Subject: Michael Anderson
Current Time: 8:39 AM 5/30/98
"Well that was simulating." Commented Walter dryly.
"This is rather…disturbing. Our armed forces have turned against us to contain the incident," said Eli, "we have to resort to other means of escape."
"Well doc, I'm not too keen on dying down here. If it means fighting aliens and humans to survive, then I'm all for it," said Michael.
"The military most likely is using their status as rescuers among the Black Mesa personnel to their advantage. We should warn our comrades and gather enough manpower to storm the exit. Maybe we could us teleportation to our advantage."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a second here Eli. You mean to tell me the same technology that caused this can save us. What are you getting at here?" asked Mike.
"I'm saying we can use an old laboratory or something to teleport to a remote location on the outskirts of Black Mesa territory. If my memory serves correct, there are several outposts and parking facilities that lie in discreet locations. We can only hope that the military has overlooked them."
"Eli," Walter interrupted, "that would never work. We would have to teleport to the alternate dimension – Xen – and program the coordinates. We would also need power cells to charge the old devices."
Eli cursed in frustration. He dropped to the floor and rested his head on his knees. "What are we too do now?"
The answer was simple and came quickly: Survive. A Marine satchel charge blew open a wall that previously had encased the test chamber observation and recording room. Debris showered Mike, Eli, and Walter. The trio ducked to the ground, praying no large objects would crush them.
Two Marines with M-16 assault rifles and M203 grenade launchers sprayed the lobby with bullets. The security desk shielded the trio of Black Mesa employees from the enemy fire.
"Clear!" reported a Marine.
The patrol advanced into the room. Mike exploded from his position with the SPAS-12 shotgun. With the double-blast feature, he killed the first two Marines and caught a third one with a poorly aimed shot. The Marine aimed his M203-
-Eli and Walter leaped from the desk-
-The grenade exploded from the launcher-
-Pressure washed over Michael. He flew, end over end, and hit a wall with his back. He dropped, minus the SPAS-12.
Eli grasped for it. He managed to grab the barrel, bring it up, and remove the Marine with the M203's head. Blood spewed in bursts from the neck.
The last two Marines retreated.
Eli laughed in triumph. He handed Mike the SPAS-12.
"Those Marines will be back with reinforcements," said Walter, "we should get to the locker room, gather up our necessities, and pursue the Marines to wherever they lead us."
Garrison was looking more and more like a tedious exercise in patience rather then a ruthless mercenary. The administrator had to admit that he had underestimated the determination of the Black Mesa inhabitants. He had mentally profiled some of them in earlier days. The scientists were arrogant and rude; the security was honorable and had a strong sense of duty.
As the administrator watched the screens in front of him, he was reminded of a time in his early years where he had witnessed a cat chase a mouse around an attic. The cat had watched its prey with the same intensity the administrator watched the screens - and for intriguingly similar reasons. Black Mesa was the mouse; the cat was the administrator. The administrator was hungry – for power. The cat was hungry for its survival. Yes, they had similarities, but the basic idea was entirely different. The administrator did not need to be reminded of that.
The true motive for the administrators' pondering was his self-recrimination. The administrator had all the traits of a sociopath – lack of guilty being the major attribute. But he felt something different. It was a strange feeling, a mix of nausea and vertigo. He had ordered his aid to fetch him some Advil.
Michael Anderson and his scientist companions had reached the sewage canal. The feeling passed. This…is the true beginning of their endeavor, he thought.
"Jump!" shouted Mike.
Walter jumped off the pipe and hit the next one, hard. He lay sprawled across the metal, his feet dangling perilously. He began to slide. The toxic waste underneath him seemed to sizzle in anticipation.
Mike was about to run to his aid, when a large sphere of acid soared in front of his head. The lizard was back again, with friends. "Eli, cover me!" Mike shouted.
Eli had recovered a Desert Eagle .50AE pistol. The firearm was inappropriate because of its large recoil, but it had the appropriate punch to bring the acid-shooting creatures to their doom. He fired two rounds, both going wide. Another shot hit the monsters rear-end. In what would have been a humorous display in different circumstances, the lizard spun in agony, roaring in pain.
