Centipede
by J. Robinson Wheeler (2001)
Genres: Game
Science Fiction


action: %
response: "100 feet per second," Chub says.

Duggers flips you a holovid of his scary trash girlfriend. "Touch the zipper icon," he says.

There is a shudder in the cabin, and warning lights flare greasy-green in your night vision goggles. "Hang on, campers," yells Chub. "Descent jets one and two just jammed up. We're in for a bumpy landing."

Duggers grunts. "So much for surprise. They live in the ground. Every stinking bug for miles is gonna feel the vibrations."

"Gravity zero point nine-sixty Gees," Chub says, her elbows swinging out at awkward angles, flapping like stunted chicken wings. She's fighting the two joysticks, trying to keep this iron turd level as it streaks through the sky. "On my mark, Mitchum," she says.

[Hit any key.]
CENTIPEDE
A short story of senseless violence and profanity

There's dick-all to see here, even with the goggles on. Armory cabinets, supply shelves, two brushed-steel benches, safety straps. The emergency station is a swivel chair three steps up a ladder, facing a panel with rugged switches and levers.

Duggers is below, one boot up on the bench, holding a safety strap with one hand. Thinks he's on the damn bullet train. He's survived forty missions, thinks he's invulnerable now.

Chub is tucked around the corner at the helm. You can't see her, but you can hear her voice in your helmet. "On my mark. On my mark..."
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: You are carrying:
a combat suit (being worn)
a waterproof boots (being worn)
a helmet (being worn)
a set of night vision goggles (being worn)
a belt of ammo clips (being worn)
a backpack (being worn and closed)
Charlene
a holovid

Your forehead just started to itch.
action: You look at the charlene
response: This is Charlene, your plasma rifle. You know every dent and scratch on her curved metal body.
action: You look at the holovid
response: It's a holovid of Duggers' scary trash girlfriend. She's standing near some gym equipment. A little icon that looks like a zipper is dancing in the lower corner.
action: You press zipper
response: When you touch the zipper icon, the clothes on Duggers' girlfriend seem to melt off her body, displaying her full frontal skankiness.

Duggers takes his holovid back. "Don't get all excited, now," he says. He gives his girlfriend's picture a quick ogle before stuffing it into a side pocket of his vest.
action: You look around
response: There's dick-all to see here, even with the goggles on. Armory cabinets, supply shelves, two brushed-steel benches, safety straps. The emergency station is a swivel chair three steps up a ladder, facing a panel with rugged switches and levers.

Duggers is below, one boot up on the bench, holding a safety strap with one hand.

Chub is tucked around the corner at the helm. You can't see her, but you can hear her voice in your helmet.
action: About yourself
response: You're in good health for a guy who's been awake and on active duty for 76 straight hours. The stimulants they rationed you seem to be working fine with no side effects. You're pumped and ready to kill some bugs for God, planet and country.
action: You look at the panel
response: The emergency station panel has two levers. Pulling them releases the landing craft's emergency parachutes. There are three switches: homing beacon launch, distress call broadcast, and self-destruct failsafe. You aren't under orders to use the switches right now.

Chub's voice starts counting down. You can hear the strain in her voice, the pitch rising and falling in synchronization with the cabin's spastic lurching and yawing.
action: Pray
response: Nothing practical results from your prayer.

Chub says, "Four ..."
action: You examine Duggers
response: Private Dale "Dig-Dug" Duggers is a hulking brute and an absolute killing machine. Also, a pretty good chess player.

Chub says, "Shit!"
action: Fire
response: Save your aggressions and ammo for the mission, soldier.

Chub says, "Mark!"
action: You check what you're carrying
response: You are carrying:
a combat suit (being worn)
a waterproof boots (being worn)
a helmet (being worn)
a set of night vision goggles (being worn)
a belt of ammo clips (being worn)
a backpack (being worn and closed)
Charlene

Chub screams, "What are you waiting for? Mitchum!"
action: You describe your surroundings
response: There's dick-all to see here, even with the goggles on. Armory cabinets, supply shelves, two brushed-steel benches, safety straps. The emergency station is a swivel chair three steps up a ladder, facing a panel with rugged switches and levers.

Duggers is below, one boot up on the bench, holding a safety strap with one hand.

Chub is tucked around the corner at the helm. You can't see her, but you can hear her voice in your helmet.

Chub says, "Duggers!"

Duggers is already up the ladder and grabbing for the parachute release levers. He yanks them hard, there is a noise like a screech owl colliding with a sheet of inch-thick plexiglass, and then the cabin seems to stop in midair, jolting everything that's not nailed down, which includes you and Duggers. The two of you smash to the cabin floor. You land on your side, the hard ammo clips strapped to your side bruising your ribs, damn near cutting through your suit.
action: Look around
response: There's dick-all to see here, even with the goggles on. Armory cabinets, supply shelves, two brushed-steel benches, safety straps. The emergency station is a swivel chair three steps up a ladder, facing a panel with rugged switches and levers.

