Bright, shining stars clung to the black blanket of the desert sky, appearing the same here as they did on countless other worlds across the vast expanse of the galaxy. George Cominsky was willing to bet that there was someone just like him on Earth, peering up at the stars and wondering what was going on light years away. One could get lost in that menagerie, staring at the countless comets and nebulae beyond the tiny sphere that one was standing on.
I’m willing to bet that those people on Earth aren’t facing quite the same problems as I am, Cominsky mused. Too many choices, too many variables to consider . . . I would cut off my arm to get home again. See Janie and the kids. God, how long has it been? He continued to look up at the stars. I can hear you, Janie. The kids, too, their laughter. I’m coming back soon enough, and when I do, I’m resigning. Never gonna take another chance of not seeing you guys again. I’ll find some job doing something, even if it's a job at a fast-food joint. I’ll be outta the Marines for good. You’ve never liked it, me being in combat, and I’m sick of it, too. There’s too much bull that goes along with it. ‘Oddities’, and shady Company conspiracies.
I’m coming home, Janie. I’m coming home.
Frustration seeped deep into Cominsky’s heart as his troops crowded around him, ready for the roll call before setting off into the Ravenno. This was it, the first step in the long journey home. But was it the best course of action? Part of him screamed "yes" . . . and the other part objected with every fiber of its being. Was he bringing his comrades to redemption or suicide? To freedom and their families, or a slow, painful death? He was torn. It’s not too late, he told himself. You can still call off your decision.
That was the real reason why Cominsky had been procrastinating his plan for the past ninety minutes. What Drew had said really made him think. "Why can’t we just wait all this out?" The words still echoed in his head. "That ship is probably crawling with those things." Why not wait? They had done well so far, defending the camp from the xenomorphs. Ragsdale even managed to wound one of these new Predators.
But the part of him that advocated this course of action was stronger. They were running out of supplies; the xenomorph attack had wiped out several of his troops, their numbers were running low. And that body they found out in the desert wasn’t the same one that had attacked him earlier. The same species, yes. But the same individual, certainly not - - there were numerous members of this new race in the desert. Tens, possibly hundreds of hunters out there, waiting to attack. The odds were obviously against them.
Going into the Ravenno was better than sitting on your ass and getting eaten or taken as a trophy. This was the best course of action, and Cominsky was going to prove it. He was going to take his platoon into this derelict, find the hangar, get on the ship, and blow the hell out of anything in his way. He would get these people home. They would see their families again. They would live. Gathering his courage and confidence, the immense man took a deep breath, waited for the last of his men - - Ralph and Giger - - to assemble, and spoke.
"Atten-tion!" he shouted, his voice strong and commanding. Everyone saluted, their hands snapping up to their heads precisely and without fault. No one dared to do so much as blink as the Sargeant nodded approvingly. "At ease." Cominsky couldn’t help but wonder if every good leader had to do what he was about to at some point in their careers... The Marines quickly returned to their casual stances and listened carefully as their leader gave one of the most motivational speeches in the history of the Corps. It would remain in their minds until their dying day.
Cominsky cleared his throat. "Damn, are we in deep shit." A chuckle went through the crowd. "I’m not trying to make light of all this. Just listen to our situation: there are two species of hostile aliens on this world out to either make us lunch or mount our heads on a wall. One of them is dumb but lethal. The other is smart as hell and armed to the teeth. On top of all this, we’re stranded here, without a ride home. Can it get any worse? Maybe. I don’t wanna say ‘yes,’ for fear that it will; the same reason is why I don’t wanna say ‘no.’
"When we first landed here, if you’d have given me our scenario, I’d have laughed at you and called you crazy. But now, my friends, we are in that situation. We are being faced with odds that even make me scared." Disbelief went through the crowd; the Sarge was never afraid of anything. "Yes, you heard me. I’m frightened to death. But that doesn’t mean I can’t concentrate and get us away from here. We can all concentrate, and we can all get through this. But I need your help. We need to watch each other's backs, and need to help each other along this arduous trip home. Most of all, though, I need your cooperation, and your support.
