The carrier's emergency alarm shifted to a higher pitch—the signal for active combat within the vessel itself. Mikhail's military training, mandatory for all Russian citizens during their university years, surged to the forefront of his mind. At twenty-eight, he was still in prime physical condition, his lean frame concealing the strength developed through years of combat sambo and systema training.
"Secure the girl," he ordered the medical staff, scanning the room for weapons. "Areeya, help them prepare the blood samples. We need those secured regardless of what happens."
The ship lurched again, more violently this time, sending equipment crashing to the floor. Through the small window in the isolation room door, Mikhail could see medical personnel rushing in the corridor beyond, evacuating patients from the main medical bay.
A naval medic handed him a sidearm without question. "Twelve rounds, safety's on. You know how to use this, Doctor?"
Mikhail checked the weapon with practiced efficiency. "Six years military service requirement in Russia. I qualified expert marksman." He didn't mention the additional training his father, a former Spetsnaz officer, had insisted upon throughout his childhood.
The medic nodded, clearly relieved. "Security teams are stretched thin. If the infected break through..."
"They won't," Mikhail stated with a conviction he didn't entirely feel. He turned to Nari, who watched the exchange with wide, frightened eyes. "It's going to be alright," he assured her in broken Thai, before switching to English for Areeya to translate. "We'll protect you."
Areeya relayed his words as she efficiently prepared blood collection equipment. Nari nodded, rolling up her sleeve with a bravery that belied her years.
"I've been hiding for weeks," she said through Areeya's translation. "I'm tired of running."
As the medics began drawing blood samples, the ship's intercom crackled to life again. "All personnel, be advised: infected have breached levels D through B. They appear to be moving with purpose toward the research facilities and medical bay. All non-combat personnel evacuate to secure zones immediately."
"They're coming for the research," Areeya realized. "And possibly..."
"For her," Mikhail finished, nodding toward Nari. "The network knows she's immune. Somehow, it can sense her."
The door burst open as Dr. Harrington rushed in, accompanied by two armed marines. "We need to move," she announced without preamble. "The infected are specifically targeting this section. They've cut off direct routes to the secure zones."
"How many?" Mikhail asked, automatically checking the sidearm's magazine again—a habit ingrained during his military service.
"At least thirty confirmed aboard," one of the marines answered. "Came in with the last refugee transport. Hid their symptoms somehow."
"Intelligent infiltration," Mikhail muttered. "Are there any Alphas?"
"Affirmative. One confirmed, leading the main group."
Mikhail thought quickly. "The samples—how many do we need for preliminary analysis?"
Areeya looked at the three vials of blood they'd already collected. "This should be sufficient to begin."
"Then we split up," Mikhail decided. "Dr. Harrington, take Areeya and the samples to the auxiliary lab on level A. It's more defensible, and you'll have what you need to start analysis." He turned to the marines. "I'll take the girl with your men to the secure zone by an alternate route. If the infected can sense her, we can use that—draw them away from the research team."
Harrington hesitated. "That's extremely risky, Doctor."
"We don't have a choice," Mikhail countered. "If they capture both the girl and the samples, we lose everything."
After a moment's consideration, Harrington nodded. "Be careful. We need you too, Dr. Volkov."
As Harrington and Areeya prepared to leave with the precious blood samples, Mikhail turned to Nari. "We're going to move quickly and quietly," he explained through one of the medics who spoke Thai. "Stay between the marines. Do exactly as they say—and as I say. Understand?"
The girl nodded, her expression resolute despite her fear.
One of the marines spoke into his radio, coordinating their movement. "We'll take maintenance shaft B7 to level A, then cross to the starboard secure zone."
The group split, Harrington and Areeya heading one direction with the samples while Mikhail, Nari, and the two marines moved toward a service corridor. The carrier's massive size—once a symbol of military might—now created a labyrinth where danger could lurk around any corner.
They moved swiftly through narrow maintenance corridors, the emergency lighting casting everything in an eerie red glow. Mikhail took point, his military training returning as if he'd never left service. Behind him, Nari moved silently, her face determined. The marines brought up the rear, weapons ready.
"How did you survive in Bangkok?" Mikhail asked Nari quietly as they navigated the corridors, partly to keep her calm, partly out of genuine curiosity.
The medic translated, and Nari's reply came back: "I hid. Moved at night. The strange thing was, when they did see me, they would just... watch. Like they were studying me. But they never attacked."
Mikhail filed this information away. The network's behavior toward immune individuals seemed complex—not simply predatory, but observational. Almost scientific.
Their path took them through an equipment storage area. As they moved between tall shelving units, a soft, skittering sound stopped them cold. Something was moving on the other side of the room.
Mikhail signaled for silence, then carefully edged forward to peer between shelf gaps. What he saw made his blood run cold.
