The train ride was only about fifteen minutes not counting the wait. As usual, the subway was crowded. Marcus hustled onto the train and then found a spot to stand and hold on for the jaunty ride. Other people crowded in next to him, each finding a spot to grab onto. He kept one hand on the strap of his bag, and kept his eyes on everybody. You had to watch out for anybody that looked like trouble. You had to watch out for the drunk group of guys at the end of the car who were talking too loud and picking with people. You had to watch out for the group of high schoolers who were doing the same thing, only they didn't have the excuse of inebriation. After taking in the general crowd, his eye finally settled on a sleeping woman a few seats down from where he was standing. From the side, she looked like his mother, and he had to do a double take to make sure it wasn't. She was obviously homeless. The man sitting next to her could have thought of several other places he would have liked to sit, but he was stuck. He was drawn in on himself as much as he could be, knees up, briefcase in his lap, and shoulders hunched. Marcus empathized as his eyes fell back on the woman. She was leaned all the way over, touching the passenger on her other side, waking with a start every time the train jumped; which was quite often. She looked around momentarily incoherent, then her eyes met Marcus'. She hadn't looked as much like his mom as he thought, but he still couldn't help thinking of her.
He had no idea where she was now, but that wasn't the case in the months after Jasmine had gone missing. Angela was in and out of the house more often than usual. At first he thought she had been looking for Jasmine. It had been a month since she'd come around, and he was the first one to bring it up in conversation. That was a mistake he paid for.
"Don't keep talking about that fucking whore while you stand under my roof, you got that you little bastard?" Angela said angrily from the kitchen.
Marcus was in his usual spot, in front of the TV playing Call of Duty, or Halo, or any number of games. He had quite a few. He had paused it to ask if she thought something had happened to his sister.
"But momma, she's never gone this long without seeing me. I think something happened to her. What if she's dead or something?" He asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice.
He'd been watching her make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the small kitchenette. She was standing at the counter facing him, now she was looking at him with her familiar look. It was a dangerous look, reserved only for times when Jasmine was the subject of conversation.
"Nothing happened to her. She's a street whore, and a drug addict and that's what they do. They stay out, and they drop off the face of the fucking Earth, and I don't wanna hear any more about her," Angela said, her tone low and dangerous. It was spoken with a self-righteous tone, as if she herself didn't fit that very description.
He watched her warily, and licked his lips in a nervous gesture. She had been making the sandwiches using the big kitchen knife rather than a spreading knife. He glanced back up at her face, his eyes suddenly wet.
"Why do you hate her so much? You don't even care if she's dead or not, do you?!" He screamed out, then immediately regretted it when his mother came around the counter, knife in hand.
"No, I don't care if she's dead. I hope the little bitch is dead, but I thought I told you to shut up talking about her?" She said, stalking him.
He stood up and dropped his controller. His breathing sped up, and he instinctively backed up, cursing himself when he felt the edge of the couch and the wall behind him. He raised his hands defensively, preparing for what was next.
"Put your arms down Marcus," she said simply, as if it were a normal command. He shook his head, struggling with his initial reaction to simply obey her.
"I said put them down," she ordered again. He refused once more. Like the strike of a snake, she struck him twice. It took a moment to realize that she had cut his forearms with the knife. He only realized it when he glanced down to see small rivulets of blood running down his arm, and starting to drip off his elbows. Once he saw the cuts, they began to throb and ache. He looked back up at her, surprise and hurt in his eyes.
"You… you cut me," Marcus said in a small bewildered voice. Her eyes narrowed on the cuts, then on his face, and she raised the knife again threateningly.
"I'll do more than that, if you ever speak her name in this house again. Do you understand me?" She asked, daring him to contradict her even in his body language.