You can see Duggers and Chub here.

Just as you start to sit up, Duggers attacks your throat with his elbow, crushing your windpipe. You flop backwards like an upended beetle, choking and gagging, pain throbbing outward from your neck, your lungs burning.

The fall seems to have damaged your helmet, because you can't hear Duggers' voice any more. He's holding you by your gear straps, his faceplate right in front of yours, screaming obscenities. Probably just as well that you can't hear it.
action: You shoot Duggers
response: Sure, you hate Duggers, but that's no reason to mow him down with a plasma rifle. That might just make him mad.

Chub comes racing into view. You watch, hearing only your own jaggered breathing as your windpipe relaxes, as an argument ensues. Hands haul you to your feet near the hatch. Duggers blows it open. Waited too long to release the craft's parachutes, going to have to jump for it. Probably cost us the mission and our lives, you reflect.
action: You jump
response: You jump on the spot, fruitlessly.

Duggers leaps out of the hatch. Chub shoves at you from behind. You still can't hear any voices.

You're in mid-air, falling fast. You can't see the ground, and there's nothing to see in the sky.
action: Shit
response: You mutter a few oaths and curses.
action: Go downwards
response: You adjust your direction slightly, but mostly you try to stay on target.

You pull the rip-cord, and your chute opens. Your neck snaps forward, your throat closes hard and painfully. As you raise your head, your throat doesn't open again. It feels swollen shut, and you can't breathe.

Far below, there's a round, white-green flare -- the landing craft, crashing down.
action: You go downward
response: You adjust your direction slightly, but mostly you try to stay on target.

You see a cloud-layer below. Maybe it's mist on the ground? You brace for impact.
action: You wait
response: You wait and fall through the clouds. Not the ground, not yet. You take a small breath, and another. You spot Duggers' chute below you, slipping sideways, furling and raveling, sinking into wet blackness. That's the ground, the marsh right below you.
action: You wait
response: You wait for the landing. Your boots hit a layer of wet slime, and you sink into it up to your buckling knees. You lose your balance, but can't move your feet to stabilize yourself. Slime splashes up into your faceplate. Your hands sink into something gelatinous. Everything is cold. You must be underwater.
action: You describe your surroundings
response: You try, but it just makes you seep deeper into the murk.

You put your hands down, hoping to raise your weight, but there's no support. Your arms sink like toothpicks into a sponge cake.
action: Up
response: You curl your legs up under your chest, slowly drawing them out of the muck, and you replant them in fresh muck. Gradually you wobble yourself into an upright fetal position and try to stand. You must weigh 350 pounds with all of your gear. Carefully, slowly, you stand. You get a little help from your chute, yanked by a sudden wind. For a moment you're not sure whether you're actually standing or not, and you realize it's because your faceplate is covered with marsh slime.
action: You wipe the faceplate
response: You are yanked backwards by your parachute. You stumble and again go underwater, the chute tugging you further down.

You struggle to get up, but your chute feels like it's caught on something.
action: You cut the chute
response: You try, but it just makes you seep deeper into the murk.

With growing horror, you realize that the chute has become entangled with something, and is dragging you further and further underwater.
action: You release the chute
response: You try, but it just makes you seep deeper into the murk.

Your lungs burning, all of your limbs thrashing, you sputter for breath and take in a lungful of marsh water.
action: You check what you're carrying
response: You try, but it just makes you seep deeper into the murk.

Distantly, you hear the thrashing of boots through water, the dulled booms of plasma rifles firing. Someone is trying to pull at one of your boots, but their hands slip away. The last bit of air in your lungs escapes, poisonous water takes its place.
action: You examine the panel
response: The emergency station panel has two levers. Pulling them releases the landing craft's emergency parachutes. There are three switches: homing beacon launch, distress call broadcast, and self-destruct failsafe. You aren't under orders to use the switches right now.

Your forehead just started to itch.
action: You scratch forehead
response: You can't scratch it without taking off your helmet. You're just going to have to tough it out, soldier.
action: You pulthe self-destruct
response: You are unable to.
action: You look at the cabinets
response: Loaded with enough firepower to bugbomb an entire sector.

Duggers swipes his holovid from you. "Hey man, don't you never give nothing back?" he says. He gives his girlfriend's picture a quick ogle before stuffing it into a side pocket of his pants.
action: Go upwards
response: You swing yourself from the hatchway up into your emergency station. You're already starting to sweat inside your suit, but there isn't time to adjust the coolant controls.
action: You look at the shelves
response: The supplies are designed to last a five-man unit for two weeks.

Chub says, "Three ..."
action: You wait
response: You wait.

Chub says, "Shit ...!"
action: You pull the lever
response: You pull hard on the levers, which ratchet into a locked position with a satisfying, weighty "ka-chunk." From above, there is a noise like a screech owl colliding with a sheet of inch-thick plexiglass, and then the cabin seems to stop in midair, jolting everything that's not nailed down, which includes you and Duggers.

