Andrew Jacobes hated the cold. No, he abhorred it. So why was he in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of winter, in freaking Alaska?! He had no idea.
Only a week ago, he'd been safe in his lab in the Arizonian desert, poring over the artifact he had received from a colleague in the jungles of Africa—an object of such intricate design and unknown origin that it had consumed his every waking thought. The thing defied everything he knew about metallurgy and organic materials. It was ancient, but somehow, it healed itself like it was… alive. And then, just as he was getting close to understanding it, his world turned upside down.
Black-clad men stormed into his home, confiscated his research, and dragged him from everything he knew. He barely had time to struggle before he was thrown onto a military transport plane, bound for this frozen wasteland. He was pretty sure they worked for Weyland-Yutani—because who else would steal his work and then have the audacity to kidnap him?
Now, he sat in the passenger seat of a rumbling truck, gripping his arms in a futile attempt to ward off the chill. The driver, a towering figure with shoulders broad enough to block out the dim dashboard lights, said little. He was built like a tank, and Andrew had the uneasy feeling that if the guy wanted to, he could snap him in half like a dry breadstick.
"So, umm, where exactly are we going?" Andrew asked, his voice betraying the nervous energy coiling in his gut. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose, his fingers trembling slightly.
The man didn't even glance at him. "No."
Andrew blinked. "What?"
The man grunted. "You don't need to concern yourself with it."
Andrew swallowed hard and turned to the window, watching the endless white landscape blur past. His mind raced through a thousand questions, none of which had comforting answers. Why had they taken him? What did they want with his research? And most pressing of all—what had he gotten himself into?
His eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion from the past week creeping up on him. Despite the circumstances, sleep pulled him under.
A rough shake jolted Andrew awake. "Get up."
He gasped, the seatbelt tightening across his chest as he struggled to orient himself. The truck had stopped. Blinking blearily, he looked out the window and felt his stomach sink. The town before him was barely more than a collection of weather-beaten structures huddled together under layers of snow and ice. Not a single light flickered in the windows. It looked abandoned—dead.
Except for one building.
A dim glow emanated from the establishment ahead, the muffled roar of voices spilling into the frozen night. A neon sign buzzed faintly, the words 'Joe's Pub' flickering intermittently. The contrast between the deathly silence of the town and the raucous noise within sent a shiver down Andrew's spine.
The driver stepped out without a word. Andrew fumbled with his seatbelt, scrambling to follow. The cold hit him like a physical force, cutting through his layers instantly. His boots sank into knee-deep snow, and he struggled to keep up, nearly toppling over more than once. When he reached the door, he was covered in snow, breathless, and thoroughly miserable.
The moment they stepped inside, the room fell into silence.
Andrew froze. Every pair of eyes locked onto them—eyes belonging to burly men in thick furs, men with the kind of hardened stares that made his insides shrivel. These were men who probably knew exactly where to hide a body so it would never be found.
A strong hand clamped around his upper arm. He barely contained a squeak of fear as his captor—whom he was now sure was some government agent or maybe even Weyland-Yutani's private security—began forcing them through the crowd, ignoring the hostile stares directed their way.
Reaching the counter, the man finally spoke. "We're looking for information."
The bartender, a large man with thick arms and wary eyes, shifted uncomfortably. "We got nuthin' ta tell ya'. We're a small town."
The agent smirked and threw a manila folder onto the sticky bar top. A few pictures slid out—grainy images of a shadowed figure carrying full-grown animals with alarming ease. The most striking was the figure lifting a black bear in one hand like a flour sack.
"Are you sure about that, William 'Billy' Miller?" the agent asked.
Andrew swallowed thickly, his gaze flicking between the image and the bear head trophy mounted above the bar. He was going to die in a bar fight. He just knew it.
Then the door slammed open.
A hulking figure filled the frame, blocking out the swirling snow outside. Andrew's blood ran cold. Was this another one of the agent's people? The thing in the photos? Someone worse? His breath hitched as the figure raised a hand… and began unwrapping layers of scarves.
Andrew stared in dumbfounded disbelief as a tiny, older woman emerged from the mountain of winter clothing. She had bright, twinkling blue eyes and a face deeply lined with wrinkles, yet she stood with the confidence of someone who owned the room.
"What's with all this tension? I could cut it with my dullest butter knife." Her voice carried a thick Southern drawl, smooth as honey, and just like that, the air shifted. Shoulders relaxed. The bartender let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Andrew gaped as the woman hobbled forward, cane in hand. Who was this lady?
"Hello, Maggie." The bartender, Billy, offered a nervous smile. "Thought you wouldn't be in 'til tomorrow."
"Well, y'all know my Angel. The dang girl won't stop growin'." Maggie's laugh was warm, like a grandmother indulging in an old joke. Men who had moments ago looked ready for murder stepped aside, nodding respectfully.
She stopped beside Michael, placing a frail-looking hand on his massive arm. Andrew sucked in a sharp breath. Was she insane?!
"Y'all new?" she asked, directing her smile toward Andrew. "I don't think I've seen you 'round here before. I'm Maggie, the town's crazy old coot. What's your name, sweetie?"
Andrew found himself smiling—just slightly. The absurdity of the situation was starting to hit him. He risked a glance up at Michael, who did not look amused.
Michael's jaw clenched, his fingers twitching. His hand tightened around his pistol.
"Now that the pleasantries are done," he growled, casually tapping the photos on the counter, "where's the alien?"
The room froze.
Andrew had just enough time to process the words, open his mouth in horror—
And then he fainted.
Author's Note:
Oh my goodness! I haven't touched this story in years, and I am very sorry! I recently received an artwork offer for my story and was so touched and shocked that people are still reading it!
I have planned to rewrite it since I last wrote it in high school, and my writing style has changed. I beg you to be patient with me because I have long since lost my notes for this story but vaguely remember its direction.
Thank you again for reading and enjoying my story! Advice and Comments are always appreciated!
Also, I don't own anything in the Alien vs. Predatory franchise; I just fantasize about their world and borrow it for my story. I do not make any money off of this, and any and all references to people or places that resemble real life are complete coincidences.
-Lady_Baker_Of_Cookies 3