"Earlier tonight, I was unsure as to whether lead us into the Ravenno or not. Private Raimes suggested that we stay here at the camp. I debated this point for a while - - that’s why I delayed our journey into the crashed ship. But I objected, and said that the best course of action lies in there." He jabbed his thumb back at the large vessel behind him. "I still believe that. Here, you’ll die standing in one place. In there, you die running. Either way, if any of these bastards get you, I am authorizing orders for you to be shot. Anyone who objects to this can waive this privilege. I ask you to consider first, though, that your choices of death are either a bullet or having your chest ripped out by a xenomorph." Cominsky paused, biting his lip and watching his platoon lovingly.
"I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to get us through this. I will lay down my life for you, if need be. You may no longer consider yourselves my underlings, or my troops. You are all my brothers and sisters, my sons and daughters, my freaky redneck cousins that show up to the family reunion drunk. Above all, though, you are my friends. I love you all, and hope that we can make it to the ship." He sighed, the stress in his voice obvious. "Now, let’s call roll."
Silence filled the camp as a look of determination spread across Cominsky’s dark face. Damn, did that sound cheesy . . . the Sergeant thought as he barked out names. He never had been great at public speaking, and this failed to convince him otherwise…
Over two dozen four-toed, enormous feet were trudging through the wastelands, approaching the ooman-created hive. Li’chinde had given permission, so every last one of the Blooded members had come on the Hunt; those that could still do the job, at any rate.
Li’chinde had even convinced Mahnde to come along with them, in case they got into a position where talking to the oomans was necessary. The Ancient was among the few of the yautja to learn the ooman language. Or, at least, the dialect of the region he had hunted in. It was believed by the yautja that it was the city of Paya himself; a stone city carved from the forests into immense, blocky pyramids. In fact, the people there were called "Maya," which Mahnde believed was just a careless mispronunciation on the part of the oomans.
Mahnde, having long lost the ability to hunt well, was in the center of the tribe, guarded from all sides. Still, he held his ceremonial naginata in cases of close encounters. The spear ended in a long, thick blade that was covered in serrated edges and blood grooves. He liked it because it was useful to slice, cut, or even axe through assailants, and he held it in front of him with his good hand.
The Hunters rushed up to the stone-colored ship, bracing for the battle of a lifetime. The kiande amedha always attacked when something approached their hive; that was just a fact. They had braced themselves into a battle position, with gunners in the front lines and spearcasters in the back, poised for sniping. The three remaining Warriors took their places in the front, armed with their most powerful melee weapons.
They waited. And waited.
Minutes passed. Some of them were looking around in confusion, checking to see that they hadn’t walked into a trap. Nothing was coming from any side. Li’chinde lowered his combi-stick and motioned for the tribe to continue into the cavernous gap. They plodded out of the sun’s light into the darkness of the craft, illuminated only by emergency lights and the occasional spark shower that burst from broken hardware. Hive growth had been splattered onto the metal walls, and on it were corpses of various animals cocooned and birthed. The smell was overbearing, especially for the keen yautja senses. Some of them closed the air vents of their masks, trying to soften the stench.
One of the corpses was yautja, Li’chinde noted. Stepping closer, he saw the distinctive biohelmet of Hrr’kak lying on the floor, with the middle of it punched through. Hrr’kak’s body hung unceremoniously on the wall, with the chest reduced to glowing meat spattered on the floor of the opposite side of the hall.
"Master Li’chinde!" one of the Young Blood shouted from the hole in the wall they’d entered from, "The oomans approach!"
Thinking quickly, Li’chinde brought out his combistick and used it as a crowbar to pry Hrr’kak’s corpse out of the brittle resin. That done, he dragged the body over to a gaping hole in the floor that had been burned away and dropped the corpse into it. The hole had eaten through several decks, and the body fell scores of feet before finally smashing into the bottommost level with a sickening thud that broke the body to pieces. Then, Li’chinde dropped what was essentially a napalm grenade, burning the remains out of existence. No evidence is left, Li’chinde thought to himself, that is the way of our people.
That done, he led his tribe into the ship, ordering them to activate their cloaking fields before the oomans got there. He also warned them that an Abomination now stalked the halls - - a nightmarish breed of Hard Meat given the form of the yautja.
