Half-Life: Full Life Consequence

Half-Life: Full Life Consequences
Original story by squirrelking
Rewritten by Boinciel

Picture an office building that is as tall as a warehouse. Not very tall at all, just barely reaching over the roofs of the houses surrounding it. And yet, it feels as modern as any skyscraper you care to mention. The glass windows are large panes separated by thin layers of what appears to be steel, and anyone could easily see in if that is what they wished to do. Everyone passing by appears to take no notice of it, for it has been a part of their lives for a great many years. Probably it appeared in this residential zone because of some error on the part of the people who control the zoning.
Instead of tearing it down when the builders finally noticed, they decided to just slap a roof on the second level. "Nobody will notice it," they said. And they were right. Nobody did. It was not noticed that the building was for sale, and it was not noticed that the price was going below even that of the houses surrounding it.
Not until one day, a private investor was looking to start up a home-based technology company. He somehow mistook this building for a house, and ended up purchasing it. Of an unimportant name, this person found out that he had actually purchased a fully-fledged office building, complete with all the essentials for everyday work. Thus, his company was born. The name of this company is also of no importance, so we will leave this out.
And so we return to the present day, where the technology company is hard at work. One such worker is a slacker named John Freeman, brother to the great hero Gordon. The world is rife with failed experiments and science gone wrong, and this Gordon rights those wrongs. By hitting them with his crowbar. Repeatedly. The younger John has always stood in his brother's shadow, but he doesn't care one bit. There's a definite bond between the two, and it has always been there. Gordon was always the hero, while John stood behind and just watched as his older brother beat up the schoolyard bullies for him.
Yes, John Freeman. A rather generic and unremarkable first name, but it's fitting for the rather generic and unremarkable person behind it. At the moment, John was supposed to be typing up a business report, but instead he was balancing a pencil on his nose and leaning back in his chair. His work area was decorated with pictures of his brother, and newspaper clippings of his great achievements.
"One day, bro... I'll get to where you are, and be able to help you out. One day..." John mused this over as he leaned further and further back. The chair was getting near its limit, and would tip over soon. Wait, no. It had already tipped over. The next moment, John found himself laying flat on his back and the pencil rolled across the floor above his head.
John quickly righted himself and set the chair up straight. He righted his labcoat, which had big angry-looking eyes drawn on it. John was quite proud of his handiwork, and had used the company's elusive blue permanent marker to do so. While you were required to wear the labcoat supplied by the dress code, you could do whatever you liked to it and the big cheese wouldn't care.
Perhaps this would be a good time to explain what John looked like. He was 173 centimeters tall, of average weight, and had a short beard and moustache combo. He was probably between 23 to 30 years old, and judging by his greasy dark brown hair, he hadn't had a shower in two days. On his head rested a faded, dark teal beanie, which was wearing thin and had ridges around the edges. It had been around for eleven years and counting, and John wore it religiously. It only came off when he was bathing or sleeping.
This newly-described John Freeman sat back down at his workstation, and, neglecting to pick up the pencil, he began to waste time on the internet. The amount of time he spent there versus actually working was a 5:1 ratio, and he probably would get fired within the quarter. He browsed Wikipedia at his leisure for about five minutes, then got tired of reading about typhus. John set his elbow into the well-worn dent in the table, and habitually propped up the left side of his face. The mouse cursor moved over to the email program, and opened it.
Inside sat approximately five electronic pieces of mail. The titles read "ALIENS", "AND MONSTERS", "ARE ATTACKING", "MY PLACE", and "HELP". They were all from his brother Gordon. All five simply contained the same words as in the title, enlarged and bolded to get the message across. Seeing as John's mailbox listed the newer messages above older ones, John realized that Gordon must have sent them all backwards. A frivolous thought.
John Freeman was taken aback. Why would Gordon Freeman, mighty hero and master of the crowbar, ask of his help? John was unfit, unskilled, and had no skill in combat. However untrained he was, John was somewhat quick-witted, and quickly analyzed his situation. There was no time to be wasted; Gordon needed help. And the fact that he asked John made the situation even direr. The decision was made.
John shut off his computer (via the power button, despite having work practices drilled into him for years) and briskly walked away from his workstation. He saw the pencil he had dropped earlier, and made a note to pick it up when he returned. Taking long strides, he walked over to the elevator, beige like the walls, and pressed the "up" button.