Three infected crewmen moved methodically through the storage area. Their transformations were at different stages—one nearly human except for fungal patches visible on his neck, another with half his face consumed by shelf-like fungal growths, the third almost completely transformed, his uniform split open by fruiting bodies that pulsed with eerie bioluminescence.
Most disturbing was their behavior. They weren't randomly searching but systematically checking each aisle, communicating through soft clicking sounds and deliberate hand gestures. They were hunting with intelligence and coordination.
Mikhail retreated silently to the group. "Three infected," he whispered. "Blocking our path."
"We can take them," one marine murmured, raising his weapon.
"No," Mikhail cautioned. "Gunfire will draw others. We need another route."
The second marine consulted a digital map of the carrier. "There's a vertical access shaft twenty meters back. It'll take us up to A deck, but it's a harder climb."
"That's our move," Mikhail decided.
They began backing away slowly, but Nari suddenly froze, her eyes widening in alarm. Following her gaze, Mikhail saw what had frightened her—a fourth infected, more heavily transformed than the others, hanging from the ceiling pipes directly above their previous position. It hadn't seen them yet, its fungal-covered head swiveling slowly as it surveyed the room.
Mikhail placed a steadying hand on Nari's shoulder and signaled for absolute silence. The group inched backward, each step carefully placed to avoid making sound.
They were nearly to the access shaft when Nari's foot dislodged a small tool that had been left on the floor. The metallic clang seemed deafening in the silence.
The ceiling-clinging infected's head snapped toward them instantly. It emitted a high-pitched shriek that would clearly alert the others.
Mikhail reacted on pure instinct. His sidearm came up in one fluid motion, and he fired—a single, perfect shot that took the creature through what remained of its eye. It fell from the ceiling with a heavy thud.
"Run!" he ordered, knowing the shot and shriek would bring the others.
They sprinted for the access shaft, the sounds of pursuit close behind. The marines reached the shaft first, pulling open the heavy hatch. One climbed in to help Nari while the other turned to provide covering fire.
Mikhail spun to face their pursuers, firing controlled pairs at the approaching infected. His military training showed in his economy of movement and precision. Two infected dropped with headshots, but the third—the most transformed—continued charging despite taking multiple rounds to the torso.
As it closed the distance, Mikhail switched tactics. He sidestepped its rush, using its momentum against it in a perfect systema throw that sent it crashing into a storage rack. Before it could recover, he delivered a precisely targeted strike to the base of its skull—a killing blow he'd been taught would sever the spinal cord.
The infected collapsed, but to Mikhail's horror, its body continued moving, fungal tendrils writhing beneath the skin as if seeking to repair the damage.
"Doctor, now!" the marine shouted from the access shaft.
Mikhail didn't need to be told twice. He dove for the shaft as more infected appeared at the far end of the storage area. The marine pulled him in and secured the hatch behind them just as clawed hands reached for the opening.
The vertical shaft was narrow, lit only by emergency lighting. Maintenance rungs provided their path upward.
"Nari's already climbing with Stevens," the marine explained, gesturing upward. "We need to move fast. Those things will find another way to A deck."
Mikhail nodded, beginning the climb. His mind raced as fast as his hands and feet. The infected's ability to continue functioning despite catastrophic damage to the human host's nervous system suggested the fungal network had established redundant control systems within the body—perhaps even replacing the spinal cord with mycelial structures.
They climbed in tense silence, the distant sounds of chaos throughout the carrier reaching them even in the shaft. After what seemed an eternity, they reached A deck, where Stevens and Nari waited at the hatch.
"Area's clear," Stevens reported. "Secure zone is three hundred meters starboard."
They emerged into a wider corridor. Emergency lighting bathed everything in red, and the sounds of fighting echoed from distant sections of the ship. The marine took point this time, leading them toward the secure zone with practiced efficiency.
As they rounded a corner into a larger junction, Mikhail felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck—the instinctive awareness of danger his father had trained into him. He pulled Nari back just as something massive dropped from a ceiling maintenance hatch.
The Alpha landed with surprising grace for its size. Unlike the specialized infected they'd encountered in the storage area, this was something altogether more evolved. It stood nearly seven feet tall, its former human shape grotesquely enhanced by fungal structures that formed a kind of exoskeleton. Its head was crowned with antenna-like growths, and what had once been arms now terminated in wicked, blade-like extensions of hardened fungus.
Most disturbing was its face—still recognizably human but transformed by purpose and intelligence that was decidedly not human. It regarded them with glittering eyes, focusing immediately on Nari.
"Immune subject located," it said in a voice that sounded like multiple voices layered together. "Primary objective confirmed."
The marines opened fire immediately, rounds slamming into the Alpha's fungal armor with minimal effect. It moved with shocking speed, covering the distance to the first marine in a blur. One blade-arm swept out, and the man went down, clutching a grievous wound to his torso.
The second marine continued firing until his magazine emptied, then drew a combat knife. "Get her out of here!" he shouted to Mikhail.