Chub hollers, "Dammit! I said on my mark, Mitchum!" She comes bolting into view and yanks you down, eyeball to eyeball. "Since when does 'shit' mean 'mark,' Mitchum? We were still falling too fast to deploy. The chutes tore."

Chub lets go of you and blows open the hatch. Icy wind snarls around the cabin, dragging at you. "Bail out! And I mean now, fuckwit!"

Duggers gives you a curled sneer and leaps out of the hatch. Chub shoves at you from behind.

You're in mid-air, falling fast. You can't see the ground, and there's nothing to see in the sky.
action: You wait
response: You pause.

Chub says, "Shit!"
action: You ask Chub about the shit
response: Please use >TALK TO PLAYER to interact in this game.

Chub says, "Mark!"
action: You pull the lever
response: You pull hard on the levers, which ratchet into a locked position with a satisfying, weighty "ka-chunk." From above, there is a noise like a screech owl colliding with a sheet of inch-thick plexiglass, and then the cabin seems to stop in midair, jolting everything that's not nailed down, which includes you and Duggers.

Chub saunters into view. "Good work, Mitchum. All right, let's strap in and get ready for touchdown. That means you too, Duggers."

Duggers says, "I got a hand on the strap, don't I?"

Chub says, "Fine. Stand up if you want. When your kneecaps blow out and your hamstrings are severed by the compound fractures of your thigh bones you can crawl your ass through the swamp. Doesn't make any difference to me, as long as you keep one hand free to salute."

Duggers gives Chub a severe salute and lowers his stubborn ass down onto the bench. You plunk down next to him.

The cabin creaks and shudders. Chub checks her chronometer.
action: You strap in
response: You strap yourself in.

Chub says, "Okay. We need to prepare to lose the AVLC when we land. This thing is going to fill with water and sink in about ninety-eight seconds. Duggers, as soon as we hit, blow the hatch and do a quick scout. Mitchum, launch the homing beacon and then get the hell out."
action: You wait for a while
response: You wait. Chub checks her chronometer. She says, "Touchdown in eight, seven, six..."
action: Go up
response: (first removing the straps)

You get off the bench.

Duggers shifts his weight forward, ready to spring into action.

Chub says, "Five, four, three..."
action: You go upward
response: You swing yourself up into the emergency station.

Chub says, "Tw--"

With a jaw-splintering jolt, the AVLC hits the swampwater. You're thrown hard to the floor by the impact, your helmet absorbing a lot of the shattering force. Bright splotches fill your vision. Maybe your goggles are damaged, you think at first, and then you realize that it's your eyes.

You squeeze your eyes, wait for the blotches to fade, and hope it isn't a concussion.
action: You go upward
response: You swing yourself up into the emergency station.

Duggers says, "Blowing the hatch..." Fwoom! There's a white flare in your goggles, and the hatch disappears into darkness. Instantly, freezing algae water pours into the opening. Duggers leaps out into it as the cabin starts to reel, pitching aftward.
action: Go outside
response: You get off the emergency station.

There's dick-all to see here, even with the goggles on. Armory cabinets, supply shelves, two brushed-steel benches, safety straps. The emergency station is a swivel chair three steps up a ladder, facing a panel with rugged switches and levers.

Chub is at the hatchway, standing firm against the inrushing water.

You force yourself out of the craft, fighting the freezing water. Your legs seize up a few steps from the sinking craft, or maybe they're just caught in the muck. You lose your balance, but can't move your feet to stabilize yourself. Slime splashes up into your faceplate. Your hands sink into something gelatinous. Everything is cold. You must be underwater.
action: You go upward
response: You curl your legs up under your chest, slowly drawing them out of the muck, and you replant them in fresh muck. Gradually you wobble yourself into an upright fetal position and try to stand. You must weigh 350 pounds with all of your gear. Carefully, slowly, you stand. For a moment you're not sure whether you're actually standing or not, and you realize it's because your faceplate is covered with marsh slime.
action: You remove the backpack
response: A soldier never removes his backpack unless his life depends on doing so.

You smear the slime away with your hand, and see the marshland.

The landscape is pitch black, even in your goggles. No heat from the freezing swampwater. Out of the blackness, looming shapes in obscene colors. You aren't supposed to see colors through these goggles, and you wonder if you're doing worse than you thought.

The shapes are mushrooms, hundreds of them, rising on their moist stalks, ballooning heads eighteen feet around, eight feet high. You can't get much of a sight beyond them. There's too many mushrooms. Maybe you should waste some ammo clearing a sightline. Then again, maybe you don't have any ammo to waste, now.

You can see Chub and Duggers here.

Duggers and Chub are standing in front of you, pointing and screaming at you, wondering why you don't answer them.
action: You remove the helmet
response: You'll need that helmet to survive and to communicate with Duggers and Chub.

You point at the comm antenna on your helmet and tap your finger to it. You shake your head.

