Aliens

by Weston Ochse

By God if it wasn’t, while still using the body as a shield. Rawlings fought the urge to shoot, just to put her out of her misery, but he wasn’t sure if it was too late to save her.

  Fuck it.

  He ran forward, zigzagging as he tried to get an angle.

  One of the monster’s legs wasn’t all the way hidden—the broken one.

  He fired and scored a hit. The monster brought its leg in, and as it did, its left shoulder hove into view. Rawlings shot two rounds into it, the impact sending the monster back. He moved in for the kill, but the monster righted itself impossibly fast, and continued eating.

  McGann was screamed out, glass-eyed and staring, but still alive.

  Rawlings felt a presence next to him.

  Cruz.

  He had a pistol in his hand, and fired into McGann’s head until the glass eyes turned dead.

  Rawlings jumped with each impact. When he realized that his friend and comrade was dead, he raised his pulse rifle and put twenty rounds through her. The first five ripped a hole through her chest. The second five found the monster behind it. The final ten created a flesh-and-bone free-for-all as pieces of McGann and Fairbanks exploded outward in all directions.

  What was left of McGann sagged to the right, revealing the monster. It was gasping through its twin rows of sharp teeth.

  Buggy raised his rifle again, but Cruz put his hand on the carrying handle and gently pushed it down. Instead, he holstered his pistol and raised the tip of the nozzle. First he gassed the flamethrower, letting out a stream of wetshot, thickened fuel misting both McGann and the struggling creature. After a few seconds of that, he clicked on the burner in the nozzle and the stream became a gout of flame.

  When the flame touched the targets, they erupted in a whoosh of fire, reaching all the way to the ceiling and walls.

  Then Cruz turned and glanced once at Rawlings.

  “You need to do a better job at watching our six.”

  He pushed through Kash and Hoenikker, both of whom were ogling the sight of the burning beings, and resumed his place at the head of the squad.

  “If y’all are ready, we still might make it out alive.”

  49

  Cruz was trying not to limp. He sure didn’t want to see what the acid had done to his foot. Even if he looked, it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it. They still needed to get to the lodge or—if they could—the shuttle. By now, he didn’t know which one was safer. What was it called when the shit hit the fan after the shit had already hit the fan?

  Whatever it was, this was it.

  They’d lost McGann. They’d probably lose more before it was over. As it was, they’d been lucky. The flamethrower was like a weapon of mass destruction against pretty much everything biological. As soon as he’d learned that the deputy commander was going out hunting, he’d arranged through an associate in Security to, at a steep price, slip this last-generation M240A1 flamethrower into a requisition.

  Problem was, he was down to a third of the requisite napthal fuel. He shouldn’t have flamed McGann and the monster, but he’d been so frustrated by the loss that he couldn’t help but wetshot the whole clusterfuck.

  Moving through the corridor was easy for the moment. Soon they’d be in a much more vulnerable position. By his estimation, they were less than a hundred meters from the shuttle bay. There was a junction of corridors ahead that he’d expect to be occupied by at least one Xenomorph. So, he’d held the squad back, waiting to hear sounds of movement.

  It wasn’t long before they heard screams and the sound of pulse rifles. He couldn’t tell if it was human on human, human on alien, or a combination thereof. Whatever the case, something was going on. There was dying, and that was going to help them get past, so it was to their benefit to wait.

  The firefight was long by marine standards. A few stray rounds scored the corridor walls in front of them, but they were in no danger. A piece of Xenomorph and a human arm skidded to a stop in front of them, swirls of smoke coming from the arm, acid-splashed and skin melting.

  Human on alien, then.

  Kash and Hoenikker whispered behind him.

  Then Rawlings opened fire.

  Cruz glanced back. A juvenile had skidded around the corner and slammed against the wall, scrambling on the slick floor to get back to his feet. Rawlings evidently wasn’t taking any chances. He opened fire and laced the beast, so that when the next one slammed into it, its skin and carapace were splashed with acid. But then it stood, unfazed.

  It regarded them, torpedo-shaped head pointed their way. Its tail whipped absently behind it as it took a few tentative steps toward them. Rawlings fired.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh, fuck me,” he said. “Jammed.”

