Having heard recently that Ballantine or somebody had released a Doom novel, and being equally startled by the news that Ivan Reitman, director of Ghostbusters and Groundhog's Day, had purchased the rights to film Doom, I started wondering just exactly what a Doom novel would be like. Since I haven't seen any game movies yet, and I'm not likely to buy the paperback or any of its sequels, I made up my own Doom book, excerpted below.


Chapter 1: Call Me Ishmael, Dammit!

by a former employee

I am the man with no name.

I do not who I am, or where I was born, or when.

I...awoke today in a large, airy room--a place that in any other setting would have been rather pleasant. But there was something wrong, here. Something thick and heady and oppressive hung in the air, and seemed to color every wall, deepen every shadow.

I looked about me. I was surprised to find a helmet leaning against one sickly-colored wall--why, who left that there? I put it on, gladly. You should always put on stray bits of armor you find lying about, my father always said. (What--my...my father? I'm beginning to...remember...) I looked up, and was pleased to find more helmets, which I also put on, albeit somewhat awkwardly as I had to stack them, one on top of another. As I ran about the room looking for more of the helmets, I stumbled over something--and shouted with joy when I found that it was a flask of water! I drank it greedily, like a child, water running out of the sides of my mouth. Aaaaah, water, sustainer of life...I felt...one percent better already, at least. Then I found more water, and more helmets, and more and more and more...

I must have had like eight helmets stacked on my head and about six gallons of water in me when the zombies started shooting at me. I quickly ducked behind a wall. "Ouch!" I looked down at the shotgun wound in my leg. It wasn't too bad, though, since I'd drunk so much water. I determined to find some more once I got out of this.

I peeked around the corner, then pulled back--but not in time to miss a load of buckshot in the top of my skull. Man, was I glad I'd drunk all that water. I wiped the brain off my face, and considered my options. I had only my revolver, with 64 bullets in it, to their shotguns. But what was I to do? Hide forever? Run to some other room, where even greater terror undoubtedly awaited? Live in fear the rest of my life? Not likely...I knew what had to be done: I quickly stepped around the corner...

And I fired! And fired! And fired again! And then I fired some more! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! One of the zombies fell, and with one quick movement I swept up his shotgun and fired again! And again! BOOM! BOOM! BOOOOOOOOOOOOM! Before I knew it, all the zombies were dead, and I'd gathered up their shotguns. I had to put them down, though, to drink all the water I found. Man...that hit the spot. That chunk one of the shotguns had taken out of my buttock before I'd taken out its owner was starting to throb...but the water made it all better.

I walked down the hall (More water! More helmets!), and stopped at a massive door. I checked myself out. Some damage, but I'd seen worse. (I had? When? More memories...) No amount of wounds could detract from the fearsome figure I knew I cut, what with the sixteen helmets stacked on my head, and the two armloads of shotguns.

"Come get some..." I hissed. Then I opened the door...and fired! And fired again! and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and...