Duggers flings his arms wide and throws his head back, the universal pantomime for, "Well, that's just fucking GREAT." Chub approaches you, removing her thick gloves, reaching for her toolbelt. You hear her hands bumping against your helmet.
action: You wait
response: There is a burst of deafening static in your helmet. You flinch and turn to face Chub, who glowers at you and shoves your head away so she can keep working. You feel the bones in your neck grind together, a pain so bad you want to black out.

Your training asserts itself. You clench your fists, bite your tongue, and hang onto consciousness.
action: You wait
response: There's another burst of static, and Chub's voice poking through it.

"...hear that? ... if you ... --kay? ...Mitchum!"
action: You talk to Chub
response: You hear Chub say, "How about that?"

"Got it," you say.

A vibration ripples the water. Duggers's voice: "Heads up! Heads up! Can he hear through that goddamn thing yet? Come on!"
action: You talk to Duggers
response: What would you like to say?
[1] Duggers, your girlfriend's a skank.
[2] Yo mama.
action: 1
response: Duggers says, "Don't you be talkin' that way about Lashawnda, motherfucker! I'll shuffle yo pasty pink Iowa corn-fed ass off this mortal fuckin' coil, you hear what I'm saying?"

[1] Yeah, I hear ya.
[2] I'll say what I like, bitch!
[3] Fuck off.
action: 2
response: Duggers bursts into hoarse laughter. "Man, you crack me up," he says. His face goes stony again. "Just don't push me."

[1] Yo mama.
action: 1
response: Duggers says, "No, *yo* mama."

Chub whips out her plasma rifle. You whip out Charlene. Charlene's your partner, ready for the dance. You draw some strength from her, ignoring the spasms in your bad arm.

Easy girl. Just... hold it ... steady.
action: You talk to Chub
response: What would you like to say?
[1] Yes sergeant.
action: 1
response: You affirm Chub's authority.

Chub says, "I've called for reinforcements, but they won't come in until we hold this position for a while. No use aiding a lost cause."

You say, "It is a lost cause, isn't it? The bugs are just going to keep coming."

The vibration comes again. Somewhere, far ahead, twisting its way closer, the bug is coming.
action: You shoot mushroom
response: You hear the roar of many feet, so many feet it makes your stomach turn. Up ahead, through that maze of mushrooms, you see a slickened shape pass by, west to east.

Chub shouts, "Fire!"

You fire Charlene into the darkness. She purrs and growls. She's jumpy today, you can tell. Or maybe you are. Duggers fires. Chub fires. Mushrooms explode into spores. Fast-growing spores, you remember. In ten minutes, there will be more of them, full-sized. How are you supposed to win a war like this?
action: Shoot bug
response: All you hit are more mushrooms, but you clear a path. Up ahead, the behemoth twists like a snake, heading west, then east, then directly at you. Duggers fires at the head of it, and the head explodes, but the beast keeps coming. It turns east again.
action: Shoot bug
response: You fire at the beast, cutting the bug in two. The damn segments don't stop moving, though. Now there's two bugs, each twisting this way and that. One segment reaches a small tunnel, formed by columns of mushrooms to each side, and it twists between them, heading straight for you.

"Fire! Fire!" Chub screams.
action: Shoot bug
response: Charlene is white hot, searing your naked fingers. You love her most of all when she's like this, when she's on fire. Your skin melds with hers. Your hands become iron, her body becomes soft flesh.

Your rifles flare in the damp night, shooting plasma pulses a million degrees hot and moving at 400 miles an hour. The charging beast loses its head, and then another head, and then another head, and then another. Suddenly, there are no more heads, it is gone.

The second segment twists into view, just beyond the closest range of mushrooms, about to invade your empty black marshland base.

Another noise, unlike the steady thrum of these insect feet, begins to grow, with a doppler effect, from dead ahead. A flying bug.
action: You shoot flying bug
response: You can only do that to something animate.
action: Shoot bug
response: You fire at the centipede and miss, but it gives you light to see what's coming. It's a tick, two tons of chitinous carapace, bristly fangs, and bug meat, hurtling straight at the three of you, over the tops of the mushrooms. Its lazy feet scrape the mushroom heads, poisoning them as it passes, making the mushrooms change to ugly colors. If another bug touches one of those, it'll go into a hallucinogenic frenzy.

"Spread out! Spread out!" Chub shouts.
action: Shoot tick
response: You dodge left and fire, but you can't get a steady bead on the damn thing. Chub concentrates on the centipede, her plasma shots splitting it again in two. They're coming at you from both sides now.

Duggers is right in the tick's path. He stands his ground, shouting at the sonofabitch. Duggers fires at it, misses. Fires again, misses. It's coming in too fast, even for Duggers.
action: Shoot tick
response: You keep firing, trying to save Duggers, but the tick mows him down. Its sticky feet latch onto his body, his face purples and blackens as he's carted away to some nest to be digested. There is a scream in your helmet, and then silence.

