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Rage

[reyj]

-noun

A fit of violent anger.

Violence of feeling, desire, or appetite: the rage of thirst.

Ardour; fervour; enthusiasm: poetic rage.

Archaic: Insanity.

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"Okay, can you tell me what you see here?"

The eighteen year old boy leaned forward in his chair, causing the leather upholstery to creak loudly. His hazel eyes were squinted as he stared intensely into the symmetrical ink-blots. "Uhm... two swans... err... fighting for a bottle of... phones?" he said slowly, possibly reading too much into it.

"Alright." The doctor slowly placed the Rorschach card on a pile and reached for another one.

Mark Cole frowned heavily, wondering how his answer could possibly be 'alright.' It had been a very loose interpretation of the image presented to him, and since 'a blob of ink' was not an acceptable answer he'd practically made up every answer as he went along.

"And this?" the middle aged man behind the heavy oak and leather desk asked holding up the next white card.

Again, an unintelligible blob of ink. This one was harder to interpret.

"Ehm... two eskimos playing patty cake." Mark replied.

"Excellent."

Mark wasn't sure about excellent. Did eskimos even know how to play patty cake?

The psychiatrist, whose name was printed in fancy looking diplomas hanging from the wall behind his large, swivel chair put away the last card and started writing in one of his notebooks with an expensive looking pen. Mark felt like his mom was spending a damn fortune just having him sit here... then she would have been spending thousands per hour if she wasn't fucking the guy sitting opposite him.

"So, son." Doctor Ron Hubbard said in what Mark assumed was a fatherly tone. "How do you feel?"

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Fine." He said in a slow, calm, yet warning tone. Anyone could call him son. Hell, his teachers could call him son. Not this man. This fella didn't have the fuckin' right.

The Ron shifted his gaze downward, looking over the upper rim of his thin framed glasses. Ron Hubbard was the kind of guy who you could compare to the likes of George Clooney. Attractive features, greying hair that suited him and a charming disposition. "Really? That's how you're feeling right now?" the man leaned back in his chair, his fingers playing over a talisman strung around his neck.

Mark glared at it, then glanced at an identical, only larger monument hanging from the wall between the framed diplomas. The mark of a unitologist, two spike pointed grey monoliths spiralled around each other with alien, indistinguishable markings etched carefully into the surface. A religion that believed in unification of sentience. Unification of the human race and beyond. It was actually crazier than it sounded. Unitology wasn't a religion, it was a damn cult. They manipulated people into following them, then milked followers out of every penny.

"What are you plans for the weekend?" Ron asked, smiling.

"Airsoft." Mark replied simply.

"Is that such a good idea?" Ron looked worried now. "You were told you had to keep your body in good shape. No harm can become your vessel before unity..." he went on, quoting psalms and verses.

Mark didn't have a clue what the man ranted on about. He was a unitologist too, but not by choice. When his mom met Ron, Ron got them into the cult. Mark's mother had been desperate since her husband died, vulnerable even. Despite Mark trying to protect her, there was nothing a kid with a history of anger problems and a rap-sheet involving several counts of assault could do. He'd lost the battle and all their savings had been spent getting into unitology. Mark had just about managed to hold on to his own life.

And for it, he hated his 'step-father' who had finally slotted Mark into a session.

"It's my hobby." Mark said coldly, taking a calming breath. He knew how to control his anger and aggression, how to channel it. And even though Ron was royally pissing him off right now, Mark turned it inward and stored it for later, just like his friends had taught him. He'd take out his rage on a punching bag in the gym or something. Or maybe he'd just rip on his friend Dirk. That always made him feel better. "You can't expect me to give up my hobby just for a..." Mark paused, choosing his words carefully. "Religion." He let out in a frustrated breath.

Ron cocked an eyebrow. "Not just a religion, son." Mark visibly winced, his right eye twitching. Ron obviously saw this and a discreet smirk tore at the corner of his mouth. "Unitology is a way of life. Can't you see this?"

Mark didn't say anything.

"Now, the church is on the verge of having you locked away in the wake of your little... escapade." Ron rested his elbows on his desk. "I am trying to help you. And it is my professional opinion this... err... Airsoft you play is not very good for your temper. And the friends you hang out with are probably not the best influence. I have already filed your transfer into a unitologist school, where you will get proper tutoring, and can make some nicer friends."