Mikhail hesitated only a fraction of a second. The rational part of his mind knew the marine was right—Nari's survival took priority over everything. But leaving a man to die alone went against everything he believed.
"Flanking corridor," the wounded marine gasped, pointing to a side passage. "Go!"
The Alpha turned toward Mikhail and Nari, seemingly dismissing the marines as irrelevant threats. Its focus was entirely on the immune girl.
Mikhail made his decision. Pushing Nari toward the side passage, he called out to her, "Run! Follow that corridor to the end. Look for security personnel!" Through hand gestures and urgent tone, he made his meaning clear despite the language barrier.
Then he turned back, drawing the combat knife from his belt—a gift from his father that he'd carried since his military service. The weighted blade felt familiar in his hand.
The second marine had engaged the Alpha, his knife scoring minimal damage against its fungal armor before a savage backhand sent him crashing into a wall. The creature moved to finish him, but Mikhail intervened.
"Hey!" he shouted. "I'm the one you want. I know how to kill your network."
The Alpha paused, its head tilting as if receiving instructions. Then it turned from the downed marine to face Mikhail fully.
"The epidemiologist," it said in that multi-layered voice. "High-value acquisition. Your knowledge will serve the collective."
It lunged forward with that unnatural speed. Mikhail barely dodged, his combat training the only thing that saved him. The blade-arm whistled past his face, close enough that he felt the air displacement.
Mikhail had no illusions about winning this fight—the creature outmatched him in strength and speed by an order of magnitude. But he didn't need to win. He only needed to delay.
He circled carefully, knife held in the reverse grip favored by Russian special forces. The Alpha studied his movements with predatory intelligence, adapting its stance to mirror his own combat posture.
"You learn quickly," Mikhail observed, searching for any weakness in its fungal armor. "But you're not the only one who can adapt."
He feinted left, then dropped and rolled right as the Alpha lunged. Coming up behind it, he drove his knife with all his strength into the junction where its neck met its shoulder—a point where the fungal armor seemed thinner.
The blade sank in, releasing a gush of yellowish fluid that smelled of rot and chemicals. The Alpha shrieked, a sound that held both rage and pain.
Mikhail tried to withdraw the knife for another strike, but it was stuck fast in the creature's tissues. The Alpha whirled, faster than he could react, its blade-arm catching him across the chest. Only his desperate backward movement prevented disembowelment, but the strike still opened a long, shallow cut from his right shoulder to his left hip.
The pain was immediate and searing. Mikhail stumbled back, one hand pressed to the bleeding wound. The Alpha advanced relentlessly, pulling the knife from its own body and discarding it.
"Your resistance is informative," it said. "The network adapts."
Mikhail backed away, searching desperately for a weapon, an escape, anything. His back hit the wall. Nowhere left to retreat.
The Alpha raised its blade-arm for a killing stroke—and then staggered as automatic weapons fire tore into it from behind. Mikhail glimpsed a security team at the far end of the corridor, their concentrated fire finally penetrating the creature's armor.
The Alpha screeched in rage, turning to face this new threat. In that moment of distraction, Mikhail dove for his discarded knife. His hand closed around the hilt just as the Alpha, realizing it was outmatched, fled toward an air duct, its body contorting impossibly to squeeze through the opening.
Mikhail collapsed against the wall, the adrenaline fade making him suddenly aware of how badly he was wounded. The security team rushed forward, medics immediately attending to him and the downed marines.
"The girl," Mikhail gasped. "Teenage refugee. Where is she?"
"Safe," one of the security officers assured him. "We found her running toward the secure zone. She told us where to find you."
Mikhail nodded, relief washing through him. As the medics worked to stabilize his wound, his thoughts turned to the Alpha. Its words echoed in his mind: "The network adapts."
Not just physical adaptation, but tactical. It had recognized him specifically, prioritized him as a "high-value acquisition" rather than just killing him outright. The network wanted his knowledge.
Which meant, on some level, it feared what he might discover.
As the medics lifted him onto a stretcher, Mikhail's hand tightened around the knife he still clutched. The blade was coated with the Alpha's yellowish fluids—a direct sample of the more advanced stage of the fungus, potentially invaluable to their research.
Even in retreat, he had managed to acquire a weapon against the enemy. His father would have been proud.
"Get this to Dr. Harrington," he told one of the security officers, holding out the knife. "Tell her it's from the Alpha—uncontaminated tissue sample."
As they carried him toward the medical facility in the secure zone, the carrier's alarms finally began to quiet. The infected breach had been contained, at least for now. Through the haze of pain and encroaching unconsciousness, Mikhail found himself wondering about Nari—the girl the network wanted so badly, yet refused to harm.
Why would an organism bent on consuming all human life specifically avoid harming those who posed the greatest threat to it?
The question followed him into darkness as the medics administered sedatives for his emergency surgery.