Dead silence. The bugs are gone. There's just two of you left.
action: You talk to Chub
response: What would you like to say?
[1] Yes sergeant.
action: 0
response: You decide not to say anything.

You were right. More mushrooms have grown up already. It's harder to see. Up ahead, you see the segmented beast twisting this way and that. Up ahead, you hear another tick approaching like a dive bomber, coming right at you and Chub.

Up ahead, you hear the thrum. Wave number two. Or is it just a continuation of the first wave?

Something else, something new. Feet clicking, splashing, an almost musical chirp as the legs saw back and forth. What the hell? Some sort of cricket? No.
action: Shoot tick
response: You shoot at the tick, and with a final good shot, it explodes into a greasy cloud.

In the glow of Charlene's plasma bolts you see what this new bug is. It's a scorpion, sidling sideways. Fortunately, it's not coming at you. Chub takes it out with one quick shot. She then swings her aim at the beast, but only manages to cut it into three segments, damn her eyes.

From the sky comes another tick, its poisonous legs turning the mushrooms purple and blue.
action: Shoot tick
response: You and Chub concentrate your fire on the tick. You vaporize it with about thirty yards to spare. Plasma spray and unvaporized bug bits sizzle over the mushroom caps, a wet coat of death.

And then you hear another tick, bearing down on you, following its kamikaze partner, poisoning even more mushrooms.
action: Shoot tick
response: You take a lucky shot and destroy the second tick before it even gets close, before it can poison too many mushrooms, but it's already too late.

One of the centipede segments hit the poisoned mushrooms, and the oil gets into its skin, scrambling its stupid bug neurons. Crazed, it charges forward, straight at you. Another segment hits another poisoned shroom, and it, too, charges screaming at you.

The two segments swoop down on either side of you and Chub, circle, and play back and forth, zigzagging. The poison's worn off, thankfully.
action: Shoot segment
response: You charge, firing with deadly aim. One down. You're just about to congratulate yourself when Chub shouts a warning.

You see more centipedes arriving out of the darkness to your left and right. Where are they coming from? Just two segments each, a head and a tail, joining the dance. There's four of these damn things now, and more every minute.
action: Go south
response: You slog a few steps in that direction. Your foot runs into something solid, probably the submerged landing craft.

You shoot and shoot, vaporizing as many as you can. You start to think you're winning, that you're going to get out of this, when out of the corner of your eye, you see Chub backing up, not looking where she's going. You yell for her to move, to watch out. You're still busy firing as you try to move closer to her, to yank her out of the way, to give her cover, but it's too late. A new segment dances into the marsh, runs Chub down, stomps her into the muck. You hear a shriek in your helmet that becomes a helpless gurgle. The beast drips acid out of its flanks, out of its disgusting glands, and something sizzles underwater.

A final shot from your rifle sails into the gloom. Far away, a mushroom explodes.

Again, silence. And you're the only one left.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: The landscape is pitch black, even in your goggles. No heat from the freezing swampwater. Out of the blackness, looming shapes in obscene colors. You aren't supposed to see colors through these goggles, and you wonder if you're doing worse than you thought.

You were right. New mushrooms have grown, dozens of them, eight feet high. You can't get much of a sight beyond them. There's too many. You don't have any ammo to waste, now.

You can't see for all of the mushrooms blocking your way. You can hear movement, far ahead, but you can't see anything but the mushrooms. They're different colors now. Are you hallucinating? And where's the backup Chub called for? How long are they going to take?
action: You enter the craft
response: That's just not going to work, soldier.

You vent your frustrations on the mushrooms, shooting again and again. They explode, releasing spores that will grow more of them soon. You don't care. You need the space to move if you're going to win this battle, if you're going to survive.

You know, though, that it's just a matter of time. You wonder what the point of this is, and you laugh. It's a sick joke to someone up there in HQ, someone in a chushy office on Atari Prime. It's just some stupid game.
action: Look around
response: The landscape is pitch black, even in your goggles. No heat from the freezing swampwater. Out of the blackness, looming shapes in obscene colors. You aren't supposed to see colors through these goggles, and you wonder if you're doing worse than you thought.

You were right. New mushrooms have grown, dozens of them, eight feet high. You can't get much of a sight beyond them. There's too many. You don't have any ammo to waste, now.

You hear the thunder, the singsong chirping, the freight train whistle doing its doppler effect, doubled, tripled. All the bugs are back. More than ever.

A tick whizzes by you to your left, just missing you. You hear it hiss its hatred.
action: Shoot tick
response: You blast another tick as it flies by to the right, dripping poison. The mushroom right in front of you warps, rots, seems to right itself. You destroy it. There's another deadly one behind it. You shoot that one, too, and another.
action: Shoot tick
response: Charlene's aim is true, and you wipe out what you hope is the last tick of this wave. Once again, it's too late. The murshrooms have done their work. The crazed behemoth charges; once again, you are surrounded. Once again, new segments arrive from nowhere, spinning in circles around you.

