by Sean Platt
“I got you.” Ed kneeled beside the hole, raising his AR15 and ready to fire low at the aliens’ legs to fell them.
Boricio nodded then counted.
“One, two, three.”
He scrambled toward Ed.
Boricio had made it halfway to the hole when the door exploded open.
Ed was afraid Boricio would hear the door blow off its hinges then turn, wanting to fight the enemy. But Boricio did as he was told and scurried through the hole.
Aliens loped in, four at once, stopping only long enough to fix their bulbous heads and black hole eyes on Ed.
Their mouths opened, full of flinty razor-sharp teeth, shrieking as one and creating an unholy echo like a knife in his brain.
Ed opened fire, aiming at their legs.
Aliens fell, but were nowhere near dead. The fuckers would crawl on their hands to reach him if he waited long enough. Ed had one hundred rounds in his high capacity magazine, but a hundred rounds went fast when spraying and praying. He couldn’t waste shots killing them when more were already rushing in.
Knowing there was no way to switch magazines before getting overrun, Ed had to plan on how the hell he could get out of the room — there didn’t seem to be a break in the influx of black beasties pouring through the doorway.
He backed up closer to the hole, still firing low, blasting the legs of every fucker he could.
Suddenly, movement above.
They were adapting, shifting strategy. No longer rushing straight in. One jumped over his fallen comrades, coming straight at Ed.
Ed raised his rifle and fired in an arc, but not in time to stop the creature’s trajectory. Hot black blood rained on Ed as the thing fell on his body, knocking him to the ground and sending his gun sliding across the floor.
Ed pushed, trying to get the alien off him, but its lithe body was too slippery, and its weight too dense.
Suddenly, he felt movement.
Its head was still, but its body struggled and writhed.
Is this thing still alive? Or are these its death throes?
The creature was still conscious enough to be deadly. Its sharp talons reached up, along Ed’s right side.
No! No! No!
Ed tried pushing it off, but his right arm was pinned, outstretched, reaching for his rifle.
His world erupted in pain as talons burst through his ribcage and into his lungs.
He screamed.
From the corners of his eyes, Ed saw black flashes of movement. Shrieking monsters piled into the room to seize upon him.
This was it.
This was how he would die. Overrun by a horde, too many to fight off.
He remembered nearly killing himself two years ago in this very room, and Luca teleporting him here after his failed raid on the slaughterhouse. He’d been so ready to die.
Ironic then, that as he gasped for air and choked on blood, the last thing Ed wanted was to give up.
Trust in fate.
He heard Luca’s words in his head. Was it an echo of that event, or calming words he was now somehow in Ed’s mind as panic promised death?
A scream from behind, followed by gunshots.
Ed craned his neck enough to see Lisa coming through the hole, firing into the room, doing her best to fight back the mass.
Ed met her eyes and shook his head: I’m too far gone.
He coughed, coppery blood filling his mouth then spilling past his lips. “Go,” he managed to say.
Lisa’s eyes tracked down, likely seeing how much blood he’d lost. She suddenly seemed to realize there was little if any hope.
She stared as if unwilling to face the truth.
Boricio appeared beside her, his eyes now also lit with the truth.
“Go,” Ed managed again, his voice weakening already.
Trust in fate.
His left hand reached down for the grenade at his belt. He was going to die, but not without taking as many of them with him as he could.
Lisa’s and Boricio’s eyes widened at his intention.
No time for goodbyes.
No final words.
No trips down Memory Lane, or reflections of a life devoted to country, sacrifices made, or family lost.
The last thing Ed wondered before the grenade detonated was whether he’d feel his body explode.
Forty-Seven
Boricio Wolfe
The grenade exploded and forced Boricio and Lisa to improvise. And ad-libbing in this case meant leaping from the roof’s edge — twenty feet high — to the grass below, while avoiding the overgrown bushes running along the church walls.
Boricio managed to land on the balls of his feet then roll to his side without harm.
Boricio rolled a hard eight, two strokes of luck in a row. That meant the moment he turned, he’d likely see Lisa on the ground with a broken ankle, or worse, because Lady Luck was a cunt. Getting away was gonna be a bitch and her sister already, and he could add the whole damned family if he had to flee with a wounded soldier. If Lisa was injured, Boricio would be forced to decide between fighting beside her and abandoning the broad to save himself.
Normally, it might not be too difficult a decision. But after losing Ed, and not being able to find Mary, losing Lisa would be a serious blow to the rebels.
He was surprised to turn and find her standing instead, looking down, hand out to help him up.
Boricio grinned, glad to see her in one piece, took her hand, and hoisted himself up. He looked at the belfry’s burning remains then down to the entrance where the aliens were already starting to flood out the door. It wouldn’t be long before the chase was on. There was no time for a moment of silence for Keenan’s sacrifice. They’d have to mourn later.
For now, they could only run before more aliens appeared.
Lisa pointed down the closest street. “That way.”
Boricio never needed shit said twice.
