Though zombie's didn't exist on Spectra, it wasn't as if they were completely foreign conceptually. Many organizations had attempted and failed, sometimes due to Theon's and Veritas's diligence, in certain experiments, often resulting in a product not too dissimilar to zombies. Mindless beasts, unable to feel pain and fuelled only by instinct. So fortunately for Theon, not only did he recognise what it was, it wasn't his first time facing such a being.
Theon's instincts took over as he stilled his body, concealing his presence as much as possible, afterall he wanted to avoid a fight if he could. But before he could even fully process what was happening, the creature's neck twisted with an unnerving, unnatural speed. It locked eyes with him, and in that instant, its attention was fixed, its mindless hunger directed at him.
Theon's pulse quickened, the rhythmic thud echoing in his ears. He swiftly drew out his guns out of habit and laid two shots into its heart.
Thunk. Thunk.
The result was immediate and disheartening—the bullet that struck the zombie's forehead bounced off with no more effect than a pebble skimming water and the one that struck its chest, aimed at its heart, didn't even make it through the mound of flesh. And the zombie didn't even flinch, didn't slow down. Narrowing his eyes, Theon knew he had no time to waste.
The zombie's grotesque form continued its unrelenting charge. And in a single, swift motion, it slashed out, its arm moving like a wild animal striking. With little to no time to react, Theon folded in half, the world blurring as the zombie's arm cut through the air where his chest had just been.
Yet it wasn't enough.
A breath, a single heartbeat too late.
Theon felt the rush of air as the creature's arm missed by mere centimeters, but it wasn't enough. The pressure from the slash alone forced a violent cough to erupt from his lungs as blood spilled from his mouth, clearly not having entirely recovered from his not so smooth arrival. Theon staggered back, boots skidding in the damp earth, until the unyielding bulk of a tree trunk slammed into his spine. Bark bit through his clothes. He had no retreat left.
The zombie lurched forward, its jaw unhinged in a silent scream, milky eyes locked onto him. Five paces. Then three.
No time to think. No room to run.
Steel whispered as Theon's twin blades cleared their sheaths, catching the pallid moonlight in a lethal crosshatch of reflected silver. Theon's fingers tightened around the hilts, his body settling into the killing stance he'd practiced ten thousand times before.
The second strike came in fast—a wild lunge aimed at his throat. Theon moved with fluid precision, twisting his body to the side and bringing both daggers in an arc toward the zombie's exposed flank. The steel cut through the decaying flesh, drawing a low, guttural hiss from the creature.
The zombie struck again, this time with both hands, an overwhelming, unthinking force. Theon parried the blow with one blade while he drove his other blade upward, but the sheer momentum of the hit he parried threw him off balance.
As he regained his footing, Theon's movements became sharper, more deliberate. Another deep cut across its shoulder, and then a slash at its exposed throat—more damage, more blood that spilled uselessly to the ground. Each exchange becomes a wager between Theon and the zombie with their lives on the line as he adjusted to the zombie. Though the zombie had superior physical abilities, ultimately it lacked the wit and intelligence that it otherwise should have had.
But it wasn't enough. The zombie, despite its decayed form, was relentless as the zombie's wounds wept more than pus—a sluggish, tar-like fluid that seemed to writhe in the moonlight. Its instinct drove it forward without pause or thought, each attack more frenzied than the last. Theon was constantly on the move, staying just out of reach of its deadly claws, using his blades to deflect, cut, and find openings in its shattered skin, but even then it wasn't enough, Theon knew he had to do something else.
Comparing the failed byproducts that Theon had faced back on Spectra to the ever-decreasing mass of flesh in front of him, it was akin to comparing the moon to the sun. The scientists on Spectra would have been salivating at the mere sight of its existence and begging like dogs to replicate a mere fraction of its prowess. Actually, compared to the literal mounds of moving flesh Spectra could muster, almost anything would have been an upgrade. Even its biggest weakness, its intelligence, or rather lack thereof, would have been seen as an upside as this way it would be easier to manipulate.
Slowly but surely, the zombie's momentum began to falter as Theon reestablished his own momentum. His daggers danced in his hands, cutting deep into its decaying flesh, causing it to recoil with each blow.
Then almost as if feeling itself lose ground, it lunged with a frenzied rage. With a casual swipe, the zombie's deteriorated fingers effortlessly shredded Theon's bulletproof clothing, exposing him to the chill of the alien breeze.
But to Theon it didn't matter. It was already too late.
A scheme he had hatched since the beginning had finally come to fruition.
The zombie faltered mid-step.
Confused, it lashed out with its entire body, causing Theon to jump backwards and out of its range.
But nothing changed.
The creature loomed, its milky eyes rolling in their sockets, saliva dripping from a jaw and pus leaking from its many wounds. It lunged again—a grotesque, shuddering motion—but this time, its left leg buckled mid-step. The knee locked at a sickening angle, tendons snapping audibly as it gave out. A guttural, phlegm-choked hiss bubbled from the zombie's throat, the sound of a beast realizing, for the first time, that it was broken. Theon's blade had found its mark. The zombie had lost control of its left leg.
Its sciatic nerve had finally been pierced.
The sciatic nerve, running down the back of the leg and controlling most of the muscles in the lower leg and foot, is the largest nerve in the human body. And its severing meant a person would lose control of most muscles in their leg. While there was no guarantee that the zombie shared the same anatomy as a human, Theon had carefully probed its physique by inflicting certain gashes to look at its internal organs. Normally the nerve was heavily protected by bone but with the decayed zombie, it was left relatively unprotected. Now, without a means of recovery, the zombie's speed fell from being faster than Theon to not even a fourth of his speed.
It became a sitting duck.
From then on the pressure on Theon decreased tremendously and his advantage grew ever larger with each passing second. He whittled down the zombie masterfully, weaving in and out of the zombie's range and starting his slaughter, a methodical predator picking apart a decaying body with practiced ease until one could only feel bad for the zombie. If the scientists on Spectra could bear witness to the sight they would instinctively cower as memories came flooding back of what Theon had done to their beloved products.
But just as Theon had regained momentum—
A sound like cracking glass pounded his ears. .
A dark energy began spilling from the zombie's wound in thick, oily tendrils. It slithered around the zombie's ruined leg, knitting sinew and bone back together with unnatural precision. The limb twitched—once, twice—before the creature's clawed fingers dug into the earth, hauling itself upright with a wet, rattling growl.
But Theon was already moving.
By the time the creature took its first halting step, his blades were a silver storm—a precise, brutal flurry aimed at its now-exposed spine. The zombie roared, its body jerking as the dark energy fought to compensate, but it was too late.
Theon didn't give it time to adapt.
SWISH!
With an immediate final exertion of strength, Theon drove one last strike. The zombie's head flew from its shoulders, landing with a sickening thud on the ground. The lifeless body crumpled in a heap as its grotesque energy poured out in a dark, swirling mass, filling the air with an oppressive, murky aura. Some of it hovered near Theon's skin, and a fraction seeped into him, curling like tendrils beneath the surface as they entered his skin.
A crushing wave of exhaustion slammed into Theon, relentless as a tidal wave. His breath grew ragged, his lungs burning from the prolonged exertion. As his knees buckled, he collapsed onto the ground, his body slumping heavily into the dirt. As he lay there, staring up at the vast, black expanse of the sky, the stars above seemed to mock him—their cold, distant light flickering like tiny, indifferent flames in the endless void.
'Looks like I'll have to get used to seeing these stars.'