  It was as if the Xenomorph understood English. The words were like a switch and it went from zero to homicidal in 2.2 seconds.

  Kash and Hoenikker both began to fire. Hoenikker’s trigger discipline made his barrel jerk all over the place. If the ceiling had been the enemy, it would have been dead. But Kash stood with a two-handed grip and fired round after round, catching the Xenomorph in the chest with each round.

  At the last moment, before it plowed into them, Rawlings cleared his jam and opened fire, catching the juvenile in the side, throwing it into the wall.

  Acid rained down and caught Kash on her wrist and Rawlings in the face. Both of them gave sharp intakes of breath, but refused to scream. Kash vigorously wiped her hand on the wall next to her.

  Rawlings pulled out a water bottle and leaned forward, dousing the area to clean out the acid. Then he checked his pulse rifle. Cruz approved. It would do no good if it jammed again. Regrettably, when Cruz had flamed McGann, he’d also ruined the dead woman’s pulse rifle. Melting it was a rookie move.

  The firing in the junction had stopped, but the screeching sounds of the Xenos continued. Cruz tapped Buggy on the shoulder, then made the sign instructing him to move ahead and recon. Buggy nodded, lowered himself into a tactical stance with the barrel of the pulse rifle pointed to the floor. He would be able to raise it quickly in a time of need. The butt of the rifle was deep in his shoulder. His trigger finger lay across the trigger well, not in it.

  He inched forward until he reached the corner. Once there, he glanced back, then did a quick snoop around the corner before he jerked his head back. He turned to the group and made a fist, palm forward. Then he held up three fingers and shook his head.

  Three.

  They could take three.

  The idea was to get past them and hit the lab, where they should be safe for a time. Cruz could have kept the group where they were in Engineering, but he was afraid that they’d be OBE. Overcome by events. He also didn’t want anyone to take the shuttle or the lodge before they could, so he had to gauge where and when the pleasant folks from the command suites would make a break for it. His hope was that they’d make a run for it and get cut down by the Xenomorphs commanded by Seven. Some were bound to get through, but it was relatively unlikely that those would have the shuttle code.

  It was a wild guess, but one based on hundreds of military operations, wargame scenarios, and an understanding that humans wouldn’t allow themselves just to stay in one place. The oft-asked question was, “Why did they do it?” It’s because they had to. Their DNA forced them to.

  Only Colonial Marines were capable of resisting their genetic urges, because it was trained out of them. Where others would run away from danger, marines would run toward it, because they knew they had to eliminate the danger on their own terms, before it came at them on its terms.

  “Okay,” he said softly. “Buggy and Rawlings. Lay down fire into the intersection. Controlled bursts. Five seconds total, then back away and get behind me. We’ll see what happens with whatever you don’t take down.”

  Rawlings made his way forward and exchanged hand signals with Buggy. Buggy took high, and Rawlings took low. On their silent count, they cornered with their barrels, then fired into the intersection, controlle
d bursts of four rounds each. After a five count, they stopped firing and backed away until they were behind Cruz. Rawlings faced the rear. Buggy continued facing forward.

  “I think we got two,” Buggy said.

  Cruz waited for the third.

  And he waited.

  And waited.

  A minute went by.

  Fuck it. He edged forward and peered around the corner.

  And was attacked for his efforts.

  A full-sized adult Xenomorph had been waiting for him. It lashed out with its tail, catching him in the legs. Cruz went down hard on his back, the naptham reservoir making him cant to the left. The creature mounted him, acid and saliva dripping onto the armor. Cruz couldn’t help but feel the terror trying to creep its way from where he’d hid it. That the armor worked was a testament to their science. The appreciation aside, he was in grave danger.

  The Xenomorph’s mouth telescoped once, then twice, trying to get through the acid-resistant prototype helmet to the soft spot of Cruz’s face. Still, Cruz twisted and jerked at each attack, unwilling to trust a recent development against a creature that had been made eons ago to destroy the universe.