Hot tears streamed down his face. She had beaten him before, but she had never done anything like this. What was once a seed of resentment blossomed into a forest of pure hatred and betrayal. What had become of his mother? Who was this woman standing here, who would dare hurt him this way, then tomorrow proclaim her undying love for him? She blinked once, twice, then looked at her handiwork. Whatever had gotten into her at these times, seemed to pass over her face and out of her body, and she became Angela his mother once again. Something akin to regret read in her eyes and she lowered the knife. She backed away and went into the kitchen, returning with a few paper towels bunched in her hands. She began to wipe up the blood from his arms. Marcus wanted desperately to pull away from her grip, but dared not set her off again.
"I told you to stop Marcus. Now look what you made me do," she said, fretting over him now as if he were five, and had merely spilled his juice on himself.
"Hold these paper towels, I'll be right back, baby," she stated, then hurried to the bathroom. He stood there, trying not to sob, but the tears wouldn't stop. Angela came back with some alcohol and bandages. Quickly, she bandaged the cuts and stood back to look at her work. The cuts weren't life-threatening, but they were deep enough to consistently bleed through the bandages.
"It'll stop in a minute, so stop crying," she said, watching the tears fall from his eyes.
"Okay," he mumbled, then did his best to wipe them away. She had momentarily become his mother, but now that monster was re-entering her bloodstream. He could see it in her eyes, and the set of her body. She became a little more rigid, and her eyes were cold.
She's going to kill you. She's going to eventually kill you, and you'll be stupid if you stay.
The thought frightened him so much, he inhaled sharply as if startled. She gave him a disinterested look, then went back to the kitchen to finish the sandwiches. Not knowing what to do next, he simply sat down in front of the television and partook of the small lunch. When she left later that night, Marcus took a butcher's knife from the kitchen, hid it under his jacket and left to find Jasmine. He had gone out at least a couple of times a week since that night.
Absently, he rubbed his fingers over the healed cuts on his forearm. The train jerked to a stop as the announcement came over the PA that he'd reached his destination. Along with the few other people getting off with him, he marched up the steps to the street above. The sun was declining quickly, and the wind had picked up a little. It was headed into summer, but spring was hanging on for dear life anyway. He had on a light jacket over his t-shirt, and pulled it closed a little as he began to walk in the direction of the shelter. The streets didn't look any less trashy than the subway platform he'd just exited. The light breeze was picking up and swirling paper and other refuse in mini cyclones on the sidewalk. Even near the shelter, homeless people lined the streets in small huddled groups. Most eyed him suspiciously, but others begged for any money he had. Marcus ignored them as he made his way to the shelter. He stopped when he reached the front. It had a shabby sign painted above the doorway, although it did seem like someone took enough pride to sweep around the entrance. He stood in the same spot, with the same expression as his sister had nearly two years ago, and read the sign.
Love Outreach Shelter and Mission
Sponsored by the Weyland-Yutani Corporation
"Building A Better Future"
"Hmph," he scoffed, pushed the doors open, and went inside.
The structure was buried deep underground. It was below even the subway tunnels. It covered a width of a couple of miles in each direction, and it was quickly becoming a festering Xenomorph haven. It was barely being held at bay by a veritable army, created, trained, and funded by the Weyland-Yutani corp. The city above was blissfully unaware of the danger lurking beneath them, and Mr. Weyland's successor wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. Cynthia Weyland, the great granddaughter of the late great Mr. Bishop Weyland, sat in her high-backed Corinthian leather executive chair, and watched the scene play out on the monitors before her. Her assistant stood pensively by the doorway, watching her boss' reactions. Cynthia on the other hand seemed not to be bothered, but that was just on the outside. Inside, she was a nervous wreck. She wasn't a scientist but she'd been in the field a few times, and had witnessed firsthand how dangerous these aliens were.
Small tactical teams, outfitted with equipment which was reputed to be able to withstand the alien's acidic blood, roamed through the facility. They were concentrated mostly in the area where the outbreak began. Over the course of forty-eight hours, that area had been overtaken, the scientists and employees within killed, and the nest spreading. They had yet to locate the queen and kill her; if in fact there was a queen. That fact hadn't been confirmed, but if she existed she would need to be killed to properly ensure the death of this new hive. As far as Cynthia was concerned, her company was prepared for such contingencies. They'd quelled similar uprisings before, and there was no reason to believe that it couldn't be done this time.
