Well, the Administrator certainly had a strange sense of humor.

Miss Pauling found herself dumped onto the floor of the manor's kitchen. Somebody had affixed an ancient teleporter exit to the ceiling. That seemed like something she should have seen before. The short woman picked herself off the floor, dusting off the back of her lavender shirt. Good day to wear pants. A slight headache was building in the back of her brain. If that was what using a teleporter day in and out was like, then she didn't know how the boys didn't have a migraine every day.

She leaned on the island in the center of the kitchen, trying to shake the fog out of her head. It was there that she found a little surprise. Someone had left a note on the counter. Lying next to it was a meat cleaver. Miss Pauling snatched up the note. It was typed, the ink from the typewriter blotchy and inconsistent. If the Administrator wanted her to pick up more tape, she could have done that.

The letter read like this:

"To all employees:

Welcome to your stay at Mann Manor. As you may have noticed, you are statistically lagging behind your rival teammates. As a corrective measure for this insubordination, I have prepared an exercise for both you and your teammates.

Here are the following points you may wish to review:

1. I recently attended a liquidation sale from a fellow research laboratory in Idaho. Amongst the items that I purchased was a Material Emancipation Grill. Note that this grid will emancipate the flesh from your bones if you attempt to leave this facility. You may only leave when the conditions in point number two are fulfilled.

2. The Material Emancipation Grill can only be turned off via a key card system located in the cellar. You will need to locate these ten cards before you may leave.

3. As per annual custom, you may notice the dead rising from their respective graves. This is coupled with a rather unseasonal flora and fauna infestation. If you are well versed in context clues, you will understand how to fulfill the goals set for you in point two.

4. Feel free to die as often as you wish. There is an active respawn generator on the premises. Anything you contract will be cured upon respawning. I would not recommend dying in any method that would cause your resuscitated corpse to be killed again. For further information, please review Professor Huntley's Infinite Elephant Hole paradox.

5. You have been provided with one weapon. Additional weapons may be recovered upon your investigation of the manor.

I would not dawdle if I were you."

Miss Pauling was overcome with several questions and a flustered indignation. It was obvious that the Administrator had planned for her to be a contestant in this event. Why? What was the point? Had she run off after their last conversation? It had been only ten minutes, but…

And why a meat cleaver, of all weapons?

This gave her a reason to fret. Miss Pauling had never used the respawn system before. How did that work? Didn't it need information on her first? What if point four didn't apply to her? She paced around the kitchen for a moment, further contemplating her mortality. The Administrator wouldn't do this to her, would she? Well, yes. She would. Miss Pauling blew a strand of hair out of her face. If the Administrator wanted to fire her, she could have just given her a pink slip.

Two plans came to mind. She could wait here and hope the boys would be able to solve the dilemma on their own. That was assuming, of course, they could do it before something came in here and found her. She could also go after them and be killed in some gruesome, yet instantaneous fashion. Neither sounded pleasant.

Well, the Administrator may have intended on her having only one weapon, but Miss Pauling was at least somewhat more prepared. She did bring that pistol with her to the dinner, after all. It was an item that the Scout had given her during a meet at a shooting range. He claimed that he had a dozen of them, so she might as well have it. It had been useful, particularly in getting rid of snooping agents and filmmakers. Maybe it would save her neck again.

There was no point in waiting for the worst to happen. She might as well go slap her death in the face.

"Bon dieu."

The Spy came to in a woman's boudoir. He was lying on a canopied bed, the ruffled top beaded with glass ornaments. Clearly, he'd fallen through the top of that—there was a man-sized hole in the canopy. The entire room was soaked in garnet color. The Frenchmen felt as though he was drowning in duck down. The mattress had lost its spring. He pushed himself out of the queen-sized bed, cracking his neck and fingers as he went. His shoes traced along the edges of a dark hardwood dresser. Lying on the squat piece of furniture was a note and a heavy revolver with a woman's face winking back at him.

He read the letter, finding its contents unsavory. Clearly, this hadn't been his fault. He'd been busy nailing thugs to the wall. He didn't have the luxury of camping a chokehold point or repairing machines all day. He wasn't stuffing his face full of sandwiches. The Frenchman had his goals defined and accomplished on a daily basis. Any failings must have been as a result of the other pissants on his team.

No matter. He went to the large vanity across from the bed. The lower portions of his balaclava were loose. He tucked it back under his shirt collar, then readjusted his tie. Hmph. What had the Administrator been prattling on about? The rising dead? Completely impossible. Assuming that one could regain life after death, there would be a number of complications. Bodies rot. Decay. Stiffen. How could something function like that? And why would they want to come back, assuming there was something beyond the mortal coil? That was, if they weren't attempting to escape hell, of course.

