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Hey, guys. Y'see, I am quite tired right now, but I'm also in the "Fanfic Zone". So, to compromise, I will release the first section of a story of mine now, which I will call "Dead Space: After The End. It will focus on a town (specifically, London) during its efforts to survive the Necromorphic Apocalpyse which has come and gone. This first bit just shows about an hour after it reaches London (and any plot holes here are intentional, I assure you) before the rest of the world, and the efforts of the main character, surgeon Alistair Wesley, to escape to a bunker.

Of course, none of that actually happens at this point, but I promise, tomorrow I will follow up on it with the second part.


DEAD SPACE: AFTER THE END


Who doesn't want to live on Earth?

There's a lot of reasons to live in nicer places, like the Sprawl, somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy (if you have a good degree in physics, biology and such – there aren't any miners on the forefront of mankind) if you're lucky, but God forbid you get put on a Planet-Cracker.

Alistair had worked – no, lived – on a Planet-Cracker class ship for a month, and still suffered nightmares to this day. Compact corridors, hazardous machinery, nobody to help if things go wrong but a shuttle of five (an engineer, an electrician and three Merchant Marines) to the population of a large city. The conditions were hellish... but the thing Alistair missed most about being in the depths of space was the sun.

It was odd, getting used to the absence of light. When he looked outside a window, all he could see was blackness, going on and on for eternity... how his mind got lost in the depths as though a black hole were parked right outside the ship still haunted him to this day, despite the amount of room behind being “Lab Assistant” on a compacted ship and a surgeon in London.

But on Earth – particularly England – the sun always shone.

Perhaps it was this detail which seemed to make the scene unfolding in front of him all the more... off. He was looking into the operating theatre – which was scheduled to be in use today – and failed to see any signs of life.

The tools were set up, of course, the gas, the scalpels, and such, but the whole room was empty.

Scanning the room, he began to notice part of what was off-putting about the situation – the whole hospital was silent, apart from the strong winds outside which relentlessly ripped through the supposedly impenetrable barrier (the sound of which he had just dozed off to). Even his breathing, becoming faster and faster with the rising tension, was seemingly muffled by the environment, making it seem as though Alistair's ears were stuffed with cotton.

Looking around the darkened and slanted auditorium, he remembered the door down the emergency stairs. Surely, there would be people in reception. But first...

He retraced his steps back to his office, and, digging in one of his drawers, recovered a spare scalpel which was due for cleaning. It was a bit bloodied, but most of it was dry, and his anyway. Remembering the tumorous-looking scar on his left thumb, he slipped it into his lab coat. Sure, he thought, if anybody asks, I'm just cleaning it downstairs because my sink doesn't work. Who would know that, for a moment, he thought that the world had been utterly vaporised except him, leaving unnatural creatures in their wake...

Sure, who would really ask again?

Heading for the stairs, taking the high route around the steel chairs of the auditorium, Alistair noticed something that made his heart stop and skip a beat.

There was blood leading out the door of the theatre.

Unsheathing his scalpel, he reached a satisfying conclusion: there were complications during the patient's surgery. A large amount of veins and arteries were punctured, and he had to be carted away, and, in doing so, left a trail of blood.

Smiling at how he thought the zombie apocalypse had begun, he slipped the scalpel back into his pocket, and continued downstairs.



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