Mark's eyes widened. His muscles tensed and a look of pure rage took over his eyes. They were literally on fire. His hands trembled on the chair's arm-rests as he fought to hold himself back. Every ounce of his being wanted to leap across this desk and stomp Ron out.

"You did what?" Mark's eye was twitching uncontrollably as he spoke in a low, menacing tone.

"And I am having your Airsoft equipment confiscated this evening." Ron added.

Mark leaped to his feet and slammed his fists down on the man's desk. The thud shook his pens out of their respective holders and caused the glass of water next to him topple, dropping the contents on to the carpet.

"Try it!" Mark yelled. "I fucking dare you!"

"This is what I am getting at, son." Ron continued calmly. "We need to get you out of this destructive spiral. Why won't you find the calm of unitology and accept the teachings of Altmann into your heart?"

Mark gritted his teeth. "I know what you're doing." He pointed in Ron's face. "You're doing this on purpose... pissing me off. You want me out of the way so you can marry my mom, because I'm all that's in your way. Tough fucking shit, asshole. Give me your best shot, I'm not budging."

Ron smirked. "Is that so? Well, I didn't want to resort to this, but you should know how lonely your mother gets sometimes, Mark. She was particularly lonesome last night. Lonely enough to wear that sexy lingerie she hides in the back of the wardrobe."

"Shut up." Mark whispered dangerously.

Ron continued regardless. "She's incredibly wet and tight for a woman her age. And when she gets on top she doesn't stop until she's had her fill, like a dirty, hot little slut! And then there's that thing she does with her tongue." Ron shuddered with a pleasurable memory.

"I said shut up!" Mark rose his voice.

"I hope we didn't wake you last night." Ron smiled. "But she just loves to make noise. I might make a recording of her talented voice..."

That tore it. What happened next was a blur of stained oak and blood.

Mark leapt across the desk in one powerful bound, tearing the older man from his chair and laying blow after blow into his face as the eighteen year old pinned Ron to the ground. He could still remember the mess afterwards. Ron's lip puffed up and red. His right eye black and bloodshot. His nose at an angle, broken and unable to be repaired without extensive plastic surgery...

But in the dream, everything that happened after was a blur. It was like he couldn't remember... or didn't want to.

Writhing in cold darkness, Mark screamed at the top of his lungs, letting out a wail of anger and pain. Every cell in his very being was on fire, white hot pins stabbing him from every direction. His eyes opened as he lowered his voice, the pain slowly subsiding. His breath materialised in a frozen vapour out of his mouth, and his eyes nearly froze over.

He was lying on a frosted, metal floor, writhing uncomfortably in his airsoft gear. He was intact, only his AEG missing. What had happened? What the hell was happening? Where was he?

Mark controlled his rage as his friend John had taught him. Deep breaths. Find your centre. Find something that makes you happy. He imagined a time before Ron and unitology. His mom and dad together before his father was shipped to Afghanistan. Their dog, Sally, a dopey yet deceitfully intelligent border collie who loved attention. Their apartment in the city close to friends and relatives. Lazy Sunday afternoons, and Friday night chocolate sundaes topped off with a movie. His first kiss from that girl in Biology Class whose name still eluded him after a year. Sitting around the campfire with his friends.

His friends. John, Isaac and the others.

Rolling on to his front, Mark pressed his palms on the cold ground and pushed himself up to his knees, remembering what had happened. The outpost they found in the woods. The bodies. The gore... the weapons. They had retrieved the weapons and live ammunition to defend themselves. From what though?

Mark quickly looked around through the cold vapour that hung in the large space around him. He spotted it immediately, an assault rifle laying only an arm's length away on the cold floor. It resembled an M4 carbine from what he could see, only by just looking at the oddly wide telescopic stock and the ribbed front rails that led into a flip-up front sight, he knew very well this weapon was not developed by the American company that made the M4. It was a German assault rifle of similar design, known as a HK416. It was essentially the same gun, only far more rugged than what Colt Defence had produced. Able to be frozen, submerged in water, even stripped under layers of pure filth and put back together in a pool of mud, this weapon would fire regardless. The AK47 had been given a run for its money in the lines of durability since Heckler and Koch developed this assault rifle.