"Damn, it’s creepy in here," Giger whispered as he stared down the dark, endless corridor. "So quiet," he added, hearing his voice echo in the emptiness of the Ravenno. They had set off from the camp not twenty minutes ago, and Giger was already debating whether or not he should turn back. It wasn’t that the derelict was in bad condition; in fact, disregarding the non-functioning electrical equipment, she was very well maintained, her cryotubes intact and all circuitry contained. No, it was something much subtler. It was the terrible quiet that lurked around every corner. The false sense of security that the silence inspired.
We’re far from safe, Giger thought, filing in behind the platoon. He was the only one who had volunteered to take up the rear; Cominsky was at the front. No sensible person would want to be in either one of those positions, but it was physically impossible for all the soldiers to move in one large clump - - the tight confines of the ship prevented that. So, Giger was the last, and thus most exposed, man in the group. How did this even happen, anyway? I took on this mission signed on for an Intelligence position. So far, though, I’ve only been useful as a grunt . . . damn, I need a cigarette . . .
He cast one long look behind him before hesitantly proceeding down the hallway. It’s so freakin’ dark in here, he noted for probably the eighteenth time. But here, it was especially so. Before, the various viewports scattered against the bulkheads had provided some degree of light from the bright moon that hung in the sky. Now, the windowless passageway was as black as pitch. Flares or shoulder lamp? Giger asked himself, regripping his smartgun. Ain’t that the eternal question? Choosing his lamp, he welcomed the soft illumination that the light brought. Very comforting when walking through a deserted ship.
A sound behind him caused Giger to spin around on one heel, beads of nervous sweat flying in all directions. His finger fumbled around for the autotracking switch, finally making contact after what seemed like eternity. He waited as the gun whirred on . . . nothing. The barrel of his smart remained stationary, not detecting any movement from behind him. This lifestyle of being stalked by aliens sure was taking its toll on his sanity.
Giger jumped as a small hand slapped his shoulder. He turned, only to see a worried Ralph. "What’s wrong?" he asked. "You okay?"
Giger nodded. "I’m fine, except that you nearly scared the life outta me."
"Why’d you stop?"
Giger shrugged. "I dunno, Smartie. Thought I heard something - - a chittery sound." He flipped off his smartgun’s tracking and slung the weapon over his shoulder.
"Don’t worry about it," comforted Ralph. "Your smart didn’t pick up anything, did it?"
"No."
"Then let’s get going. Staying here certainly won’t keep us." Ralph put a brotherly arm around Giger and guided him back to the platoon. "I guess all smartass computer nerds are a little jumpy, huh?"
Giger smiled his cocky, lopsided grin.
"I’m telling you, Pope, we go left at the junction ahead," Giger argued, snatching the map out of the android’s hands. "See? If we do that, it leads to Zone 1-G, then to Hold B. From there, we have a straight shot right to the flight deck, through the crew quarters." His voice reverberated loudly in the empty mess hall they'd stopped in as he argued his point. There was a bit of debate between the synthetic and the human as to which path to take.
Pope reclaimed the Ravenno’s blueprints and looked over them with a small flashlight that he held in his right hand. "I agree with you, Stan, but that is Deck 2, not Deck 4, which is where the escape ship is." He shoved a finger at a small section of the readout.
"No," Giger retorted, shaking his head and sitting down on one of the long tables, "You’re reading it wrong." He began to examine his fingernails in a show of self-worth.
Ralph watched as Cominsky rubbed his head, trying to ease his growing headache and conveying the feelings of the entire platoon. He’s been through a whole lot lately, Ralph thought, watching him lay his rifle down on the floor. Trying to make life-and-death decisions for a whole squad of Marines? Gotta be tough.
"That’s it," the rumbled the Sergeant. "We wait here until you two can work this thing out. But hurry - - I don’t want anything sneaking up on us in the meantime. All you other girls, consider this your ‘nap time.’" A murmur went through the ranks as people discussed Cominsky’s rash decision to sit here in the Ravenno’s immense cafeteria. There were hordes of evil aliens ready to kill them, and they were resting their legs in a friggin’ mess hall!