Mike reached Walter. He pulled him over. As he did, a zombie began to climb out of the vent in the waste control room. Some it hit the controls, and released some hound dogs that the trio had imprisoned outside the room. The dogs sprinted over the pipes, some losing their balance and falling to their death. They began to charge energy-
-Mike drew his 9mm-
-Walter lost his grip-
-Walter screamed, grasped Mike's foot, and fell. Mike dropped with him, and got a shot off. It hit home, but it was not a fatal shot. The hound jumped back in surprise, knocking the other hound dogs off. Eli, taking his attention off the lizards, ran to Mike's aid. He emptied his clip into the zombie, which subsequently fell into the toxic waste. Walter still had Mike's leg, which had his arm wrapped around the pipe. He pulled them up. With combined fire, the lizards retreated into the sewers.
"That was close." Said Mike.
"I concur. Let's leave this godforsaken place." Panted Walter.
They reached the missile silo an hour later. The silo was one of four, empty because of its remote and strategically unimportant location. It did however have a hatch to the surface.
The streets were deserted, and that would have been good had they lead to the outside. But they only connected parts of Black Mesa.
Garrison radioed for the eighth time for a recon report about the alien and Marine position. He got no decent response. The G-Man was clearly pissed, but that did not faze Garrison. The El-tee wanted some goddamn info and he did not care if the backstabbing bastard wanted to give him a blowjob or shove a pole up his ass. Garrison was pissed, and the whole squad knew it.
The AH4 Little Bird could be heard firing its chain guns miles away. The air support was keeping the aliens from storming the warehouse. The AH4 was technically registered as a military copter, but Garrison knew the pilot was on the administrator's payroll. He would keep the Marines out from the front, and let the Black Mesa people in. That was good enough for Garrison to mentally thank the AH4's well being.
Even from the streets, Mike recognized the dark shape. The building was from the old Cold War days, a concrete slab with windows that had metal closings. It housed a few guards, which meant it had an armory. The barracks also happened to belong to the Green Shift – the people who patrolled the perimeter of Black Mesa and made sure nothing uninvited got in. That guaranteed a good supply of sniper rifles, heavy weaponry, and perhaps even high-tech weapons like the one Walter was in the process of describing.
"It's a variation of another high-tech design. While its 'brother' gun is based on lasers, this gun fires plasma –ionized gas."
"Hold on, if I remember my schooling correct, ion is atoms…without electrons?" Said Mike.
"Correct. The type of plasma this gunfires is up too a hundred fifty degrees. We wanted it to be able to be steered with magnetic and electric fields, but we have yet to harness that power into our weapon. It drains power quickly, and I doubt the Green Shift has received it. It would be interesting to test out our gun on non-metal targets though…"
From the window, a security guard waved them to the back. The trio ran to the back of the lone building. "Quick! Get in!" hissed a man from the door. As soon as the men were inside, the man shut the door and entered the locking mechanism code.
There were fifteen Black Mesa personnel in the building including Mike, Walter, and Eli. Eight of the original eleven had been security guards. Four were scientists. Walter recognized them as Andrew Wadsworth, Alex Schaffer, William Richardson, and Luther Simmons. Mike only recognized Duran Monroe out of the eight guards.
"We've been holding up here ever since this whole thing began," said Duran, "we've been avoiding the military after seeing them execute a few of our guys out front. We buried the bodies and shut down the place. We're waiting out the catastrophe."
"What happened in the security center?" Mike asked.
"It went to hell. The roof caved in and I crawled through the vents to the AM complex and hauled ass from there."
"We an' these fellas had to fight out. We went through the sewers from the AM labs. Still got my nine millimeter; you got your .357?"
"Yup, though I'm low on bullets. We call this place Ninja Hill - it's our resistance headquarters."
"Show me your armory."