Reaching out, Mark snatched the weapon up by the stock and pulled it closer, observing the locked open bolt and the empty mag-well. Plucking up the rifle by the grip, he checked the pouches in his tac-vest to find them loaded with 30-round STANAG magazines. Producing one, he slotted it in place and thumbed the bolt-release. The chamber slid shut and locked the first round into place. Turning on the safety, Mark extended the stock and rose to his feet. He did a quick pat down of his gear. He didn't remember loading up so many magazines in his vest, he was carrying about three hundred rounds of ammunition, and he definitely didn't remember attaching a knife to the back of his belt. Pulling it out he examined the gleaming blade and quickly tucked it away.

What was the last thing he could remember? Lights... being plucked into the sky and then dissolving into green fireflies... aliens? No way. The presence of aliens fed into memories of unitologist ranting and sermons. There was no way he was feeding that bullshit.

But there was no denying it. He had to be on an alien ship. He was in a large, square steel arena of some sort, low hatches around the perimeter. Up above him was a large dome of black material, and grey walls around him were covered in smears of blood and deep scratches in the metal.

"Who are they keeping in here?" Mark asked nobody in particular, looking around. "Freddie Kruger?"

He was alone, that much was clear in the sterile white light that added to the coldness of this massive refrigerator. He was starting to shudder. If he didn't get out of here soon he'd start suffering hyperthermia.

Suddenly the dome above him turned transparent... and Mark found himself looking at aliens. Tall insect like beings with large green eyes, holding organic looking tablets in their arms, typing at the glowing screens with three fingered claws. That wasn't what phased Mark however. It was the fact they were standing on the ceiling, looking 'up' at him.

"Holy shit." Mark muttered looking up at them. "That's fucked up."

Gripping his weapon tight in both hands, Mark averted his gaze to the nearest of the doorways in the arena. The cold blue lights on the metal surface pulsed red and the door popped out before hissing cold vapour and sliding upward revealing the dark hole behind.

Slowly Mark made out a hazy shape. It slinked forward on four broad paws that led into a quad of powerful legs. Snout first, the large wolf-like creature talked out of its den. The creature was covered in patches of grey fur and black hide from the neck down. The grossly mutated head was large, dominated by a rounded maw, thick lips hiding the teeth within. The eyes were glowing red, and gouged into the pink flesh of the powerful head were thick, synthetic veins pulsing with orange liquid.

The creature spotted Mark and snarled, peeling back the lips to reveal long, yellow serrated teeth within. The gums bled, strands of thick saliva and blood pouring over the lips and splattering to the ground.

Mark glared and growled right back, pushing his rifle safety lever into full-automatic. "You wanna piece of me, bitch?" the boy yelled angrily.

The wolf leapt forward, snapping angrily. Mark leapt backwards and pulled the trigger.

His rifle kicked and spat ammunition. Empty brass shells rang out almost musically, backed by the steady rat-tat-tat of his HK416. Rounds punched into the mutant wolf and pockmarked the beast with bloody holes that went all the way through its body. Either the monster ignored the injuries, or couldn't feel them.

The wolf closed the distance between them in a split second and leapt up, front legs tucked into its chest, back arched as it opened its maw wide. Teeth glinted in Mark's face as he shifted the weight of his weapon.

The creature pinned the boy to the ground. Mark pinned his rifle in the back of the maw, locking it in place so the creature couldn't bite down. Regardless the teeth flashed close and slashed open a thin cut on his cheek and nicked open the corner of his lip.

His left hand burned painfully as he gripped the hot barrel of his weapon, the other holding the bar between the body and the plastic butt.

"Raaaaagh!" Mark cried with a mixture of pain and rage. "C'mon, is that all you got!"

The creature bit down harder, but couldn't break through the weapon's steel. It pushed, but met Mark's locked arms.

Bringing his knee up to his chest, kicking a boot against the monster's abdomen. He shifted his balance and effortlessly rolled the monster over, kicking and growling on its side. Holding his rifle, pinning the beast's head down with one hand, his left hand reached back and drew his knife with a click of metal on metal. Pain shot through his burnt hand as his fingers played around the grip, flipping the sharp weapon over until he held it point facing outward.

"Die-die-die-die!" the boy yelled into the monster's open maw, stabbing it in the gut.

Thick orange gore splattered Mark's flecktarn fatigues as he stabbed the monster, digging the sharp steel deep into the warm flesh again and again. Bits of flesh peeled away as he tore the blade free, only to jam it deep into the alien's intestines again.

The monster yelped and kicked, but soon went limp. Mark didn't stop though, his right eye twitching, he stabbed twice more to be sure, then pulled the knife loose and tugged his rifle out of the beast's maw. Sheathing the stained blade again, he shouldered his saliva coated weapon. He was covered in oily blood and dirt already. The smell was repulsive. He didn't care about a bit of drool pressed against his shoulder and cheek.

