Based on true events. The names of those involved have been altered to protect their identities (also I forgot them).
No amount of festering clone-rot could hide the stench of century-old geriatric nazi-arse that seemed to hold the very walls of that putrid mansion together, but damn it we were hell-bent on shredding enough of the bastards anyway.
We weren't in the zone. Not even close. The zone was Gary, Indiana compared to what we were in. Dr. Philgore had kept us all in the green for 8 straight waves. Me and Zeddelin were neck and neck in the race for who could redecorate the most furnishings, and he would have smashed my score if he wasn't faithfully keeping our ammo stocked and the doors locked. Can-Hazmat was chopping heads as casually as mowing the lawn, but only the ones RekstersLab hadn't turned into modern art with his semi-automatic paintbrush. Even Scrubcakes himself had a score most vets would have judged passable despite losing his kevlar every time a clot gave him a jewish hello.
Our teamwork could only represent the finest of British clockwork. Bloats were the very picture of health for all the puking they didn't manage. Stalkers were about as invisible as a Cirque du Soleil exhibition. Not a single skrake got through the perimeter without collapsing into a dizzy bullet coma and fleshpounds got VIP access to the only the most resplendent of high explosive cuisine.
"The silence deafens me" said RekstersLab with a smile as yet another siren dropped without making a single peep. We knew at that moment that there was nothing that could stop us.
Only 30 freaks left to go. More like 30 seconds as far as we were concerned. We weren't even worried that two of them were skrakes and a good number of the rest was a mix of and sirens and crawlers. Time to relocate was all. Smooth as Bruce Lee's bicep, we ducked into a hallway and turned around to close the door.
Grabbing the handles, we swung the two gorgeous slabs of sculptured mahogany shut, catching a brief glimpse of what lay beyond: clots, gorefasts, two scrakes, three sirens, a rug made of crawlers and the horrified look of betrayal on Scrubcakes' face as we slammed him in.
Realizing what we'd just done, we pulled the doors open in a panic to let him through. Tears of relief flowed down his face as he reached out to us, grabbed the brass, and pulled the doors closed, once again dividing himself from us. "WTF!" we cried in unison, and opened the door a second time, only for Scrubcakes to pull it shut once more, screaming at us to let him in.
In the eternity of the next few seconds, we were of one mind. Only a single thought we shared. A lone command we hopelessly repeated over and over. For some reason, the letter E was the only thing that mattered. As the entrance endlessly opened and shut, each time the hoard growing closer and Scrubcakes' pants getting browner, we realized that this was the end.
A roar, a scream, an explosion, and then we saw his face for the last time, ripped to shreds and sprayed around the room in crimson tatters from the chainsaw that had just burst through the door.
The moment concluded and two whirlwinds of gasoline and rage erupted into the hallway; the vanguard of an army of sound and pain and death that made us regret not reloading earlier. We didn't stand a chance. But in the end, I'm not too humble to admit that Zeddelin did manage to decorate more of the furnishings than I did.
No amount of festering clone-rot could hide the stench of century-old geriatric nazi-arse that seemed to hold the very walls of that putrid mansion together, but damn it we were hell-bent on shredding enough of the bastards anyway.
We weren't in the zone. Not even close. The zone was Gary, Indiana compared to what we were in. Dr. Philgore had kept us all in the green for 8 straight waves. Me and Zeddelin were neck and neck in the race for who could redecorate the most furnishings, and he would have smashed my score if he wasn't faithfully keeping our ammo stocked and the doors locked. Can-Hazmat was chopping heads as casually as mowing the lawn, but only the ones RekstersLab hadn't turned into modern art with his semi-automatic paintbrush. Even Scrubcakes himself had a score most vets would have judged passable despite losing his kevlar every time a clot gave him a jewish hello.
Our teamwork could only represent the finest of British clockwork. Bloats were the very picture of health for all the puking they didn't manage. Stalkers were about as invisible as a Cirque du Soleil exhibition. Not a single skrake got through the perimeter without collapsing into a dizzy bullet coma and fleshpounds got VIP access to the only the most resplendent of high explosive cuisine.
"The silence deafens me" said RekstersLab with a smile as yet another siren dropped without making a single peep. We knew at that moment that there was nothing that could stop us.
Only 30 freaks left to go. More like 30 seconds as far as we were concerned. We weren't even worried that two of them were skrakes and a good number of the rest was a mix of and sirens and crawlers. Time to relocate was all. Smooth as Bruce Lee's bicep, we ducked into a hallway and turned around to close the door.
Grabbing the handles, we swung the two gorgeous slabs of sculptured mahogany shut, catching a brief glimpse of what lay beyond: clots, gorefasts, two scrakes, three sirens, a rug made of crawlers and the horrified look of betrayal on Scrubcakes' face as we slammed him in.
Realizing what we'd just done, we pulled the doors open in a panic to let him through. Tears of relief flowed down his face as he reached out to us, grabbed the brass, and pulled the doors closed, once again dividing himself from us. "WTF!" we cried in unison, and opened the door a second time, only for Scrubcakes to pull it shut once more, screaming at us to let him in.
In the eternity of the next few seconds, we were of one mind. Only a single thought we shared. A lone command we hopelessly repeated over and over. For some reason, the letter E was the only thing that mattered. As the entrance endlessly opened and shut, each time the hoard growing closer and Scrubcakes' pants getting browner, we realized that this was the end.
A roar, a scream, an explosion, and then we saw his face for the last time, ripped to shreds and sprayed around the room in crimson tatters from the chainsaw that had just burst through the door.
The moment concluded and two whirlwinds of gasoline and rage erupted into the hallway; the vanguard of an army of sound and pain and death that made us regret not reloading earlier. We didn't stand a chance. But in the end, I'm not too humble to admit that Zeddelin did manage to decorate more of the furnishings than I did.
A Tale of Two Doors
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