Doom: Keen Absolution, a canned story series

So I was working on Doom: Keen Absolution. It was set up to start about the same time that Doom II begins, because everyone knows what happened in the first game.

The problem is, I currently have the story sitting on "cancelled" status. The readership is too low. After I announced no new chapters, 3 people expressed disappointment. If I were to get enough generated interest I would finish it, but I'm not going to plot out and write the remainder for 3 people.

The story is, obviously, set up within classic Doom. I listed the Doomguy's name from the novels, as ell as his hometown being in Florida, but that was about it. I changed the backstory, dropped that annoying Arlene Sanders(did anyone ELSE want to smack her?) and kept everything stuck within Hell itself. Not that I has a huge problem with the novel's setup, until book 4 just kind of ended everything with no real reason to the madness.

I'd considered adapting Dr. McNeil for a brief scene but that'd be all I'd adapt from Doom 3 if I ever did it.

The title refers to a plot point. There are hints but I'll leave it to you to guess what the "big reveal" was.


Part 1 is as follows-

--------------------------------

It was this... or nothing. A quick check of his pockets revealed three
pistol clips, six shotgun shells and a spare battery for the plasma gun.
Possibly enough to clear the warehouse, but if the stocks were spent,
then he'd waste the last of his lifeline for nothing.

So be it.

The plasma gun was clipped securely to his back, a double-barreled
shotgun slung from the hip and pistol holstered. Drawing the combat
knife, the door pushed open. He saw it, hoping it didn't see him. The
brown creature, spikes shining in the dim light, was focused on a
lunch box, having torn the lid open to digest whatever rotting remnants
of food still remained.

Checking the plasma gun, he saw a low charge. The battery was
spent, perhaps enough left to fire off a single pulse. It would slow
him down. Gently, it was placed on the floor, making no noise.

Stepping easy, careful to avoid sound, Marine training in full effect,
he forced the knife up, trough the back of the neck, into the monster's
brain. Instantly fatal, incredibly silent. He only hoped the sound of
the body hitting the floor didn't attract any unwanted attention.

Flynn Taggart. Corporal in the United States Marine Corps. Court
Martial pending with a career uncertain. Perhaps not anymore. The
government of his country was gone. His military branch now an idea
rather than a recognized reality. Hell had come to Earth and had seen
an end to reality. He was certain that at least half of the planet's
population was now dead.

He was certain that these demons had planned this. They instigated
nuclear strikes, knowing that any of their own "killed" would return.
They had to. They were from Hell. The bad souls merely went back to
Hell. At least, that's what he thought. No negotiations, no surrender,
no time. The demons had invaded Earth with purpose and moved swift.

But he survived. Locked away in a cell on the Phobos moon base, away
from his unit, perhaps the only reason he survived the initial
outbreak of Hell itself. They let their guard down when they had
believed everyone to be dead. Fighting his way through Phobos, Deimos
and even a sector of Hell had been almost too easy. It made no sense.
Billions dead but they were unable to kill this one man.

It didn't have to. He knew that he would live and that he would fight
as long as he lived. Winning was irrelevant. The war had already been
lost.

Semper Fidelis.

The corpse lying nearby hid a surprise, the last effort from the dead
to help him- three full pistol clips. Better than nothing. Peering
into the hall, he saw them, three undead men, base security. Lifeless
eyes, mouths dry, the converted sentries of Hell's invasion. His
buddies, comrades, everyone he'd known on Phobos. Shells to be used
after death. He killed them. How could someone kill the dead?

Pulling the slide of his standard issue handgun, three shots went off,
carefully aimed for the heads, all three targets to the floor. It was
only the beginning. The brown imp turned the corner, spotting the
bodies, spotting Taggart. It screamed out, a warning to the others.

Flynn Taggart was a man who had survived by quick actions. Six shots
rang out, the imp bleeding, alive, but injured. The monster died in
seconds as the pink demon ran, stepping over its own ally to rush
the hallway, its only thought to sink its teeth into Flynn Taggart,
USMC Corporal, just another meal.

Ducking back into the break room, Taggart knew these things were
dangerous, but also stupid. On cue, it lodged in the door frame, mouth
as big as his torso, snarling and drooling, unable to squeeze through.
Shotgun loaded, point blank, both barrels split the monster's brain.

