by John Shirley
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Doom, the movie novel © 2005 by Universal Studios Licensing LLLP.
Doom, the movie © 2005 by Universal Studios.
Doom, the game © 2005 by id Software, Inc.
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For all those brilliant guys at id
My nerves are made of steel, my nerves are made of
steel, my nerves are made of steel, my nerves are
made of steel, my nerves are made of steel,
my nerves are made of steel…
—Monster Magnet, “The Right Stuff”
Thanks to:
Ed Schlesinger
The producers, director, designers, and writers of Doom, the movie
One
A DARK CORRIDOR, deep underground. A single shriek, quickly cut off. The sound of running feet, coming closer…
Pounding down the corridor, Dr. Todd Carmack couldn’t see his pursuers, couldn’t hear them, couldn’t smell them, not here—but he knew they were behind him, gaining ground on him and the other five scientists.
Oh yeah: the things were solid enough, loud and reeking enough, and murderous enough—one of them had stood over him, as he lay on his back in the lab, dripping drool on him, gnashing its teeth in anticipation, a lab technician’s raggedly severed arm still clutched in its talons. Carmack had pulled the limp, semiconscious Dr. Norris onto him, putting Norris between him and that thing—it had to go through Norris’s body first, and that had given Dr. Carmack a moment to scramble away and start the headlong flight down this corridor. But Norris’s sobbing screams still echoed around Carmack’s skull—they seemed to echo down the corridor and up through level on level of the labs; despairing screams shivering over the archaeological digs, reverberating across the poisoned surface of the planet Olduvai.
Legs and arms pumping, sweat streaming down his face, Carmack figured he was going to die of a heart attack before he got to that heavy door. He was sixty fucking years old, for God’s sake. His thudding heart was trying to climb out of his chest; and every breath slashed his lungs like the scalpels he’d used on the subjects in the lab.
He seemed to see the terrified eyes of the lab animals, now, coming out of the darkness ahead…
Ten more strides ahead, a fluctuating pool of light waited, threatening to cut out with the flickering of the fluorescent bulb illuminating the door: the door to safety. If there was any safety on this goddamned planet.
He risked a look over his shoulder, saw the other scientists running in and out of the intermittent shadow; a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat, Dr. Tallman, was several strides behind Carmack.
His assistant, Dexter, a spindly awkward man, face contorted with terror—was taking up the rear, slowing down now, hobbling, clutching his left leg. A cramp. And then something swept blurrily from the shadows to one side, a dark, strangely rippling arm encircled Dexter’s waist and jerked him screaming into the darkness. A blink, and he was simply gone…
Carmack stumbled, facing front and just managing not to fall headlong, knowing he’d be weeping with fear if he had the wind to do it with. He flung himself against the door, just as the light overhead started sparking, hissing…about to go out.
“Get it open!” Tallman screamed, running down the hall toward him. Looking absurd sprinting in her white lab coat, as they all did. “For God’s sake, Carmack, get it open!”
Gasping for breath, chest heaving, pulse hammering in his ears, Carmack punched at the small keyboard on the door’s control panel, but his sight was blurry with sweat, and he had to hit CLEAR and the number combination again…the door, dented and marked by claw marks, clattered within itself, struggling to respond…
Glancing down the corridor, Carmack glimpsed a hulking black silhouette closing its claws around the throat of the last scientist in the terrified, sprinting procession, Willits—and though Willits was the biggest of them, almost three hundred pounds, he was snatched into the shadows as if he’d been a rabbit caught up by a French chef.
There was a wet crunch, audible fifty feet away—but the door was at last shuddering open, just as Dr. Tallman huffed up to Carmack.
The door stuck, only partway open.
Carmack turned sideways and forced himself through the opening, into the lab, immediately punching at the interior control panel. He jabbed the EMERGENCY CLOSE AND LOCK button.
“Dr. Carmack!” Tallman yelled—and shoved her arm through to stop the door closing—it slammed shut on her upper limb with a sickening crunch. Tallman gave out a piteous squeal, her trapped arm twitching.
One of the others shrilled, “—for God’s sake, Carmack!”
It was a matter of triage, Carmack thought, floundering inwardly for justification. There was no way they could all make it.
Tallman shrieked, her twitching arm going blue—then it was dragged upward as something smashed her body about, flew ceilingward in the space left by the partly open door, smacked hard into the top of the frame with shattering force, only to immediately whip downward again, slapping the floor like the dead meat it had become. Something was wrenching Dr. Tallman’s body; something else was at the others. Carmack could hear them sobbing, could hear enormous jaws gnashing, flesh wetly rending.
Tallman’s arm again flapped up and down in the slot of the door, splashing blood, as if the door itself was eating it…and finally it severed, the crudely amputated limb falling onto the floor of the lab, the door closing most of the way.
It wasn’t over. Tallman was still alive, out there, her screams alternating with begging…and bubbling sounds…
But Carmack felt a little relief, seeing the steel door finish closing—maybe he was safe now!—until something began pounding on it with jackhammer force. The door shuddered, creaking, and dust drifted from the ceiling.
