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
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,
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.
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 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
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.
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
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...