Mocking your hopes, one last tick comes, and this one has your name on it.
action: Shoot tick
response: You fire at the tick, and miss.
action: Shoot tick
response: You fire at the tick, and miss. It's going to get you.
action: Shoot tick
response: You brace yourself for your last stand. You take aim at that tick, right in its glassy, metallic blue-green eyes. You fire, and miss. One last chance, it's almost here.
action: Shoot tick
response: You get it from behind. Oh, shit, you think. The fucking irony. The tick sails past, unharmed, as one of the segments of the beast crushes you, biting off your legs.

There's no time to feel pain, or maybe there isn't any pain. Some sort of anesthetic in the saliva, you remember. You scream anyway, just like Chub. You're not going down quietly. You try to turn your rifle around, fire at the damn thing point-blank, but suddenly your arms don't work.
action: Shoot tick
response: That was the last one.

You're flipped over on your back, and something viscous and yellow oozes onto your faceplate, dissolving it. Suddenly your eyes don't work, and you can't scream. You see a dull red that turns brown and black in splotches, like the way the colors on a bubble turn before the bubble pops, and it's dead.
action: You wait for a while
response: The last thought that comes to you makes you laugh. It's that old joke. What's the last thing to go through a bug's mind as it hits your windshield? Its --.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: You are carrying:
a combat suit (being worn)
a waterproof boots (being worn)
a helmet (being worn)
a set of night vision goggles (being worn)
a belt of ammo clips (being worn)
a backpack (being worn and closed)
Charlene
a holovid

Your forehead just started to itch.
action: You open the backpack
response: You open the backpack, revealing food rations, a canteen, a letter and a zip pack of stims.
action: You read the letter
response: It's a letter to your folks, to be sent in case you're killed in the line of duty. You're hoping someone survives this mission to send it. No. You're hoping nobody needs to send the damn thing. Not this time.
action: You examine the stims
response: It's stuff to keep you jacked up and alert. You've used up your ration already, but you still got some extras you palmed off the medic.
action: You look at the rations
response: Today's food rations, in compact powder packets.

Duggers swipes his holovid from you. "Hey man, don't you never give nothing back?" he says. He gives his girlfriend's picture a quick ogle before stuffing it into a side pocket of his pants.
action: You eat rations
response: Not until you clear the sector and establish basecamp for the full landing party.
action: 1
response: You affirm Chub's authority.
action: Wait
response: You do nothing. Chub's voice starts counting down. You can hear the strain in her voice, the pitch rising and falling in synchronization with the cabin's spastic lurching and yawing.
action: Wait
response: You do nothing.

Chub says, "Four ..."
action: Wait
response: You wait.

Chub says, "Three ..."
action: You wait
response: You wait.

Chub says, "Shit ...!"
action: Go upwards
response: You swing yourself from the hatchway up into your emergency station. You're already starting to sweat inside your suit, but there isn't time to adjust the coolant controls.

Chub says, "Shit!"
action: You wait awhile
response: You hold one more second. Chub says, "Mark!"
action: You pull the levers
response: You pull hard on the levers, which ratchet into a locked position with a satisfying, weighty "ka-chunk." From above, there is a noise like a screech owl colliding with a sheet of inch-thick plexiglass, and then the cabin seems to stop in midair, jolting everything that's not nailed down, which includes you and Duggers.

Chub saunters into view. "Good work, Mitchum. All right, let's strap in and get ready for touchdown. That means you too, Duggers."

Duggers says, "I got a hand on the strap, don't I?"

Chub says, "Fine. Stand up if you want. When your kneecaps blow out and your hamstrings are severed by the compound fractures of your thigh bones you can crawl your ass through the swamp. Doesn't make any difference to me, as long as you keep one hand free to salute."

Duggers gives Chub a severe salute and lowers his stubborn ass down onto the bench. You plunk down next to him.

The cabin creaks and shudders. Chub checks her chronometer.
action: You wait
response: You wait. Duggers shifts his weight forward, ready to spring into action.

Chub says, "Five, four, three..."
action: You wait awhile
response: You wait.

Chub says, "Tw--"

With a jaw-splintering jolt, the AVLC hits the swampwater. Chub is already on her feet, grabbing extra rations and munitions. Yeah, like we'll last long enough to need those, you think.
action: You go upwards
response: (first removing the straps)
You get off the bench and swing yourself up into the emergency station.

Duggers says, "Blowing the hatch..." Fwoom! There's a white flare in your goggles, and the hatch disappears into darkness. Instantly, freezing algae water pours into the opening. Duggers leaps out into it as the cabin starts to reel, pitching aftward.
action: Go outside
response: You get off the emergency station.

There's dick-all to see here, even with the goggles on. Armory cabinets, supply shelves, two brushed-steel benches, safety straps. The emergency station is a swivel chair three steps up a ladder, facing a panel with rugged switches and levers.

Chub is at the hatchway, standing firm against the inrushing water, motioning for you to get out.