"No. Ridiculous," the Spy reassured himself.

"Mmm hmm."

The Spy's back froze. A woman's voice? He took a glance behind him. Most definitely a woman. She looked completely out of her era, frocked in a thick, lacey mass of a peach-colored ball gown. The bodice was too small for a woman of this build, her bosom overflowing delicate trim. That had to be intentional, considering her ampleness. She was wearing gloves—silk, no doubt, but yellowed with age. Dark hair was gathered and pinned to the top of the woman's head in thick curls. What was most striking to the Spy was how pale this woman was. Most of the women in this state were golden as the sun. Not milky blue.

She was strange, but she was still a woman. This was not a problem to a man as suave as the Spy. "May I help you, chère?"

The pale woman giggled at him. Not a talkative one.

The Spy turned back to the mirror, doing some last-minute preening. "I do not know what you are doing here, but I would recommend zhat you—zhat you—mon dieu."

The pale woman had no reflection.

The Spy snapped his head around. The lady finally gave him a smile. Those fangs! She had the mouth of a viper! Merde, a vampire! No need to be gentle now. He chopped the woman in the side of the throat, jumping past her and using the bed as a trampoline to further his progress. She caught the trim of his pants, yanking him back towards the bed. He reached for the dresser, grabbing his revolver. He gave a sharp kick towards the lady's face and pulled the trigger.

He was not surprised when a shot to the center of the woman's head did nothing. He did wonder what biological process caused her brain and skull to mend back together. She gave him a dark smile, spitting the remains of the bullet out of her mouth. That could have been arousing if he wasn't trying to kill her. Maybe to the heart? The standard was for stakes, but the Ambassador did make quite the hole, and if he could just—

The vampire pulled the Spy back onto the bed. Crinoline pushed her dress in awkward directions as she knelt down on his stomach. He fired another shot, watching as the bullet pierced her ribcage, then her heart, then exit. All while tissues sewed themselves back up. His eyes widened as the woman approached his neck. Those teeth glinted in the moonlight, sharp and curved inwards.

He didn't scream as she enclosed those jaws around his neck.

He couldn't.

The Medic had to kneel down, or he was going to pass out.

He had come to in a study, given the same note as everyone else. And a crossbow. That was unexpected. The device was easy enough to use, and it didn't require a lot of physical strength to haul around. He'd felt fine when he had first stepped out into the hall. It was rare that he was ever alone in the field of battle, but he could manage when the occasion arose. When he'd reached the foyer, his mood abruptly changed.

He'd had good reason to panic.

Them. All of them, standing in rank and file. Limbs falling off. Eyes missing. Stomachs bloated. Some with partial hair. Some scalped. The occasional jaw gone. Organs once as shiny and bright as gemstones were now dulled, slimy, falling out from weak tissue. Their heads dragged as they moved, the weight almost too much for their decaying neck. They left a trail of fluids behind them, their decomposition oozing down their backs. The Medic moved a hand over his mouth, trying not to throw up.

No. That was impossible. They could not be.

It was so strange, looking at them. Their profile was human, but they lacked any trace of humanity. They meandered aimlessly, stopping to growl and fight with each other from time to time. They all had a similar uniform on. All the same color, all rotted in various different ways, all with unique medals and trinkets. He didn't know what to think of their costume. Perhaps old cavalry forces? That seemed logical.

The Medic crept back towards the study, analyzing what he had seen. The walking dead. Corpses in motion. Zombies. Oh, there were so many of them. He could probably kill a few of them before they overcame him. Ate his flesh. Ripped him apart. Had a look at his organs. Would the respawn generator put him back in that horde? He would prefer not being a recursive meal to those beasts.

Well, then. It would be simple. He needed to do what he always did—find the Heavy. That massive Russian would have enough firepower to rip through the crowd. Or perhaps the Soldier? That American seemed to have a plan for killing everything. The Demoman could be useful as well, considering how easily he could rip through a crowd of living humans. Oh, and the Pyro! The walking tinderbox! They'd be nothing for him. Just another bonfire! Perhaps it was cowardly to not rush into the lower level of the foyer and take care of the problem himself, but he'd rather not have to die in any unnecessary fashion. No, it was better to—

There was a shadow watching him.

The Medic felt his breath choke in his throat.

Perhaps he should have been paying attention to what was going on behind him. Maybe that would have just doomed him faster. But there she was, coming out of a hallway branching to the left. Oh, those eyes. They were beautiful, brilliant as the crimson sun setting. All two, four, six, eight—how many of those faces were there on her head? They wound around in slow, circular paths. Oh, she was gorgeous. Well rounded. Sharp, graceful bones. Swarming with life. That skin, flecked with smooth, green scales. Those lips, full and bright. He'd never seen anything like that. He couldn't have. And yet, he couldn't pull away. He knew the price he would have to pay, but he found himself enchanted.

