2.17: Zombie Lisa: Vertical Movement

2.17: Zombie Lisa: Vertical Movement

Lisa scratched her sign into the curved wall. Then collapsed back into the corner. Her hair lay in a tent of sharp angles in the high gravity. She gritted her teeth and screamed at the author, “You should post the gravity levels in the chapter titles you asshole! You can’t even keep it straight. Also, your readers want a look at the station specs, so you better better actually design the fucker!”

Her diatribe, lingering effects of the post mortem, died out, echoing away down the tubes. She thought back to Syrge’s practical science lectures. Little shit irritated the hell out of her but he knew his stuff. You had to climb to get lighter. Each vertical move would make you that much lighter. Each step faster than the last until blessed zero g.

She crawled flat along the floor in a shimmying fashion. The lights were dim, shining from thin strips of red and yellow along the seams of the hall. She flipped heavily onto her back and scanned the ceiling for vents. She spied one twenty yards away. She flipped herself back over and muttered to herself.

“I will talk to myself the entire climb if it will cease this pointless descriptive narrating: ‘Little animal girl exerts great effort crawling along in the 3 g rim of the station, intent on escaping. “

She crawled slowly along the rough knurled floor, her voice rising in volume as if to cover up a radio broadcast.

“Each meter left her muscles more achy than before, and when she finally got under the vent, they were even more achier than the achiest ache she’d ever ached. She had no idea from whence reserves she would draw the strength to jump to the necessary heights. Blah fucking blah… years of misuse… drug resistance… and… bad poetry… secrets and joy… chicken nuggets are people…”

She had not been above 2 gs in years. Her bones felt like snapping, but she knew she could do it. Apart from her blackouts, she was a gengineered miracle of physical prowess. She had seen vids of herself. When her memory functions shut down, her body went transhuman monster on the fuckers. She turned a look of poison on the page break. Her heavy jaw caused her words to slur, but somehow the sarcasm and disdain were apparent.

“With the will of a thousand desperate Montagues, though the spin threatened to fling her through the bulkhead, she flexed her knees once, twice, thrice… and… Heeeachk!!”

She jumped as high as she could and swung her stiff hands, pulled firm in the shape of claws or curved spades, into the grill of the vent. Her left arm caught and the young muscles in her shoulder stretched painfully but did not tear. She propellered her other hand until it found a grip on the edge of the shaft.   She hung for a moment, still muttering at imaginary architects. She continued talking to the empty passage through gritted teeth.

“Each pore of her body glistened with sweat, reflecting the yellow red ambience. She paused only briefly to imagine Vincent Pawn Gogh, dazzled at the sight of her, before mentally slapping herself in the face and pulling herself into the vent,” she spit a gob of phlegm on the floor, “Fuck this story.”

She set off crawling again through the narrow tunnel, looking for a vertical shaft that she could climb to lose the painful weight.


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