The billiard room was now the war room.
Well, every room was the war room, if the Soldier saw it fit. He'd been quick to make his conversions. The crazed American had flipped over the pool table, hunkering behind it for the moment. He'd secured a pencil and a notepad from a table containing decades of game scores. The first goal was to create a map. Easy. He drew a rectangle outlining his location. Well, that was about all he knew for the moment. It was a start.
That meant going outside next. Not a problem. He had one of the most traumatic, lethal weapons known to mankind—a frying pan. Good! Now he just had to face the enemy, wherever it was. Or whatever it was. The Administrator hadn't given him enough information to build a decent offensive strategy, but at least he had a head start.
"Anybody here?"
Oh, crap! Someone had broken into his camp! The Soldier rose to action, lifting his frying pan and yelling a blood-curdling scream.
His visitor was not impressed with his bravado. "Would ya put that down? Crazy Yank."
Ah hah! A fellow American! Good! The Soldier greeted his new recruit. "Welcome to the war room, grease monkey! You're just in time."
The Engineer frowned. "Time for what?"
"Time for—well, time for action!" The Soldier couldn't let his plans slip too early. "First things first. I demand a status report! To the bunker!" With that, he ducked behind the pool table once more.
The Engineer gave a low growl but decided to join the Soldier. He shut the door behind him. It was amazing that the Soldier had flipped the table on his own. It looked plenty heavy. The Texan hunkered next to the Midwesterner, careful not to squash any of the papers he had strewn about.
The Texan proceeded to talk, slow and careful with his words. "I woke up in the library. Just next door. Came to with a note and a pistol. I started snoopin' around, just outta curiosity. That's when I found this."
He unfurled a worn blueprint, the edges stained with coffee. It was falling apart, folded lines splitting the aged paper. The Soldier didn't know what to make of it. It looked like his Engineer's work, the lines all neat. Every object was notated, taken apart, detailed to the screw. The blueprint itself contained instructions for building primitive sentries. They looked much like the sentries the Engineer currently used, save for one. It had one unique feature—bipedal mobility.
"What is that? Some kind of robot?" The Soldier asked.
The Engineer nodded. "'Fraid so. My grandpappy's work. Don't know what it's doin' here, though." He removed his helmet, rubbing the back of his head. Little hairs prickled his fingers. He needed to shave it again. "None of this makes any sense to me. Where would the Administrator have gotten another techie to rig all of this up?"
"I don't understand many things, hardhat. Like countable infinities and fractions. But I'm not asking questions! I'm demanding—no, making answers!" The Soldier jumped to his feet, thumping his chest. "We're gonna go out there, and we're going to kick some undead ass! Then we are going to a taco hut and we will procure some sleazy Sallies in bunny costumes! Then we're going to make love to them! Sweet, regrettable love! Are you with me?"
The Engineer stammered. "Wha—"
This prompted the Soldier to pick him up by his overalls and give him a good shake. "What are you, French? We're talking victory and easy women! What could you possibly have to object to?"
"Hate to argue with you, Soldier, but…" The Engineer stopped his sentence. He heard the faintest of songs coming from above his head. The Soldier slowed his tirade as well, now listening to the music coming from upstairs. Odd. Not to say that it wasn't out of place to begin with, but it was a tune from the wrong time for this mansion's age and decoration. It was catchy, poppy. Sung by British fellows.
The Soldier growled. "What is that crap?"
The Engineer shook his head. "I think it's the Beatles."
"Shut up, you stupid freakin' thing!"
The Scout took another whack at the record player. What was this thing made out of? Australium? It continued spinning in its path, a cheerful tune continuing to mock him with nonsensical lyrics about the winter and faces and some dumb little darling bimbo. He shouldn't have touched it, but it was so out of place. He wanted some noise to keep him from going bonkers. Now, the record player wouldn't stop. He couldn't even get the record out of it—the rotating center was protected by what must have been a diamond cover. It wasn't plugged into the wall, running off an internal battery. Geez, the Engineer couldn't have built something this annoying.
George and Paul laughed at his efforts. "Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here."
The Scout groaned at it. "Come on!"
He took another whack at it with the Sandman. The attack managed to produce a gurgled warp in the tune, only to have the record player start at the beginning of the song again. The Scout swore at it and gave up. He sat down for a moment, trying to think about what to do while Ringo was bashing away in his head. He'd come to in the attic, and man, was it freaking hot. He hated to admit it, but he wasn't looking forward to going downstairs. God only knew what was waiting for him down there. Yeah, maybe he could outrun it or bash its brains in. But maybe he couldn't. It wasn't like he knew where the doc or the nearest health kit was. Like the Administrator would be so kind. So, in a rare moment of indecisiveness, he found himself rooting through the contents of the attic. All his search had done was reward him with the same Beatles song played ad nauseum.