Wiping the spray of blood from his face, Fly shoved the body out of his
way. This place was no longer safe. A quick check of the zombies
supplied him a fresh clip, a loaded pump-action and an assault rifle.
Taggart loved these. They used the same clips as his pistol but were
more accurate and fired faster. Shame his last one had jammed.

Hearing them, running quietly into the main warehouse floor, Fly dodged
a stream of imps sent to investigate. He'd have to be quiet, avoid
being seen, until he knew damn well what he was up against.

Content that he has at least a few seconds to breathe, Flynn Taggart
inspected the surroundings. It had to be that... the pink minotaur.
It was angry, howling commands, screams of demons that human ears
couldn't comprehend. He was certain they could talk, speak in his
language, but they rarely did.

The walkway above, a perfect spot, if only he could make the ladder.
The way HAD to be dark enough... taking his chances, Fly raced for
the ladder, climbing as fast as his body would allow, ducking down.
He only hoped it was just imps. The flying skulls would be a problem
and those big, red floating orbs could be worse.

No movement. They hadn't seen him. Taking position, rifle aimed,
he began to fire, hitting imps in the head. Jumping forth, he dodged
the onslaught of fireballs and plasma, the walkway rocking from the
stress. The metal was scorched and warped. No time to think, only
time to shoot. Squeezing off rounds as he ran, Flynn Taggart took down
as many demons as possible, injuring more, jumping the railing and
using stacks of wooden crates to reach the floor.

He'd have to find a hiding spot, fire, find another spot, kill them
quickly, if only... his feet felt it, round and hard, almost tripping
the Marine. Luck was on his side. A standard UAC rocket launcher.
How luck would hold up, however... two rockets loaded. Lucky enough.
He only needed two.

Now to get them in one spot. Banging crates, making noise, Taggart left
a trail of sound. Two rockets wouldn't kill the minotaur, Hell's Baron
of the invasion, but it would damn sure kill the imps. Simple and dumb,
the imp made up for its basic intelligence in strength and numbers.
Tossing balls of superheated fluid didn't hurt their credibility,
either.

Taking aim, rocket primed, he waited until the crowd was gathered in
a small opening, a single rocket taking flight, striking center,
the crowd of monsters sent reeling from the explosion. Body parts
lodged in crates, bodies and blood caking the floor only two lived,
which he dispatched by gunfire. Ammunition was scarce but it was best
not to take chances.

Only the Baron remained. Or so he thought as the nearest tall shipping
crate cracked open, a skeleton falling out. Only it didn't fall, it
walked. How it screamed, he might never guess, but it screamed at him,
and how a being with no eyes could see, well, another question that
he didn't have time for.

It swung at him. Almost too comical and unreal to believe, the bastard
threw a punch. Dodging, never one to let his Marine training slack
off, Fly aimed his rocket, taking his final shot. He almost screamed
a long list of obscenities as the thing dodged. Tossing the launcher
at it, the tube struck, seeming to irritate the monster. Shots fired.
"Right," he muttered out, "like it even HAS internal organs..."

The monster was pissed. Taggart saw the tubes grafted to the shoulder
pads of the armor, glowing. Running away, knowing when the shit would
hit the fan, a jump to the side cleared him from the missile, the
explosion splintering crates and sending even more pieces of charred
imp raining down.

A second missile fired, rolling to the side to dodge, only no explosion.
The missile curved in the air, pointed at him once more. It was tracking
him. Running and dodging, Fly did his best to avoid it, but the thing
didn't give up.

The Baron was furious, stomping forth through the open warehouse
floor. Perfect. Leading the projectile, running around the Baron,
barely dodging a glowing claw, he used his enemy as a shield. The
missile collided, exploding, burning the minotaur. Taggart was safe.
The Baron was angry but had lost interest in him. Instead, it
confronted the skeleton, slashing at it. Unwilling to tolerate
the Baron's temper, it punched back, the two beings fighting.

He'd seen this before. A monster would throw a fireball at him, hit
a zombie or any other creature, and they would fight. Unfriendly
in every way.