Carmack recoiled, stumbled to the video-comm panel, forced himself to concentrate on tapping the keyboard, setting up a transmission to home—light-years away.
The light went green, signifying open channel, and he began, “This is Dr. Carmack—” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the screaming from the corridor. “—at Classified Research, Olduvai! ID 6627! We’ve had a level-five breach, implement quarantine procedures immediately—”
A final sobbing cry from beyond the door…the sound of tearing. Crunching bone. A sound—what was it? Was it the sound of flesh being gobbled down?
“—I repeat! Implement level-five quarantine procedures now!”
He hit the SEND button. The screen read out,
TRANSMISSION SENT.
TIME UNTIL RECEPTION:
2:56:18…17….16…
Christ, he thought, almost three hours before they’d even get the message…The pounding at the door redoubled. Almost methodical now. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He turned to see that the metal door was denting inward. This room was supposed to be supremely reinforced, ultrahigh security. And he wasn’t safe even here.
He tu
rned desperately back to the comm screen.
2:56:11…10…9…
And a feeling washed over Carmack as he watched the hopeless countdown. A feeling that was also a realization of his fate.
So this is it, he thought.
This is what doom feels like.
Two
REAPER IS ON point, that hot, wet dusk on the edge of the methane fields, five miles north of the fuel-processing center. Reaper is buzz cut, clean-shaven, with sharp features, two dark slashes for eyebrows, and dark eyes as grim as his name. His real name is John Grimm; the other guys in the “Privines”—slang for Privatized Marines—called him Reaper, and by now he answers to it. Monikers are a tradition in their unit.
So the Japanese guy coming through the Amazonian rain forest after Reaper is just Mac; and after him, part of their single-file patrol, is a bulky, implacable black man, who goes by Destroyer—which’d be a nickname to induce eye-rolling if he hadn’t earned it thirty or forty times; then, tall and wiry, comes Duke.
After Duke is Jumper—a red-haired soldier twitchy with nervous energy, perpetual loopy grin, and a humorous squint to his green eyes, always spoiling for a fight. His real last name is Cable—he’s been there for Reaper since boot camp.
Then there’s Goat. Long face and tuft of beard that goes with the name, mutters under his breath—you can never make out what he’s saying—and his hands shake when he’s not in a firefight. Brutally efficient when he is.
Bringing up the rear, sunken-eyed and sullen, is plain old Portman—he hasn’t been with them long and hasn’t earned a combat name.
Each man wears helmets with headsets, lightly armored cammies, RRTS insignia on one shoulder, United Aerospace Corporation patches on the other: UAC Special Assignment. Each carries an M-100 combination assault rifle and grenade launcher—they’ve been specially assigned for the mission…
Maybe not the right weapons, Reaper is thinking. Their usual arsenal is what they’d trained with…
Somewhere far away, John Grimm shuddered under Plexiglas. He was lying on a cushioned table, with electrodes taped to his temples, the sensors slowly rotating over his cranium scanning his brain, the military therapist having insisted…
“I must insist, John,” she’d said. “I must insist…”
“They insisted on these fucking M-100s,” Reaper is muttering, as Duke draws up beside him, on the edge of the clearing. Reaper slings his rifle over his shoulder, raises his right hand to signal a halt, the other hand wiping sweat from his head as he scans the tree line. Interlocked umbrella-shaped trees, branchless for a hundred feet up, make a canopy over most of the rain forest. The path leads through the clearing to the methane fields, but there is no way Reaper is going to take his men into that clearing, an ideal spot for an ambush, without checking it out first. Intel has anti-UAC guerillas heading for the general area of the methane fields, probably bent on sabotage. Maybe they’ll hit this one—or maybe not.
“These rifles—I think we’re in a goddamn test drive…” Reaper adds, swinging the rifle back into readiness again.
“We’re testing these weapons?” Duke asks softly, looking down at his weapon. “You mean all they did was, like, fire at some targets somewhere?”
“That’s what I mean. M-100 hasn’t been significantly field-tested. Meaning not tested for reaction to humidity, for starters.”
“And goddamn if it ain’t humid here,” says Duke, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
“We should’ve brought our regular ordnance, left these in the…Hold on, you see something move, over about three o’clock, under that tree there?”
“That tree? That’s like pointing out a snowflake in a blizzard.”
“That yellowish one that’s leaning, Duke—look, right there, two frog’s hairs to the left—”
“I make the tree, but I don’t see any—wait. Yeah. There’s someone there…I see a weapon! Let’s hit cover, John.”
Reaper nods and signals the others. The patrol melts back into the underbrush—but they’ve been spotted and some anxious guerilla opens fire. A flock of something red and feathery takes to the air, startled by the rattling submachine gun…Twigs and leaves shower down close to the patrol as the SMG rounds cut through the brush.
“Anybody hit?”
“No.”
“Negative…How many are there?”
