Medical smelled like death. The red emergency lighting casting long, black shadows across every surface. There were signs of a struggle, and they had even come across a body that had been hastily covered with a sheet. Neither one of them looked too closely. Whatever had happened here, it looked like they had missed it.

  “This place is a tomb,” said Van Der Beek, still clutching his bleeding arm.

  “I’ve got what I need,” said Louie, wheeling a Mayo stand over to the side of the bed. “Let’s do this fast, this place is giving me the creeps. It’s just a little too familiar. Get comfortable.”

  The big merc swung his legs on to the bed, propping himself up as Louie snapped on some rubber gloves and pulled an articulated examination lamp into position. Under the harsh light he could see the wound clearly for the first time. A sharp fifteen-centimetre laceration running down his forearm. Van Der Beek had been lucky. A centimetre to the side and he’d have lost the use of his fingers. As it stood, it looked worse than it was, although he bet it still hurt like hell.

  “Hey, do you know what you’re doing?” asked Van Der Beek.

  “Yes, I’ve done this before,” said Louie flatly.

  “How the fuck—you know what? Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  Here goes, he thought, as he cleaned away the blood with an antiseptic wipe. Van Der Beek hissed through tight lips.

  “Big baby,” Louie said with a smirk.

  The merc shot him a cold look, but said nothing.

  Cleaning it took time. It wasn’t too deep, but the blade had nicked a vein, which was why it had bled so profusely. The cold air had slowed that, but it still had not fully coagulated. He worked fast while Van Der Beek kept staring at the ceiling. Jaw tight and fist balled.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him, you know,” said Van Der Beek, eyes still staring upwards.

  “Not the first time you’ve accidentally killed someone, I bet,” quipped Louie, instantly regretting it. The merc shot him a look, but his expression was not angry, just disappointed, before settling back on his spot on the ceiling.

  After a few minutes, the bleeding finally stopped, and Louie was able to properly clean the area. Thankfully, the blade had been razor-sharp, leaving a single, neat gash. Now came the hard part. He sighed as he picked up a syringe and bottle, and aspirated what he hoped would be enough for someone the merc’s size.

  “What are you doing?” Van Der Beek asked as he straightened, his accent failing to conceal an uncharacteristic note of concern.

  “It’s remifentasyn,” he explained. “I need to sedate you while I stitch your arm. Relax, it won’t completely knock you out, and it’ll wear off in an hour.”

  “You’re not jabbing me with that shit, brah,” Van Der Beek said coldly.

  “Look,” said Louie, exasperated. “Your arm needs thirty-odd stitches. You barely survived the disinfectant.”

  “No drugs.”

  Louie sighed as he placed the syringe back on the tray. “Fine, you’re the boss. But this is gonna hurt.”

  He pinched the two sides of the cut and pushed the needle through both layers with a wet pop.

  “Argh, fuck. You dirty bliksem,” he hissed through gritted teeth as his face turned bright red.

  “Keep it down,” snapped Louie before taking a breath. This was going to take a minute, and he needed the merc calm, so he decided to try a different tact.

  “So, Van Der Beek, you got a first name?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You didn’t want the anaesthetic. I need to do something to take your mind off it,” said Louie.

  Van Der Beek just snorted. He got two more stitches done as the merc snatched quick, shallow breaths.

  “Jansen,” said Van Der Beek.

  “What?”

  “My name. It’s Jansen.”

  “Any family?” asked Louie. He had asked just to distract the merc while he worked, but now, he was genuinely curious.

  “A sister back in Johannesburg, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you have a sister?” asked Louie, raising a credulous, hairless eyebrow without taking his eyes off the task at hand.

  “We haven’t spoken in seventeen years. Last I heard, she married some rich asshole. A doctor, I think,” he inhaled sharply as he pulled another stitch closed.

  Seven. Eight.

  “Where are you from? You don’t sound French,” asked Van Der Beek.

  “Shreveport,” said Louie.

  “No shit?” Van Der Beek grinned. “I was there maybe six, seven years ago, coming off a job. Right around Mardi Gras. Man, that was a wild night. Small world, eh?”

  Louie pretended the question was rhetorical. He remember those nights. Years of addiction had not dulled his memory. Cheap bourbon and cheaper aftershave. Neon lights and dark alleys. Cash up front. He had always been good at what he did, and made his “employers” a lot of money. Sometimes five-figures a night.

