Purchase indGame in paperback, e-book, or audiobook

Stan laid on his stomach at the back of the room, an M2 Browning – a .50 caliber badass mo-fo were Stan’s exact words – positioned on a low, wide-based tripod in front of him, aimed directly at the door. Brad and Becky were hunkered behind a metal table we’d upended and set up as a potential line of defense against the spiderlings and whatever else might have joined the unholy, alien congregation in the hall. They were both armed and ready to fire at the potential wave of monsters, just like Stan taught us. And me? Well, like a dumbass, I volunteered to open the door. I mean, I had grenades to throw into the hall, and I was ready to dive behind the table with Brad and Becky as Stan unloaded his .50 cal on the bastards. But hey, somebody had to open the door. Why not me?

To my dismay, the evil, tap-dancing mimes were still in the hall, and the alarms were still blaring like angel’s trumpets announcing the end of the world.

“On three,” Stan finally whispered, disengaging the safety and gripping the twin handles with both hands.

Brad and Becky, heads and guns sticking out from behind the table, were ready to join in the action if necessary. They looked like something straight out of an old World War II movie. It was like trench warfare, but in a big, concrete conference room. A conference room with guns on the wall… like a conference for gangsters… aw hell, you know what I mean.

“One.”

No turning back now.

“Two.”

My feet felt like lead. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to move once I’d pulled the door open. I was about to find ou-

“Three!”

I turned the knob and pulled. The minute or so that followed was probably the worst and longest of my life.

More than a dozen spiderlings practically fell through the doorway. Before I could enjoy tossing a grenade into the opaque mass of legs, tongues, and bodies, Stan began firing his beast of a gun. Spent casings pinged to the floor by the dozen, and I suddenly understood what it would be like to work in the quality control department testing Zeus’s lightning bolts. To say the sound was deafening would be a gross understatement. My eardrums felt like speaker cones at a metal concert. To add insult to injury, or just to pile on more injury, the shrapnel and body parts produced by the constant spray of bullets was like cleaning up a driving range while the golfers were still practicing their swings. Legs, guts, Vaseline-blood, and golf ball sized chunks of concrete and wood pelted my legs repeatedly.

I dove behind the table and found Becky and Brad screaming. At least I think they were screaming. Their mouths were open like they were screaming, but all any of us could hear was Stan’s 90 pound monster-shredder. The firing slowed for a moment while Stan fed another belt of ammo into the gun. I think I heard Stan laughing in that brief moment. Good for him, man. Good for him.

A minute or so later, the spiderlings, the door, and the walls surrounding it were no more.

The firing stopped, but my ears would be ringing for days to come. Stan suddenly put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and met his eyes. He gestured towards the duffle bags behind us. I tapped on Brad and Becky’s shoulders, nodding towards the bags.

It was time to go.

~

After loading up, the four of us moved stealthily up the corridor towards the particle accelerator and the rest of our friends. One thought dominated all others as we headed towards an uncertain future, and all-too certain doom. Pink! Her bra was pink!

Our enviro-suits were combat ready, and the helmets outfitted with small, but powerful LED spotlights around the face shields. The added light made the run back to the lab a lot easier to navigate, though I really didn’t want to see the spiderlings better. The gloves were thin but surprisingly durable, and allowed us to feel the triggers of our guns without having to apply any added pressure.

We each carried an M27 – a U.S. Marine’s standard issue machine gun – and a duffle bag. Our chosen weapons each sported a bayonet, a suppressor, and a laser sight. Inside our duffle bags, we carried several 30-round magazines, MREs and water, a combat shovel – yeah, it’s really a thing – and several grenades. Stan gave each of us a different flavor of grenade, so we wouldn’t get them confused and throw the wrong type in the heat of battle. Mine were standard fragmentation grenades. Brad got flash-bangers; all bright, but very little heat. Becky opted for the less lethal smoke variety. Stan carried the HEs – high intensity – which he explained would be a bit like bathing in a solar flare. He also picked up an RPG and three projectiles. RPG is short for rocket propelled grenade, which is basic anti-tank gear in the outside world. I guess, technically, Stan chose two flavors of grenades.

It was crazy to think that, at one time or another, Stan had actually played with everything we collectively carried. Just when you think you know someone.

~

Surprisingly, we didn’t run into any other interdimensional monstrosities on our return trip to Mr. Shishido and our six friends in the waiting room. I guessed there’d been a breach along the north or west wall of the lab, someplace next to the Mr. Panacharian Memorial Hallway. There was probably another somewhere on the east side, which allowed the spiderlings to flank us from behind.