“No telling. Portman, Duke, you head northeast, see if you can flank them, you other guys with me…But not you, Jumper…”
Reaper tensed under the glass, fitfully opening his eyes, but seeing only that day in the rain…Seeing…
“Yes, sir?”
“Jumper, I’m just a corporal, and you don’t have to call me sir, goddammit…”
“Hey—I like calling you sir, you’re such a macho hot pants of a swingin’ dick.”
“And you’re a talented comic. Now lay some fire down over at three o’clock, do not expose yourself…” Knowing that was contradictory directions. Firing at the enemy would itself expose Jumper.
“Deploying…sir!” Jumper grins and, hunching down, slips off into the brush as another probing strafe of SMG fire chips across a tree trunk, just over their heads.
“Permission to return fire, sir,” Destroyer says.
“Nah, not yet, bro,” Reaper answers. “You and Portman watch my six, I’m gonna push their lines, see how far I can get before they push back…”
“Roger that.”
Hunched over, Reaper leads Destroyer and Goat around to the right, skirting the edge of the clearing. It’s getting darker: shadows lengthening, air seeming to thicken to transparent blue gel as the sun eases into the horizon. He hears stuttering gunfire from Jumper, jabbing at the guerillas’ flank, hears the guerillas returning fire.
Reaper hurries, trying to take advantage of the decoy fire, and finds himself in a narrow opening in the leaf-carpeted, underbrush—
And suddenly there’s a young guerilla, SMG in his hands, popping up from behind a lichen-coated fallen tree, his face drawn in fear as he fires sloppily at them—firing in sheer hysteria.
Reaper fires back, and the guerilla goes spinning backward, seeming to fall in slow motion…
Reaper writhed under the electrodes, wanting out, feeling trapped in the dimly sensed glass coffin—and trapped in the past. A voice from somewhere was saying, “I think he’s fighting the therapy, maybe we’d better…”
“No,” a woman’s voice said, “if he doesn’t relive this now, he’ll relive it as repression stress, he’ll snap in combat…”
Goat vaults the log, comes down beside the kid, gun butt at ready to smash his head in if he’s still got any fight in him…Hesitates. Stares.
The young guerilla—not more than fifteen years old, Reaper guesses—has been torn open just under the rib cage by the close-range burst from Reaper, and he’s lying on his back twisting like a salted slug. Whimpering.
In the glass coffin, Reaper twisted his body exactly as the kid had…
The boy is moaning something in his own language. Reaper touches the insta-translator switch on his headset. “I’m sorry,” the translator voice says, as the kid repeats himself. “Sorry I let them know we were there…I made up for it, Uncle, didn’t I? I made them come to me…”
It hits Reaper that they are the ones who’ve been decoyed.
He puts a bullet in the boy’s forehead, avoiding looking into his eyes as he does this, and heads for the clearing, touching the headset’s transmission node. “Jumper—they’re flanking you, we were decoyed over here, they’re—”
“I’ve got ’em, Reaper, I can hold ’em till you get here—”
Gunfire racketing from the jungle.
“—I can hold ’em if…dammit it quit on me again…” His voice in the headset lost in crackle for a moment.
“What? What quit on you?”
“This fucking M-100, John, it’s jamming, it’s—I can’t get the grenade launcher to work either—oh fuck here they come…where’s Du
ke? Duke! Portman!”
“Reaper—don’t go out there!”
Ignoring Destroyer’s warnings, Reaper breaks from cover, sprints across the grassy clearing, risking both mines and small-arms fire—as bullets make blades of grass, just behind him, fly like cuttings from a mower.
“Duke!” Reaper shouts into the headset, “can you guys get Jumper’s back?”
“Negative, we’re pinned down! My rifle’s only working every third round!”
Reaper tries his autorifle’s grenade launcher, and he’s in luck: he fires a grenade into the jungle, just where the muzzle flash had been. Sees the blast, hears a scream.
Then he reaches the line of trees, punches through like brush like a linebacker through defense, swearing, shouting for Jumper…
Finds him sitting up against a tree, with the upper half of his head shot almost evenly away.
Nothing left but some nose, a gaping, blood-drooling mouth.
The guerilla who did for Jumper turns, seeing Reaper running at him—and that’s when Reaper’s gun jams. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s using the butt, roaring as he smashes the man’s forehead in, throws the rifle at another guerilla, draws his sidearm, snaps off three pistol shots in two faces. Those two go down, but more are coming—then Goat and Destroyer are there, firing from the hip, their own weapons choosing to work.
Reaper screams and fires and screams and…
“John Grimm? Are you with us?” The lady psych tech’s face—a pretty girl, really, if a bit pudgy—smiling down at him. “We lost track of the memory. Stress levels too high—but I do think we made some progress. How do you feel?”
He thought: Like I’d like to kill you and everyone in here.
But aloud he said, “I want to go back to my unit. Take all this fucking gear off me.”
Reaper was packing his bag, almost cheerful for the first time since they’d gotten back from their tour on the methane fields. How long had it been, six weeks? Seemed like a year.
This part of battle-stress therapy he liked: going on furlough. R&R.