Falling back to regroup, or whatever one person could do, he tripped
over a metal box. "Shit," he grumbled. Ready to move on, he saw
the UAC emblem and the heavy latch. "Come on, come on, come on..."
Opening the container, it was like Christmas and birthdays all at once.

The BFG-9000.

How he'd wished his last one hadn't run out of firepower. They were
heavy, hard to haul around, but could bake an elephant in seconds.
The perfect weapon of war, and his only real chance. Plugging the
battery in, flicking the ignition switches, his prize lit up. Hoisting
the gun, braced to his stomach, the two monsters still argued. No more.

They had no time to react, the bright ball of green fusion plasma
impacting, sending skin, bone and nearby wood in all directions.
Content that the blast was cleared, Fly examined the remains. A useless
chunk of round metal, shattered ribs falling out, and a stench of rotten
meat. Obvious bits of organic tissue had been lodged inside the
armor, whether it was important was anyone's guess. The missile tubed
were damaged, cooked by the BFG, not that he had a clue how to work
the launchers.

The monsters were dead. Eventually, more would arrive, but for now,
he had time to strip the place. if there was a BFG-9000 here, he would
find more.



------------------------------------------------------


"Report..."

The behemoth was not pleased. Metal support legs kept it off the ground,
the Baron insignificant to it. "We have lost... a compliment of imps,
one of our kind, and one of the Revenant warriors all slaughtered."

The brain pulsated. Briefly, this being considered tearing the Baron
to ribbons, a vulcan cannon installed that would kill the underling
in a second, but it kept calm.

"A human has defied us this far, and will continue to do so... continue
all efforts to kill the one known as Taggart. Entire nations of this
planet have been crushed. He is one man. he will fall eventually..."



------------------------------------------------------


Rolling down the interstate, it felt good to drive. The roads were
empty, an eerie feeling. His main concern was teleportation. All
he needed was a roadblock of Barons or a Cyberdemon in the middle of the
road. Strange, however, they didn't simply teleport to wherever he was
at any given time.

He also felt safe. The back of his vehicle was stocked. Ammunition,
weapons, and his wonderful BFG. Even the few plasma rifles would
last well enough. Not that he could ever carry all of it, but it was
nice to have.

Ahead, his old home. Orlando, Florida was less than an hour away.
Maybe, being home, he could find some brief moment of comfort.



------------------------------------------------------


Parked out front, his old childhood home intact, the suburbs
surrounding the city were deserted but undamaged. At least, it
appeared that way. Deep down, he hoped his father was inside, zombified,
asking for a bullet to the head. Even if he was alive... no, he
wouldn't dishonor the Marine Corps with murder. Even if the asshole
was asking for it.

The key was under the mat, like always. As expected, no one home.
People had evacuated, perhaps weeks ago. No fresh food left, it would
all be rotted, but hopefully his father was still a cheap prick who
kept a stock of canned goods at home. And did the plumbing still work?
Did clean water still run through the city pipes?



------------------------------------------------------


Wounds bandaged, a meal cooked, and clean water. It was all he had
hoped for. This place was quiet. Perhaps too quiet, but still, no
demons. No zombies. No teleportation. Either no one knew he was
here, or Hell didn't care.

The old book entertained him. No television, no music. Electricity
ran but all broadcasts were dead. Just books. One had been special to
him for a long time. A tome written by a man named Bill, his
great-great grandfather. More of a travel diary, really. In his adult
life and old age, the man had explored the world, keeping detailed
records. But it was the earlier tales that fascinated him, of a boy
who went to the stars, and to Mars. Fiction written as a child with
a mind running wild.

Lost in the stories, tales of football helmets and pogo sticks,
Taggart was pulled back to reality from a sharp pain in his foot.
Looking down, he saw it was his combat boot. He'd kicked it without
paying attention. But something sharp?

Bending down to inspect, Fly found a piece of metal lodged in the
sole. Debris. Ripping it free, ready to toss it aside, the markings
hit him like a brick. "No..." Wiping the metal, the torn fragment
had lettering. Nothing he could read. Too angular to be any Asian
characters, too unearthly to be Russian, too strange to be anything.
No, not letters, just random markings.

No.