The elevator was unlike any normally found in office buildings. Instead of being a closed box, it was an open platform that had a rail on each of the four corners. Hatches in the floor opened to let it through, and closed when it had passed. Tall people had to watch their heads, lest their hair be caught when the doors closed. Most of the office workers were still slightly afraid of it. The buttons for the directions were found on the floor, interestingly enough. They resembled a dance pad you found in an arcade, stripped of the left and right arrows. In fact, they were out of one of those dance machines. The construction of the elevator was designated by the C.E.O. of the company, who drew up all the blueprints himself and helped with the construction. It looked a bit amateur, but it ran smoothly enough and had become a staple of everyday life at the office.
And as John stepped onto the platform, it suddenly occurred to him that there was no way he'd be able to help with his brother's problem. The platform began to rise, and so did John's feelings of unease. He had no weapons to fight the aliens and monsters, and he had no experience with firearms anyway. The steel hatch to the roof opened with the satisfying sound of compressed air being released, and the bright blue sky shone through the square opening in the roof. John looked up and heard the cries of birds as they flew overhead. His worries suddenly disappeared, and were replaced by feelings of elation and joy at the prospect of being able to finally help his brother do something amazing. As the platform continued to slowly continue its trip upwards, John's eyes passed the level of the ceiling and he saw the roof of the building. On it was another one of the company's miscellaneous secret projects.
Is this even a technology company? John found himself wondering. For on the roof was a ramp and a motorcycle, as well as everyday, normal clothes left out just in case of an emergency. But the motorcycle... well, it was unorthodox. The frame consisted of a bathtub, the sort one would find suspended on polished brass feet. The handlebars were standard, but the wheels were huge. Each one measured about three quarters of the length of the bathtub frame, and were attached by means of an extreme steel frame. They were really wide, too. About two thirds the width of the tub. If any normal person saw it, they probably would laugh for five minutes, look up at it, and then laugh for another three. However, as with all secret projects, it probably had even more secrets concealed within it.
John quickly changed into the "normal people clothes", which weren't really very normal at all. They were an unusual mix of black leather and dark green velvet with lots of pockets. Like all the standard clothes at the office, they fit him perfectly. John walked over to the edge of the roof and prepared to utter an extremely hard-boiled phrase, one which would be written down in history books for all eternity. He took a deep breath, and...
"It's time for me to live up to my family name and face FULL LIFE CONSEQUENCES!" ... he shouted down to the passersby.
Uh, hey, John? You do realize that what you said was exceedingly stupid, don't you? Actually, you look stupid too! You work for a weird company that produces... what, exactly? Why do you need to stand on the roof to say that? And John Freeman was bullied by his own mind.
He brought his palm to his face, and trudged towards the 'motorcycle'. John was actually quite good with driving motorcycles, and had been brought up on two wheels since he was a kid. However, this one would probably put his skills to the test and be really awkward to drive. He plucked up his courage and suddenly remembered why he was up here in the first place. John needed to go help his brother to fight against the... aliens and monsters? Huh? It had seemed like such a serious reason earlier...
John jumped in and was greeted with a computer voice instructing him to sit down with his legs straight out. He obeyed, and the handles slid down a groove towards him. The voice spoke again.
"Well, what do we have here? A little person wants to steal the secret project of this company whose name I will not mention?" The robotic voice sounded like, if it could display emotion, it would have been speaking in a mocking voice.
John decided to reply. "I've got to go and help my brother, Gordon Freeman! His place is being attacked by aliens and monsters!"
The voice paused for a few seconds, then chimed in once more. "... You're kidding me, right?"
"No, I'm one hundred percent serious." John stared at the mass of cybernetics that permeated the front of the bathtub, in hopes that his seriousness would get through.
"Ha. Ha ha. Hahahahahahahahaha! That's the best thing I've heard all month! You're the brother of the famous Gordon Freeman! And I'm a pile of green cheese! He'd ask you for help? Wahahahahaha!"
John continued to stare down the pile of wires, and silence fell. He pulled the company ID out of his pants pocket and held it up. A thin green beam quickly scanned the barcode and the face, which held an expression normally expressed by little children in school photos.
"So... you're really his brother?" The voice, skeptical as ever, seemed to have admitted that it was at least willing to listen to him.
John nodded. "Yeah, and this situation is real, too."
"... Aliens?"
"Yeah."
"... And monsters?"
"Those too."
"... And... what."
John tilted his head. He didn't exactly understand what the computer was trying to tell him, but he was quite sure it didn't really feel like helping him. He put his hands together, and bowed his head, pleading with all his might.