"Um . . . sir?" Ralph asked, trying to get Cominsky’s attention.
"Yes, Ralph?"
The private lowered his voice so as to not offend Giger. "Shouldn’t we just trust Pope on this one? I mean, he is a walking computer."
"Well," the Sarge replied, taking several steps closer. "With anyone else, I would. But there are three things going for Giger: number one, he has a degree in engineering Pope’s stationary cousins; number two, that degree is from Yale; number three, he graduated from Yale, with that degree, Valedictorian. Thus, my faith in Giger." He turned and watched as the two argued, anger rising in their voices. "Be sure to watch this, Smartie. The ultimate clash of intelligence - - I personally don’t know which is smarter." He walked away and laid down on an empty table in repose.
Ralph chose to ignore Cominsky’s advice, deciding that it was better to pick himself up with a cup of coffee . . . if there was any left, of course. He walked over to the other side of the room, searching desperately for a Styrofoam cup. The mess hall was set up in the standard configuration of most Weyland-Yutani owned ships: serving lines on either side, buffet style, and long tables in the middle, each complete with around forty stools. Ralph never thought he’d see a cafeteria like this; after all, they were infamous for their bright lights, which didn’t exactly agree with the after-effects of a long cryosleep. But now, in the dim glow of the shoulder lamps, it all seemed very different.
Ah ha! Ralph exclaimed to himself, seizing a plastic cup left on one of the serving lines. Now we’re in business. He squinted to see down to the bottom, making sure there weren’t any unsuspected surprises or dirt lurking down there - - Ralph’s mother was a staunch believer in washing one’s hands and making meals immaculate. Sorry, mom, he chuckled, But there isn’t any soap around here. Tired, he stumbled further down the line until he found a small tank label "COFFEE". It was lying on its side, obviously knocked down by the Ravenno’s crash, and Ralph lifted it upright feeling liquid slosh inside of it.
The switch on the spout flicked up as Ralph’s dirty fingers yanked it up. Black beverage poured out, spilling into the cup and causing a smile to develop on the Marine’s weary features. It wasn’t warm, by any means, but the caffeine might wake him up. Better than Drew’s tic-tacs, at any rate, he thought, flipping off the faucet.
Taking a sip, Ralph glanced back in the direction of Pope and Giger. They were still arguing, trying to determine the correct route to the hangar. They aren’t going to be winding up any time soon, he thought, sitting back down the nearest table. Maybe this would be a good time to squeeze in some reading . . . Ralph shoved his hand into his satchel bag and withdrew his newest issue of Sports Illustrated.
He stared at the cover for quite some time, deciding whether or not he should read it. The cover story was an interview with the owner of the Green Bay Packers. Only problem: he hated the Packers. With a passion. Their owner was the ultimate incarnation of the very thing he hated. But look at this, Ralph, he said to himself, glancing at one of the stories on the side. "Picks for the World Series" - - might not be that bad. He flipped to the designated page and began diligently reading, automatically blocking out the sound of Giger and Pope’s arguing.
However, there was one sound he couldn’t block out. It kept bothering him, poking into his mind every few seconds. It was a sort of skittery noise . . . the same thing Giger had heard in the hallway, perhaps? What could it be? More than a little nervous, Ralph slowly took his magazine away from his face . . .
Underneath the table across from him, something was alive. And moving, too. Though barely visible (being obscured by the myriad of stool legs), it was definitely there. The more he stared at it, the more familiar the shape became. Eight legs . . . long tail . . .
Facehugger. Immediately, Ralph leapt up onto the table. "Everybody, look out! It's one of the parasites!" All the Marines snapped their heads in his direction, the words obviously taking a moment to register. Then, there was a moment of pandemonium as men and women clambered up onto the tables, weapons in hand. Everyone stood together, waiting for the facehugger to attack.
Ralph looked back at the place where the creature was, only to see empty floor. Apparently, it had hidden during the chaos, waiting silently for the moment it would leap upon its host. "Ragsdale, turn on the motion tracker," Cominsky boomed. He stood alone on his table, since any other people would’ve probably made it crumple under the weight.