They were familiar. And it wasn't some old language he'd studied in
school or some sign he'd seen on Phobos, but he'd seen it. Just
now, he'd seen those letters.

Flipping through the journal, it was there, the answer. Here!
The stories of the boy. A page dedicated to some odd language, some
sort of alien code, and the book contained a guide.

"No... how the hell did some book he wrote as a kid have the same
letters?" he asked, almost wishing someone would pop up and answer him.
An imp in a smoking jacket would suffice, a friendly demon with the
answers.

The 'standard galactic alphabet', it was called. Unusual... had this
existed before the stories were written? Something he'd created as a boy
and later used in life?

It made no sense...

Part 2-

------------------------------------

Sleep was supposed to be a peaceful time. The body went into rest,
the mind worked on some minimal level, allowing the body to process
nutrients and regenerate from the long, tiring day.

Flynn Taggart found no comfort in sleep. The images in his head, the
blood, the skulls, walls of skin and green brick, torches everywhere.
His brief time in Hell was a dark spot in his being that would forever
remain with him.

But the sounds. Screams. Demonic howling. The sound of fires burning.

It was the sound that awoke him. Movement outside. Taggart's mind
remained alert, very alert, survival dependent on quick reaction.
Gripping the plasma rifle, slow steps to keep silent, he moved, down
the stairs, socks muffling his steps, quiet, like a panther, stalking
the sound. He had it.

Kicking the kitchen door open, the face registered in his mind, a safety
mechanism clicking into place, keeping his finger off the trigger. The
plasma rifle could reduce a man into a spot of smoke in seconds, and
it was fortunate that the Corporal retained enough sanity to thing
before doing.

"You're not undead!"

"No, at least I don't feel it. Hey..." The stranger looked at Flynn with
a sense of familiarity. "You're the Taggart kid!"

Fly knew this man, old, ragged, the stoner from down the street. The man
he'd never known when he lived here, the man everyone avoided. "Terry
Johnson?"

"Terence," the man corrected, "not Terry. Never Terry. I thought you
were in the Army?"

"Marines," he grunted, showing his pride of military service.

Terry hadn't seen a living human in some time. "Everyone's gone. I don't
know... I smoked some grass and woke up one day, and the world had
ended. Just ended."

Fly mumbled angrily. "You're the only one left. Probably in the entire
city."

"City? No..."

"NO? What's that supposed to mean?"

"That- that's the thing. See, I got a radio and I've been talking to
some people from the UAC. Scientists," Terence explained, though Taggart
could see the man was coming off a drug binge. Not that he could blame
ANYONE for getting high in this world. "Y'see, the phones are down,
there's no internet, no news net, but radios, see, I got one of them
twentieth century radios from an old kit and some spare wire."

It was something. Not hope, but still, something. "Show me."

------------------------------------------------------


"Lord Baphomet..." The Spiderdemon greeted the wall itself, a massive
stone skull with a pulsating brain. Tubes fed the organic tissue with
blood, but the facade did not move. It did not need to move, for it was
everywhere in Hell, watching and controlling from isolation. The room
was lit by an unknown source, green stone stairs amidst a pool of blood,
which oozed from the very walls. There were no doors, as only those
deemed worthy by the devil himself may enter this place.

"How has the invasion of the living Earth realm proceeded?" a voice
echoed.

The Spider Mastermind responded, "very well. The governments tried to
fight back, but they have fared poorly. Some even begged for an
alliance. Pitiful beings." Indeed, the thought of an alliance with
the humans was laughable. It was simplicity itself to merely kill
everyone as bodies could be re-animated and souls turned into an army of
loyal soldiers upon their arrival in Hell. "We estimate three billion
dead."

"Hardly half the overall population, correct?" the face commented. "No
matter, this invasion is still underway. I expect at least another
two million dead by the end of the week. Once the living population is
sufficiently depleted, the portals may be opened to a far greater
degree and the planet will become my domain."

"Yes..." The Mastermind's thoughts focused on the one human who had
survived the initial invasion of the moons.

