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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 lab a lot easier to navigate, though I really didn’t want to see the spiderlings better. The gloves were thin but surprisingly durable, and allowed us to feel the triggers of our guns without having to apply any added pressure.

We each carried an M27 – a U.S. Marine’s standard issue machine gun – and a duffle bag. Our chosen weapons each sported a bayonet, a suppressor, and a laser sight. Inside our duffle bags, we carried several 30-round magazines, MREs and water, a combat shovel – yeah, it’s really a thing – and several grenades. Stan gave each of us a different flavor of grenade, so we wouldn’t get them confused and throw the wrong type in the heat of battle. Mine were standard fragmentation grenades. Brad got flash-bangers; all bright, but very little heat. Becky opted for the less lethal smoke variety. Stan carried the HEs – high intensity – which he explained would be a bit like bathing in a solar flare. He also picked up an RPG and three projectiles. RPG is short for rocket propelled grenade, which is basic anti-tank gear in the outside world. I guess, technically, Stan chose two flavors of grenades.

It was crazy to think that, at one time or another, Stan had actually played with everything we collectively carried. Just when you think you know someone.

~

Surprisingly, we didn’t run into any other interdimensional monstrosities on our return trip to Mr. Shishido and our six friends in the waiting room. I guessed there’d been a breach along the north or west wall of the lab, someplace next to the Mr. Panacharian Memorial Hallway. There was probably another somewhere on the east side, which allowed the spiderlings to flank us from behind.

Halfway to the waiting room, we realized we could hear the glorious sound of our own running feet. It was odd to hear, since the constant droning of the alarms had become an accepted condition, like humidity you could hear instead of feel. It was awful, but you got used to it. Just as suddenly as they blared to life, the alarms shut down.

There were always two sides to every coin. The flip side of our alarm vs. silence coin was that the multi-legged beasties and other things that went bump in the night could hear us now. No more alarm bells to confuse them.

We finally reached the waiting room and were shocked to find it empty. The chair we’d placed against the doorknob had been flung across the little room and lay bent in a corner. The door leading to the lab hung by a single hinge. Dim light filtered eerily through the opening in a smoky gray haze, and there was a smeared, bloody handprint on the once pristine, white door.

“Same plan as before,” Stan whispered, though he didn’t have to. We had two-way com units built into our helmets. No one else could hear us unless we shouted. “Pack gets the door. I’ll be the first through, since I’m the best shot. Pack, you fall back and cover Becky and Brad as they follow me through. Becky, go left as you enter. Brad, you go right. Remember, barrels angled down and fingers off the triggers unless you’re firing. It’ll be easy to mistake survivors, and each other, for monsters once we’re in there. Friendly fire is a no-no. Pack, you bring up the rear. I’ll provide cover fire for all of you as you enter, and then take to high ground as soon as I’m able.”

We all nodded before I added, “Be careful to not damage systems necessary to close the rip. Assuming anyone’s still alive in there who knows how.”

“Good call, Pack,” Stan agreed. “Now, let’s go kick some interdimensional ass.”

~

The statement, ‘nothing ever goes as planned’, was coined for a reason. I feel like someone had me in mind when the words were first uttered. There’s even a classic rock song by the band Styx explaining the concept. They could have dedicated it to me.

For the record, I followed the plan to the letter. I got in close to the door, looked for movement beyond the narrow opening, and then kicked it in.

I really didn’t ever want to see the spiderlings up close, but we don’t always get what we want now, do we? The moment I kicked in the door, three things happened simultaneously. First, a wet mass of tentacles wrapped around my ankles, pulling my feet together and dropping me to the floor. As I hit the concrete, several spiderlings swarmed over me, their tiny, transparent tongues lapping at my bio-suit, looking for an opening. Then the door ripped free of its remaining hinge, almost knocking me out as it fell on me.

Stan rushed through, careful not to step on the door, but before he could lift the heavy slab of metal off me, Becky and Brad followed. Not surprisingly, they both managed to trample me like a herd of elephants running over a sloth at nap time. Normally, I’d be less than pleased with their carelessness but, under the circumstances, I was appreciative. Somehow, they’d managed to squash the entire swarm of spiderlings, covering me with their corrosive Vaseline blood and all the pink and red chunks that made up their lunch. I laid there covered with gore and unable to move. Suddenly, a hulking figure erupted boldly from the smoke and shadows. It was Mr. Pan! He held a firefighter’s axe mid-handle, looking like a warrior dwarf from a Tolkien book, only beardless and a tad-bit taller. Covered in blood, grime, and soot, he looked like he’d just been dragged straight through hell by his hair.

He reached down with his free hand and tossed the door aside like it was cardboard. Then he held out the blade of his axe, nodding towards it. I grasped it tightly and he pulled me to my feet. He was careful to keep the spiderling’s blood and guts off his skin.

“We thought you were dead!” I hollered through the mask.

“I should be,” he hollered back. “But I discovered the tentacles don’t like it when their prey bites back. They taste like shit. Zero stars. Would not recommend, kiddo.”

I