"Fine, you win. Strap yourself in, it'll be a bumpy ride. Actually..." The computer trailed off, and suddenly harnesses shot out of the sides of the tub, attaching firmly to John.
"What're all these for?" John asked.
The artificial intelligence replied with "You'll die without them. So, where's the destination?"
John pointed his arm in a very dramatic fashion. "Ravenholm!"
There was a saying about that place, which had spread among the populous like wildfire. It went something like 'We don't go to Ravenholm.' It wasn't a very inventive phrase, but it had caught on for some reason. Schools taught it to the children, and there were several songs based on it. It couldn't be a buzzword, but rather, it was a buzzline. It was rumored (and this rumor was quite true) that Ravenholm held all manner of creepy stuff, failed experiments, and mutants. Of course, this was pushed along by the fact that after the bombings, the government decided to drop all of their toxic waste and radioactive material in that place, via air.
And the moment John let that one word out of his mouth, the engine started and the handlebars locked in place. The computer voice sounded again.
"I'm going to handle driving thi... myself. If you tried these maneuvers, you'd die. End of. However, I'll leave the handles out for you to grab onto if you feel sick! Isn't that thoughtful of me?"
The motorcycle turned towards the ramp and the engine revved. John gripped the handlebars tightly.
"You're not planning to go... whooooaaaaAAAAAARRRGH!" John's question turned into a yell as the motorbathtub quickly accelerated and headed towards the ramp. The front wheel hit the angle and flew up, up, up, with the back wheel trailing behind... The world inverted and John, still screaming, realized that he was doing a backflip. If it wasn't so scary, he would have loved the experience. The bike flew over the blurred, multicoloured roofs of the houses and landed in the park just beyond. Surprisingly, it was still upright.
"What the heck are you doing?" John, enraged, yelled at the computer.
"This was the only way to get off the roof in one piece."
"Don't do that!"
The computer, if it had a face, would have smirked. "Aww, is the widdle babby scawwed? Who sends babies to fight, anyway?"
The motorbike, again, began to accelerate. It tore through the green fields, launching off hills and landing on the downward slope of others. John's panic became stilled as he realized that the computer knew precisely what it was doing, and took an opportunity to look around. Although things were blurred from the speed, he could still make out the miscellaneous park benches and people staring. His gaze shifted to the trail of dirt kicked up by the furiously spinning wheels. It would take five gardeners a month of work to repair the damage.
"Is this all right?" John absent-mindedly asked.
The computer replied. "Is what all right?"
"Destroying all of this public property."
"You want to get to your brother fast, right?"
"Yeah..."
"Then this is the best way."
John fell silent again, and returned his gaze to the scenery unfolding before him. The park had been left behind, and they were on the road leading out of the city. The blurred outlines of buildings became fewer and fewer, and John could now see the rocky, grassy slopes of the countryside. Evergreen trees were numerous, and the world soon became littered with the green spires. The sun had begun to fall from the peak of its arc through the sky, and birds flew across in the trademark "V" formation they had stolen from a flock of geese. The plants, if they could, would be singing the sort of cheerful tune that makes one's heart skip a beat.
However, John was not spending his time admiring the countrysides for what they were; instead, he shifted his gaze from left to right and back again. His head was shaded by his hand, which protected his eyes from the harsh glare of the strong sunlight.
On cue, the computer popped a question. "What are you doing?"
"I'm making sure there are no zombies around," John replied. "They run faster than what most people think."
"You sound really stupid. Do you want to know how stupid you sound?" The computer started playing back an audio clip. "'It's time for me to live up to my family name and face FULL LIFE CONSEQUENCES!' There, that's how stupid you sound."
"Hey, get rid of that!" John screamed.
"No can do. I'll use this to blackmail you!"
John lifted his foot and brought it down on the mass of wires in front of him. He repeated this action multiple times.
The computer voice sounded like a skipping record as John stomped on it. "Stop tha-op that!"
"Delete that recording!"
"I'll crash the-ash the motorcy-cy-cycle, and then you'll die!"
John raised his foot once more, and it was clear that the next stomp would be catastrophic. But he froze in place for some reason. A noise grew in the background... the noise of sirens. There was a police vehicle giving chase to them down the country road. Turning his head, John saw that it was in the shape of a car. While the speed the motorcycle had was frightening, apparently the police car could go faster.
"They'll catch us at this rate..." John murmured. "Well, perhaps we should pull over and stop. It'll likely be as simple as a speeding ticket."
