by Albert Berg
him with a million different terrors, a myriad of unspeakable horrors that ripped at his brain like crows tearing away at chunks of his sanity.
"This is it," the Jones-thing purred. "This is always my favorite part."
"No," Warrick said. "It's not. Not any more."
With his mind dying inside itself he took the gun in his hand, pointed it at the bottom of his chin and pulled the trigger.
He heard an echo of insane laughter as the world went white, then vanished completely.
Then...
The moment he stepped out of the air lock into the dark hallway beyond, Warrick felt something. It was difficult to define. Foreboding would have been too strong a word, but that was a step in the right direction. If nothing else it was a subtle kind of deja vu, a suggestion that he had been here before. But of course he hadn't. He couldn't have been. He waited a moment for the feeling to pass then radioed back to the ship.
