Soda Pop Soldier Page 5
“Ready, sir?” he asks over the chat.
“Do it.”
The doors part and slide open.
There is a moment.
A whole entire moment of stunned surprise.
The door opens onto a wide multilevel room. It looks like some sort of administrative complex: clean, sterile; soft blues and plastic whites. Partitioned spaces surround the perimeter of the room. Part office, part medical lab.
But that’s not the surprise.
We’re the surprise. And so are they.
WonderSoft.
Us.
Fully armed for bear, loaded with heavy weapons and explosives and separated by thirty meters of flimsy space-age office cubicles.
WonderSoft’s elite SF unit has just entered the far side of the sprawling office space. They’re still in a patrol column on the walkway that surrounds the room and leads to the lower level of administrative desks.
“Let’s rock!” screams one of the heavy gunners, and it is indeed on. There’s no time for the CommandPad. It’s old-school run and gun. In seconds, both sides are pouring into the room, firing at everyone. Heavy gunners are cutting the place to shreds, their weapon fire echoing brutally through my fragile speakers. I lob flash-bangs and slide behind a row of cubicles for cover. Paperwork and computers are exploding all around me. Several marines are already down. I hear the distinct brraaap of AwesomeSauce’s sub Mini doling out a short, unhealthy supply of bullets. I pop cover and engage a death-masked Softie with a burst that punches into his neck and head. His avatar goes down spraying fire, dropping a grenade. A half second later, the cubicle he disappears into splinters from an explosion.
Within seconds, both sides are behind cover and firing at each other from opposite sides of the room. I’m crawling toward one of the walls, hoping to start a flanking action, when I pass a row of active computer monitors showing various security cam feeds of different locations around the complex.
That’s when I see the alien.
Aliens.
Yes. It is all those things.
Gorilla.
Shark.
Scorpion.
Tiger.
Spider.
And T. rex.
On the monitors I see views of the outside of the facility. Others of some unknown part of the lab. I also see some sort of dimly lit maintenance area, and another monitor shows the hall we just came down. Or one very much like it.
Aliens are racing down it. Aliens are filling every shot. Aliens are coming for us.
All around my position, WonderSoft SF, Colonial Marines, and what remains of my squads are shooting at anything that moves, like there’s a moonlight madness special on ammo. A Colonial Marine lunges past me, auto rifle firing short bursts at some unseen foe. He goes down, slumped over another cubicle.
Team Fortress Death Match appears across my screen.
The second map has started.
In a Team Fortress Death match, both sides attempt to construct a defended position while trying to destroy the other team’s defended position. This should be very interesting, what with all the gorilla, spider, tiger, shark, scorpion, aliens running amok. Oh yeah . . . T. rex, can’t forget the T. rex part.
I check my CommandPad for tactical updates.
“Hey, Apone, listen up. Those things are right outside, and my guess is, they’re coming in after us. It’s a TFD match. We’ve got to find a position and fortify before those things get in here.”
“Yeah, I saw that, sir,” he says between bursts of auto-rifle fire. “Real cute of WarWorld.”
The Hispanic female gunner chick is advancing through the field of desk debris, raking WonderSoft’s positions with short bursts of her very large, heavy-caliber machine gun.
“We gotta get outta here now!” shouts someone over the chat.
On my CommandPad tactical display, I find two air shaft vents leading away from the room. One is on WonderSoft’s side; the other, on ours. That’ll lead somewhere. We can’t defend this room unless WonderSoft’s willing to stop shooting at us—which I don’t think is an option right now.
A quick look at the roster on my CommandPad tells me I’m down to just nine players again.
“Apone,” I call out over BattleChat. “Rally everyone . . . here.” I mark the access hatch nearest our position. “I’m popping smoke . . . should give us some cover.”
“Roger that,” says someone whose chat gets overrun by a staccato burst of sharp-edged weapon fire. I’m not sure if it’s Apone. Maybe he’s dead.