The insects above him watched every moment of the boys anger fuelled killing. They nodded impressed and clawed notes on their pads. Mark watched them right back, egging them on.

"Well? What you got!" he yelled at them, wondering if they could even hear him.

He was answered by a voice.

It was practically in his head. It was the voice of a woman, a hint of arrogance, or perhaps laziness in her tone. It held volume and caused pain. Indescribable pain, like a horrible throbbing headache. Each word grated his senses, causing the air to waver and distort in front of Mark's eyes.

Crying out he gripped his temple, trying his best to just take it and power on. It was hard, but he took the agony and listened at the same time.

"This one is different. This one's performance pleases me..." her voice said. There was something alien about it. Mark had no doubt she was alien. "My, my... this one can even hear me! He certainly is special. That is good. Bring him to me, immediately!" she finished in a commanding tone.

Immediately the insectoids 'above' Mark leapt into action, putting away their notepads and scurrying out of view.

Recovering, only feeling his anger grow more intense, Mark shouldered his weapon and got ready. They had to collect him, thus get him out of this cell. This would be his chance to escape. He didn't care how many of these monsters he had to kill, he wanted out of here. He still had to find Dirk and the others.

A taller doorway opened behind Mark. As it hissed and slid upward, the boy whirled around, weapon ready and fired instinctively, emptying his magazine.

There were four insects. Three of them were torn apart by the gunfire, twisting and falling to the ground, orange gore splattering the walls beside them. The fourth was winged in the neck, the wound spurting goo into the air until the alien dropped what looked like a laser pistol to plug the graze. Mark darted forward, jumping on top of the creature.

Already off balance, the alien fell easily and was pinned underneath the boy who swung his weapon in a wide arc, clipping the creature in the chin. The insect's head snapped sideways as Mark raised his rifle again and brought the stock down, smashing it into the insect's chest. The black exo-skeleton cracked and broke. Dropping his rifle to one side, Mark brought and fist down and punched a hand clean into creature's chest, grabbed a hand-full of warm parts and tore them free, strings of slime and gore connecting with the screaming alien's chest.

In the back of his mind he could hear the woman's voice screaming. "Fools! Don't underestimate him!"

Her screams caused Mark pain, but he let it fuel his rage, which in turn fuelled his strength. Tossing aside what looked like a very small lung, he punched the still-living alien in the face. He didn't stop, screaming in a mixture of rage and pain. Blow after blow connected with the alien's face, beating it to an orange mush that splattered up with every punch. Soon all he was doing was pounding a gory mess into the ground, so he stopped, breathing heavily.

His head ached, his knuckles were grazed. Every muscle in his body ached, his abduction coupled with fighting an alien wolf-monster and beating the ever-loving crap out of this thing. Slowly, Mark picked up his rifle again and stood.

Reloading, the boy moved unsteadily down the corridor ahead of him. It was like the pink, organic floor was tilting from side to side. He moved on, one hand holding his weapon, the other stretched out to slide along the slick, moist walls for balance.

Far away he could hear alien noises, machinery churning away, the noise of gunfire... screams of pain and jaws ripping apart flesh.

Soon Mark came to a line of windows. He found himself looking down into arenas like the one he'd just escaped. Watching with wide eyes, he felt horror and anger fill his heart. His eye started twitching.

Below were countless of those arenas. In each of them were more of those wolf-like monsters. Some of the arenas sported one monster, others had packs of them roaming around. And joining them were people of all shapes and sizes. Some were clothed and accompanied by others. Some were alone. Others were naked. Most were unarmed, some were armed with knives, swords, clubs and strange everyday things that didn't have any place in a combat arena, like chairs, books or computer monitors. Some were holding their own against the monsters. Others were being overwhelmed and being eaten alive. It was a gruesome sight.

And those insect aliens were just fucking watching. Studying the results and taking notes. Watching the slaughter with morbid obsession. It was sickening.

And then Mark saw him. His friend from school, his Airsoft buddy, a fellow teenager he'd known since he was two years old. Bob Horatio was sitting on hands and knees, looking around his sweltering hot cell. He was stripped down to his shorts, sweat glistening on his dark skin. His eyes were wide with terror as the big guy rose to his feet and looked at three mutant wolves move closer in an arch formation.