The other times, they didn't have a queen. That's the difference.
She carefully blinked the thought away behind her designer prescription glasses. One perfectly manicured nail tapped the cherry wood desk, the only sign of any nerves on her part. She kept her sapphire blue eyes glued to the screens. She watched as a small group went into the thick of the breeding nest.
The captain of Bravo Group Two silently signaled the five other soldiers behind him to take position. Just like they'd trained, they all posted in a staggered position just before the door which had been torn off the hinges. The darkness of the room seemed to reach beyond the threshold to envelop them all in its unsettling embrace. They each turned on their night vision goggles, and one by one entered the nest. The smell was stifling, and it had taken on a damp, moldy quality. The walls, ceiling, and most of the floor was caked with whatever they constructed the nest from. The captain hated to think about that. He imagined it was made of their spit or something. It was always slimy and slick, and it made his stomach turn to think of it.
"Armstrong, on my six," he ordered quietly but firmly. Armstrong made her way over, and guarded his back.
The room was more silent than an empty cemetery. There was no movement, and nothing even seemed to be alive in here, but the captain knew better. He'd encountered these Xenomorphs before, and he didn't think people gave them enough credit. They were ravenous beasts, but they had a level of cunning which was just enough to make them even more frightening beyond measure. It was this cunning which had allowed them to escape in the first place. The scientists here had been lulled into a false sense of security, and now the company was paying the price. Their security procedures, mechanisms, and fancy equipment hadn't helped. The only equipment to rely on now was the semi-automatic weapon with the armor piercing rounds in his hands. It was made of the same material as their armor, which was supposed to withstand the alien's acidic blood. The gun was light weight and translucent, but the design was based primarily on the AK-47 with a few handy-dandy upgrades. It came with a small digital display which helped with targeting, and much improved accuracy. It was designed specifically for bug hunts, and the captain refused to use any other gun but this. It'd saved his ass too many times to give it up.
Carefully, they moved through the large room. The captain only had to glance up at the walls to see what had happened to everyone. They were all dead, but had all been cocooned. No one had been killed outright, at least not in here, and from his count there were at least ten, perhaps more. Every last one of them had an empty chest cavity. He looked up towards the ceiling and saw nothing but open ventilation ducts, and when he looked around there was a faint sliver of light coming from the far wall. It shouldn't have been there. The room was sealed, one way in and one way out, but they'd created a way hadn't they? The fuckers. Stupid bugs were just smart enough to fuck you over royally. He looked back up at the ducts, and he could have sworn he saw something move. He couldn't be sure, but better safe than sorry. Those ducts didn't seem to have been sealed off as safety protocols would have dictated.
"Copy to command, this is Captain Emerson. Ventilation compromised, I repeat, ventilation compromised. Copy to teams Alpha, Bravo One, and Charlie," he said calmly into the mic in his helmet.
"Everybody keep your fucking eyes peeled. We got company," he said to his small team.
The hairs on his neck had stood on end as they did whenever those bugs were around. He couldn't see them, but he sure as hell could feel them. Just as he was signaling his team to complete the sweep, the staccato of gunfire rang out. First a single gun, then a chorus as all of them shot first and asked questions later. The captain held up a fist, and the gunfire petered out. They hadn't shot anything, or at least nothing was dead except the people on the walls.
"Weidman, what the actual fuck?!" The captain called out. Weidman's eyes were as big as saucers when he turned around.
"I saw something cap, it was there," Weidman said, his voice shaky with fear.
"Fuck, man…"
"Scared the living shit outta me…"
"Goddamnit…"
"Alright, alright. Shut the fuck up and let's clear this goddamn room," he whisper shouted. A round of "yes sir's" was followed by Weidman's choked cry as he was lifted into the air slowly. A sharp bony tail was protruding from his midsection, as he stared dumbly at it, then horribly into the captain's eyes. The captain could have done without the pleading look. "Help me" that look said, so the captain raised the muzzle of his gun, and aimed just above and behind Weidman and fired. That was followed by a hail of gunfire.