"It won’t work, sir," Pieper countered. "The tracker omits small movements, like animals and moving leaves, so you won’t pick up an inconsequential signal. It wouldn’t do any good, now." She looked at Ragsdale’s smartgun. "However, smarts have no such reservations."
Cominsky nodded. "Okay, then. Everybody with smarts, turn on your tracking. Everybody else, watch each other’s backs until we’ve wasted this little bastard." The squad did as they were told, smartgun barrels waving around, searching for the facehugger. Eyes were peeled, and everyone waited in silence.
"There it is!" someone yelled, pointing across the room. Sure enough, the tiny creature was scurrying as fast as it could underneath the tables, trying to evade detection. It was only moments before everyone was firing in the thing’s general direction, grenades and pulse rifle rounds tearing the table and stools to shreds. The acoustics of the mess hall made the noise nearly unbearable as every last armed soldier launched a personal vendetta to destroy the parasite.
Soon, though, the firing stopped, barrels leaving wisps of smoke in the air. The facehugger’s limp form lay not far away from the table it had sought shelter under. "We got it," Cominsky sighed. "That was clo - -"
He was cut off as he heard the same signature chitter sound. "You’ve got to be shittin’ me . . ." Ragsdale whispered. His voice was very audible in the attentive silence. "Where could this one be?" The noise didn’t seem to come from any particular direction; it seemed to be everywhere, running circles around the frightened group. Then again . . .
Ralph’s heart leapt as he pinpointed the location of the sound. Behind you . . . it’s coming from behind you . . . slowly, Ralph unclipped the holster to his pistol and cocked the weapon. He began to turn . . . ever . . . so . . . delicately.
Never before had Ralph’s eyes ever been so wide. The facehugger was indeed right there, on the table in front of him. Its legs were bent and its body close to the ground, as though it were preparing to pounce. Ralph raised his pistol, took aim - - and fired as the creature jumped into the air. The impact of the precisely placed bullets pierced the hugger’s leathery hide and sent it flying across the table. Ralph then stood over the corpse and continued to fire, the body turning into an acidic pulp that soon ate through the table’s gleaming metal surface.
"Ralph - - Ralph, it’s okay. You can stop now." The soldier turned only to see Ragsdale beside him, tugging at his shirt. "Hop on down." He extended a hand and helped his comrade down to the floor. "Damn, that was as scary as Hell. I thought that thing was gonna get you." Ralph merely nodded, too shaken by the entire action.
"Well," Cominsky sighed, looking to Pope and Giger. "Have you two reached a verdict?"
The android nodded. "Stan is right. I made a . . . miscalculation."
Drew Raimes, who had remained silent until now, chuckled. "Nuthin’ funnier than a robot admitting he’s wrong."
Li’chinde was beginning to get disheartened as he sneaked through the dripping, cavernous hives, looking back every few seconds to check on his charges. They had gotten pretty far into the craft, without major incident, and that almost scared the surviving veteran Warriors, because the kiande amedha always attacked anything entering their territory. Li’koub and Nemesis were the only Warriors that had lived this long, and behind those two were the remaining Young Bloods. Nobody had bothered with a head count; they just brought in all those living.
The tribe skulked around pipes and hive resin protruding from the walls, being careful to avoid anything that would clue in the oomans to their presence, either through sound or light. Li’chinde was getting very confused. By all his knowledge of hive life, they should have been attacked long ago. Were the creatures becoming smarter? Had the oomans killed them all? Li’chinde dreaded either option. He liked to think that even the oomans weren’t powerful enough to devastate an entire hive in a matter of minutes, but he also didn’t want to think of the possibilities that rose from an intelligent creature with the power the kiande amedha bears . . .
That’s when the walls seemed to cave in on themselves and come to life, rising up on spindly legs into the forms of the kiande amedha. Ambush! In unison, the Young Bloods ripped off their shoulder burners and set them for use as pistols, blowing the creatures away with shimmering globes of electrical energy. Mahnde whipped his naginata into the air, splitting two drones in half and nearly beheading Li’koub, who ducked the spear and kept firing at the other drones that came to replace their fallen.