Halfway to the waiting room, we realized we could hear the glorious sound of our own running feet. It was odd to hear, since the constant droning of the alarms had become an accepted condition, like humidity you could hear instead of feel. It was awful, but you got used to it. Just as suddenly as they blared to life, the alarms shut down.

There were always two sides to every coin. The flip side of our alarm vs. silence coin was that the multi-legged beasties and other things that went bump in the night could hear us now. No more alarm bells to confuse them.

We finally reached the waiting room and were shocked to find it empty. The chair we’d placed against the doorknob had been flung across the little room and lay bent in a corner. The door leading to the lab hung by a single hinge. Dim light filtered eerily through the opening in a smoky gray haze, and there was a smeared, bloody handprint on the once pristine, white door.

“Same plan as before,” Stan whispered, though he didn’t have to. We had two-way com units built into our helmets. No one else could hear us unless we shouted. “Pack gets the door. I’ll be the first through, since I’m the best shot. Pack, you fall back and cover Becky and Brad as they follow me through. Becky, go left as you enter. Brad, you go right. Remember, barrels angled down and fingers off the triggers unless you’re firing. It’ll be easy to mistake survivors, and each other, for monsters once we’re in there. Friendly fire is a no-no. Pack, you bring up the rear. I’ll provide cover fire for all of you as you enter, and then take to high ground as soon as I’m able.”

We all nodded before I added, “Be careful to not damage systems necessary to close the rip. Assuming anyone’s still alive in there who knows how.”

“Good call, Pack,” Stan agreed. “Now, let’s go kick some interdimensional ass.”

~

The statement, ‘nothing ever goes as planned’, was coined for a reason. I feel like someone had me in mind when the words were first uttered. There’s even a classic rock song by the band Styx explaining the concept. They could have dedicated it to me.

For the record, I followed the plan to the letter. I got in close to the door, looked for movement beyond the narrow opening, and then kicked it in.

I really didn’t ever want to see the spiderlings up close, but we don’t always get what we want now, do we? The moment I kicked in the door, three things happened simultaneously. First, a wet mass of tentacles wrapped around my ankles, pulling my feet together and dropping me to the floor. As I hit the concrete, several spiderlings swarmed over me, their tiny, transparent tongues lapping at my bio-suit, looking for an opening. Then the door ripped free of its remaining hinge, almost knocking me out as it fell on me.

Stan rushed through, careful not to step on the door, but before he could lift the heavy slab of metal off me, Becky and Brad followed. Not surprisingly, they both managed to trample me like a herd of elephants running over a sloth at nap time. Normally, I’d be less than pleased with their carelessness but, under the circumstances, I was appreciative. Somehow, they’d managed to squash the entire swarm of spiderlings, covering me with their corrosive Vaseline blood and all the pink and red chunks that made up their lunch. I laid there covered with gore and unable to move. Suddenly, a hulking figure erupted boldly from the smoke and shadows. It was Mr. Pan! He held a firefighter’s axe mid-handle, looking like a warrior dwarf from a Tolkien book, only beardless and a tad-bit taller. Covered in blood, grime, and soot, he looked like he’d just been dragged straight through hell by his hair.

He reached down with his free hand and tossed the door aside like it was cardboard. Then he held out the blade of his axe, nodding towards it. I grasped it tightly and he pulled me to my feet. He was careful to keep the spiderling’s blood and guts off his skin.

“We thought you were dead!” I hollered through the mask.

“I should be,” he hollered back. “But I discovered the tentacles don’t like it when their prey bites back. They taste like shit. Zero stars. Would not recommend, kiddo.”

I would have laughed if I wasn’t so scared. I looked down at the mention of the tentacles, panicking. As it turned out, spiderlings and their secretions were just as dangerous to the tentacles, as they were to us. The tentacles slowly melted off my legs like the chocolate bar I left on my dad’s dashboard last summer.

Stan climbed the scaffolding that surrounded the accelerator chamber, looking for a high-ground position. Becky and Brad stopped when they saw our teacher. We all focused our attention on him. Becky finally spoke, probably louder than she wanted to. “Aleah’s dead, Mr. Pan. We saw it happen. It was horrible.”

Pan’s expression softened when he heard the words. “Dammit,” he finally muttered. “Karsten? Tegan?”

“They ran off with her,” Brad replied. “We haven’t seen them since.”

Pan shook his head and sighed. He pointed back through the smoke and a mass of sparking wires. “I looped around the halls and found my way here through a break in the wall behind the accelerator. I haven’t seen anyone else until you showed up.”

Becky held out her gun to Mr. Pan. “Wanna trade?”