I hear a loud hammering sound beyond the gunfire erupting against the doors and walls. Thunderous. Sharp. Growing and turning into a thousand grasshoppers smacking into a windshield at high speed. A quick check of the security door we came through and I see why. It’s denting inward. Those things are flinging themselves into it.
“Covering fire!” yells the Hispanic chick over BattleChat. MarinePFCVasquez. An immense amount of weapons fire resounds across the cavernous room as her weapon switches into overcycle mode. She must be running the Rapid Fire Freak perk.
I pop smoke and shout “We are leaving!” over the chat.
By the time we make the access hatch, I hear the door metal tearing apart. There’s too much smoke to see anything else, and there’s nothing to block the access hatch with.
Eight of us make it into the ducting.
I’m glad to see little AwesomeSauce along with the rest of the survivors, all marines.
“Follow me,” I hear MarinePvtWierzbowski shout frantically over the chat. He must be at the head of our dwindling column inside the large air duct. Behind us we can hear screeching—animal alien screeching.
MarinePFCVasquez’s gun falls silent back in the main room.
I check the CommandPad to see who’s left. Vasquez is KIA.
I have to admit; I’m a little tense right now.
“Keep following the duct. It should lead to an area we can fortify,” shouts Apone over the in-game screeching of distant aliens and our echoing passage along the galvanized metal ducting. I hear automatic gunfire ahead of us. Behind us again. Off in the distance . . . then, not at all.
If WonderSoft gets taken out by the aliens, does that mean we get a default win? I’m guessing not.
“Wierzbowski!” someone screams over the chat. “They got Wierzbowski!”
“LOL . . . just like in the movie,” someone else says, laughing.
“Take the left fork,” shouts Apone over the chat and automatic weapons fire. Pistol shots. Behind us, on ambient, I can hear scrabbling claws and a leathery slithering against the outside of the ductwork all around us. WarWorld has gone all in on this map. The muscles in my neck feel like iron bands. I open and close my jaw to shake out the tension, then blink twice and look at the screen again.
We pass a torn-out section of the ductwork. It gapes outward, covered in dark inky blood and rising steam.
“Keep moving, Marines!” says someone not Apone.
I chance a look behind me and see an alien scrabble around a corner in the ducting. An alien. I cut loose with the M4X and hit it multiple times. Acid and tentacles explode in steam and blood. More of them are scrabbling behind the dying thrashing shrieking thing, to get over it, to get at me. To get at us.
“Anyone holding a ’nade?” I shout over the chat.
“Last one,” says MarinePvtFrost. “After that, we’re down to just the magazines we got left and some witty banter.” He laughs over the chat.
“Use it behind us, now!” I tell him.
The corridor’s tight, but he gets it behind us and destroys the ducting and some of the aliens.
“Something ahead . . . ,” says MarineCorpsmanDietrich. Her voice is frantic. “I think it’s an opening!”
“Check it first,” warns Apone.
“Like we got a lotta choices right now, Sarge,” adds Frost.
After a moment Dietrich calls out “All clear” over the chat and we’re in. Then, “Hey, we’re in Operations!”
“If this is anything like our mods,” says Apone, “then we only need to seal the two doors that lead into Medical. Those and the duct we just came through.”
“Yo, heads up, there’s a materials station here!” calls out someone named MarinePvtDrake.
“Good, grab it and start sealing these doors, Marines,” orders Apone.
I walk out into Operations and find desks, displays, and transparent walls. The marines are already welding steel plates across the two main doors to the section. I see AwesomeSauce bent over a nearby display. Its light turns her avatar’s face a soft blue.
“We’ve got feeds on most of the facility,” she says as I approach. “They’re everywhere. The aliens, that is. WonderSoft is probably in the living quarters section but I can’t get in there. So . . . if they made it, they’re there.” She snaps her bubble gum. “What now, Question?” I check my CommandPad.
We’re down to AwesomeSauce, Apone, Drake, Dietrich, Frost, and a guy named Crowe whom I haven’t heard from much.
That makes seven of us.