"No!" Mark cried out slapping a hand against the glass.

He could only watch as the teenager lowered his centre of gravity. The first wolf leapt forward, followed closely by the second. Bob caught the first and tossed it aside with relative ease. The second however pinned him down. Bob punched it as the creature sank its teeth into his arm. He screamed and fought, kicking and punching at the third as it joined the fray, biting at his gut. The one he'd thrown off him jumped in, and soon all Mark could see was a huddle of fur and forked tails. Soon he was seeing red blood spill out to one side followed by warm innards. Bob's leg, just about visible under the scuffle of predators twitched and kicked every time their maws tore off another bite.

Mark trembled. The rage building in his body was ready to explode with the force of every nuclear device in Earth's possession. His eye twitched uncontrollably, faster than it had ever twitched. All judgement was clouded. He didn't even think about doing things anymore. He was moving out of pure instinct. There was no thought, no emotion, no feeling... just anger. Burning, raging, unleashed, unchained, uncontrollable anger. And it almost felt good...

Everything moved slower than usual as Mark turned to see four of those insect aliens walk out of an adjacent corridor. They hadn't seen him. He could let them move on. But his anger got the better of them. Fuck calming down. Fuck turning the other cheek.

Mark ran at them, shooting as he did. The boy's angered cries rang out over the thunderous gunfire. The insects fell apart, ripped limb by bloody limb by gunfire. As he killed the first four, he moved into a corridor where he saw more of the motherfuckers moving around. He fired on those while on the move. He systematically switched targets, dropping the aliens before they even knew what happened. Chests burst open, heads exploded, fragile limbs were torn off. There was hardly any aiming involved as he was so close, he could not miss. There was no finesse. No style to the killing. It was just killing.

Mark ran dry and swapped mags in a few quick milliseconds. The aliens who survived to run for cover didn't have enough time to reach it and were shot in the back.

A beam of light cut past Mark's right ear. He twirled around and dropped to one knee, snapping his HK416's muzzle down, then up to bear on the single armed alien who appeared behind him. He lined up his sights before the insect could and fired a single shot. The alien's head snapped back, splashing blood on the pink, fleshy ceiling and spilling chunky brain soup on the ground.

Mark moved on before the alien hit the ground, leaning into another corridor, following a section of grey piping that ran along the wall. Leaning left, keeping his weapon shouldered he let loose short controlled bursts, dropping two more aliens rushing to investigate all the chaos. They were thrown head over heels and lay twitching in pools of their own blood. The boy pushed through hordes and hordes of the creatures, each and every alien he killed fuelling his blood lust. Before long he was shooting more aliens in the back as they ran away than he was shooting armed insects in the face.

They were terrible shots. Their shots went wild, scattering all over the place.

In the background, feeding his pain the woman's voice continued to scream. "Lock the area down! Lock him in! Send in the soldiers to apprehend him! Send in the soldiers!"

Mark wasn't meeting more armed insects, and wondered what she meant with soldiers. So far he was facing nothing but scared little bitches.

One of the insects got the drop on him, storming out of an adjacent hall and grabbed Mark's rifle with one claw, the other sinking talons into his forearm. The boy didn't hesitate, pulling the alien in and lashing out with his forehead. The front of his bandana hit the alien in the face, cracking it open and splashing the flecktarn cloth covering his short dark hair in orange slime. The alien recoiled and let go of the rifle. Mark's hand darted to his back and drew loose his knife. Holding the sharpened steel reverse grip he brought it around in a wide arc, at the end of the arc jabbing straight forward. The tanto-tip of the blade slashed through the insect's neck, causing orange blood to spurt up with each beat of its alien heart. The creature fell to the ground as the boy sheathed his dagger again and Mark put two quick rounds into the dying alien's chest, before snapping up and seeing another run away as it watched its fellow die horribly. Mark didn't relent, snapping up his weapon and emptying the last ten rounds into its back. He ignored the gashes left in his forearm, stinging and seeping blood into his sleeve.

His last ten rounds killed the running insect and he was forced to let the others who were running away go. No more ammo. He'd spent over three hundred rounds and killed so many of the insects... he couldn't count them. He'd left endless corridors covered in gore and corpses. He'd even lost track of time. He'd probably been killing non-stop for an hour.

Soon enough he was alone, only the hum of alien machinery running somewhere above and the faint screams of agony to keep him company.

