Stan laid on his stomach at the back of the room, an M2 Browning – a .50 caliber badass mo-fo were Stan’s exact words – positioned on a low, wide-based tripod in front of him, aimed directly at the door. Brad and Becky were hunkered behind a metal table we’d upended and set up as a potential line of defense against the spiderlings and whatever else might have joined the unholy, alien congregation in the hall. They were both armed and ready to fire at the potential wave of monsters, just like Stan taught us. And me? Well, like a dumbass, I volunteered to open the door. I mean, I had grenades to throw into the hall, and I was ready to dive behind the table with Brad and Becky as Stan unloaded his .50 cal on the bastards. But hey, somebody had to open the door. Why not me?

To my dismay, the evil, tap-dancing mimes were still in the hall, and the alarms were still blaring like angel’s trumpets announcing the end of the world.

“On three,” Stan finally whispered, disengaging the safety and gripping the twin handles with both hands.

Brad and Becky, heads and guns sticking out from behind the table, were ready to join in the action if necessary. They looked like something straight out of an old World War II movie. It was like trench warfare, but in a big, concrete conference room. A conference room with guns on the wall… like a conference for gangsters… aw hell, you know what I mean.

“One.”

No turning back now.

“Two.”

My feet felt like lead. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to move once I’d pulled the door open. I was about to find ou-

“Three!”

I turned the knob and pulled. The minute or so that followed was probably the worst and longest of my life.

More than a dozen spiderlings practically fell through the doorway. Before I could enjoy tossing a grenade into the opaque mass of legs, tongues, and bodies, Stan began firing his beast of a gun. Spent casings pinged to the floor by the dozen, and I suddenly understood what it would be like to work in the quality control department testing Zeus’s lightning bolts. To say the sound was deafening would be a gross understatement. My eardrums felt like speaker cones at a metal concert. To add insult to injury, or just to pile on more injury, the shrapnel and body parts produced by the constant spray of bullets was like cleaning up a driving range while the golfers were still practicing their swings. Legs, guts, Vaseline-blood, and golf ball sized chunks of concrete and wood pelted my legs repeatedly.

I dove behind the table and found Becky and Brad screaming. At least I think they were screaming. Their mouths were open like they were screaming, but all any of us could hear was Stan’s 90 pound monster-shredder. The firing slowed for a moment while Stan fed another belt of ammo into the gun. I think I heard Stan laughing in that brief moment. Good for him, man. Good for him.

A minute or so later, the spiderlings, the door, and the walls surrounding it were no more.

The firing stopped, but my ears would be ringing for days to come. Stan suddenly put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and met his eyes. He gestured towards the duffle bags behind us. I tapped on Brad and Becky’s shoulders, nodding towards the bags.

It was time to go.

~

After loading up, the four of us moved stealthily up the corridor towards the particle accelerator and the rest of our friends. One thought dominated all others as we headed towards an uncertain future, and all-too certain doom. Pink! Her bra was pink!

Our enviro-suits were combat ready, and the helmets outfitted with small, but powerful LED spotlights around the face shields. The added light made the run back to the...