LZR-1143: Evolution by Bryan James

that right now? I was about to tromp up a narrow stairwell to a possibly zombie-infested bridge to try to steal back the plague juice that held the only possible cure to this mess.
    We could talk rank later.
    I wasted no time and sprinted toward the closed door at the base of the bridge tower. I looked up briefly, noting the seven story height of the tower. The SEALs standing guard near the closed hatch looked up as I approached and backed up at a shouted command from my friend, who appeared to be their commander. I grabbed the latch and pulled up, opening the door wide and jumping through.
     
    Chapter 10
     
    Sparing one more wistful glance for the idling helicopters and the firepower of the accumulated SEAL teams, I raced up the stairs, pistol in hand. I didn’t take the seven minute warning lightly. If I didn’t get down there soon, the helicopters wouldn’t be able to wait any longer since the ship they were parked on would be under water. They would have to take off, and immune or not, I would die on this tin can.
    The stairs were oddly canted to the side, a product of the slanted deck and sinking ship. This portion of the ship was sealed off and isolated from the remainder of the ship, with one access point belowdecks. The SEALs had closed off that access point, so in theory, assuming — as I was inclined to — that the special forces team downstairs knew their job, the only danger I needed to worry about was any of those things that were left inside the bridge and the conning tower at the time of the outbreak.
    It was hardly a comforting thought, but it was one that I found far more comfortable than the concept of thousands of undead sailors and marines flooding the stairwell and trapping me in the small bridge while the ship sank below my feet.
    My footsteps rang hollowly as I pounded up the narrow steps. I took each floor carefully, despite my belief that the SEALs had cleaned up in the open compartments. Better safe than sorry, and I was going to be really sorry if one of those ghouls took a chunk out of my ass while I wasn’t looking.
    I reached the top floor and moved toward the bridge. It was a pathway that we had taken only hours before, but it seemed like days. I briefly remembered the hope that I had felt in knowing that such a large bastion of American military power had survived the plague. Guilt shot through my system like a surge of adrenalin as I realized just how culpable I was in the death of her crew.
    My reason warred with my emotion, as my regret at not disclosing our condition and the possible cure slowly lost out to the necessity of keeping such things secret until we were sure of the effects of the vaccine. While I knew that we would have fared much worse, possibly with the same result to the crew, given the Captain’s zeal for progress with no regard for his test subjects, I still felt regret. And immense shame.
    Reaching for the horizontal handle with my left hand, I stood still momentarily, listening. From inside, I thought I heard an oddly out of place sound—that of a man laughing, softly. No sounds of movement, or of talking.
    I resolved to try to enter quietly, and pushed the handle down slowly. It threatened to squeak against its housing, as metal moved against metal, but stayed blessedly silent. As I pushed the door open and stepped cautiously through the door, pistol raised, I heard his voice.
    “No use trying to sneak in, Mr. McKnight. I know you’re there, and I know you’re you. So come on in.”
    His voice was off, slightly higher than normal, and he was speaking faster, almost frantically. Recognizing that he had some way of seeing me coming, I walked in, gun still raised.
    He sat in his chair, eyes staring into the distance. He had a bandage wrapped haphazardly around his left arm. A large brownish-red stain showed through the white gauze.
    “Good to see you again,” he said, eyes not moving, staying locked on the churning waves below. I glanced toward the deck, but