  Van Der Beek bit the glove of his free hand as Louie pulled the thread tight.

  “Listen, I’m not even half-way yet. Let me give you the shot, and it’ll be over before you know it,” he said, trying to reason with him.

  “No,” growled Van Der Beek.

  Louie shook his head, and went back to stitching.

  Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  “What’s the deal with that, anyway?” he asked.

  For a long moment, Van Der Beek didn’t answer, continuing to grit his teeth, and Louie did not press.

  Seventeen. Eighteen…

  “So, what’s your story?” asked Van Der Beek, breaking the silence.

  “I already told you.”

  “You told me how you ended up here. What about before? Any folks back on Earth?”

  “Nobody,” said Louie sharply.

  “Come on, everyone at least has parents,” Van Der Beek pressed.

  “They sold me for drugs when I was seven, or eight. I don’t remember them,” said Louie without emotion. He wasn’t lying either. Sometimes even now, almost twenty years later, he would catch himself trying to picture their faces, and every time they came up blank.

  “Jesus, that’s…” the merc trailed off.

  “That’s just life,” he said too quickly. Life had winners and losers, and he’d always just figured himself one of the latter. Born under a bad sign, even his own name had thrice damned him. Ruminating on it didn’t change that.

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two. His gloves now slick with blood; he struggled to keep the needle steady. Focus. Almost there.

  “I had a brother,” said Van Der Beek, still looking at the ceiling. “A little younger than I was. I kinda looked after him. He got hooked on that shit because of me. By the time he was sixteen, he was too far gone. He was nineteen when he OD’d.”

  “That’s not your fault. Trust me, I know,” said Louie quietly.

  “Yes, it was,” insisted Van Der Beek. “I got him into the life. I was working for some local organised crime. Just hired muscle. I tried to get him a job. Instead, he found that. I tried to get him off it, but it was useless. I always swore that would never be me. After he died, I hooked up with a PMC outfit running ops mostly off-Earth, and I never looked back.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Louie. Van Der Beek turned his head to face him, and for the first time, he saw the merc’s cold features soften slightly.

  “I really didn’t mean to kill him,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” said Louie, and he continued to stitch in silence for a few minutes while the merc endured without a sound.

  Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

  “All done,” said Louie, exhaling slowly as he snipped the end of the thread. “You’ll have a scar, but you’ll live.”

  “One more for the collection,” the merc shrugged, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Louie quickly wrapped some surgical gauze around the wound before taping it off. “We’ll need to change that daily.”

  “That’s a good dressing,” said the merc, flexing his arm as he stood. “Thanks.”

  “Take these,” said Louie, offering him a bottle of pills. Van Der Beek eyed them warily. “They’re antibiotics, it’ll prevent infection. You can either take these, or I can cut your arm off.”

  “Never liked that arm anyway,” he japed, but still cautiously accepted the proffered bottle. “We should look around. There’s a ton of stuff back there, and there’s a basement to this place, we should check it out. We might even find more of that stuff for you.”

  “I doubt that,” said Louie dismissively. “But you’re right, we should check it out.”

  “Ssh,” snapped Van Der Beek, his attention suddenly drawn towards the door. “You hear that?” he whispered.

  Louie strained his ears. Yes, he could hear it. Distant, but closing. The sound of approaching footsteps. Something was coming, and whatever it was, it was trying to do so quietly. Did it already know they were in here? He frantically looked around, but the infirmary only had one way in or out. They were trapped, and had nowhere to hide.

  “Stay close to me,” he ordered in a hushed tone. Van Der Beek picked up an amputation saw. A gnarly looking blade whose razor edge gleamed in the red light. Against a xenomorph, it would be about as useful as hurling insults at it.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Timex,” said Van Der Beek, gripping the saw tight.

  The sound grew clearer as it drew closer, despite the obvious attempt at stealth. It wasn’t one set of footsteps, but many, too many to tell exactly. Maybe dozens. His “immunity” had protected him from a lone xenomorph. Would it save him from a whole pack? The door slid open with a metallic grind, and Louie was blinded by the sudden explosion of bright white light.

  “Drop the weapon, now!” barked a voice. A human voice. He heard it clatter on to the floor, and his eyes adjusted as the bright beams were turned away from him. In front of him, more than half a dozen Colonial Marines stood in full combat gear.

