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!

After the gigantic hell-beast, the four imps and overweight zombie we came across seemed rather dull and boring, though preferably so. So was the pack of spider-things with the upside-down heads for bodies. No later was the floor littered with indistinct things that were once a spider, then I realised that I was hungry. Yes, it is odd to feel hunger after splattering flesh and goo and blood all over the damn place, though I had grown accustomed to this. Fortunately, Tim found yet another MRE storage room, with several medikits as well.

            The latter was fortunate; Frederick, who was propped against one of the crates, was in need of some serious medical treatment. His head had turned a dark blue and swelled and Tim feared that most of the bones in his left side were broken.

            Tim had also picked up a nasty scratch or two from the spider-things.

            After tending wounds and making an attempt at waking Mr. Frederick, Tim and I let our hunger loose on the few measly crates of MREs.

            Between mouthfuls of ‘ravioli’, we talked, recalling our past lives.

            “I can’t believe,” said Tim, “that all my friends are now gone. All of them.”

            “Yeah,” I said, chewing and looking at my food. “I think I did a smart thing, keeping my family and friends back home.”

            Tim cocked an eyebrow. “What about those two guys that always followed you around?

            I remembered Tyler and Mexican guy. I did miss them, and the final realisation that they were gone struck me in the heart. “Damn,” I murmured, unsure of anything else fitting to say.

            “No more John, Seth, Tina, Heather,” Tim spoke somewhat dreamily.

            “You never know, there could be survivors.” Then I paused, letting what Tim just said sink in. “Tina? Did you have some sort of intimate relations with her?”

            “Used to.”

            “Why would you do a thing like that? I mean, her face looked like it had been… digested.” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “four times.”

            Tim laughed. “Interesting way to put it.”

            “Yeah, I love describing things.”

            “Her face didn’t look ‘digested’ until after we broke up.”

            I nodded. “I see.” Then added, “And by Seth, you mean Seth Hoffman?”

            “Yes.”

            I laughed. “He was the photographer, right? I remember him from all the way back on Earth.”

            Before being shipped like raw meat so some toolshed on Mars, Briggs had insisted that we all have our pictures taken, apparently as a supplement to his ‘testament of human achievement’. Now, I don’t contradict Briggs just to piss him off, but it always turns out that we are absolute opposites. In this particular case, the fact that I hate having my picture taken surfaced. ‘Come on, it won’t steal your soul,” Seth told me, eagerly waving the large Canon in his hand. My subliminal answer was, ‘If you don’t let me be, you’ll soon be taking pictures of your rectum. From the inside.’ Yes, having a wide knowledge of human anatomy was often useful in compiling insults.

            Needless to say, Briggs was not very pleased. At that point, it was too late, and I had made a scene. So, I decided to make the best of it and express my opinions on this whole Mars thing for the second time. I actually had a large portion of my audience nodding in agreement until Briggs shot them an angry glare. Hoping for all to forget my lecture, which had by then turned into a stand-up comedy act, Briggs started one of his famous speeches that were better for insomniacs than Melatonin. Now, I had always thought that comedies exaggerated when people fell asleep while standing up. However, after the speech, I was proven wrong.

            I myself felt drowsy afterwards, which is probably why I didn’t fight too much while going into the shuttle that was to escort us to Mars. In fact, I don’t remember much from the day of my departure, though I think I might’ve been involved somehow with the black eye one guard sported afterwards.

            Even on the shuttle, Seth had followed me around, begging for a picture. Then, one morning he woke up and looked out his window. To his horror, he saw his camera floating around in the vacuum of space.

            After that, he left me alone.

            I recalled this entire story to Tim, who laughed.

            “So that’s what happened to his camera? I didn’t know that. I mean, at one point he became really gloomy and I never saw him pull out the camera again. Still, I didn’t know that it was floating around in space.”

            “Yeah, I made good use of our airlock.”

            At that point, Frederick stirred.

            “Let’s make sure he wakes up,” I said. “He needs something to eat and drink.”

            Tim nodded and took some excess water, splashing the guy’s face. But all we got out of him was a long, drawn-out groan.

            So, we left him to himself yet again. At least he was in some form of consciousness, because at one point he was muttering in his sleep. He said something about a cat being flushed down the toilet. However, Tim thought the guy had said ‘bat hitting flying ball at cigarette’.

            We let this discrepancy hang.

            I ate four MREs before I felt satisfied.

            Tim agreed to keep watch first while I did some Zs. Then we would switch. Hoping not to find my shotgun gone as it had happened last time I slept, I drifted into sleep. For a while, Briggs' head floated in front of me, followed by Seth’s, then Tyler’s, all of them talking, though their voices were drowned out.

            Fortunately, I didn’t remember any dreams after that. And with all of the horrifying things happening lately, I was glad it was so.

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