The DOOM Chronicles

Chapter 22: The Worst Place on Earth

                                                 -PART THREE: HELL IS COLD-

Kyra stalked impatiently through the busy corridors of Fort Minor, following in the hurried footsteps of the poor Private she'd scared into bringing her to Hangar Seventeen B. The place was abuzz with activity, men and women of all rank and file coming and going like it was...well, exactly what it was: the end of the world. Some part of her wanted to believe they could pull some kind of magic trick that could save the Earth, but even from what she'd seen so far, the odds of that seemed to fall somewhere squarely between 'infinitesimal' and 'forget about it'. Not that she intended to give anything less than one hundred percent. Even if she was doomed, she'd be damned if she'd do anything but go down swinging, and swinging hard.

"Here it is, Staff Sergeant," the kid said as he turned down a side hall.

They walked halfway down it and stopped in front of one of the closed doors. Traffic here was almost nonexistent.

"Thank you Private, that will be all," Kyra said, and opened the door as the kid scurried off back to whatever task he was supposed to be doing.

As she stepped into the room beyond, she spied a half-dozen men and women in combat fatigues standing around a table loaded with guns, ammo, and gear. Behind them were seven crates all with the word ARMOR slapped on the side.

"You must be our Staff Sergeant," one of them, a tall, well-built, tan-skinned man with a shaved head said, breaking away from the group and striding over to her with the confident gait of a longstanding Marine.

"Staff Sergeant Morgan," she replied as he came to stand before her. She was almost as tall as he was. He sized her up, as she did the same to him, then offered his hand.

"Lieutenant Linaweaver," he said. His accent placed him somewhere from the Middle East, though it was subtle and she'd been in space too long to be sure. She'd lost her ear for accents. "I'll be your XO for this mission."

"Understood," she replied, shaking his hand.

They walked back over to the table and she took the last spot open, looking over the gear. Grabbing a standard DX-12 sidearm, she began to check it over and immediately felt at ease. Or more at ease than she had in awhile. She was back in her element. Already, she could tell these were seasoned Marines who'd been in the shit more than once. They wouldn't be perfect. Every Marine had their flaw.

But they would likely make a solid team.

"Introductions all around," Linaweaver said, and began naming off the squad in a brisk, clipped tone.

Sergeant Collins, a demolitions expert, was a pale, squat but bulky man with a gleam in his eye. That kind of gleam Kyra had seen before, the one that said: yeah, so I'm a little crazy, but you're gonna need that where we're going.

And, in today's world, those people were usually right.

Sergeant Weldon was a tan woman of average height and weight. She had an air of calm professionalism, nodding once when introduced, then immediately going back to tightly packing one of seven field MediKits. She was their combat medic.

Corporal Pace was a heavyset man with a deep tan that came from a lot of time spent outdoors. He looked middle-aged and amicable, though the way he was fidgeting as he prepped a technician's kit indicated he was a bit anxious and excitable. He was to be their tech specialist.

Corporal Burrows was a tall, well-muscled man with dark skin and a bald head that gleamed under the bright lights of the hangar. He simply nodded once to her. He had an air of solemn finality to him, a deep sadness that could never be touched by therapy or friendship. It would be something he would carry with him for the rest of his life, whatever it was he had endured. Kyra had seen the type before. He was going over a chaingun with a monastic calm.