  “Sarge,” said one, calling over his shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  A young man stepped forward from behind them. Another Marine. Louie presumed this was the sergeant, he didn’t know military insignia, but he was struck by the Marine’s youth. He estimated he was barely into his mid-twenties. As he approached, the light from their flashlights allowed him to read the name “Jennings” stencilled on his armour. He glanced at Louie, and seemed to conclude he was not a threat, ignoring him as he focused his attention on a stone-faced Van Der Beek.

  “He’s one of Sloan’s,” said Jennings, speaking over his shoulder before tilting his head to look the merc dead in the eye. A dry smile, thick with faux civility, forming on his lips.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  *

  “Yes sir, damn jackpot,” Jennings had to shout over the drone of the engine as he spoke into his mic. The lower level of Medical had been stocked full of everything they could possibly need, so much so that they had all had to crowd into the rear vehicle. But loading it all had taken longer than intended, and he was anxious to get it back to McTaggart. “We also picked up two survivors. We are RTB. ETA five minutes. Jennings, out.”

  Survivors, or prisoners? They could figure it out later. He glanced over at them as he hung on to the handrail. Locked into their seats, with their hands cuffed, neither had said a word the entire time. The first one was small, skinny, dark-skinned and completely hairless, giving him a slightly unnatural appearance, wearing ill-fitting clothes that he must have scrounged any way he could, and probably not much older than Jennings himself. He felt a twinge of guilt about cuffing him, he had a fair idea what he was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The second one, he had no such qualms. He was one of Sloan’s men, and one big one at that. He had made sure the cuffs were on tight. It would be up to the Colonel to decide his fate.

  “Sarge.” Molina placed a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in. “Mind if we take the Alternate?” he said quietly despite the noise, clearly not wishing to be overheard.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, I just have a bad feeling. Call it a hunch. I don’t think we should take the same route twice.”

  He considered it. In the end, it would only add a few minutes to their journey.

  “Vehicle 2 to Vehicle 1,” he spoke into his mic. “Lowry, do you copy? Change of plans. We’re going to be taking the Alt—”

  A deafening crack ripped through the interior and Jennings’s stomach lurched as he was sent sprawling to the floor. The hulking vehicle shook violently as the blast reverberated through the interior. His head spun as he gasped for breath, the taste of smoke on his tongue, and the ringing in his ears was gradually replaced by the sound of grinding metal.

  “My fucking ears,” cursed one Marine.

  “What the hell? Did we just hit a landmine?” exclaimed another.

  “Is anyone hurt?” said Jennings, rising unsteadily to his feet as silence fell over the cabin.

  “We’re still in one piece,” said Molina, coughing as he adjusted his helmet. “Are we under attack?”

  “I don’t think so. They would have hit us again by now,” said Jennings, waving the smoke from his face.

  He leaned over the console that lined the side of the APC’s interior, switching from one external camera to another, giving him a three-sixty view of their surroundings. But there was nothing there. Buildings, a muddy road, the lead APC as Lowry backed up to rejoin them, and nothing else. Had some improperly stored ordnance gone off? Unlikely, he decided. They were still alive. The impact had come from outside.

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  “Everyone just sit tight,” he ordered. “Molina, with me.”

  Molina nodded as Jennings slid open the main hatch and stepped out into cold air. It was twilight, and the threatening dark clouds that had shadowed them on their way over to Medical were now bearing down on them. He quickly scanned the rooftops, staring down the sights of his pulse rifle for any sign of movement, but it was eerily still. When he turned back to the APC, the true extent of the damage was obvious.

  The rear wheel, taller than he was, had been almost completely split in half, with a huge, ragged crack straight up the middle. The surface was scorched black, and the air reeked of burning rubber, hissing as molten slag dripped onto the wet ground. The massive rear turret gun had been completely sheared off, its twisted wreckage lying upside down in the mud some fifty metres behind them.

  “Looks like it’s burned straight through the transaxle. We’re dead in the water,” said Molina.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Suddenly, he felt exposed. With two-storey buildings either side of them providing elevated vantage points, this was a good spot for an ambush. Neither man said what they were thinking as thunder rolled in the distance. They knew what had done this.

  “We need to get out of here,” Jennings muttered with quiet urgency.

  “We can’t fit in the lead APC unless we ditch the supplies,” said Molina.

  He was right. They had filled the lead vehicle to bursting. Unloading it now, even moving them to the disabled APC, would mean abandoning them, and it would mean being out in the open…

  “I don’t believe this,” whistled Jennings as he rubbed his temples. “Okay, we’re burning daylight, so we need to move fast. I want you and Lowry to take the two prisoners in the lead vehicle. Get them back to McTaggart, unload the gear, and then come and pick us up. We’ll hold position until you get back.”