It wasn’t long before the bloodshed was over. There weren’t many drones that attacked; only maybe fifteen or twenty. The corpses were sizzling against the metal grating of the floor, chewing away at the handiwork of the oomans. Pipes and electrical wires were hanging from the ceiling, slashed apart by the talons of the drones and the shots of the yautja. Mahnde jerked his naginata out of the wall it had buried itself in, and, grumbling quietly in his native language, returned to his place in the group. They kept moving speedily but stealthily, led only by their instincts and Li’chinde’s hand signals.
All except one Young Blood, who ducked behind a wall, waiting for the perfect opportunity to meet these ooman creatures.
A dismembered xenomorph corpse lay serenly on the floor of the hallway, limbs sprawled awkwardly and mouth open wide. Its long, banana-shaped head had been sliced open with some sort of blade, and acidic blood had burned a gaping hole in the grating it sat on. In its living state, the alien would have seemed terrifying - - however, it merely appeared to be another animal, now that it was harmless and dead.
Nadia Pieper jabbed at the creature’s body with her foot, rifle ready in case it wasn’t fully dead. "What did this?" she asked in disgust. Gooey brains slipped out of the alien’s cranium as she kicked it over onto its stomach.
"I don’t know," Ragsdale replied, from further down the corridor, "But there’s a couple of them down here, too." He shook his head as he surveyed the corpses. "There are a lot of burn marks on the walls over here. You don’t think - -"
"Yeah," Cominsky sighed, rubbing his eyes, "I do. Looks like our new friends are in here, too." It was obvious; the xenomorph slaughter and the burn marks proved it.
"No way," objected Ragsdale, his voice shaky. "No way. Maybe . . . maybe they turned on each other. Ya know, like a territory dispute or something. No way."
"Last time I checked, Private, these xenomorphs couldn’t even realize what a weapon was, nonetheless carry it, nonetheless fire it. These Predators, on the other hand, could beat Einstein in a spelling bee. They know what we’re up to, and I don’t think they like it." Cominsky knelt beside the slowly decomposing carcass. "In their eyes, the rabbits are heading for the thicket."
Ralph, who had remained silent until now, spoke up. "Well . . . shouldn’t we moving on, sir? These hunters could be back. I don’t wanna run into all of ‘em at once, if you catch my drift."
Cominsky’s bald head bobbed up and down in a nod. "I agree, Smartie. Guess we didn’t give you that nickname for nothin’, huh?"
The young man had just opened his mouth, about to reply, when he was cut off abruptly by a low hiss above his head. It was the same hiss that had frozen his blood not so long ago; it was the sound of certain death. Ralph nearly fainted as a drop of sticky slime dripped onto his shoulder.
There was a xenomorph, not ten feet above his head. He immediately backed up as fast as his feet would carry him, sighting the ghastly creature that had remained hidden by the dark shadows. Though Cominsky had not yet realized the creature’s presence, and thus had not given the command to open fire, Ralph squeezed his trigger and set several rounds into the creature’s tough exoskeleton. Its body fractured and popped under the barrage as the beast screamed, the shriek echoing through the hall. Ralph could only compare it to the nauseating sound of nails on a chalkboard.
His fellow Marines stared at the freshly killed xenomorph in awe. It’s not over yet, Ralph thought, watching the shadows come alive as the aliens emerged from their hiding places. Dark, shining shells of death popped and exploded as guns began to fire.
"Everybody, look out!" Cominsky yelled over the snarls and hisses around him. His immense hands curled around his pulse rifle, the weapon shaking as he picked out every target with deadly accuracy, firing at the waves of aliens. The resulting inhuman cries of pain, as well as the rattling of the guns, were deafening.
Ralph shouted out in fright as one of the creatures scurried towards him, saliva dripping to the floor in gooey strings. He stood back, aimed his rifle, and fired, exoskeleton cracking and sending bits of blood and shell everywhere. As he sighted his next enemy with cool accuracy, Ralph realized that the xenomorphs had two distinct advantages: first, their black color made them nearly impossible to see in the low light of the hallway; second, this space was much more cramped than the battle at the camp. Claws, teeth, and tails seemed much more effective in a long corridor than an open arena.