Baphomet could sense these thoughts as if they had been visually
displayed to him. His minions were always under careful monitor.
"The Marine. His lineage has been problematic to both of us in the
past. Perhaps a priority should be placed upon eliminating Flynn
Taggart. I do not wish to see this human interfering, considering
the actions of his ancestors. They seem to be particularly able to
defy the odds placed against them."

"Understood."

"One more thing..."

The Mastermind looked up. "Yes, Lord Baphomet?"

"I would give you this word of advice... it would be better for you
for you to die by Taggart's hands than to come crawling to me with
failure. If you fail me, I will remove from you the gifts I have
bestowed."

Angered, the Mastermind simply replied, "understood." Walking away on
gigantic piston-operated legs, the demon allowed hatred to build, bubble
within. 'Yes, I know all too well what you do to those who fail, those
who do not abide by the devil's wishes...'

Entering an open area, Hell's red skies burned above, the same light
always visible with no change. "Commander!"

"Yes, my lord?" a lone Baron inquired.

The fleet was prepared. Large minotaurs armed with rocket launchers
in place of hands and with legs like buildings were prepared to march.
Floating red and brown orbs held position above the rows of leathery
Imps. "Where are my clones?"

"The clones..." Hesitant, the Baron offered up, "my lord, we do not
feel it is safe to use your clones."

Spiderdemon clones. The ones that resembled the Mastermind but lacked the
intelligence. "Yes... unfortunately, they are quite stupid. Their needless
habit of firing upon our own armies has proven to be an incredible
setback and they have yet to kill the lone human survivor. Distribute
them only to key locations where their weaponry may be paramount."

Responding, "Immediately, my lord," the Baron asked, "what of the others?"

"We shall send eighty percent of the waiting demons to the known hot spot
locations. Moscow, Berlin, Tokyo." Were there any other such resistance
cells to consider? "Yes, those three cities for now. The other twenty
percent shall be distributed to the location known as Florida."

It was shocking, unthinkable. To send such a force to an otherwise
barren place. "My lord, that area is all but cleansed. We would-"

"Do as I say!" Spinning the cannon as a gesture of threat, the Mastermind
would offer no explanations to underlings nor allow them to question
decisions.

"...very well," the frightened Baron of Hell relented.

He remarked, "failure is not a choice given to you this day."

------------------------------------------------------


The radio crackled and sparked, dead air the only signal. "Give it time,"
Terence said. "Always takes time for the signal to cut through the
air."

Waiting, bored, frustrated, Taggart sat, holding the receiver. "This is-"

"...UAC operations. Please state your frequency designation!"

The signal was through. "Frequency designation? Shit, uh..." Fly didn't
have a frequency designation to give. "This is Corporal Flynn Taggart
of the USMC! Serial number 888-23-9912! Do you read?"

Static. More static. Finally, "we read you, Corporal. I'm surprised to
learn any of the military are still alive."

"Been a long few weeks," Taggart responded.

"Corporal, the signals we transmit are-" Static again. "Corporal?"

He replied, "I'm here."

"As I was saying," the UAC voice continued, "our transmissions are
intermittent at best. We can not risk being traced. I will give you
coordinates where you can find us."

"Is that safe?"

The voice answered, "no, perhaps not. If we are overheard... but we're
all sitting here, waiting to die. Either they will kill us or the food and
water will run out."

Terence handed Fly a pencil, the Marine scribbling down the address.
"Got it. I have a truck, I should be there within the hour."

"The hour?" The voice seemed to think Taggart was being generous. "That
will be possible IF you do not run into any patrols. I'm afraid the demons
are trying to kill off any survivors they can find, even in the dead
zones."

Biting his lip, Flynn answered back, "I'm not letting them take me down
that easy. Be there when I can." Pulling his pistol, Fly handed it over.
"Keep that in case." a pocket of spare clips on the desk was his last
gift before leaving.

Duty called.

Part 3-

----------------------------

The Earth would soon burn in hellfire. Countries had fallen, their
challenge a mere nuisance to Hell's armies, trampling the bodies,
crumbling the streets and twisting the landscape. Green grass was such
a disgusting image to the demons. Burning rock, magma shining through the
cracks, a much more fitting sight to behold.

Powerful piston-driven limbs carried the massive brain forth, their sounds
echoing throughout the open canyons of Hell's expanse, as if to announce
the Spider Mastermind's mere presence.