You force yourself out of the craft, fighting the freezing water. Your legs seize up a few steps from the sinking craft, or maybe they're just caught in the muck. You lose your balance, but can't move your feet to stabilize yourself. Slime splashes up into your faceplate. Your hands sink into something gelatinous. Everything is cold. You must be underwater.
action: Go upwards
response: You put your hands down, hoping to raise your weight, but there's no support. Your arms sink like toothpicks into a sponge cake.
action: Clean faceplate
response: You lift your arm to wipe off your faceplate, and a searing pain shoots from your shoulder down to the end of your pinky. You grit your teeth and ignore it. You figure you can probably still hold and fire your weapon, so there's no use crying about it. You smear the slime away with your other hand, and see the marshland.

The landscape is pitch black, even in your goggles. No heat from the freezing swampwater. Out of the blackness, looming shapes in obscene colors. You aren't supposed to see colors through these goggles, and you wonder if you're doing worse than you thought.

The shapes are mushrooms, hundreds of them, rising on their moist stalks, ballooning heads eighteen feet around, eight feet high. You can't get much of a sight beyond them. There's too many mushrooms. Maybe you should waste some ammo clearing a sightline. Then again, maybe you don't have any ammo to waste, now.

You can see Chub and Duggers here.

Duggers and Chub are standing in front of you, pointing and screaming at you, wondering why you didn't answer them.

You say, "Sorry, Sergeant. I fell down and almost drowned."

Chub and Duggers start to laugh. They loud enough to shake the ground. The laughter stops when you see that a vibration is rippling the water. The ground really is shaking.

Duggers whispers, "Heads up! Heads up!"

Chub whips out her plasma rifle. You whip out Charlene. Charlene's your partner, ready for the dance. You draw some strength from her, ignoring the spasms in your bad arm.

Easy girl. Just... hold it ... steady.
action: You eat stims
response: (first taking the zip pack of stims)
Easy there, soldier. No need to overmedicate yourself. You don't want to end up with a problem.

Chub says, "I've called for reinforcements, but they won't come in until we hold this position for a while. No use aiding a lost cause."

You say, "It is a lost cause, isn't it? The bugs are just going to keep coming."

The vibration comes again. Somewhere, far ahead, twisting its way closer, the bug is coming.
action: Shoot bug
response: You hear the roar of many feet, so many feet it makes your stomach turn. Up ahead, through that maze of mushrooms, you see a slickened shape pass by, west to east.

Chub shouts, "Fire!"

You fire Charlene into the darkness. She purrs and growls. She's jumpy today, you can tell. Or maybe you are. Duggers fires. Chub fires. Mushrooms explode into spores. Fast-growing spores, you remember. In ten minutes, there will be more of them, full-sized. How are you supposed to win a war like this?
action: Shoot bug
response: All you hit are more mushrooms, but you clear a path. Up ahead, the behemoth twists like a snake, heading west, then east, then directly at you. Duggers fires at the head of it, and the head explodes, but the beast keeps coming. It turns east again.
action: Shoot bug
response: You fire at the beast, cutting the bug in two. The damn segments don't stop moving, though. Now there's two bugs, each twisting this way and that. One segment reaches a small tunnel, formed by columns of mushrooms to each side, and it twists between them, heading straight for you.

"Fire! Fire!" Chub screams.
action: You go east
response: You slog a few steps in that direction.

Chub splits the centipede again in two. They're coming at you from both sides now.

Duggers is right in the tick's path. He stands his ground, shouting at the sonofabitch. Duggers fires at it, misses. Fires again, misses. It's coming in too fast.
action: You eat stims
response: (first taking the zip pack of stims)
Easy there, soldier. No need to overmedicate yourself. You don't want to end up with a problem.

The tick mows Duggers down, its sticky feet latching onto his body. You see his face purple and blacken as he's carted away to some nest to be digested. There is a scream, and then silence.

Dead silence. The bugs are gone. There's two of you left.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a combat suit (being worn)
a waterproof boots (being worn)
a helmet (being worn)
a set of night vision goggles (being worn)
a belt of ammo clips (being worn)
a backpack (being worn and open)
food rations
a canteen
a letter
a zip pack of stims
Charlene

You were right. More mushrooms have grown up already. It's harder to see. Up ahead, you see the segmented beast twisting this way and that. Up ahead, you hear another tick approaching like a dive bomber, coming right at you and Chub.

Up ahead, you hear the thrum. Wave number two. Or is it just a continuation of the first wave?

Something else, something new. Feet clicking, splashing, an almost musical chirp as the legs saw back and forth. What the hell? Some sort of cricket? No.
action: You look at the goggles
response: The night vision goggles are an older model of specs. Apparently, they're going to be more useful on this mission than the top of the line version. Something about better motion interpolation and better contrast in the -4C to 4C temperature range.

It's a scorpion, sidling sideways. Fortunately, it's not coming at you. You take it out with one quick shot. You're getting better at this.

You'd better get even better, fast. Here comes that tick, with its screaming song, with its poisonous legs, turning the mushrooms purple and blue.