Duran led him downstairs. The armory was a long two-by-twelve room with shelves on each side. Michael saw an AK-47, M4 Carbine, P90 SMG, MP5 navy sub-machine, Desert Eagle .50, Colt .45, Browning 12 gauge, H & K VP70, and a M1 Tactical Shotgun. The SPAS-12 was gone, as well as any ammunition, so Mike abandoned it in favor of the M1. He also pocketed the .50 cal ammunition to give to Eli later. He pulled the MP5 strap over his shoulder and placed some ammo clips in his belt. He took the Colt .45 just as a secondary sidearm.
Duran grabbed the M4 Carbine and the Browning. He flipped the bullet chambers of the .357 open and emptied the spent casings. He loaded bullets into the bare chambers and flipped the firing chamber back into the magnum.
That was when a fat security guard whom Duran identified as Otis Redding waddled into the room. He was visibly sweating and pale. His sidearm was a chrome Five-Seven, though he used to have a Desert Eagle. "Marines on the horizon! They got Apache support but no ground vehicles." He reported to Mike and Duran.
"Damn…they might try to blow the place. This time we gotta fight, Mike."
"I'll stick with you guys. You got any machine guns or RPGs?"
"We got two old Vietnam M60s and some rounds for our single RPG. This is gonna be tough."
Mike, Otis, and Duran ran downstairs to discuss a plan of defense against the assailing armed forces.
* * *
The Marine forces numbered over two hundred in total, and the Apaches numbered roughly six – a makeshift attack squadron that had formed after their original companions bought the farm. When the metal doors opened up, and the RPG round fired, the military attackers were completely stunned. The RPG round clipped the back propeller of one Apache and nailed the other in the cockpit. The M60s opened up on the top, spraying the ground with fire. Black Mesa personnel fired an variety of firearms from the windows – from M16s to Browning 12 Gauge. The Marines sprayed the building, but they knew they were out of range for explosives such as their mounted M203 grenade launcher, so they had to rely on the Apaches to destroy the building. But the clipped Apache was out of control, and by some luck, managed to crash into another Apache. That put three out of the fight – the rest were moving into position. A sniper round subdued the pilot of one Apache, and while the copilot was busy managing the instruments of the cockpit, another RPG round soared into the sky and hit an Apache nearby. Another sniper bullet took the copilots life and reduced to air squadron to one. The remaining pilot fired his missiles-
-The missile was off-target because of the pilots panic, but the result was relatively the same. The concrete was blasted back, but there were no casualties for the Black Mesa defenders. M60s from the roof sprayed the ground forces. Mike with his .45 was trying to hit the cockpit of the remaining Apache.
The Apache moved in for an attack run. Its chin-guns sprayed the roof and killed two guards. The men retreated from the roof.
On the second floor bullets pinged off the concrete. The Apache was moving in for another run, and the RPG gunner could not see it. A scientist was struck in the chest with an M16 round. He dropped, bleeding profusely. Mike and Luther Simmons rushed to his aid. Walter covered them from the window with an AK-47.
"He's been hit in the coronary artery. Blood is not getting to his heart. There is a lot of internal bleeding. We need to get him away from here," reported Luther.
Otis Redding shouted: "We it's not like there's any place safe enough to give the guy surgery. We might have to evac with the Hummers, so do what you can."
"We have Hummers? Why didn't you say so!" shouted Mike.
"Hell, we were saving them for an emergency…let's not argue right now!"
Otis began going downstairs. Mike pursued him. Another guard was bringing up M60 ammunition from the stairs. He was soaked with perspiration. "Otis! We have got to-" was all Mike could get out. The Apache launched from behind. The explosion decapitated the guard on the stairs with the M60 ammo, and knocked Mike and Otis off their feet. Behind them, Duran took a round in his Kevlar.
Otis cursed and ordered a retreat to the Hummers. Some people where hit on their retreat. Others were clutching various wounds. From the fifteen the Black Mesa personnel had numbered, only nine were alive.
The men were in the garage to the left of the building (from the Marines point of view). There were two Hummers. Luther, Mike, Eli, Duran, Walter, and Otis got in one. Luther's patient and the others got in another.
As the door swung shut, Mike caught a glimpse of Marines storming the front door, M16s at the ready. They fired.