  Suddenly the sound of pulse rifles and the impacts of the rounds sent the Xenomorph thudding off him. Cruz rolled to his left, and was able to get up on one knee before he was slammed face first into the floor.

  The sound of pulse rifles continued. Still two, then only one.

  The Xenomorph continued its attack.

  What was this thing?

  Then it stopped.

  Cruz glanced up just in time to see the alien grabbing Buggy’s arm and ripping it free. The sloppy wet sound was compounded by a short, slushy crack as the bones snapped. Tendons and sinews trailed from the top part of the arm, and ribbons of red blood gouted thickly from the hole in his shoulder. The arm still gripped the pulse rifle, and the alien threw it aside.

  Hoenikker and Kash rushed forward and fired point blank into the Xenomorph’s mouth. The alien shrieked and fell back, its tail lashing, knocking both of them down. Its movements were frantic, as if it knew it was going to die.

  Then it was still, and the only sounds were Buggy’s screams.

  As Cruz scrambled awkwardly to his feet, his chest dripping acid onto the floor, Rawlings grabbed Buggy and tackled him. The alcoholic comms tech forced the blood-pulsing stump into a pool of acid. Buggy’s scream rose so high it couldn’t be heard. The blood burned away in a singe of disgusting redolence that made everyone want to gag.

  Hoenikker did, turning as he hurled. Still, Rawlings held the stump in the acid until finally Buggy was able to kick free. But the acid had done its job. The wound had been cauterized. The communications tech slumped to the wall as the adrenaline bled off, communing with a pain he’d never imagined.

  Cruz clambered to his feet and checked the dead alien to make sure it was indeed dead, then glanced over at the intersection. For now, it was empty. He’d have loved to stay where he was and lick his wounds, but they needed to move. They needed to get to the lab, so they could reassess and plan for their next phase.

  “We’re going to move, and move quick,” he said. “Everyone stick behind me. We’re going to the lab. Pick up any ammo or weapons you find along the way. We can make it in thirty seconds if we move out. On my command. Are there any questions?”

  Hoenikker wiped spittle from the side of his face, and shook his head. Kash’s eyes were wide with the rush of her adrenal glands. She shook her head, as well.

  Rawlings slung both his and Buggy’s rifles on his back. He helped Buggy to his feet. The wounded man moved sluggishly, but moved nonetheless. For one traitorous moment Cruz considered leaving him, but knew he couldn’t. The mantra of don’t leave anyone behind was too ingrained in his martial DNA.

  “Okay. Then follow me.”

  And he was off, his nozzle ready to spray hot wet death at whatever got in his way.

  50

  As they tumbled into the lab, Cruz and Kash immediately cleared the central table so they could lay Buggy on it. Hoenikker ran to the first aid station and pulled out bandages and searched for morphine, but couldn’t find any. Then he remembered that there was little or no difference in the analgesic response and safety of intravenous morphine versus fentanyl for adult trauma patients. So he snatched up some fentanyl lollipops.

  At first the injured man resisted the medication, but the outside of the lolly became slick with the man’s saliva, and became easier to administer. After a few moments of the analgesic taking hold, Buggy allowed it to stay.

  Meanwhile, Kash addressed the cauterized wound that still smoked from the acid.

  Rawlings and Cruz grabbed several carts and stacked them at the entrance. It wouldn’t stop any intruder, but it would slow them down long enough that they could grab their pulse rifles and deter them with rounds.

  Hoenikker stood back and surveyed the scene. He was beyond wishing he’d never come here. He’d shot and killed things he never knew existed. He’d run and fought like some hero from a docudrama. All he cared about now was the next few minutes. To care any farther into the future was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

  In their thirty-second rush to freedom they’d passed piles of dead station personnel and Xenomorphs, and a few ripped-apart synths. They hadn’t seen anyone living, so Cruz’s strategy seemed to be working. Everyone else was doing the fighting.

  They’d managed to pick up several pulse rifles and bandoleers of ammunition, so they might be able to make it to the shuttle bay after all.

