[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
the corridor to the left. The results were good--a large bunch of fried
zombies. I was ready to institute a firm gun-control policy for all undead:
I would firmly control my BFG as I fired it.
Leaping down from the pumpkin platform, I bolted along the corridor to
the left end, ducking into a cubby- hole myself. Old rule: when a bad guy
comes out of a hole, he's not there anymore. I laid down the BFG and unslung
my trusty shotgun, then poked my nose out of the cubbyhole again. Seemed
like a good idea at the time.
A stream of bullets came out of nowhere and I ducked back in. And at
last I figured out what the hell was happening: it was Arlene! She must be
firing across the hidden teleport pad . . . and her bullets were being tele-
ported to where I had first emerged. No wonder the zombies were confused.
This was enough to confuse someone with a functional brain.
She was doing just as good a job of mowing them down as if she'd been
present and accounted for. Encouraged, I helped out and shot the ones who
ran past my cubbyhole, hunting for an enemy. So specters weren't the only
ones who could play this game. Of course, the zombies got mad and started
shooting each other.
They were all dead by the time Arlene joined me. She hopped off the pad
and I filled her in. Then we returned to the end of the corridor where I had
hidden; I'd seen a door awaiting our attentions.
There was no special key required to open this one; of course not ... a
hell-prince waited for us on the other side.
It had a blue key card in its mouth; we took it after making a fair
trade: he got a whole bunch of rockets. I'm sure the minotaur appreciated
our generosity.
Returning to the mouth of the corridor, we picked up Ritch. We hadn't
forgotten him. Ritch never seemed to regret missing out on our repeated
exterminations, al- though he acquitted himself admirably when backed into a
corner ... the perfect civilian. He'd have done well at Lexington and
Concord, provided there wasn't a lot of running involved.
The three of us trucked back across the courtyard to the locked
door--and none of us was the least surprised when the key unlocked it.
Inside was a single, ornate teleport pad. We blinked into existence in
a vast room, a huge, open pit with a narrow catwalk running around the
periphery. Our eyes watered from mist in the air. The place stank of boiled
rock and the walls were the color of dried blood, and everywhere was the
stench of sour lemons.
"This is it!" Ritch said, suddenly excited. "This is the place where
the spider, the mastermind, interrogated me."
I'd been getting to the point of dismissing any differ- ences in the
hellish architecture. All the chambers seemed more and more identical. But
they'd never tortured me, stringing me up to hang halfway between life and
death. There was no doubting Ritch's memory after what he'd been through.
We heard a cacophony from below, as if a monster convention was being
held under our noses. We dropped on our bellies, hugging the catwalk, and
listened.
I heard roaring, grunting, screaming, wheezing, howl- ing, snuffling,
and even a weird piping or whistling. Heavy thumping and thudding left no
doubt that some of the big guys were down there. Didn't hear a steam- demon,
though; that was the only good news.
"If you want to see the spidermind, now's your chance," Ritch
whispered.
"Isn't it special invitation only?" Arlene asked.
"I can't help it," I whispered. "I'm a born Gate- crasher."
She crawled to the edge. "Pumpkins, hell-princes, those crazy flying
skulls."
"Did we ever get around to naming them?"
Arlene looked at me with a strange expression, as if I'd just missed
something. "Gee . . . how about 'flying skulls'? Any objections?"
Shaking my head, I couldn't help but notice Hitch's expression. He
probably thought our little name game the pinnacle of insanity. And Ritch
had a gift for it himself: he'd called our steam-demon a "cyberdude," and
"spidermind" turned out to be a perfect description for the thing that chose
that moment to make a big entrance.
It was worse than all the rest.
If I'd found the steam-demon disgusting with its mixture of organic and
mechanical, this completely alien It scuttling across the floor down below
completely turned my stomach. Numerous mechanical legs sup- ported a dome
housing a gigantic, gray, pulsing brain with a hideous, ersatz face formed
in the center of the squishy gray matter itself, complete with "eyes" and
"teeth." It should have been funny, almost a cartoon-- but there was nothing
remotely humorous about the living incarnation of a nightmare.
Its appearance was so unnerving that one could easily neglect taking
inventory of the most important thing: its weapons. Even from this awkward
angle it was easy to see that it came equipped with what looked like an
ultraspeed Gatling gun, like a Vulcan cannon. There was little doubt that up
close there'd be other unpleasant surprises.
"Listen," I hissed, "suppose we can take this spidermind thing. We'd
throw a monkey wrench into the invasion plans right here and now! I could
run along the catwalk, drop down in front of the creature and fry it with my
new toy."
"Too dangerous," Arlene said.
"It would get you with its machine guns before you got close enough to
try," Ritch added.
These were extremely good points, I had to admit. Rethinking the idea,
I realized that even if I succeeded, I would be ripped to shreds by the
throng of monsters surrounding the boss. Ritch seemed to be reading my
thoughts when he said: "We should kill some of the other creatures so the
spidermind won't have as much back- up." Maybe this guy could make an
honorary Marine after all.
Creeping along the catwalk rim, peeking over the edge, we made slow
progress. While finding a more advanta- geous position, Ritch sneezed. I
think he was allergic to monsters.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]