The goal of the TFD match is to destroy the other team’s defenses before they destroy yours. With the aliens surrounding everything, that means if teams don’t have a fortress, then they don’t have much of a chance at survival. WonderSoft is on the other side of the station. Between us and them, there are . . . a whole lot of those things. I watch the monitor as one of the aliens drags the body of a Softie avatar down a dimly lit grated corridor.
“Can we hurt them from here?” I ask AwesomeSauce. “Using the computer system?”
She’s silent for a moment.
“Nah, doesn’t look like it.”
I’m thinking.
“Listen,” I say over the chat. “Obviously you guys are fans of the movie. I’ve never seen it.” I pause, waiting for the various shouts of incredulity to pass. Then, “Does anyone have an idea how we can hurt WonderSoft? I mean, anything from the movie.”
No one says anything.
“In the movie, the atmosphere processor blows the whole place up,” offers Apone. “We could blow ourselves up. Not much use in that, I guess.”
“Yeah, kinda defeats the purpose, Sarge,” says Frost.
“I don’t suppose anyone’s got a Bunker Buster streak? We could drop it on the living quarter section and take them out or at least expose them to the aliens.”
“I got a Special Delivery,” says Drake. “But we need to be out in the open for that. We could use the weapons package option it comes with, though. That’d be real nice right about now.”
And I’ve got Hang in There, Lil’ Buddy. My final streak. A dropship escort for two minutes. But we’re inside. What’s it going to do, fire through the windows?
“I haven’t seen this old movie either,” says AwesomeSauce. “Why do they blow up this atmosphere thing?”
“Oh, they don’t mean to,” says Dietrich. “Just happens after a really awesome firefight when they get ambushed by warriors . . . those things. The aliens. They damage it when they walk into the nest.”
“The nest?” I ask.
“Yeah, that’s where the alien queen makes her nest.”
“What if . . . ,” I’m thinking out loud. “What if that’s map number three? What if this map TDF match has an inherent destruction feature? The aliens. They destroy your fortress, forcing you to find and move into the third map before that happens. It’s probably a matter of time before . . .”
There’s a dull thump on one of the doors. Everyone swivels, guns pointing at the door, watching the dent that’s just appeared there. Then another.
“They’re here,” whispers Apone.
“Yeah . . . matter of time,” says Frost. “We better do something fast ’cause if they get in here, it’s gonna be a real short meet and greet.”
“I think this isn’t the game,” I say. Everybody’s still watching the door. It’s dimpling inward even more. Everyone’s slowly backing away, putting desks and displays between themselves and the rapidly deforming door. “We’ve got to get out to that atmosphere processor. That’s where the next map is. The aliens will destroy both fortresses in a matter of time. We don’t need to wipe out WonderSoft, the aliens will do it for us. Drake, have you unlocked the vehicle upgrade on that Special Delivery?”
“Played for three years . . . what do you think?”
“Good, call it in and drop it right outside those windows there.” I point out into the dark landscape of wind and rain. I can see shadows moving out there among the rocks and debris. There’s nothing human avatar–shaped about them.
“Uh, we can’t get through those windows with just rifles and no explosives, genius. That’s a transparent wall. Guns are useless. We need, at least, a 30 mm chain gun or explosives,” says Dietrich.
Seams are beginning to appear in the door leading to Medical.
“Hang on . . . ,” I say, activating my third streak. “It’s about to get real hairy for a couple of seconds.”
A seam in the door’s thick welded-plate metal rips open like a shirt. One of the aliens sticks its shiny black bullet-shaped head in. Its grinning jaws snap open as another set of smaller teeth shoot out, dripping thick saliva.
I fire a quick burst and the thing’s head explodes, its jaws still snapping as the body goes limp.
“I think ‘hairy’ might be an understatement, Question,” whispers AwesomeSauce.
“Yeah . . . we’re, like, done,” adds Drake. “I got sixty rounds left and . . .”
“Call in that vehicle now, Drake. Do it! Select the APC!” I shout over the chat. Meanwhile I’m dialing in my last streak. I set the spinning red target hologram on the door the aliens are about to come through.