  He turned to survey the lab. He’d spent so much time here— more than a place of work, it had become a place of inspiration. A place of perspiration. He’d loved and hated coming to work here. Sure, he wished he could have stayed with computer modeling, but by being forced to live outside of his comfortable box, he’d learned so much more about the scientific method, and about himself. He’d actually miss the place. Coming to work to find out what craziness Cruz had done during the night, or the constant wonder that Étienne tried to project, or the confidence that Kash owned in everything she did.

  Buggy moaned from the table.

  Kash made soothing sounds.

  And then a sound came so unexpectedly, his eyes went wide. He spun, and waited to see where it was coming from.

  “Ami Mark, lève ton verre. Et surtout, ne le renverse pas!”

  Friend Mark, raise your glass, but definitely don’t spill it.

  “Ami Timothy, lève ton verre. Et surtout, ne le renverse pas!

  “Amie Erin, lève ton verre. Et surtout, ne le renverse pas!”

  Étienne was there, just out of sight behind some equipment. In the rush to address the wounded, they’d missed him altogether. Kash rushed over to him.

  “Mon ami. You’re alive.”

  Étienne laughed. “Yes. It is me. Alive like a walking ghost.”

  The Frenchman looked worse for wear, however. The hair on one side of his head had burned away. The face beneath it was pocked and scarred from contact with acid. His clothes were covered in someone else’s blood. Still, his eyes were bright, and he held a beaker of something liquid in his right hand.

  “The pheromone worked?” Hoenikker couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear.

  “Eh, my friend.” Étienne put an arm around him. “It worked until it didn’t. Looks like it had a time limit before it wore off. My estimate is that it was about two hours. Still, what a discovery, no?” He took a sip, and offered it to Hoenikker.

  Hoenikker accepted, and almost fell down with the strength of the liquor.

  “Ack. What is this? Embalming fluid?”

  “Just some hooch I found in Fabrications when I was hiding there.”

  Hoenikker held him at arm’s length. “What’s all the blood from?”

  “Alors, once the pheromones wore off, I was forced to hide underneath some bodies. There was one hell of a firefight. Acid flew everywhere, which accounts for my new look.” He turned to show his mangled face. “You
like, yes? I look, how you say, rakish?”

  Hoenikker frowned. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

  “Enough of the hugging and kissing,” Cruz said, stepping over. He’d removed his armor and flamethrower. The clothes beneath were sodden with sweat and stank of battle. “You still crazy, Étienne? What was all that frère Jacques nonsense?”

  Once again, the Frenchman grinned. “It was, how you say, ballsy, yes? I wanted to see if they detect each other through sound, or if the sound might counteract the pheromone. As it turns out, it didn’t matter what I said. They left me alone until the pheromone wore off.” Then his face turned serious. “We need to get this out. We need to make sure that Weyland-Yutani can replicate it in their labs. Just think how we can better protect the Colonial Marines.”

  “I’m picking up what you’re laying down, Étienne, but we need to survive the infiltration first,” Cruz said. “We’re a three-minute sprint to the shuttle bay from here. We need to find a way to ascertain where everyone is, and what they’re doing.”

  “Would a radio help?” Étienne asked, his face as innocent as a babe’s.

  “All the comms are down,” Rawlings said, joining them, his eyes immediately going to the beaker.

  “Then why are they still talking?” Étienne asked, pointing behind him.

  Rawlings glanced at Cruz, then hurried to one of the empty containment rooms. He returned with a portable comms unit that was abuzz with conversation.

  Cruz frowned, and pointed at Rawlings. “Monitor what they’re saying. We need to know where everything stands.” To Étienne, he said, “Where’d you get that?”

  “There was a battle. Security from the other end of the station tried to get to the shuttle bay, and didn’t make it. One of the dead security guards had this, so I took it. I thought it might come in handy, ça va?”

  “Drunks and fools,” Cruz said, shaking his head, the shadow of a grin appearing beneath his mustache. “Drunks and fools and Frenchmen.”

  Étienne saluted him with the beaker, and took a sip.

  Cruz took it from him, took a sip, then shook his head and made a sound somewhere between satisfaction and dying. He handed it back. “Definitely embalming fluid.” Then he turned. “Come with me, Hoenikker.”