It was an almost dreamlike fight - - Ralph didn’t even feel like he was there. It was as though he was watching some grotesque war movie, and he was merely imagining himself to be a part of it. The writhing aliens, the spurts of blood across his fatigues as another comrade was slaughtered, the star shaped pattern of the smartguns’ muzzle flare . . . all of it seemed to be somewhere else, unattached from the real world.
But it is real, he thought, firing mindlessly into the onslaught of aliens. I am here, this is happening, people are dying . . . He watched in frightened awe as Holland, a veteran of the Oil War of 2160, was suddenly snatched up by a xenomorph’s gangly arms. Using its spare limbs, the creature ascended with the man, keeping him alive, perhaps wanting to take him back to the hive as a host.
Cominsky, as he said he would, put a few rounds into Holland’s chest, the bullets piercing the alien also. Both corpses fell to the ground with a resounding thud that was barely audible over the slaughter. There’s too many of them, Ralph thought, staring at Holland. His face was frozen in a look of horror, pale and ghastly in the darkened corridor. We’re dropping like flies . . .
He shook the thought out of his head. They were to stand ground until Cominsky told them otherwise. Inspired by the thought of slugging it out to the end, Ralph braced his rifle at his shoulder and fired confidently, catching an alien in the chest. It whirled about like a rag doll, the bullets kicking him around until the Marine’s clip was empty. Ralph promptly reloaded, aimed at another . . .
"Marines! Retreat!" Cominsky commanded, picking up the pace and running as fast as he could down the hallway. Everyone else was eager to follow, running backwards and firing at the same time. Ralph stumbled over several corpses as he took off for the rest of his platoon. In mid-jog he turned, slipped his finger onto his weapon’s secondary trigger, and fired. Visceral alien remains splashed against the walls as the grenade made contact, white hot fire bottlenecking down the corridor and stopping mere meters away. The smell of melting metal and thick, oily smoke filled the corridor. That should hold ‘em for a while.
Then, Ralph saw his redemption: a hatch just at the end of the hallway. I’m the last one, he thought, picking up his speed. This is the light at the end of the tunnel . . . His lungs burned and his tired feet ached as charged headlong through the open doorway, friends closing and sealing the hatch behind him with standard-issue hand welders. Blinding blue light filled the compartment.
"Well, we made it," Ragsdale said to no one in particular, his chest expanding up and down with long, exhausted breaths. "Who did we lose?"
Pope stared off into space, appearing almost comatose as he consulted his internal database. "Hmmm . . . personal locators indicate that Officers Holland and Brimmicombe are deceased."
Ragsdale shook his head. "Dammit. That leaves about fourteen of us alive, huh?"
"Yes," Pieper interjected, "And at least one of us injured." She was clutching his leg, which was bleeding severely. The leg of her pants was soaked in red, and a patch of it seemed to be eaten away by the xenomorphs’ acidic blood. The skin around the wound didn’t even exist, exposing muscle and nerve tissue.
Ralph rushed to her side as quickly as he could, in spite of his fatigue. "Good Lord," he said, examining the wound. "This looks bad. Pope, get your artificial ass over here and help her!"
"I’m sorry, Private," the android replied, "But I’m out of supplies. I used them all in the previous xenomorph attack. My medical satchel is empty." He held up the bare pack with one hand. "All I have left is a few pain killers. Nothing to help with Ms. Pieper’s injury."
"Don’t give me that bullshit," Ralph growled, putting his arm around Nadia’s shoulder. "We’ve got to help her! I read your report on the blood’s acidic qualities. How, if not treated, it can work its way up the capillaries and the nervous system to the brain! We’ve got to get her some medical treatment! Now!"
"I told you, sir: I am out of supplies."
"Then let’s get her to the Ravenno’s sick bay!"
Cominsky sighed. "Ralph, those things are crawling all over this ship. We don’t have the time." He looked at Pieper’s leg and winced. It did look pretty bad, the skin melted away, blood forming a pool on the floor . . . "Oh, all right. Damn. Pope, Giger, plot a route to the sick bay. We’ve gotta run our asses off, before Nadia dies or we get eaten. Now move!"
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