselves at the door, from
the sounds of it.
Booths squints, shines his lamp for a clear view, watches the metal
hatch bending inward, giving way with each forceful push. Pounding.
Huffing. Puffing. Blowing your house in.
McKenzie is heard to say, "On my way, Sarge!" as he charges down the
corridor. He ducks through the galley to find Sarge and Morrison
standing a few meters back from the central access corridor hatch.
Mac can hardly believe his eyes as the thick metal buckles. The three
soldiers aim their weapons and set their jaws.
Terrible sound of metal being wrenched apart, as part of the hatch
breaks free of its mount. A clawed hand curls around one jagged
corner, as something forces the lower part of the hatch just a bit
further away from the bulkhead. An incredible hiss fills the air.
Whether it's the aliens taunting, or the marines sucking in their
lasts, those things are going to be in here in no time.
PFC BOOTHS posed by Asmodean 2.4.2000
Booths listened with intent ears. Parasites. Incubation. And obscene
birth. And these idiots had taken two infected people along for a
ride. Booths shook his head.
A little later, in the cryo-bay, Booths looks down at the sedated
man, half hearing Patwardhan's words. Wordlessly he disengages the
shotguns safety. A click resounds in the cryo-bay, echoing with
almost insectile ambience. He raises the shotgun, and points it
straight at the man's chest.
Booths' eyes are strangely intent and focused. His mind shut out
every time, and a rush deafened him. There was only him and a
potential *alien*. The moment passed, his weaker human side gaining
control.
"I should shoot him." Disdainfully, he turns his back and safeties
the shotgun.
In the corridor, Booths watches in -almost- respect as the bastards
ram into the door again and again. he couldn't tell how many there
are on the other side, but this did not seem like a half-assed
assault.
"Patty, get back a bit." A lassitude had crept over him as he
shuffles his way forward painfully. He stays a few feet away from the
door, and raises the shotgun with one hand, his thumb switching the
safety off once more. His other hand reaches for his belt, and the
grenades still attached to it. The pounding was dull, and it was
beginning to give him a headache, the way it seem to synchronize with
his pulse.
He pulled the White Phosphorous grenade away from his belt, arming it
as the pin stayed where it was. He did not release his stark grip on
the grenades safety mechanism though. There was something about being
fried alive by 2400 degree centigrade phosphorous wisps. In close
quarters, it was a virtual hell.
He waited calmly for the gap to open a little wider. He didn't have
to throw it, just push it through, once the opening got big enough.
By the time it takes Booths to hobble down the hall, the aliens have
almost ripped the entire. If this plan of his with the grenade
doesn't work just right, he'll be on his own against God knows how
many of the aliens. In any case, Booths is all actioned out for this
round. What does Doc think about all this? And Vitelli, what's he
doing?
Unfortunately, we've lost two players in the last week. Eamon
(Morrison) has moved on to better things. Jody (McKenzie) has
disappeared without a trace. They'll both be missed. If you've been
keeping track, that leaves only three player characters: Booths,
Patwardhan, and Vitelli. That should be significant, since you know
what happens to non-player characters around here. Barbecue indeed.
PFC PATWARDHAN posted 2.5.2000
Not quite sure what else to do, Patwardhan sticks close to booths,
and pulls the flare gun from her belt. At this range, it should be
almost impossible to miss even with the improvised weapon. She
remembers her own grenades she carries, and debates puttind down a
smokescreen until she also remembers that the aliens don't seem to
have any eyes, so smoke wouldn't accomplish much besides blinding her
and her teammates.
She levels the flare gun at the door, and hopes that Booths can get
rid of his grenade and take care of the bugs before she has to use it.
"If they start coming fast, we should break back to the upper deck,"
she says to Booths, her voice a whisper, even though she's sure the
aliens can't understand what she's saying. She runs a map of the area
through her head, figuring that taking refuge in the garage or Cryo
would leave too many exits to guard. Something does stick in her
mind, though.
"Booths, can you drive a loader?"
PFC BOOTHS posed by Asmodean 2.7.2000
"Patty, if they come up fast, I'm fucked." He ignored the banging for
a moment, and half turned his head back to Aishwarya.
"And what the hell do you mean, can I drive a loader? In *this*
condition?" He mulled it over. "Well yeah, I guess I can." He turned
his attention back fully to the matter at hand, i.e. the grenade
ready and primed, waiting to create a pyrotechnic hell...
PFC PATWARDHAN posted by Max 2.7.2000
"You don't need a lot of strength to operate a loader," Patwardhan
says, "and since these things only fight hand to hand, it may put you
on even ground with them." She makes sure she can easily get to the
extra flare gun cartridges in the pocket of her borrowed jumpsuit,
and she nervously huddles even closer to Booths, seeming to take
comfort in just being near another human being. "And please, call me
Aishwarya."
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