Uber Jason Stealth kills

Randall Hopkins stalled at the bottom of the stairway. He felt something buzzing around his head, more presence than substance. Hopkins shivered at what he saw. The mummified body floating at the level of his head just dropped, hanging from a tangled skein of spider web. There were more in there. Heads lined smartly with feet, mouths frozen in ultimate howls. Jagged rows of teeth. Eyes like moldy balloons, sagging on optic stalks.

The entire wall was a tomb, a charnel house where shards of metal fused with organic bits: threads of veins; chalk white bones, scrimshawed with molecular acid; dark campfire tales, told in amine groups and hemoglobin.

More bodies and pieces of body came tumbling over his shoulder, as the gravity needle kicked in again. A giant's boot, slamming dead bits to the floor. Moribund organic data. A tickling feeling in his neck.

Huh?

Then slow, sick watching, an unfurled organic flag, as Hopkins's body plummeted away from his head.

The brain can live an entire minute without oxygen, just enough time for a person's life to flash before their eyes, as those eyes get a bigger, better, wide-angle view on the meatball. Three hundred and sixty degrees, surround sound. Nerves ripped like silver horses. Doubts, goodbyes, resentment and rage-a null set.

Lifelong investments of care: goodbye.

For a moment, the grunts behind Hopkins weren't aware that a machete had taken his head; the head itself lost in the gridwork above the service hatch.

Then the body sank in front of them, spurting gore. Hopkins's neck looked like a giant can opener had serrated it. Ants stomped by a giant foot, the grunts scattered around the carnage.

"What's going on?” Thomas yelled. "Why is this train not moving?"

"Sir, we took a lethal hit."

"Beg pardon?"

"A lethal hit, sir."

"Well don't tell me what I need, I know that sht. Make that two fingers of King Hellboy crank, okay? Let's stay focused here. Regroup in phalanx formation.”

But what was phalanx formation, exactly? Was that just some military techno-bullshit Gunny spewed out now because he was scared crapless like the rest of them? Did he know what he was talking about? Had they been sent there from their loved ones simply to be picked off by a fcking giant leech of some sort? A biomachine of total death? At least the insurance premiums were genuine.

Metal Todd coughed into his headset. “Refresh on phalanx formation, sir."

Thomas deeply regretted not being able to chew his cigar within the confines of the helmet.

"Phalanx formation: look at your infogrids. I'm uploading right now."

Thomas rolled his eyeballs at the command and control screen in his suit. Within five seconds, the info had reached the entire squad.

“Good, right. We're rolling."

A section of troops slid out ahead; an equal number Slipped behind.

But somebody was still walking point, phalanx or no. This was a modified wing position. No room in the corridor for a true 4D mod, but close enough for government work.

Metal Todd was streaming so much adrenaline he was ready to take on an entire pissed-off army of aliens and their bitch mother. Or whatever the fuck this thing was. Todd was next to go, cut to ribbons in an instant. The grunts immediately behind him refreshed the viewscreens on their helmets. Built in microwipers strained to wash off the slick red shower.

   Jason X: Death Moon - Pages 42-44, Chapter 1