They raced down the street, aliens clicking and shrieking like banshees behind them.
“This way!” Boricio cut through the yard of a pale-blue house, boarded like a brothel full of whores and herpes, leaping over a chain-link fence and through the backyard of another house.
His heart pounded, pushing his body harder, faster, crossing the street, ducking between more yards, over more fences, putting as much distance between them and their pursuers as possible. Lisa kept pace, staying a few steps behind Boricio the entire time.
They came to another fence, this one wooden. Now she was slightly ahead. Lisa leaped up, and just as she was about to hoist herself over, the fence crashed beneath her.
She cried out, “Fuck!”
Boricio went to help her, but Lisa was lightning on her feet, training her gun out at the yard, waiting for aliens to come bearing down upon them. They’d lost too much ground to run again. They’d have to stand and fight.
Unless …
Twenty seconds passed. Boricio and Lisa traded wide stares of disbelief.
“Did we lose them?”
“Fuck if I know,” Boricio said. “But these Aliens are Predators. Shit don’t seem likely.”
“Maybe they didn’t see us escape the church?”
“Maybe,” Boricio said, listening for any sign of them. All he could hear were the tree branches around them, swaying in the breeze as a storm seemed to be brewing in the clouds above. “So, what, they just happened to be burning calories in our general direction when we were making our adios?”
“I dunno. I mean, nothing else makes sense. Maybe they were running from the explosion.”
“Well, let’s not stand around chafing cock, waiting for them fuckers to find us.”
Lisa checked her wristband compass then turned in a circle and scoped their surroundings. “We should probably turn around soon if we’re gonna head back to the Chandler House.”
“Not yet,” Boricio said. “I think we need to lay more space between us and the uglies then circle back.”
With Lisa turned at an angle and her jacket opened at an
angle, Boricio noticed something — a red stain on Lisa’s shirt, near her abdomen.
“What’s that?”
Lisa looked down, pulled her jacket aside, and lifted her shirt enough to see the sliver of wood — same color as the fence she just fell on — jutting from her stomach. “Fuck.”
Lisa kicked the fence with her boot. “Cunt!”
Boricio went to examine her wound. It looked like six random seconds from Saving Private Ryan. Blood gurgled from the wound, and as much as Boricio didn’t want to upset her by stating the obvious, Lisa was a tough broad and likely knew this what this meant.
“We need to take care of this, or you’re gonna be Dracula’s wet dream.”
“Why don’t you head back. I’ll catch up.”
“I ain’t going back without either of the people I left with. What the hell do you think that’ll do for morale on Team Boricio? Some captain, can’t even keep his star players alive!”
Lisa laughed, as she usually did when he talked about Team Boricio. “Star players?”
“Yeah, you’re two of my best.”
“Shit, I need to have my agent negotiate a better salary.”
“You and me both, Sister. I don’t get paid dicksquirt considering some of the prima donnas I’m saddled with.”
“Let’s just keep going.” Lisa smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
“No, we need to sew you up. You got a kit in your pack, right?”
Lisa nodded.
Boricio looked around, searching for the closest spot he could operate without worry of aliens, bandits, or wild animals coming along and fucking shit up. He settled on a terra cotta-colored house two yards up, slightly less shitty than the others.
“Come on, let’s fix you up.”
Forty-Eight
Mary Olson
Mary sat in her bed, staring at the locked door, waiting for her daughter’s return.
They’d barely had time to catch up before Paola was called away by Guardsmen. Mary resisted, demanding that they let her stay in the room.
One of the two Guardsmen looked like he might smack her, though Mary couldn’t tell for sure because they were both wearing helmets and visors. Paola intervened, stepping between the guard and Mary. “It’ll be okay,” she told her mom. “I promise. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Mary figured that was about two hours ago.
It took every ounce of restraint to not get up and scream, demand that they return her daughter. Mary had to play this cool. She’d assumed they were watching her — that Desmond was looking — via hidden cameras or maybe through the mirror over the dresser along the far wall across from her bed.
He’s keeping her away to break me.
I can’t give in.
Mary tried to keep calm. Yet the longer she sat there, the more her questions grew, chief among them: Why did Desmond save Paola?
Was there some part of him that cared about her and regretted having her shot, as he’d claimed? While a part of Mary wanted to believe that Desmond was still in there, like Paola was, her cool, logical part was too skeptical to buy the alien’s act of sincerity.
No, he brought Paola back for some other reason. Leverage being most obvious. Use Paola to get Mary to roll over on her friends’ location.
Before a few hours ago, they could never have broken her. They could’ve tortured Mary for days. Because back then, they could only hurt her body. Her mind was already too far gone to care what they did.
But now they had Paola. They gave Mary something to care about — not just something, but her daughter, the only thing in the world she gave a damn about, save for Boricio.
They gave her to me so they could take her away.
Let’s see how strong you are now, Mary.