Well, it was pretty pointless just to sit around and mope, too. "Fine, I'll go."
"It's all right," Paul and George encouraged the Scout. Then they started looping again. "Sun, sun, sun. Here it comes!"
"Would you fricken' knock it off?" The Scout might as well have been arguing with ghosts.
"Sun, sun, sun. Here it comes!" The mockery continued.
The Scout whacked the machine again. "Shut. The. Frick. Up!"
The Brits ignored him. "Sun, sun, sun. Here it—"
WHAM!
The Scout leapt three feet in the air. The tip of an axe blade was protruding through the wall. It tore a nasty gouge into the wooden supports, knocking the record player onto the ground. New sounds burst through the wound. Screeching. Chittering. Very enthusiastic mumbling.
Now, that noise was familiar. When the axe was pulled back, the Scout could see who caused the damage. There was a friendly face. Mask. Whatever.
"Pyro! Cripes, man. Ya scare dhe crap outta a guy, you know?" The Scout's mouth went off at double speed. "What are you doin' over—holy crap, what is dhat?"
They were like something out of a cheap sci-fi movie. Not the ones with alien gals who looked exactly like human dames, or the ones with monster that had zippers in the back. Like the ones where the actors were fighting huge versions of insects or lizards or whatever. Only, they weren't rear projected onto another screen. God, they were hairy. Not huge, but at least four feet tall. Fast. Had nasty fangs. Eight spindly legs. And they were all going after the Pyro.
Worst of all, the Administrator hadn't even been decent enough to give him a flamethrower. She could be such a bitch.
"Hang on, bud! I'll be right dhere!" The Scout started searching for a way through the wall. Was it a secret room, or was he that dumb and didn't see a door? He ran up and down the left side of the attic, looking for anything that could let him enter. The screeching and skittering went on as the Pyro continued his struggle. There were several screams and thumps as the Scout hunted, the record player skipping on the same lyrics over and over again. The Scout cussed. What the hell wasn't he seeing?
Oh! There! It was an old china cabinet, the only piece of furniture big enough to hide anything like a door. The Scout hopped over to it and started pushing. It was like trying to tip a cow. Plates rattled and clanked as he continued, his body sliding closer to the ground as he used his legs to force the cabinet aside. Thumping echoed from the other side. A scream pierced through the air as the Pyro struck one of the creatures down. The Scout gave one final push, knocking the cabinet onto its side and breaking century's old antiques with it. Bingo! A door!
The Scout burst into the next room. "I'm he—gaah!"
There were six spiders left alive. The Pyro managed to kill two on his own. One was split down the middle, almost like the Medic had dissected it. The second dead one was missing half of its limbs. Those that remained were frenzied. They had pinned the Pyro against the wall that joined the two rooms. He was tangled in gobs of silk, most of the strands thicker than sport weight yarn.
He also happened to have fangs lodged into his stomach, a spider feasting on his internal juices.
The Scout had been too late. Now, he had hundreds of hungry eyes focused on him. On the positive side, the Pyro would revive in about a minute. On the negative side, the Scout had six fricken' spiders that wanted to eat him up. Just because he could come back from the dead didn't mean that the Scout wanted to die in the first place. Crap in a hat. Now he knew what a fly felt like.
The cluster of mutant spiders lunged at him.
Miss Pauling stepped out of the kitchen, her pistol at the ready. Everything was dim. She took her time, watching to the left and the right. Nothing out of place. She sighed, then pressed out. She didn't know quite what to expect, but she thought she would see something. Anything. Then again, that was the nature of a haunted house. Half the time, there would be something horrible. As for the other half, nothing. This just must have been one of those down times.
She moved to her right, keeping as quiet as possible. No need to attract any monsters. Her goal was to work around the first floor of the manor, visiting every room on her way. She had to find somebody. The first door she came to was a dud. It led her back into the dining room. The chairs had returned to their upright position, the trap reset. She wondered how it had been set off in the first place. Maybe it was networked to some hidden timer that the Administrator had set up. If she could figure out how to set it off again, maybe she could be teleported to one of the boys.
Or straight into a trap.
Miss Pauling sighed, continuing her journey. Everything was so quiet. Before, she thought she'd heard moaning and some song in the air. Both were gone now. The most interruption she heard was a high-pitched cry from coyotes roaming in the barns outside. Unless that was coming from the cemetery. The thought gave her chills. No, that didn't make sense. Ghosts? What a childish thought.
She pushed open the next door, laughing to herself. The Administrator was good at psychological threats. She already had Miss Pauling scared, and the assistant hadn't even seen—
Her eyes widened. What was that?