  “Sounds like a plan, sir, except you’re the one going. I’ll stay here,” said Molina.

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll make it an order,” said Jennings.

  “You could,” said Molina with a dry smile. “But we both know that’s not your style. I’m staying.”

  Dammit, Jennings thought. Molina could be a stubborn son of a bitch.

  “Okay, fine, bring them out,” he ordered. “Lowry, get out here on the double.”

  He waited as the first drops of rain hit his face, gooseflesh rising as the temperature suddenly plummeted.

  “I said, ‘Move!’” barked Molina as he pushed the mercenary out of the APC with the barrel of his pulse rifle.

  “Lowry, load these two into the lead vehicle, we’re taking them with us. I’ll drive,” said Jennings, not taking his eyes off of the prisoners. “Watch them. Especially the big one. If he tries anything, shoot him.”

  Lowry gestured with a tilt of his head, pulse rifle held low as he followed them into the lead vehicle, leaving Jennings and Molina alone.

  “Stay in the APC,” said Jennings. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in one hour.”

  The two men engaged in a quick arm clasp before parting.

  “One hour,” Molina acknowledged.

  He watched for a moment, waiting for Molina to seal the door of the disabled APC before turning to the lead vehicle. He didn’t like it. Hated it, in fact. But what other choice did they have? He stepped into the APC, awkwardly pushing past Lowry to the front compartment, and settled into the driver’s seat as rain began pelting the windshield.

  *

  The mood inside the APC was subdued as the sound of the rain drummed against the roof. Jokes and insults were swapped in clipped, hushed tones while Molina paced back and forth. The air was stifling. Without the engine running they had no environmental control, and with sixteen warm bodies sealed inside a steel coffin, it was rapidly transforming into a sweat box. Still, no one suggested opening the door for air.

  He checked his watch again. Jennings had been gone almost thirty minutes. He would be back soon, and Molina felt himself relax ever so slightly. Rayleigh’s Rest was not that big a place. Whatever had laid the trap they had set off, apparently it wasn’t interested in following up. He listened as the drum of the rain intensified, relentlessly battering the hull. At least they were dry.

  “It’s hot as hell in here,” grumbled Rojas.

  “It’s not the heat that’s gonna kill me,” said Leider. “It’s the smell. Jesus, you never heard of a breath mint?”

  A few of the Marines chuckled, and even Molina allowed himself a smirk.

  “Hey, Leider, I’ve got something you can chew on right—”

  Something heavy slammed into the roof. Molina froze; his eyes locked on the ceiling as the shudder faded.

  “Quiet,” he whispered.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Heavy footfalls echoed through the interior. It was right above him. He held his breath as the footsteps paused, and a chill ran through him. The air suddenly cold. A quick glance at the ammo counter on his pulse rifle confirmed a full mag, and he flicked the safety off. The footsteps resumed, steadily making their way towards the front of the APC. He gestured for two Marines to flank the door. It was three inches thick, but suddenly that didn’t seem sufficient. The sound reached the far end, and ceased.

  Silence, except for the rain.

  He nodded to Leider, the closest to the driver’s compartment. Without a word she leaned in, wiping condensation from the narrow windshield with a gloved hand, tilting left then right before turning back, shaking her head. Nothing. One Marine exhaled too loudly. Another shifted nervously. Molina caught their eyes in the dim light, raising a hand for quiet.

  The hull shrieked. A sound so piercing it felt like it was scraping the inside of his skull. He clamped a hand over his ear as his teeth shuddered. A slow, deliberate grind of metal on metal as a razor-sharp blade was raked across the door side of the hull.

  “What the fuck…” cursed Doyle, voice trembling.

  “On your feet, Marines,” ordered Molina, not taking his eyes off the door as the grinding stopped. “Flores, check the cameras.”

  The young Private leaned over the console. “I don’t see anything, sir.”

  Likely not gone far, he decided. But it hadn’t found a way in either…

  “Help me,” cried a voice from outside. Not close, but not distant. The two Marines flanking the door looked to Molina, but he shook his head. He had seen this before. Wound one man. Leave him alive. Make him suffer. Make him call for help…

  “Help me,” cried the voice again.

