The following story is a work of fiction. Apart from being based on Doom 3,
the work itself has no ties to id Software whatsoever.
No parts of the story should be used without consent.

by Nick P.

Special thanks to Tim Corwin for helping with the story and of course, Paul!

The zombie-thing and I stood there, staring at each other. I really can’t say if it was staring at me: its eyes were empty as could be. They were a light green, with no pupil in the centre. I hadn’t felt such tension since I had gone to meet the future in-laws. And just like with the in-laws, I knew that I would have to somehow rid of the monstrosity that stood before me. With the in-laws it was a brick, a window, and several flying tempers. With the zombie, it meant several well-placed bullets to the head.

            However, I was so shocked at the gorefest before me, that the zombie got a head start. It lunged forward, revving the chainsaw madly. I jumped back and the beast ended up slamming the machine against the operating table. It shook its head as some enraged animal in the African jungles would and roared again in absolute rage. At that point, shock left my body and instinct entered, meaning that I pulled out my pistol.

            BLAM! The sound echoed loudly in the small, compact room. I hit the zombie in the shoulder. This didn’t seem to do any damage. I pulled out a yellow stick-pad from my mind and wrote: shooting zombie in the shoulder- no good!

            Yet another BLAM, this time to the head.

            Have you ever taken shots at a watermelon? I have. And let me tell you, that zombie might as well have had a green head with a stem at one end. The gist of it: the result was very, very colourful.

            This time, I felt the tiny dancing Haiti guy trying to force his way out my throat. I don’t like throwing up. It’s not fun. I don’t sit on the toilet and forcefully vomit just for laughs, ok? If you do that, then you are really weird. Get a hobby.

            But it was unavoidable, and the already-messy floor soon had a whole lot of new colours added to it. Ah, joy. It was like a Lisa Frank colouring book.

            Feeling queasy, though happy to have found a flashlight, I walked out of the hospital wing.

            Now what?

            Well, I could try to restore power to the building, or at least to see what’s wrong. Or I could go straight to the launch pad and fly away from this hell.

            But what if there were other survivors? Also, some doors of higher importance required power to be opened, particularly the hangar door to the airfield. I would be hindered by them. Apparently, the launch pad was not the way to go. Then again, neither was the military, but that was behind me now.

            Bright sunshine (I wish) and daisies!

            I looked down at my pistol. Trusty as it was, I needed some more serious firepower. I had 18 more shots, and another cartridge in my vest. 38 shots. Hopefully that didn’t mean that I’d throw up 38 times. This brought back in my mind the gory medical wing. I tried to clear my head.

            And then a sudden realisation came over me: I needed to take a piss.

            Taking the circumstances into account, I didn’t think it was necessary to find a bathroom, and then to somehow struggle to hold the flashlight under my chin and my gun under my armpit while I urinate. Actually, I had to do the exact same thing, except on the corridor wall.

            Things were scary and I could’ve just done this in my pants. But that would be uncivilised, now wouldn’t it?

            Praying that some zombie with a chainsaw wouldn’t pop out from behind some corner, I ensued in the act of relieving myself.

            And then I heard a sound from down the hallway.

            Oh crap.

            Hurry, I thought to myself. The problem is, once the water starts flowing, there is no stopping it.

            I freed one hand and grabbed the pistol, pointing it vaguely in the direction.

            If I could only swing the flashlight that I held under my chin around to face the same direction…

            There was only one way to do this. I spun around, still peeing, and faced whatever the hell was coming my way.

            Was it some monster? A zombie?

Worse: it was Tim Davis.

            “Don’t move!” he said rather ferociously, pointing the pistol at me.

            However, I sensed that he was human, not some zombie. How did I know? Well, for starters, he had pupils in his eyes. His skin had colour in it and his mouth wasn’t covered in blood. So I decided to reply, to show him that I was human as well.

            “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. At that point Tim noticed that I was taking a piss. He seemed somewhat disgusted and surprised at the same time, but kept his gun up. I, however, continued speaking.

            “Umm, can I at least cover myself?”

            It was an awkward situation. But at that point, Tim seemed to see that I was indeed an anthropological entity with a fully functional cerebral complex (told you I was smart) and put his gun down. “Go ahead, Corporal,” he said.

            I tried cracking a joke. “Shouldn’t I salute you?”

            “No, please, don’t! Just hurry up.”

            After I was done putting things where they belonged, I turned back to Tim. Of all the people in our base, why was he the one who had, like me, escaped unscathed? I think that I had expressed my dislike for Tim above. However, the disturbing situation that we were in seemed to let us cast aside our differences.

            Tim was the perfect Marine, always striving to be the best, dedicated to his work. Me, I had joined because I was broke and wanted a college education.

            We stood there for a while, worlds apart.

            “So,” said Tim in his usual clear dictation, though it was rather shaky. Tim was scared. So was I. “Do you have any idea what’s going on, Corporal? I’d love to hear your story.”

            I looked around with the flashlight just to be sure that we were safe. “Well, I have a name, as you might know. Some freaky stuff’s going on, so I don’t think protocol matters anymore.” Tim was getting impatient, so I got to the point. “Call me Nik, not ‘Corporal’.

           “Now,” I continued. “I think you remember that whole fireworks thing. I was scrubbing the floors, proudly,” I added. “And then the lights went out, and there was a scream, some strange sounds, and so on. The whole power outage was strange, so I knew I had to get a flashlight, which is what I did. And in the hospital wing I ran smack flat into some thing that scared the hell out of me.”

            Tim nodded silently.

            “It was like, it was human, yet it wasn’t. Its skin was grey, its eyes empty, and there was blood everywhere. It roared, and it had a chainsaw…” My story was thickening into a smoothie, but it’s kinda hard to describe what I saw, you know? “So, what’s your story?”

            “Well, I was back at drill hall, training after hours as usual. There were some other lieutenants and corporals there, but they soon left. And then, as you said, the lights went out. I went out in the hall and was attacked by one of my fellow Marines. Fortunately, I was carrying my pistol, as specified in the military protocol, section IV, paragraph 2.” I snorted, or made some sort of noise that you hear a lot in the Savannah. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that he knew it by heart. This was the new protocol. You see, to Tim’s absolute horror, the marines etiquette was rewritten a few years ago and he had to memorise it all over again…

Tim continued, ignoring Yours Truly. “I shot him in self-defence. From then on, I walked out, in hopes of finding someone else, such as yourself. Instead, I was attacked by several more of these ‘zombies’, as you say, Corporal.” He paused. “Any idea as to what exactly is going on, Corporal?”

            “No, Tim, but I certainly wish I had, Tim. Hello, Tim, my name is Nik.” I tried to shake his hand, but he was looking at me bewildered. “I was being ironic, ok? I’m not insane and I’m not a zombie.”

            “Ok,” said Tim. “It’s just scary because that impression reminded me of my brother…”

I couldn’t help but to cock an eyebrow. But Tim went on.

“Any ideas on what to do, Corporal?”

            I sighed. “Well, I say we fly out of his hellhole, but those airlock and big hangar doors require electrical power. So, we must restore power, if at all possible.”

            “Good thinking, Marine.” He said, slapping me on the back.

            Damn, this was gonna take forever, working with Tim.

Staff Sergeant Tim, that is.

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