He lit up at the sight of the M27, and eagerly handed Becky the axe in return. “Be careful,” he said. “The safety’s off.”

Looking confused, Becky studied the axe. Then she looked at him, rolling her eyes, the faintest hint of a smile curling the edges of her lips. “Funny, Mr. Pan.”

His eyes twinkled. He loved being a teacher, probably even more than he’d loved being a Marine, but given the choice between the M27 and a dry-erase marker, there was obviously no contest.

“I found them,” Stan called from the scaffolding. Everyone except Mr. Pan turned. He didn’t have the benefit of a two-way radio in his helmet, or a helmet.

He motioned towards an enclosed glass chamber about twenty feet into the room. From what I could see through the haze, it appeared to be a control room. There were lots of flashing lights and stuff, but hey, what did I know?

“Mr. Pan,” I shouted. When he looked at me, I pointed at the glass enclosure. “Stan says he found the others in there!”

“Tell Pan and the others I’ll cover them. You cover me while I climb back down,” Stan’s voice crackled in my helmet.

“Roger that,” I replied. I always wanted to say that.

Mr. Pan motioned for Brad and Becky to go ahead of him, then turned to me. “Go with them,” he said. “You’re my responsibility. I’m not losing another one of you.”

I shook my head, dropping Mr. Shishido’s keycard in his hand. “Get them to safety, Mr. Pan. Stan has us covered. I’ll cover him as he joins us. We’ll be right behind you.”

Mr. Pan’s lips drew into a thin line. He was ready to argue but realized Becky and Brad were already ahead of him. He pointed at me, his expression serious to a fault. “Get Stan down. I’ll cover both of you and bring you home. Got it?”

“Yessir!” I saluted him. It felt weird, not actually being military, but then Mr. Pan saluted back.

Without another word, he lumbered off towards the glass enclosure.

“I’ve got you covered, Stan,” I whispered over the com-link. “You’re a go, big guy.”

Stan didn’t answer. He just started climbing like his life depended on it. It took a few moments. By the time he reached the floor, Pan, Becky, and Brad were in the control room.

As soon as Becky and Brad were inside, Pan came back out and waved for us to join him.

Stan was almost to the enclosure when something roared from the opposite side of the room. The roar shook the walls around us like a runaway freight train tearing through a tunnel.

We all turned to face the source of the noise. It was a lump of clear tissue the size of an elephant. Tentacles, the ones plaguing us since back in the hallway, covered the thing’s body.

The tentacles stretched and ran their suckers over every exposed surface as the beast moved forward. It didn’t seem to need the tentacles to move. While they felt and grabbed things around it, something like a giant snail’s foot simultaneously pulled and pushed it across the floor. It was like a giant octoslug. No, too many tentacles. A centeslug maybe?

Stan began firing at the thing, but bullets didn’t seem to faze it. It was like shooting spitballs at a lump of sour cream. The bullets simply struck, then fell away, like raindrops off a window… a slimy, scary window.

Suddenly, the thing began to draw in air, expanding like a slowly inflating balloon. Then, without any warning, centeslug rapidly expelled the air through unseen orifices all over its body. The sound was like an unholy union between a fart and a T. rex’s roar. The noise was terrifying enough, but the orifices also shot out some horrifying clear jelly that, like the spiderling’s secretions, seemed to have corrosive properties. Unlike the spiderlings though, the corrosion was not exclusive to organic tissue. Desks, walls, wires, entire sections of floor, melted away.

I watched in awe and terror as the thing bulldozed through the lab, tentacles waving wildly in all directions, roaring and spewing as it went, like Moby Dick wrestling a giant squid.

Then the unthinkable happened. Stan hollered, “Get down!”

The command crackled in my headset like a poorly tuned radio station. I turned to see him firing off one of the RPG projectiles. I threw my hands in the air, but it was too late.

The rocket struck the centeslug center mass, and the concussive force of the explosion was nothing short of devastating. The bullets had been ineffective at worst, an irritation at best, but the RPG was not a gun. The monster blew apart like a cherry bomb planted in jello salad. The creature’s disintegrating body hit Mr. Pan first. He vaporized before our eyes, without enough time to even scream. I turned to see Stan’s enviro-suit melting around him, and then he was melting too. Stan, unfortunately, did have time to scream. I couldn’t hear him for long. The next moment brought screams to my own lips. Little did I know, corrosive awfulness covered my helmet. It took mere seconds to eat right through. Pain like I’d never imagined possible ripped through my body like the otherworldly roars of the centeslug. My face disappeared like a marshmallow left in the fire too long, and before I could die, I passed out from the pain.

Game over.