Doom 1 knee deep in hell

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important issue, I decided it could wait until later for review. Much later.
With this many of the enemy breathing down my neck, the shotgun was
useless. Maybe my new machine pistol would have worked . . . but what I
already had in my hands was the rocket launcher.
For an instant I considered the narrow corridor that might channel the
blast right back in my face, the proximity of the nearest spiny ... for an
instant. Then I dug my heel in and spun, ready to rock 'n' roll.
The explosion was so loud that I didn't hear it. I felt it. A giant,
invisible hand threw me to the ground. My eyes were open, and I saw the
whole contingent that was on my tail vanish in a spray of blood and fire.
The sight was something to think about; especially since it was the
last sight I saw.
I must have lost consciousness. An indeterminate time later, I began to
hear a sound, too loud and annoying to sleep through. Like all the church
bells the penguins ever rung at me, all the bells in the world in my head. I
still couldn't see anything, just a bright afterimage.
It was about fifteen minutes before the bells were replaced by a
buzzing sound, then the slosh-slosh of blood in my ears. I would have been
easy pickin's, as Gunny Goforth would say. Maybe I was saved by looking as
dead as the rest of them.
When I was able, I crawled along the corridor, drag- ging my feet.
There was no time to examine my posses- sions. One thing for certain: if
those glass syringes were still in one piece inside their supposedly
shock-proof container, I'd be giving more product endorsements.
Shaking my head clear and staggering to my feet, I finally made it to
the one long, spacious corridor in the otherwise cramped, tight,
ore-processing center. This one was well marked on the map I'd studied--the
only route to what the map indicated were the stairs down. Judging from the
red and gold and brown streaks on the rough walls, this corridor had been
carved right out of the rock of Phobos. I liked it and hoped it wouldn't be
reworked into something sickening.
Halfway down the corridor, I suddenly felt light- headed and my stomach
broke loose from its moorings. At first I thought I was experiencing more
symptoms from the rocket blast. Then I realized what was happen- ing. No one
goes to space without experiencing zero-g, and you never forget it. This was
damned close enough! I should have studied the map more closely when I had
the chance . . . the middle section of this corridor must pass outside the
ancient, alien gravity-zone.
A handrail was installed for the obvious reason. Grab- bing it, I
pulled myself along; a single tug was enough to overcome friction in
Phobos's minuscule natural gravity. I'd spent enough time on the ship to
Mars that this was simple enough, unless I had the bad luck to be attacked
right now; I'd never taken zero-g combat training.
Pulling myself around a corner, I floated practically into the arms of
a triplet of spinys. Luck has never been my long suit. But these leathery
bastards were walking on the walls and ceiling, as if they enjoyed their
own, personal gravity that followed them around, each ori- ented in a
different direction.
One more piece of evidence that they were unbeatable. Then one of them
looked right at me and spoke: "Gosh --are we having a ball, or what?"
It hocked a loogie into its hand, where the mucus immediately burst
into flame.
My hog leg was tucked in the webbing at my back, and there was no room
to draw it in this corridor, no time to work it free. The demon raised the
flaming ball of snot, grinning like a goblin.
I threw my head back, rotating my body in the microgravity. I didn't
bother drawing the shotgun; when I rotated my body so the barrel was
pointing at that cracked and grinning face, I fired.
A lucky shot. Blew its head clean off. Guess my luck's not so abysmal
after all.
The blast acted like a rocket, propelling me backward. When I stopped
spinning, I grabbed the rail, drew the shotgun free, and pulled myself back
where I'd left off.
The two remaining monsters had forgotten all about me; they were
fighting each other, claws dug into throats, bloody drool trickling down
wrinkled chins and bursting into flame.
Was it possible, just one "brain" to a set? Kill the mastermind, and
the rest turn on each other?
Evidently, the Mind behind the invasion had the power to manifest
itself through only one or two individ- uals in a group.
I tucked that one away in the hindbrain; I would use it later.
I waited politely until one brain-dead spiny offed the other; then I
rewarded the victor with the spoils: a twelve-gauge blast to the face, this
time with my back braced against the wall.
I hauled ass along the corridor to the gravity zone. At the far north
end of the facility, I found a switch that opened a door leading to the
stairway where I could process myself right out of Central Processing.
Down one flight on the spiral, metal-grate stairway, the Computer
Station welcomed me with a thin layer of green sludge. At this point I just
didn't care. I was willing to jump into the ooze and slog through it as long
as my boots held out. I wanted out of here! I ran without stopping until I
discovered that whatever crap-for-brains idiot designed this playground set
it up so you go around in circles before noticing you were going around in
circles.
The Computer Station was a haze of forgetfulness. It started out badly
when I couldn't find an Arlene mark. I hunted along every passageway without
luck; either she followed a totally different route and our paths did not
cross, or more likely, she had a reception committee waiting for her when
she climbed down the ladder, and she was in a running firefight until she
found a bolt-hole.
The damnedest part was, this was the lowest level, so far as I knew. If
they finally ran her to ground, I should have found her ... or her remains. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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