An unusual decision, to say the least. John, good citizen that he was, chose to appease the police instead of speeding up to help his brother. After a little consideration, the computer realized that John could very well be arrested for traveling in a not-road-safe rolling bathtub without insurance and going way past the speed limit. It would at least mean that he'd be gone and the computer wouldn't have to put up with him. The motorcycle slowed to a halt, and the flying gravel behind it ceased.
John hopped out of the tub as the car also slid to a halt, spraying gravel and dust everywhere. His world turned light brown as the flying dust permeated the air and cut off his field of view. As it began to settle, he heard the slam of the police car door, then the crunch of the officer stepping on gravel. His vision began to clear and he saw a terrifying sight. The officer was...
Reanimated. There was a monster on top of his head, with no eyes to speak of. A somewhat transparent brown blob, with four tentacles ending in spikes, and four spiked fangs hanging down from where its face would be. It had possessed the police officer, who had no hope of recovery. Once a headcrab had taken control of someone (alive or dead), they were officially brain-dead and could no longer be a part of society. It was a sad event, and both the body and headcrab had to be killed once it had taken control.
John froze in fear, unable to move a centimeter. He'd never seen a headcrab before, but he knew all about them. Gordon fought them constantly, and they were an abomination of science. Probably the policeman had been sleeping outside and then the headcrab got him. Headcrabs were able to assimilate a small amount of information about the person before their brain died completely, but their real objective was unknown. Probably they just ran on instinct, but perhaps there was more to it.
Suddenly, he heard the motorcycle's engine rev up and its two wheels spinning. Forgetting about the headcrab officer for a brief moment, he whirled around and saw it circle off the road and point itself towards the officer. The side shined for a moment, and suddenly a black tube appeared. Without warning, a rocket launched out of it and tore towards the headcrab. John shut his eyes tight for a second, and heard the explosion tear the zombie to bits. Opening them again, John saw the remains of the officer, some of its limbs still airbourne. Mouth agape, he turned to the motorcycle and saw the rocket launcher vanish.
"So... what just happened?"
The computer voice sounded. "Having you captured is one thing, but you dying on my watch is unacceptable."
"No, I mean what happened with that tube."
"It's because of a cloaking device. When in use, it makes things invisible and intangible. However, it's too expensive to cloak something large like me, so your company didn't bother to add it for anything other than the weapons."
John nodded, and walked over to the motorcycle. He jumped in, and once more, shouted "Ravenholm!"
The engine revved again, and the wheels uprooted the plants they were sitting on. The motorcycle accelerated even faster than before, and tore down the gravel road. John was sure it was approaching the speed of sound, as the scenery became blurred so that even the trees couldn't be picked out. Were this a normal motorcycle, John would be torn off by the wind pressure. However, the unique aerodynamics of the bathtub frame enabled the rider to be in a surprisingly calm bubble. Thinking about it, it might have just been the cloaking device at work again.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, but John continued to muse, his thoughts drifting to what could happen. Without weapons, he would be brutally slaughtered. But the computer motorcycle bathtub thing had weapons, right? Maybe he could take one off the frame and use it. Or maybe he'd outrun the monsters and Gordon would have a spare gun or something. No, that'd be too risky. There'd be more of a chance that Gordon would have used all of his bullets and be down to smashing things with his crowbar. It was a catch-22. John didn't have a weapon, but in order to get a weapon, he probably had to kill something and take what it was using. And that required a weapon. Suddenly, John realized that in his haste to get to where Gordon was, he'd passed up searching the remains of the headcrab police officer. At least a handgun or a truncheon would have been better than nothing.
John pointed to the road ahead and yelled "Let's go faster!” Even though he was turning slightly green from the fact that his eyes couldn't focus on anything, he'd have to make up the time he'd spend searching for a weapon. And he had to make it up now, while he still had a chance. The incessant roar of the gasoline-powered engine became even louder, and if John had the courage to look back, he'd probably have sworn the back tire had caught fire.
A short time passed, and then a tall fence and sign appeared on the horizon. The bike's wheels locked and the bike itself began to rapidly spin, quickly decreasing in speed while making John's face turn an even deeper shade of green. He felt bile swill up in his mouth, but choked it down and held his hands over his head. Suddenly, everything stopped and John jerked upright. Looking around, he discovered the sign and what was upon it.
Printed on the sign was "Ravenholm". Tacked beneath it was a piece of ripped paper, with marker scribbled on it. The scribbles swirled in front of John's eyes, and then his vision settled. It read, "U ShudNT ComE HEEr". Obviously, the person who attempted to leave this warning wasn't very good at spelling, and possibly texted too much.