  One of the young Marines gave him an earnest look. “Sir, if that’s a wounded Marine out there we have to—”

  “Secure it, rookie,” hissed Molina, cutting him off. “That out there? That’s bait.”

  The young Marine looked hurt, but turned his attention back to the door, leaning up against it as he shifted uncomfortably. Yeah, I don’t like it either, kid, he thought to himself. Besides, there was something not right about that voice. Something…artificial.

  “Help me,” the voice repeated, now right outside the door, followed by the unmistakeable bark of Colonel Sanchez. “That’s an order, Corporal. Move!”

  Every hair on Molina’s neck stood on end.

  “That’s the Colonel!” exclaimed the rookie, already pulling the door handle.

  “Rookie, wait! It’s not him,” Molina lunged, but the door was already open, and the young Marine stepped out into the rain.

  “Colonel?” he hollered, turning in place until he was facing back into the APC.

  “Get your ass back in here, now,” Molina snarled.

  The young man’s gaze lifted above the door as a shadow fell over him. His eyes went wide, his jaw slack. His scream was cut short as he was wrenched skyward by a massive clawed hand. Legs flailing as he vanished from sight.

  “Help me with this door,” barked Molina as he slammed it shut, yanking the lock into place with both hands. Goddammit, kid. That was stupid. “Flores, you got anything?”

  “A flash of something, sir, but it was too fast to see,” said Flores, unsteady.

  “This door stays locked until I say otherwise, understood?” roared Molina. “I don’t care if it’s your mother out there. Flores, patch me through to Sergeant Jennings and the Colonel. The rest of you just sit tight.”

  He grabbed his headset. “Mayday. Mayday. This is Vehicle 2. We are under—”

  Glass exploded across the cabin. Shards of what had been the windshield scattered across the floor, accompanied by a bloody red ball that landed with a wet thud. The rookie’s head. A grenade stuffed into the mouth. The pin was gone.

  Molina didn’t hesitate.

  “Move!” he bellowed, ripping open the door and shoving the first Marine out.

  Time slowed to a crawl as he waved one Marine after another, but in the cramped confines of the APC they could only move in single file. Doyle, then Flores. That made eleven.

  Leider and Rojas locked eyes with him. A flash of mutual understanding; they weren’t going to make it. Rojas grabbed Leider, heaving her out the door, before throwing himself at Molina as the grenade detonated.

  *

  The rain felt cool on his face. He forced his eyes open. The world spun before settling into black clouds. He was on his back, wet mud seeping through his armour and clothes. Deaf to all but the ringing in his ears, he rose unsteadily. Wiping the rainwater from his eyes, his glove came away bloody. A handful of Marines to his left, some still on the ground, and the flaming, twisted wreckage of what had been the APC to his right. The raging heat forced him to take several steps back.

  “Where’s Rojas?” he asked with a croak, his throat raw. The ringing in his ears fading.

  Leider could not meet his eyes as she shook her head.

  Goddammit.

  He did a quick headcount. The rain was so heavy he could not see all of their faces. Thirteen, including himself. Out of sixteen. He did not look back to the APC.

  Elevated positions either side. No cover except for the APC wreckage. Limited visibility. This was a murder hole. They had to move. Now.

  “Fall back to Medical,” he ordered, yelling over the storm. “Get Flores on his feet.”

  “He’s out cold, sir. Looks like a concussion,” called the lone Marine attending to him.

  “Then we’ll carry him,” barked Molina. “Move out!”

  A flicker of light caught his eye. A laser skittered across the ground and settled dead centre on a Marine’s chest as three red dots. A lightning crack, a bolt of blue, and the man’s torso exploded in a cloud of red, sending three Marines tumbling to the ground.

  “Contact!” yelled one Marine. Molina could not tell who, as he stared down the sights of his pulse rifle, trying to trace the origin point of the blast, but saw nothing.

  The sky erupted in an ear-splitting inhuman war cry, and Molina spun to see the yautja leap from the roof of a two-storey building, plunging forty feet to the ground, a terrifying double-ended glaive fully extended. One Marine barely had time to look up as the yautja landed on his shoulders, crushing him. The creature allowed its own weight to drive it as it brought the glaive down in a vertical slice, splitting a second Marine from clavicle to groin while Molina struggled to get a clear shot. The two halves of the Marine went either side of the yautja as it grabbed a third Marine by the head. Doyle opened fire, but the creature was too fast, holding the Marine as a human shield, the rounds tore his body to pieces.