Keeping a hold of his weapon, Mark picked a direction, still breathing rapidly and started marching.

"Amazing. You show so much fear." Her voice grated in trembling Mark's mind, but he didn't slow down. "Yet you do not let your terror compromise you. All your emotions feed into anger. And anger is what fuels your raw, unstoppable power." She added a certain joyful agony entering her tone.

"You don't know a damn thing about me!" Mark yelled at the air in front of him.

"Your anger is... tantalizing. Oh, such uses I could have for you, my dear. We could... 'do,' so much together." She continued with pleasure hinted in her voice.

"Get out here bitch!" Mark demanded, turning a corner and seeing more piping run across his path ahead. In the darkness beyond he saw a shadow flit just out of view. "I'll show you some real anger!"

Mark rushed after the shadow and turned a corner to face a sealed door. Cautiously, holding his weapon ready to use it like a club, the boy approached. Sensing his presence, the door hissed and opened up, parting to either side.

Beyond the door was a small empty room of steel, the ceiling still organic like the hallways. Beyond was another doorway, and in the chamber was a pane of glass to the right. Mark cautiously entered and looked around. More dirty piping and crimson gore dripping down the walls. In the middle of the floor in front of him was a flecktarn backpack. Stuffed into the pouches on the sides were more STANAG magazines, at least three hundred rounds worth. He moved closer and opened it up, his eyes widening with surprise. More magazines inside with a short black tube.

He pulled it out and looked at the M203 grenade launcher. The ribbed tube was, as the name suggested, a grenade launcher intended to be mounted on the RIS of an assault rifle. Putting the weapon of mass destruction to one side he fished into the bag again and produced a pair of 40mm HE grenades.

Heart thumping in his throat, the boy undid the thumb-screws of the M203 and attached it to the front of his HK416. A perfect fit.

Transferring as many magazines as he could into the pouches on his chest rig, and then pocketing the spare HE grenade, Mark shouldered his backpack and rose to his feet, his significantly heavier weapon now weighing in his tired arms.

Finally he pulled some white gauze out of a small green med-kit containing various disinfectants and band-aids. He quickly wrapped it around his forearm and tied it up with a rough knot. The bandages immediately soaked up the blood. It was rough, but it would do for now.

"If you will not come to me willingly, I will let you escape." Her voice said in the back of Mark's aching head. "But know this. You will return. Out of vengeance perhaps. Or maybe because you feel it is your purpose. Out of a sense of chivalry? It does not matter. The true reason for your return will be because it is your fate. Remember this well, Mark Cole. Our paths will cross again, and next time they do, you will join me... I can assure it."

"Assure this, fucker!" Mark yelled raising the grenade launcher mounted assault rifle. "Next time our paths cross I'm shoving a forty-mike up your ass!" he stormed forward past the window. "Do you hear me... whoa."

Eyes wide, the boy approached the window and stared outside. Out there was more alien ship... miles of it. From what he saw he was in the wall of a massive sphere, probably as big as Earth was. All along the organic wall were tunnels, thick red veins mingling with synthetic piping, steel plates and electrical circuits. In the very centre of the sphere were what looked like spires reaching from six quarters, pointed inward at a small sun glowing brightly in the centre of the hive ship.

"Now that's fucked up." Mark watched a moment longer, noting various organic looking craft that roughly resembled flying saucers float around the place, docking with tubes sticking out of the sphere walls and moving large crates connected with golden beams of light.

The boy swiftly moved on. He had to get out of this mad-house... but there were surprises waiting for him yet.

The doors opened and something whipped out at him. A lasso, made entirely out of strings of flesh lashed out and locked it's feelers around Mark's ankle.

"What..."

The tentacle pulled taught and whipped Mark off his feet. He went head over heels and hit the deck with a painful grunt. One hand desperately clutching his weapon, the other dug into the soft ground as the tentacle dragged him away. The boy cried out as he was thrown around corners and whipped into walls, his one hand trying to find a handhold. Anything to clutch on to.

Then he rounded the corner and saw where the tentacle was coming out of a dark hole in the wall that looked more like a bloody, bubonic sphincter than a porthole. Something in Mark's instinct told him once he went in there he wasn't coming out anymore.

And then he gripped a deck plate, a mere twenty metres from the source of the tentacle pulling hard at his leg. His fingers wrapped around the twisted steel in the floor and he held fast. The feelers gripped tighter and tugged, but Mark wasn't letting go.