Here comes the beast itself. Chub cuts it into three parts, damn her eyes.
action: Shoot bug
response: While you destroy one of the three segments, Chub concentrates her fire on the tick. She vaporize it with only about six yards to spare. Plasma spray and unvaporized bug bits sizzle over both of you, a wet coat of death.

And then you hear another tick, bearing down on you, following its kamikaze partner, poisoning even more mushrooms.
action: Shoot tick
response: You take a lucky shot and destroy the second tick before it even gets close, before it can poison too many mushrooms, but it's already too late.

One of the centipede segments hit the poisoned mushrooms, and the oil gets into its skin, scrambling its stupid bug neurons. Crazed, it charges forward, straight at you. Another segment hits another poisoned shroom, and it, too, charges screaming at you.

The two segments swoop down on either side of you and Chub, circle, and play back and forth, zigzagging. The poison's worn off, thankfully.
action: Shoot segment
response: You charge, firing with deadly aim. One down. You're just about to congratulate yourself when Chub shouts a warning.

You see more centipedes arriving out of the darkness to your left and right. Where are they coming from? Just two segments each, a head and a tail, joining the dance. There's four of these damn things now, and more every minute.
action: You give the stims to dugger
response: You can only do that to something animate.
action: You give the stims to Chub
response: (first taking the zip pack of stims)
Easy there, soldier. No need to overmedicate yourself. You don't want to end up with a problem.

You shoot and shoot, vaporizing as many as you can. You start to think you're winning, that you're going to get out of this, when out of the corner of your eye, you see Chub backing up, not looking where she's going. You yell for her to move, to watch out. You're still busy firing as you try to move closer to her, to yank her out of the way, to give her cover, but it's too late. A new segment dances into the marsh, runs Chub down, stomps her into the muck. You hear a shriek in your helmet that becomes a helpless gurgle. The beast drips acid out of its flanks, out of its disgusting glands, and something sizzles underwater.

A final shot from your rifle sails into the gloom. Far away, a mushroom explodes.

Again, silence. And you're the only one left.
action: Shoot bug
response: You can't see for all of the mushrooms blocking your way. You can hear movement, far ahead, but you can't see anything but the mushrooms. They're different colors now. Are you hallucinating? And where's the backup Chub called for? How long are they going to take?

You vent your frustrations on the mushrooms, shooting again and again. They explode, releasing spores that will grow more of them soon. You don't care. You need the space to move if you're going to win this battle, if you're going to survive.

You know, though, that it's just a matter of time. You wonder what the point of this is, and you laugh. It's a sick joke to someone up there in HQ, someone in a chushy office on Atari Prime. It's just some stupid game.
action: You shoot mushroom
response: Charlene's singing now. She's found her sweetest rhythm, and you follow along with it. You hear the thunder, the singsong chirping, the freight train whistle doing its doppler effect, doubled, tripled. All the bugs are back. More than ever. You and Charlene are ready. You clear your sightlines, blowing away dozens of mushrooms.

A tick whizzes by you to your left, just missing you. You hear it hiss its hatred.
action: Shoot tick
response: You blast another tick as it flies by to the right, dripping poison. The mushroom right in front of you warps, rots, seems to right itself. You destroy it. There's another deadly one behind it. You shoot that one, too, and another.
action: Shoot tick
response: Charlene's aim is true, and you wipe out what you hope is the last tick of this wave. Once again, it's too late. The murshrooms have done their work. The crazed behemoth charges; once again, you are surrounded. Once again, new segments arrive from nowhere, spinning in circles around you.

Mocking your hopes, one last tick comes, and this one has your name on it.
action: You shoot CENTIPEDE
response: You fire at the segments, but it's hard to hit them when they're this close, when there's so many. Either one of them or the tick is going to get you.
action: You shoot CENTIPEDE
response: You take careful aim at one of the segments and destroy it, but another takes its place, and another. You brace yourself for your death. The tick is almost here.
action: Shoot tick
response: You get it from behind. Oh, shit, you think. The fucking irony. The tick sails past, unharmed, as one of the segments of the beast crushes you, biting off your legs.

There's no time to feel pain, or maybe there isn't any pain. Some sort of anesthetic in the saliva, you remember. You scream anyway, just like Chub. You're not going down quietly. You try to turn your rifle around, fire at the damn thing point-blank, but suddenly your arms don't work.
action: You shoot CENTIPEDE
response: You spin on your heels, destroying a bug that was about to get you from behind. The tick mows you down, killing you instantly.
action: You shoot yourself
response: You're flipped over on your back, and something viscous and yellow oozes onto your faceplate, dissolving it. Suddenly your eyes don't work, and you can't scream. You see a dull red that turns brown and black in splotches, like the way the colors on a bubble turn before the bubble pops, and it's dead.
action: You shoot yourself
response: The last thought that comes to you makes you laugh. It's that old joke. What's the last thing to go through a bug's mind as it hits your windshield? Its --.