She knew what the room was. It was devoid of furniture, save for an elevated shell where a band would play and chairs lining the walls. The outward facing wall had a series of glass panes that stretched across its entire length, revealing the dark, stormy rage billowing outside. It was a ballroom. What that was in the center of the ballroom was another question entirely.
It looked humanoid, but certainly not human. The thing was too tall. It would have towered even over the Heavy. The creature's skin had a dusty rose tint to it, mottled here and there with purple bruises. It didn't look like it fit the monster, hanging in loose, bloated clumps off its frame. It was like somebody's poor attempt at creating their own Frankenstein's monster. It was cut apart, stitched together at random spots. Some of its fingers were fleshy, others skeletal. Even its clothes looked jerry-rigged, half well pressed and half shredded.
The worst thing about the monster was its face. Its creator had done it no great service. The monster's eyes were rolled up to the ceiling, dark pupils unable to focus on anything. Its nose was smashed upwards like a pug's. It had no ears, just exposed drums on the sides of its head. Even that wasn't horrible compared to the gaping, loose skin that was supposed to be its mouth. There was no jawbone to hold it in place, no teeth to pierce flesh. Just an empty, swollen void into rotting organs.
Maybe Miss Pauling should have run away. Screamed for help. Something else. She resisted the urge to take those actions. That wasn't going to help her. What was useful was what she had in her hands and strapped to her thighs. She kicked the door aside, drawing the attention of the monster. Even if it couldn't see her, it could hear quite well. It gave her a droopy, wide grin. Then a howl. She steeled herself, raising the gun as the creature plowed straight at her.
She unloaded the whole damn pistol clip into the patchwork person. She didn't have a hundred percent accuracy, but the shots that she landed made good work. Two of the rounds pierced the googly eyes, another one striking the creature in the throat. It made thick, warbled screams as blood came up its gaping neck hole. With little room left between her and the creature, she leapt into the room and side-stepped its charge. The monster crashed into the doorframe, shrieking with pain from the impact.
Miss Pauling grabbed her meat cleaver, exchanging places with the pistol. If there was one thing she learned from watching her men, it was how to deal with an opponent with their backs turned towards her. She drove the cleaver into the creature's spine. It screamed at the top of its lungs. Burying any sympathy she could have for the monster, Miss Pauling withdrew her blade and stabbed once more. Again. Again. The creature kept trying to turn around and find her, but she hounded its heels. When it collapsed on the ground, she continued her attack. Within three more stabs, the creature stopped crying. It lay still at her feet.
She had no time to pity it. If this thing was around here, that had to mean a key card was nearby. Or maybe it had one on it. She rummaged through its pockets, finding nothing there. It was when she traced over its bulging stomach that she felt something out of place. There was a series of stitches in its skin, the tissue folded over something hard.
Ugh. The card was sewn into its body.
If she had time to throw up, maybe Miss Pauling would have. She calmed herself down, then cut the stitches open. Digging inside of the monster was as foul as sticking her hands into warm sewage. It helped if she thought of it as pulling the guts out of a turkey. A chicken. She laughed to herself. What was the phrase the Spy always used? A Cornish Game Hen. With a little dexterity, she grabbed the card between her thumb and pointer finger. She yanked it out, wiping the monster's blood off on its shirt. One down, nine to go.
Miss Pauling smiled. That hadn't been too hard.
Then she looked up.
Her fight with the creature had been too noisy. She found herself staring into the cold, dead eyes of a few zombie cavalrymen. Where had they come from? She backed away from the door, switching back to her pistol. How many of them were there? Five? Ten? Thirty?
She glanced outside for a moment. The storm was in violent throws now. The Material Emancipation Grill was in full effect, surrounding the entire manor with an eerie cyan glow. Could she make it to the barns in time? Miss Pauling turned her attention to the zombies. Those that weren't feasting on the fallen creature were now watching her. It was only a matter of seconds until they pounced.
Miss Pauling drew her gun and pointed at the window.
Author's Note
You know, I do like games like Amnesia: The Dark Descent, Nanashi no Game, and Clock Tower. I do. (Especially Nanashi no Game. I would be dumb enough to play a haunted video game.) But, as a hot-blooded American, I suffer from the delusion that every problem with homicidal monsters or maniacs can be solved with a gun. And if that doesn't work, then use more gun. You know what I mean? That's just my opinion, though.
I woke up yesterday with "Here Comes the Sun" stuck in my head. So, that's why you all had to suffer.
Hmm. Probably should check on the Heavy and the Demoman. I was going to get to them this chapter, but I was pushing 3,000 words. I try to keep chapters between 2,000-3,000 words. Paint a lot, but not so much that people get cross eyed.
I swear to God, I will have more dialogue eventually.