With his free hand he threw up his rifle, caught it by the mag-well and aimed, pushing the safety lever on the M203 launcher forward. He aimed as best as he could and squeezed the trigger.

The whole weapon shuddered, pushing the stock into his armpit as the launcher let out a deafening crack. The HE grenade arched towards the boy's target and impacted, exploding in a vibrant fireball. Yellow bulbous zits burst, spraying foul smelling puss everywhere. Gore spat from the porthole as the muscle holding the sphincter shut burnt away. The tentacle was sheared roughly, and the portion still holding on to Mark let go of his ankle.

Slowly the human hauled himself to his feet and gripped his rifle in two hands again, watching the tentacle burn and twitch. Somewhere in the background was the pained wail of an alien monster. Mark would have hated to meet that monstrosity.

He smoothly slid the M203 open and dropped the empty 40mm shell. The smoking brass vessel span to the ground and hissed against the moisture on the ground as Mark produced his last grenade and pushed it into place before sliding the launcher shut.

Tired and beaten, he moved on. The halls were empty, endless. There were no more surprises. No more aliens. No more gory sights... until finally he stepped out a pair of automated doors.

The next chamber was a laboratory of sorts. There were desks and tables with various telescopes, microscopes and data pads lying on them. There were frightening scalpels hanging from the walls and sterile lights glowed in the ceiling. Before him was a ring with wire curled around sections of the hoop. And suspended in the centre of the hoop was a green blob of light.

As Mark approached, the blob of light grew. It flattened out and formed a disk shape. The heart of the green disk of light turned into a window to somewhere else. He saw plants, tree trunks, vines and ferns. It was dark on the other side, but it was definitely a planet surface. It was definitely away from this place.

Mark curiously leaned around the hoop, looking around the back. There was nothing there, just a blank wall. But as he stood in front again he was looking through a window into another world. It was a portal of some sort.

With a sigh, Mark tucked in his gear, holding his rifle tight against his chest. He didn't want to leave anything behind. Anything was better than sticking around in this hellhole. He was willing to take any risk to get out. Jumping through this unknown portal had its ups and downs, but the ups outweighed the latter.

Holding his breath, Mark closed his eyes and leapt in head first...

Everything span. Mark felt sick. Pins and needles jabbed him from all around. His skin was frozen, his thoughts were all over the place. He felt like he weighed a ton, hardly able to take a breath as the one he held exploded from his lungs. Noise filled his ears so loudly he feared it would deafen him. He felt naked, with the world watching him...

So many emotions ripped his consciousness apart until finally he hit the ground... face down.

The bitter taste of mud filled his mouth as Mark jerked his eyes open, pushing himself up and spluttering loudly.

"Hagh! Blegh!" Mark spat and coughed, wiping the mud from his face with the back of a blood smeared hand. That probably made it worse, but he didn't care.

The air was hot and humid. Everything was dark, creepy shadows looming over him caused him to shiver but not out of cold. Within seconds the boy was thoroughly drenched. The water in the air seemed to cling to everything and to make it worse he could taste salt as his sweat started pouring. Taking a breath was labour enough in the heat.

He glanced back, seeing no indication of where he'd come from. It must have appeared that he materialised out of nowhere. But could those insect beings from the hive ship follow him? The boy hoped not. Regardless, he'd have a 5.56mm surprise for them if they could.

Slowly climbing to his feet, Mark realised he definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore. The foliage around him was multi-coloured, from green to purple and bright crimson. Alien noises filled the jungle that rustled noisily around him. Through a gap in the canopy above him he could see the purple night sky with white stars glowing in far off solar systems. This was definitely not Earth... heck, in the mass of stars hanging above him, he didn't even know what direction Earth was in.

"Fuck." Mark muttered, shouldering his rifle and moving out, keeping his head on a swivel. He didn't know what he was doing, or what he was going to do. But moving at the very least beat sticking around and waiting for an alien predator to pick him off. In fact, this whole situation should have phased Mark. Oddly enough, he found himself fairly calm. It scared him. But he figured after killing his way through an alien army he was up for anything at this point.

Besides, there was no time to pause. No time to break down. If he broke down now... it could be the end of him. And Mark was dead set on living.

As the human moved out he didn't notice the yellow pair of eyes watching him from the shadows above. They watched him move, following every step as they narrowed slightly, seemingly smiling, and under the symphony of jungle noises surrounding them, a soft purr was heard...