John jumped out of the motorcycle and took another look around. The sun had begun to bathe the world in an orange glow, shadows extending from every object. The fence was an opaque wall of large wooden posts stuck into the ground, chained together at the top and bottom. They were probably three or four meters tall, and had pointed tips. All of the plants surrounding the fence were dead, and the ground had many bloody smears upon it. Either it was blood from the headcrabs, or blood from the people who had decided to challenge them. Either way, it made even the outside of Ravenholm feel extremely sinister, the most evil known place on the planet. John shivered, and then turned to the bike.
"I'll go on ahead and try to find a weapon," he said. "And you... just do whatever. This is something I have to do, and I have to help Gordon on my own."
John turned to push open the gate, but paused as he heard the computer voice. "If that's how you're going to die, so be it. You'll be out of my life, and I can go back to the rooftop in peace."
He gave a grim smile, and went back to the task of pushing open the gate. It only opened inwards, and there was no way to open it from inside. The horrors locked inside could not scale the wall, and once inside, there was no easy way out. You had to improvise and destroy your path after you, so the monsters inside could not follow. John closed the gate behind him and began to run.
Ravenholm was nothing like the world outside. The dead plants and blood outside were only a small preview of what lay inside. It was like an apocalypse in a bubble. Toxic waste everywhere, bloodstained stone houses with smashed windows and roofs, and topography like a war zone. People had been reduced to babbling heaps crying in a corner by it, and that was only from the newscasts, which took an aerial view. From the ground, it was even more devastating. John felt the urge to throw up again, but choked it down before it even had begun to leave his stomach.
He looked up and saw several headcrab zombies staring at him. He swore and began to run alongside the fence, as fast as he could. There was no time to look back, but he was sure they were running just as quickly as he was. Their screeches pierced his ears and he nearly tripped, but kept running. Running. Running. They were beginning to catch up, and John had run out of breath. He didn't know where he was anymore, and couldn't think of what would happen to him. But he instinctively knew. He'd die. No, maybe there was hope! Maybe he'd be saved by some miracle, or Gordon would come to save him! No. There was no hope. Death. Death was all that awaited him. It was a mistake to ever come to Ravenholm. Why did he even...
Then, a loud roar reached John's ears. He knew that roar! Swiveling around, he saw the silhouette of the motorbike outlined in the sun. It suddenly grew larger and larger, moving off to the right. The motorbike, with all its weight, crashed down onto the headcrab zombies. John could hear the sickening crunch of bones snapping, and something landed at his feet. He'd look at that a bit later.
The bike, with no explanation from the core AI, tore off again. It accelerated, smashing into another group of headcrab zombies and crushing them beneath the huge front tire. John watched it disappear, and thought a majestic... savior. It would have been somewhat poetic if he had thought it through more.
Looking down, he found that what had dropped at his feet was a gun. Not just a run-of-the-mill pistol, but an experimental semi-automatic with a full cartridge. Printed on the polished steel handles was the word "WEPON", printed in all capitals. The name was probably an acronym for something, and they couldn't find something for A. The barrel had been decorated with an engraving of a crowbar. John realized that it had probably been custom made for Gordon's personal use, and he'd dropped it because it had run out of ammunition. The headcrab zombies... reloaded it? It was somewhat unlikely, but maybe they were evolving. John shook the thoughts out of his head and picked it up. The WEPON fit in his hands like a well-made glove.
Smiling, John began to walk forward. Armed with his new WEPON, he felt like he could take on anything that came his way. He walked towards the center of "town", perpendicular to the fence. There were several groups of re-killed zombies, which had all been crushed by the front tire of the motorcycle. It was a good thing for two reasons, the first being obvious and the other being that John didn't have to waste his precious ammo. He passed house after house, and then stopped for some reason. He looked to his right and saw another house...
This house was even more run-down than the others. It was hardly standing, and had large holes blown in the walls, with rubble both in and out. The three stories had been reduced to just two, and what was once the thatch roof had long since been burned. There was no trace of what used to be the windows. In front of it was a stone fence, with transparent red figures floating in the air just above it. These were probably the elusive "zombie ghosts" John had been hearing about in the news. He cleared his throat, and then shouted at them.
"Zombie ghosts, leave this place!" he said, in his greatest holy-impersonator voice.
The ghosts spoke in a haunted tone, one filled with great sorrow. "But... this is our house!"