No man could be given the honor of viewing a gorgon.

The Medic moved to cover his eyes. The motion came seconds too late. A great heaviness spread through his body. He wanted to stagger away, but he couldn't. It was like his feet were nailed to the floor. He glanced down for just a moment, watching a peculiar sheen cover his body. That was different. He was expecting to turn into marble, granite, perhaps pure quartz. This would have been marvelous, if it wasn't killing him. Golden, but not gold. Australium?

The Medic's heart would have been racing if it hadn't calcified in its final beat.

He watched the storm rage above his head. The rain could still pass through that grill. Drops splashed through the broken windows of the conservatory, rolling off the tip of his sharp nose. Well, there were worse places to be dropped in the middle of a haunted house. At least he could taste freedom here. The Sniper frowned, noting his mistake. There was no freedom until they got that grill taken care of. That meant he'd have to go and do—well, something.

The Sniper shook his hat, trying to dry it off a little. He needed to find a rifle. The Administrator had given him his bushwacka, but it wasn't enough. He didn't like close quarter combat, even inside of a mansion. He had to get some space. This place was making him claustrophobic.

Everything was alive in here, but why? Wasn't this manor abandoned? It was as if some god had dug his hands into the Amazon and dropped a forest here. Thick vines choked the ceiling, reaching out into the broken windowpane. A peculiar thought crossed his mind. What if the plants had done that? Grown straight on through? What sort of fertilizer would someone need to give a plant to give it that strength?

The Sniper found it difficult to reach the doorway. Shrubs and flowers had overgrown their pots, spilling onto the floors and up the walls. He weaved through the plant life, ducking under red blossoms larger than his torso. Not even the Bush was this choked. Even the doorway was overgrown, vines knotted in and out of the frame. He took one vine and gave it a good hack, severing decades of growth.

It screamed.

The Sniper twisted around on his heels. Every plant moved. Every one. It turned in massive green waves, the giant blossoms swaying back and forth in pain. It was alive? Of course, it was alive. It was a plant, after all. But now, it seemed to recognize pain. How could it do that with no brain? No nervous system? Unless those vines were—

"Holy!" The clots in the doorway pulled out of the frame, pushing the Sniper back into the conservatory. It flung him into the center, smashing him face-first into a root with bumps larger than his hands. He regained his balance, trying to figure out what the hell he'd done. He steeled his grip on the bushwacka.

The blow came in from the left. A tendril as large as the Heavy's arm struck him across the face. The inertia from the attack rolled him. His glasses shattered in thousands of useless pieces on the ground. Blood rolled down the front of his face. The cut was jagged, made worse by the thorns that dotted the vine's skin. The Sniper hissed in pain and surprise. That should have blinded him.

He wished the plant would have taken his sight.

He saw a great blossom billow above him, white and pink, wide as a truck. How had he not seen it before? A long stamen erupted from its center, reaching down and probing for the creature that had severed its body. It smelt horrible, like rotting fish. Even as his body froze in terror, the Sniper kept trying to find the name for this monster. He'd read about it before, a cultural message from the Queen's empire echoing through her roots.

The name came to him as the triffid struck him across the chest. Agony spurred the animalistic urge to run. The Sniper turned for the door, hacking at everything in his path. If there was a key in here—if that plant had it, somehow—he wasn't getting it on his own. He needed help. Green life whirled around him, the triffid continuing to shriek as he mulched his way to the door. He was single-minded in his purpose. He had to run.

His body was slowing. No, no, no. His chest burned with venomous fire. Poison. The Sniper was falling, every slash taking him closer to freedom and the floor. He was on his knees before he reached the frame, crawling and stabbing with every ounce of vitriol left in his body. He dug into the floor, his bushwacka piercing the wooden paneling just outside the frame. If he could just go a little more—a little further—

Everything went green.

Author's Note

As you may have guessed, I'm a bit of a B-movie fan. I blame my father. No, I blame Mystery Science Theater 3000. No, wait! John Carpenter! Roger Corman? Well, whatever. The fact is that I enjoy a good old-fashioned monster movie from time to time. They're hokey, sure. Sometimes you don't like things because they are elegant or in good taste. Sometimes, you want Hershey's over Godiva. Know what I mean?

I should have taken a cue from Cat Bountry and have called this chapter "With Apologies to Eximplode." Although, I think maybe we're going in different directions. (Seriously—go read The Nucleus Incident! And if, in some sick coincidence, Eximplode is reading—go update The Nucleus Incident!)

Got my third milestone for Medic achieved. Bam. I am the uber wench.