A shrill cry cut above the racket, and then it tore Weidman in half, dropping the pieces like trash. Armstrong, who had moved into better position to shoot, was drenched in Weidman's blood. Hauser, who'd been in the company less than a year, could not avoid being hit with Weidman's torso and knocked out. Sickeningly, Weidman was still seeming aware, his eyes wide and unseeing, his arms flailing, and his finger on the trigger of the AK. He squeezed off several shots before it stopped, but he'd managed to kill Evans anyway. Now there was just the captain, Armstrong, and a young man named Mendenhall left. They looked to the captain for answers, but he had only one.
"Shoot anything that fucking moves!" They obeyed.
The walls themselves seemed to come alive as the Xenomorphs attacked. There was no hope. Ms. Weyland watched as nothing but the flash of gunfire, and the shadows of the Xenomorphs was all that crossed the screen. She looked to the other monitors to see how the other groups were faring, and it was much the same. The Xenomorphs had gotten into position, and orchestrated a rather coordinated attack. This confirmed a great concern. The only time these bugs acted this way, was when there was a queen present, and by the looks, this queen was very much in control of this fledging hive. It would need to be eradicated. Cynthia closed her eyes against the billions of dollars circling down the drain, but it had to be done. Underneath her desk, she pushed a single button, and the calm female voice boomed over the PA system.
"Cleansing protocol initiated. This facility will self-destruct in five minutes"
"Ms. Weyland, it's time to leave," the head of her security said, as he stepped into the large office. Her assistant was still staring at the screens, her eyes wide and shining above her hands which were clasped over her mouth.
Cynthia nodded her understanding and carefully gathered her laptop, and a few important items. All the paperwork which seemed important, were left to burn, as they held no real information. Everything was on hard drives, backed up on servers, backed up on flash drives, etc, etc. Her heels were silent on the plush beige carpet, her knee-length pencil skirt was perfectly wrinkle-free, and her hair a makeup were perfect still. It was as if she hadn't watched men, her company's men, die brutal deaths just seconds ago. It was as if she hadn't ordered an entire facility located beneath a major American city to self-destruct with people still inside; maybe even living people. She stood next to her still shocked assistant, and answered her unasked question.
"These are the sacrifices we need to make. It is either them, or all of us," Cynthia Weyland said, and then marched out. The click-clack of her heels echoing in the long hall. The assistant cast one last glance at the monitors, and immediately regretted it. One of the soldiers was looking directly into wherever the camera was, and screaming something she could not hear. He looked terrified. He was terrified. She swallowed thickly, then raced out of the door and down the hall, hopefully to leave this nightmare far behind.
A/N: Hope you guys are enjoying this story so far. I'm trying to do some justice to the Aliens, and their way of killing. Since at least half if not more of this story takes place on Earth, there will be a fair amount of focus on my human characters. I promise on everything a yautja can kill, that I will NOT make it boring! I intend as always, to present my characters as realistically as possible, without taking the story in directions I don't need it to go in. That's harder than it sounds, and any of you who read and review who also write, know what I mean. I will introduce some new characters, but that have ties to the movies so at least you can have some connection to them, and actually give two shits about what happens to them in this story. There shall be easter eggs in chapters to come. See if you can spot them! Anyway, as usual I thank you all sincerely for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and generally putting up with me and my crazy head-canons :) Until next chapter!
Oh and special shout out to jejcjs! I see you're following and I hope I don't disappoint. You do realize I reread the reviews you left me on Somewhat damaged right? I've tried to keep them in mind throughout, and I know I haven't done it perfectly by any stretch, but I think of you when I try to write scenes that may need more embellishment on the description. Still indebted to you for the advise.
Now, that's not to say that I haven't taken something valuable from everyone else. You all have provided me with a strong sense of accomplishment, and I'm just honored to be writing stories that anyone would like to read. Thanks once again to all of you! Okay, I'll stop with the long ass "author's note" :)