John realized that they had unfinished business, and felt quite sorry for them. They had been so attached to their house, they didn't leave it when Ravenholm became filled with zombies and failed mad science experiments. They had died with the remainders of the survivors, and had been left without graves. Probably their bodies had long since disintegrated and been eaten by the headcrab zombies. John realized there was only one thing to do...
... So he found explosives already rigged inside the house and activated them. Since the zombie ghosts were of the spectral variety, they could no longer live in their house. They would go through anything they touched, and their purpose was being unfulfilled. John, outlined against the huge fireball that was once the house, made a cross with his arms. He spoke once more.
"Zombie ghosts, leave this place! Cross peacefully into the afterlife, where you will find your house waiting for you! I bid thee to throw off the shackles of this realm! Now, be gone!"
In a flash of blue light, the reddish ghosts disappeared. John Freeman's face broke into a smile, and he turned back to his original heading. Leaving the house behind him, he strode again towards the center of Ravenholm. But just then, he heard a scream off to his left. Not the scream of a headcrab zombie, but the scream of a man. This had to be Gordon!
John, forgetting why he had even decided to go to the center of town, ran towards the scream with little regard for his surroundings. His feet pounded the ground and the bloodstained dirt flew. A short while later, John looked up. He was in a clearing, the one place in the condemned town where plants still grew. There were the remnants of a logging camp strewn around, and it was this that had made the town prosperous before it fell. A large log building was off to his right, with a gently sloping roof. Panning his vision to the left, he saw a great many logs placed randomly, with the occasional stump sticking out of the ground. And there he saw.
Gordon Freeman. The man had short chestnut hair, a beard/moustache combination, and glasses. However, unlike John, his face could pull it off without looking extremely stupid. He donned a jumpsuit of tough brown fabric, with pockets that could stretch all the way from Ravenholm to Fort Knox. And in his hand was his trademark rusted crowbar. Gordon was fighting something, and repeatedly hitting it with his weapon.
What Gordon was fighting was something quite laughable, actually. It looked humanoid, but it had a head twice the size of its body. It really should have keeled over and landed upside-down. The thing was flailing its arms wildly, barely hitting Gordon at all with them. It wasn't really moving from its position, so Gordon could just duck to dodge the whirling arms. It was something weak enough that John could help with it!
"Bro---!" he shouted as he ran up.
Gordon split his attention and hopped backwards, effectively out of the thing's reach. "John Freeman, over here!"
John didn't think, and just raised his WEPON, supporting it with both arms. His index finger contracted, and the trigger was pressed. A hail of bullets spewed forth and shot the... thing in the eye. A vile green liquid spewed forth, and it keeled over backwards.
John put his hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Thanks I could help, bro."
Gordon laughed. "Try getting here earlier next time! I had to save that weak one for you!"
And then both of them laughed. They laughed for the longest time, and then Gordon looked up. His face turned to one of horror. A great shadow had been cast over them. He quickly grabbed John's collar and shirt, then threw him as far as he could. John breathlessly sailed through the air and then fell to the ground several meters away.
John quickly glanced back, and was just in time to catch the figure of Gordon being crushed underneath a giant's shoe. The sickening crunch told him that there was no way Gordon could have survived. He was heartbroken. Tears began to flow from his eyes, and the sun caught them in an extremely beautiful way.
John screamed at the top of his lungs. "BRO-------!", and with tearful eyes, raised his gun. He fired every single bullet in his WEPON at the leg of the giant, but they simply bounced off. Still screaming hysterically, he collapsed.
"I'll get you for this... I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, and writhed on the ground as if having a fit. The giant turned and walked away, ignoring John as if he were as insignificant as an ant. John couldn't hear the booming footsteps over his own cries. A little later, he had calmed down enough to sit up. Still weeping, he heard something speak.
It was a robotic voice. "How long are you going to sit there?" Probably the motorcycle had come up beside him while he hadn't realized it. John lifted his head and turned his tearful eyes towards the looming, white, wide figure of the bathtub frame. It had been stained with splatters of green and red, the blood of the headcrabs and their hosts.
"But... Bro..." John weeped.
"Leave it. He's not coming back. Come on, let's get out of here." The voice interjected in a cold manner.
John slowly stood and got in the motorcycle. His sadness turned back to rage and he began yelling once more. It was incoherent babble, but the meaning behind it could be clearly seen.
"Geez, you're like a little kid..." The motorcycle's engine revved and the tires spun. John's yells grew fainter and fainter, and in the distance, the outline of a bathtub and a pair of wheels could be seen flying off a roof, over the wooden spires of the fence. The sun set.

~fin