DOOM NOVEL SCENES: Fly uses the berserk

 I was almost grateful for the appearance of a number of imps. At least they took my mind off the architecture. Then some more imps . . . and some more after that. Too much of a good thing.
      "Check your six, Fly," said Arlene.
      I looked behind me, across the room; sure enough, even more snot-spitting spinys.
      My gratitude faded fast. I made out a dozen imps.
      I started the donnybrook with a well-aimed shell; between their fireballs and our shotguns, we had one serious firefight. I thought the pillars would catch fire, so thick were the red flames and black smoke.
      I killed two. Arlene killed three. The survivors were better than the previous imps at dodging behind the pillars, and even our shotgun extender mags were running dry. They forced us back into a corner, pinning us down. Mexican standoff time. I wanted to bail.
      Then I pumped, and the slide locked! Nothing up my sleeve; nothing in my gun.
      Now what?
      Time to even the odds. Arlene was watching the imps, firing off a shot now and then, looking down at her mag window and frowning.
      I reached inside my vest, pulled a hypodermic and studied it. Intravenous? No, intramuscular. Well, that was easier, at least. But could I actually do it? To myself? Jesus, what a dilemma.
      For a moment it was like being back on Phobos. That needle bothered me more than flaming mucus in my face. Without question, the next scientific revolution should move beyond the need for needles. But more important, could I risk a heart attack if I had a bad reaction?
      Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I'm a Marine! Semper fi, Mac. I gave myself the shot.
      At first, nothing; then the stuff stimulated my adrenal glands; and in a minute I was filled with red rage! The world turned crimson and my breath was fire. My heart beat so fast that it spun in my chest like a gyroscope. I drew my bayonet from my webbing and bolted from the corner; if Arlene yelled after me, I didn't hear it.
      All that mattered was to kill, getting in tight and cutting the steak. Blood-rare--God, how I loved imp blood, thick as red ink from a shattered paint stick, communion wine splashing on the floors of eternity.
      Every motion was a target to strike. Flesh was too easy. Bone was the real work, the blade sticking in the cartilage, the cracking and crunching inspiring me to greater efforts. I hardly noticed the blood splashing in my eyes. The world was already a red haze; liquid salt was trivial pain as I swung my blade in the center of adrenal agony.
      The more I killed, the heavier the weight in my arms. But exhaustion spurred me to greater fury. I no longer saw the Chinese-mask faces of the imps, only a blur. Their claws rent my flesh, but we were too tight for them to use their best weapon.
      Dimly I realized that I was bleeding from many wounds. That was fine with me. Blood kept me warm, theirs, mine, anyone's . .. just so that I could continue to swing a blade and slay the bastards. Motion must be met with motion.
      An imp exploded in front of me before I could even reach it. Only one imp left now.
      "Fly!" A voice called my name, near at hand. I hadn't expected any of these imps to speak, especially not in a high, almost feminine voice, calling my name. I was so surprised that I hesitated for a moment, blade poised over the last imp.
      "Fly!"
      My vision began to clear. My arm was a bar of lead, my chest a sharp pain, as the old heart slowed to merely fast. The fury slowly lifted from me like a thick, red, trideo theater curtain drawing back. The hazy shape before me grew solid and took on familiar features, Arlene's features.
      I was very glad that I hadn't killed that last imp.