“Ready, everyone . . . you know the drill. Conserve your ammo. Check your targets. Everyone stay frosty and we’ll get through this,” says Apone over the metallic pounding and concussive thuds. The door is coming apart.
“Escort Gunship, inbound,” announces the game.
“Heads down, everyone!” I yell over the chat.
The aliens are crawling through, tails whipping, teeth gnashing, claws reaching, opening and closing. Drake begins to fire.
I turn to see the dropship lowering beneath storm-leaden clouds and the darkness outside, swiveling as it hovers beyond the large windows. Guns extend, centering on the spinning red targeting reticle I’ve placed over the door the aliens are coming through.
“Get down!”
The dropship’s 30 mm cannons whir to life, smashing the explosive-resistant window to shards, sending a hazy stream of ball ammunition right into the splitting door. Aliens explode, ejecting yellow acid and greenish guts everywhere.
“Drake, call that APC in now!”
“Done.”
The spinning guns of the gunship wind down for a moment, waiting for a new batch of targets.
I shout, “Move now! Everyone through the window and out to the APC.” Aliens are still climbing through the Swiss-cheesed metal opening that was the door to Medical. The guns of the Albatross spool up again as AwesomeSauce and Crowe clear the smashed window. More aliens explode. Even more are coming through.
“Something’s got me!” shrieks Drake over the chat. I look over to see an alien coming through the floor. I fire a short burst into the dark hole beneath his feet and the thing explodes down there in the dark. Drake’s avatar screams. Nice touch, WarWorld.
“I’m down to 25 percent,” notes Drake over the chat.
The whining death pitch of the dropship’s guns recedes.
“C’mon, we are leaving, Marines!” says Apone.
It’s a small fall out through the shards of the window and into the mud and rain. I take 2 percent damage. Rain falls across my HUD as my avatar gets to his feet. Ahead of me the others are already scrambling toward the APC. It’s an identical version of the APC used in the Drive
-by streak earlier. Above us the hovering dropship swivels, its chain guns dispensing a blurring barrage of death in a wide arc at multiple closing targets all around us. Over in-game ambient sound, I can hear the dying screeches of the prehistoric-like aliens mixed with the howling wind and splashing rain.
An alien comes charging and thrashing out of the dark, tackling Drake’s limping avatar. The other marines and AwesomeSauce are firing at a swarm of aliens trying to cut them off from reaching the APC. I close with the one on top of Drake and execute the hand-to-hand kill option by clicking both mouse buttons at once. I can’t chance shooting the thing, it’s all over Drake. A quick cut-scene plays out as my avatar reaches one hand out and grabs the thrashing head of the alien. My long-barrel .45 comes into frame against the skull of the alien and fires, putting a hot bullet through the elongated skull. Its jaws snap shut, then open, going slack in death.
I get Drake up and we’re moving. We barely make the red emergency-lit interior of the APC as the vehicle’s autoturret fires madly at the swarming aliens. The dropship above us turns, engaging multiple unseen targets. Like I said, we barely make it.
We’re moving fast over dark terrain. AwesomeSauce is driving. I check the CommandPad and mark the location of the distant atmosphere processor.
“ETA in five,” she shouts over the chat and the rumbling drone of the APC.
“You think there’ll be more of those things out there?” I ask Apone.
“Can’t say, sir. Can’t say that at all. But my guess is that most of the aliens are probably based around Hadley’s Hope. The only thing we’re for sure guaranteed to find at the atmo’ processor is the queen.”
The queen is probably what we need to defeat to gain the tech option.
Dietrich’s running the Medic perk so we get our health back. The APC also contains a full-reload supply point. We can’t swap out our weapons, but we’re totally rearmed. Magazines and ’nades.
The APC pulls up in front of the massive sloping pyramid that is the atmosphere processor. Outside it looks like we’ve traveled to another world. The jungle and the mountains are gone. Here, there is only twisted rock and fast-shifting clouds of purple blue and shadows that almost seem to streak across the low sky. Small red and white lights twinkle and blink from the superstructure of the plant, signaling in the gloom of the storm.