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wasn't just a matter of bad lighting, as the vents came with their own lights, no...it was because the thing was damn near blending in with its environment.
    What did that mean? The Stalkers were an obvious stealth offshoot of the zombies, meant for quicksilver speed and invisibility until they dropped down on your ass from the vents. Did it make sense that they would continue to get deadlier? He supposed it would, sure, why not? Things were shitty enough as it was.
    Greg sighed and memorized the route he had to take, again. He thought about it for a moment, and then decided it would take about twenty minutes, including a few detours if he ran into bad guys, whoever they might be. Finally, he decided he'd gotten all he could from the storage room and terminal. He opened the door.
    Poking his head cautiously out after listening and hearing nothing, Greg surveyed his surroundings. Another corridor, this one shorter, no blood. He slipped out and hurried down it, keeping the map firmly in his head. He turned a corner, spied a corpse up ahead, a Dark Ops soldier. Greg's hope sparked.
    He knelt by the body to investigate. The man's weapon and sidearm were both absent, but he had a few magazines to spare for the pistol. Greg grabbed them, finding only two, and slipped them into his pocket. As he stared at the body, Greg thought of the infection. He was a walking cure...and they still appeared to need him. Why? The most important question, (at least to him), could he get infected? Was it possible?
    Again, he ultimately concluded that he didn't want to run the only real test that would tell him. Luck was a thing that seemed to stick to him, he realized. Two weeks on Dis, longer, actually, before his memory went, and after all the encounters he'd had with the Undead in their varied forms, he hadn't been cut, bit, or touched even once, neither had Kyra or Cage, Billings or Powell. As he kept going, he thought of the dead.
    Baker, the poor kid who couldn't get the Zombie Apocalypse out of his head and looked at the whole thing on Dis like a movie. Then Greg thought of the Berserker, the hulk of raw muscle and killing power, crushing Baker's head like a grape, and stopped that line of thought. Instead, he shifted his focus to Kauffman. Taken down by a bullet, by Dark Ops. Where was his body now? When he'd last seen the pale thing, it had been on the floor of a jump ship. Greg didn't like that train of thought either, so he derailed it.
    Just in time, too. Something groaned up ahead: a deep, unpleasant sound. Adrenaline came at him, making him faster, stronger, more focused. Greg came to a corner, put his back to the wall, and edged up to it. He peered around the corner and spied a trio of zombies moving away from him. For a second, he was struck by how smooth their gaits were. In fact, if it wasn't for the rotted flesh and the inhuman groans, he'd have mistaken them for humans.
    He considered shooting them, but they were walking away from him, almost out of sight now anyway. Why race them to the grave? Better to conserve ammo and not give away his position. Besides, he was sure there was enough in the way of combat awaiting him over the next several hours or days, however long he had left to live.
    Greg waited another moment for the zombies to disappear, and then he kept going, tracing his way through the plague ship of the damned.

Chapter 05
    – Reunion Tour –
     
     
    The lift hummed quietly to a halt. Greg felt whatever tension had momentarily left his body snap back into place. He was almost back to the cells. After a lengthy session of a very lethal game of hide and seek, he'd managed to make it to the lift without being exposed to either the Undead or the Dark Ops troops.
    No simple trick. Greg peered out the doors, first one way, and then the other. The corridor he'd come to was void. Good. He slipped out and padded down the corridor, listening intently for anything that might be sneaking up on him. The image of that Stalker