Remember our Dead Space 2 writing comp? We got a mess of horrific entries, but one effort stood head and shoulders above the gore...
So, just before the end of last year we ran a neat - if we do say so ourselves - little Dead Space 2 competition. On offer were copies of the game on PC, and the challenge was simple: write a horror story inspired by the game's setting.
So, you can check out all the winners here, but we also wanted to share with you all the best of all the entries. There were some fine efforts (and some amusing attempts at brevity), but at the end of the day we thought J. Archer's story was a cut above.
So, without further ado...
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I sat up, sweat drenched and out of breath, my mouth dessicated, breathless. I gripped my head, trying to stop it imploding. Nicole. She always visited me when I tried to sleep, reaching, always reaching, half her head missing from a 7.62 slug. Her mandibles blown off, her foramen cracked, her muscles vainly trying to close her shattered face. Her brains splashed over my chest in a liquid puddle as she crawled over my paralyzed body, always reaching. For what, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know, either. Ever since the USG Ishimura infection had killed thousands, I spent the nights drinking and the days at the rifle range. The necromorphs would come back. I knew they would. I stumbled over a few bottles towards the small stainless sink. I looked at my red eyes and pallid, lined face, eyes that had seen too much. Cleaned myself up. Winced away the pain. I picked up the pulse rifle that leaned against my bunk. Pulled the bolt back, checked the chamber. Made sure the safety was off. Prepared. I left my pod. Started to make my way towards the mess. Some food would do me good. Every step intensified the pain in my temples. Every step pushed me towards the inevitable. My .45 nestled at my side, the extended magazine bulging out. Cocked and locked. Condition 1. Prepared. The Church of Unitology had been disbanded after the infection. Splinter cells still existed, still preached. I knew the Marker still existed. It had been weakened, temporarily broken, but I knew it would come back. No one cared about a broken survivor from a situation that was best buried. They would change their minds in death.
I passed Brigs on the way to the mess. He used to be my bunk mate. Until the screaming had made him transfer. He briefly looked at me, then jerked back. It was the same all over the USG Nagasaki. After I had been picked by this deep space remote mining vessel I had been subjected to three months of tests, then discarded. Whatever they wanted, they did not get it. Nicole still visited me nightly, no matter what they pumped into me. The nightmares didn’t recede. Dead, rotting, bleeding flesh pressing all around, pulsating, suffocating, choking. The Hive Mind feeling forward, digging deeper. Whispers in the murk. I sighed as I entered the mess. Another meal of dehydrated eggs and what used to be classified as bacon. Brigs pushed past me. I paused. That smell. Not that smell. I pulled out my .45, thumbed the safety down, pushed on the grip safety, finger tensed inside the trigger guard. 14 ACP rounds. 230 grain FMJ. The chrome sparkled in the harsh fluorescents. Brig’s stopped dead. Everything slowed down. My headache sparkled into flashes of red.
Brigs turned around, grunting and slobbering. Flecks of red drool ran down his standard issue armour. His eyes bulged red, the whites disappearing under the onslaught of ruptured veins. The veins on his neck stood out, writhing and twisting. His hands clawed the air as he collapsed onto his knees. He dug his nails into his cheeks, nails which had been lengthened into points, ripped and pulled at the slick flesh. Flesh fell onto the floor with a wet splat. Blood spat out, dark and hazy. Bone glistened through the ribbons of torn meat. Muscles gaped and twitched. Brigs opened his mouth as he convulsed in pain. His tongue had been removed. His teeth were cracked and discoloured. He shuddered, stumbled forward. I fired. The first slug slammed into his chest, penetrated the Category II vest, tore into his liver, detoured into the soft cavity of his right lung, and exited in a welter of blood, lodging into a nearby stainless steel chair. Blood spattered onto the floor. The second slug blew out his eye in a flash of fire and pus and found a home in his cerebellum. Brigs’s head jerked back. The third rammed into his groin, shattered his left testicle and exited in full metal jacketed pieces with a large chunk of thigh. The slide ratcheted back, chambering yet another cartridge. Spent rounds rolled on the military gray floor. Arterial spray decorated the mess hall. Brigs shuddered once more as his head lolled left, then right, then flopped back into a large puddle of gore.
Issue: 137 | June, 2012