The scary thing was that Mary didn’t know what she’d do if they used Paola to break her. For the past few years, she’d lived with the regret that she hadn’t done enough to save Paola. That she could’ve done something. How many times had she wished for a do-over? How many times had she said that if she’d only been given another chance, she’d do anything to save her little girl?
And now they had this over her.
The door slid open.
Despite Mary’s efforts to remain still, she launched herself out of bed, eager to see Paola again.
But her daughter wasn’t at the door.
Desmond stood in the threshold, with an arrogant smile.
“Hello, Mary.”
Her short, fat interrogator from before stood beside him: the man whose daughter she’d nearly murdered.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Desmond said.
Mary held her tongue and nodded. She followed the pair out the door and along the bright corridor. It reminded her of a hospital in many ways, down to the white-tiled floor chilling her bare feet. Mary navigated the hallways, making mental notes in case she needed to retrace her steps later.
Yeah, like you’re gonna escape an alien ship! What are you gonna do? Jump off?
After several turns, Mary wondered how big the damned spaceship could be. It appeared massive from the mainland, but even so, it was hard to get a feel for its actual size. She wondered how many aliens, or hybrids, or even other humans were living onboard. Maybe she’d ask Paola when they were alone again.
If they let you be alone with her again.
They finally stopped in a long hallway, exactly like all the others.
Paul went to one of the doors and waved his hand in front of it.
The door opened to a pregnant woman lying in bed. She was nude, asleep, covered in a translucent blue sheet with hundreds of tiny lights blinking inside it.
“What is this?” Mary whispered.
“This,” Paul answered, “is but one room of our maternity ward.”
A sickness grew inside her, memories surging that she’d tried to keep down.
Paul continued. “Thirty women, each deemed an ideal specimen for birthing perfect children, or at least as close to perfection as we can engineer.”
“Perfect children for what?” Mary asked, unable to hide her disgust.
“The children will serve as hosts. Clean bodies, not weighted with the psychological baggage preventing most humans from being ideal hosts.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
Paul looked at Desmond.
Desmond nodded.
Paul took his cue and left the room.
The door closed, leaving Desmond and Mary alone with the sleeping pregnant woman.
“Tell me, Mary, what happened to our child?”
She wasn’t sure which child he meant — the one the real Desmond had impregnated her with, or the one the alien had. “I lost the baby. I told you.”
“No, not Desmond’s baby. My baby.”
The way the alien said My baby sent a chill through her. He stepped forward, just inches from Mary, as if inspecting his bill of sale.
Her skin burned as she tried not to flinch or show fear. To give him the satisfaction of seeing the white-hot rage burning inside her.
“You killed it, didn’t you?”
“It died.”
Desmond’s hand was quick as he smacked her hard across the face.
“Don’t lie!”
Mary held her breath, trying to stay calm, trying not to give him whatever the hell he was looking to get. She glared at Desmond, wondering if he could tell how close he was to having her thrust her palm upward, into his nose, sending his bones straight up into his brain and ending him.
“I want to know what you did with my baby.”
“I killed it,” Mary said, meeting his eyes.
“You had no right.”
“And you had no right to kill my daughter.”
“But she’s alive. I brought her back. Can you say the same about our child?”
“Don’t call it a child. There was no way I was going to give birth to some alien thing.”
She hadn’t meant to say it with such disgust, but it was too late to reclaim
the words. She’d have to ride it out and gauge his response.
“It would have been a perfect child. A true hybrid, two souls born into a single shell. Not … this temporary arrangement.” Desmond waved his hand across his body. “With combined DNA, our child could have been a wonderful thing. The next step for both species.”
“Well, it looks like you have your fill now. So, all that shit about humans and aliens living together as some sort of evolved species, sharing a body was bullshit?”
“No. I meant every word.”
“These are babies whose bodies will be used by grown aliens. How will these children have free will?”
“It will all work out.”
“Why are you showing me this? To guilt trip me over killing that thing growing inside me? It’s not gonna happen. I already felt like shit, especially after losing Desmond’s first baby, and worse after losing Paola. You think I wanted to take another life? I had to because I couldn’t stand the thought of giving birth to the creature who betrayed me and caused me to lose my daughter.”
He nodded. “On some level, I can understand.”
“Good for you,” Mary snapped, barely able to check her emotions. Years of simmering rage rolled to a fast boil, threatening to spill over.
“You asked why I showed you this. Yes, I have my motives.”
Here we go.
“I want to let you and your daughter live here, freely, not as hosts.”
“But?”
“But I need something from you in return. I want Luca’s location.”
Mary laughed. “Not gonna happen.”
“Oh, I think it will. Let’s not kid ourselves, Mary. We both know I have the upper hand. And there are things far worse than death for your daughter.”
He looked at the pregnant woman.
Mary snapped.
She lashed out, aiming with her palms at his nose.
He was too fast, turning away, so Mary struck only his cheekbone. Desmond fell back with a yelp.
Mary did some damage, but her blow was far from lethal.
He looked up at her, eyes wild.
Mary remembered her favorite Niccolò Machiavelli quote:
Never do an enemy a small injury.