What had Satan himself done, anyway? The fool was merely as useless stone
facade, a wall that never moved, never could move. It was HIS leadership
that took advantage of the Mars teleportation experiments, HIS decisions
to send Hell's legions through the gates, HIS choices that moved Deimos
to Hell's surface and opened the portals to Earth.

The Earth would be a mere prize. No, that was not the real goal. It is one
matter to rule the Earth, or what could be considered to be left of it when
every last fleshy, living, breathing mass was exterminated and the traces
of society removed from the very surface. But to rule Hell itself...

Baphomet was a figurehead, in every sense. He would face the great downfall
eventually. The demons would no doubt follow an active leader, a
conqueror, not the one who forced souls to stagnate in the fires of
Hell, never to leave.

Green portals flared to life, deposing their transport close to the
demon brain. "My lord, we believe this human has encountered the soldier,"
the Baron offered, reaching out a glowing hand to give the gift of a
captive man.

"Really..." Body bending down on powerful legs, the small hands gripped
onto the old man, beaten but breathing.

"You're not gettin' nothin' from me, ugly!"

Sharpened teeth cracked into a smile. "I will get plenty..." Firing every
synapse within its massive structure, the Mastermind probed deep into their
captor's very thoughts, his screams loud and dreadful as the mind probe
caused such horrendous pain to the old man. "Terence... you do not have
to tell me anything." Taking great joy in this torment, the Spiderdemon,
hoisting the human aloft, explained cheerfully, "I will simply remove what
I need to know. This will kill you and it will hurt. I, however, shall
take great pleasure in your suffering. And when you are dead, your soul
shall join my minions!"

Spitting a futile gesture, Terence mumbled, "go to Hell."

"My foolish prey," it responded, "we are already in Hell!" Keeping its
glowing red eyes fixed upon the old man's face, in mere seconds, barely
time for his victim to scream, a quick, loud pop rang out, brain matter
escaping from the wound and spraying the ground. Tossing the remains away,
a gigantic metal foot crushing it into meat, the demon smiled as a flame
ignited in the air. Gleefully, the horned skull flew around.

"Welcome to my army. Listen to me, all of you!" Facing the vast legions
under its command, the Mastermind ordered, "Flynn Taggart is on his way
to a UAC facility. This human did not know where that is, but I do know
that Taggart will be forced to pass trough the city nearby. I want every
available soldier sent there NOW! Do not fail me! Taggart must be killed!
Fail me and you shall be damned to the walls of torment!"

A wall of torment was the ultimate punishment, a stretch of screaming
faces, forever frozen, souls unable to move or scream, unable to exist.

It was a threat worth taking seriously.

-------------------------------------------------


The military truck moved through empty city streets, the only one amongst
countless vehicles to remain mobile. Twisted wrecks, abandoned cars,
fragments of explosions sat in the streets, abandoned and forgotten as the
people who drove them, owners and passengers, either fled or died.

This had an unfortunate negative side effect for Fly. Leaving this much
wreckage and so many obstacles, finding a clear path was practically
impossible. Walking would have been faster if not for his desperate need
to transport weaponry. Though the gas gauge wavered, taunting, a bad sign
that soon, he would have no choice but to walk. Walking could be fatal,
however, as the open streets left room for an outward attack, unlike the
corridors of the moon bases or the catacombs of Hell.

It may have been a stroke of luck that Orlando was already a shell, torn
open by the demonic forces, no one left behind to attract attention.

Lost in thought was perhaps a terrible place to be as Flynn hit the brakes.
"This is new," he muttered, a large lump of flesh stumbling from behind a
burnt out delivery truck, screaming as it saw him. Lifting two powerful
cannons, firing heated plasma, Taggart jumped clear as the driver's
compartment of his truck was engulfed in flame, the seats melted into
slag. Scrambling for the rear, jumping inside and kicking open the
metal crates. Fly was able to grab only minimal supplies.

He could hear them, the crackling of small-scale teleports filling the air,
his position soon assaulted by fire and bullets. Rushing into the old
grocery store, taking cover, hoping beyond hope, the plasma gun raised,
pellets of blue energy streaking through the air, their impact melting
whatever they hit, the rotten skin of zombies smoking as the demonic
flesh of Hellspawn burned away, demons crying in pain as their physical
forms were ripped apart.

Slapping a fresh battery into the gun, Corporal Taggart knew that staying
here was not wise. His location was known, position compromised, and any
minute he would be overrun. Cut off from his weaponry, what little he
had would have to serve as a means of survival. Combat was unacceptable.
Sticking to the shadows, staying low, that would be his only way out
of this nightmare.

The stomping, that horrifying stomping shook the walls. "Shit..."
Searching the floors, pacing through and avoiding direct sight with windows,
Fly only hoped for a basement entrance, a sub-level doorway. Anything
to avoid the powerhouse outside.

Opening the hatch, climbing down, Fly wished that this basement only led
into the underground maintenance networks. More importantly, he wished
that the streets above remained strong enough to avoid collapsing under
the weight of what walked above.

Smelling the air, the Baron was displeased. "The human must have found
some sort of escape."

"Or he was never HERE!" an Imp shouted in anger, "it's not as if those
worthless fat blobs can even see past their own fat faces!"

"Imp..." Gripping the leathery skull and twisting to the remains of the
truck, the Baron remarked, "then where did that come from? Please, tell
us, little fool! There must be some sort of underground tunnel system
beneath this filthy human city!" The Cyberdemon peered around, only
hoping for a fresh target. Impatient and filled with anger, the towering
demonic goat only wished for the chance to destroy something. "YOU!
Begin firing upon the surface! Perhaps we will be fortunate this day and
the underground will collapse on this pathetic soul!"

Growling a cry of pride, the monster took aim, volleys of rockets slamming
pavement, cracking the streets as debris rained down. "Use short range
teleports to transport below. Any and all available infantry of smaller
sizes!"

"But we don't know where to go," a lone Hell Knight protested, "if we
teleport into a solid wall or a-"

Scratching the lesser demon, the Baron demanded, "if you fail it will be
a far worse fate! Now do as you have been ordered!"

Below, in the darkness, Flynn Taggart fiddled with a set of darkness
vision goggles, adjusting the light levels. The battery was low, only
ten minutes of light before blindness. If only he had a working area
map of these old tunnels. Fortunes had been strong enough to reveal a door
into the city's maintenance network. Not quite the sewers but it would
still offer some degree of passage.

Weaponry, however, was light. A single shotgun, a few shells, and his
plasma rifle with only one full battery had been salvaged prior to his
arsenal being reduced to ash. To make matters far worse, the tunnels shook
with the echoes of explosions. No doubt the massive demon, a figurative
building with legs, was pummeling the streets and he could hear the
distinct footsteps far away. More of them were nearing this location.

It was unsafe by any definition of safety. Even if he could escape the
tunnels, his armaments were so light that only a few of the monsters would
fall before all hope was lost.

The haunting shriek of teleportation could be heard in the distance. They
were in the maze with him now. Feet moving slowly, Fly almost tripped
over a mass lumped onto the floor. Looking down, the Marine found what
had been left of a body, the spikes a sure sign of one of the lesser Imps,
impaled on what appeared to be a jackhammer.

No. Not a jackhammer, a chainsaw.

What a chainsaw was doing under the streets of Orlando, coated in the blood
of one of the foul things, was perhaps a mystery that Flynn Taggart
would never piece together. However, it was a great advantage. The plasma
battery, despite being incompatible with his rifle, would power the
saw for some time and the blade still felt sharp to the touch.

Such gifts often came with prices and this was a terrible price. The blade
would make noise, as if he'd held up a sign for all to see and they would
be on him. It might be useful in close-quartered combat but against
projectiles or bullets, an ineffective show. Dropping it for a gun might
complicate matters and the saw itself posed a severe risk of personal
injury in the event he were to drop it or swing incorrectly, or be pushed,
or any other circumstance that would cause him to meet the blade.

The growls moved closer. Closer and angrier. His blood was a priority
target and Taggart could only place a strong bet that every last one
of them had been given strict orders to kill him or to die trying.

Gripping the starter cord, his hand flew back, starting the blade.