  “It’s clear,” yelled Molina as he opened fire. His own pulse rifle roaring to life as the creature spun, leaping ten feet in the air and landing somewhere behind the APC. Impossibly fast.

  “Did we hit it?” cried Doyle.

  Not a chance, he thought. He saw the shimmer through the flames a split second before it decloaked, shrieking as it spun the glaive one-handed in a three-metre arc of death, taking off both of Doyle’s legs at the mid-thigh. He collapsed to the ground screaming as it allowed momentum to carry it, decapitating another Marine with the gauntlet blades on its free arm. He fired again, rounds tearing through the still collapsing headless body, but the yautja was too fast. A blue shot slammed into his pulse rifle, blowing it in two as shrapnel struck his right arm, knocking him to the ground in a daze.

  Leider and another Marine opened fire, hitting nothing but air as it hurled the glaive like a javelin, impaling the Marine and driving him hard into the APC hull. His body jerked once, then went limp. Leider flinched, giving the yautja the split-second it needed to close the gap. Grabbing her by the face, it snapped her neck before effortlessly tossing her body at two more, knocking them to the ground as it vanished again.

  “Fallback,” cried a Marine, almost entirely drowned out by the sound of the storm and Doyle’s screams, a moment before he was engulfed in a net that swept him off his feet, pinning him to the wall. The man screamed as red marks appeared across his face, straining as he used his pulse rifle as a shield to hold the net away from his body.

  One man managed to get clear of Leider’s body. Rising to his feet just in time to have the yautja appear in front of him. He fired, but it was too close, and casually redirected the fire while slashing him across the mid-section, blades slicing through armour and flesh like tissue paper. The man fell to his knees, blood pouring on to the ground, before it grabbed him by the neck and threw him into the fiery wreck of the APC. His screams mercifully short-lived as the flames consumed him.

  Molina awkwardly drew his sidearm with his left hand, taking aim as the yautja snatched up the last man by the back of the head, casually smashing his face into the hull of the APC with a monstrous roar. A quick stomp silenced Doyle’s screams, crushing his skull, and a single blast from its shoulder vaporised the pinned Marine.

  He fired.

  The first two rounds pinged harmlessly off of its mask, but the third struck it in the arm, drawing fluorescent green blood. It roared in pain, cloaking as it leapt for cover, and his eyes quickly lost track of it. Rising to his feet, struggling to focus, his bloody right arm hung useless by his side as he looked at what remained of the squad. The whole massacre had lasted less than thirty seconds. They had never stood a chance. No one did. Not against that thing.

  Suddenly, he felt warm, and the world went quiet. A strange, unnatural stillness. Almost peaceful. The carnage before him seemed unreal, the rain fading to a hushed whisper, like the sound of gentle waves. He looked to the sky, the cooling rain soothing on his burned skin. The warmth in his chest spread, and he looked down to see the two blades protruding from his torso. He didn’t feel the pain. Not even as he was hoisted into the air. His vision fading to black, the last thing he heard was the alien scream of triumph.

  *

  The garage thrummed with activity while the rain battered the heavy doors. They had almost emptied the APC in record time. Volunteer civilians carried off box after box, and even Colonel Sanchez had pitched in. Sleeves rolled, he had been the first one there. Jennings glanced at his watch. It had been thirty minutes since he had left the squad. Another ten and they would be done here, and he could take the vehicle back out to retrieve them.

  Sit tight guys. I’m coming.

  He paused as thunder rolled in the distance. It didn’t sound right. Too low. Too…close. He held his breath and waited. Another crack, sharper now, followed up by the distant echo of pulse rifle fire.

  Everyone froze.

  “It’s him,” said Sanchez.

  Jennings felt his stomach turn to ice. He grabbed his own pulse rifle. It wasn’t far. He would go on foot.

  “Stand down, Sergeant.” The Colonel’s voice was flat, unreadable.

  He stared back. Those were his men out there. He had to do something.

  “Sir, I—” he began.

  “That’s an order,” said Sanchez, already donning his own chest plate.

  Jennings wanted to argue, but knew better, and Sanchez held out an expectant hand.

  “Your weapon, Sergeant,” he demanded.

  He hesitated, then handed it over. Sanchez checked the mag with practiced ease.

  “It’s me he wants,” he said matter-of-factly. “You have your orders.”

  Jennings said nothing. The garage door shuddered open, and a wash of cold air rolled in, carrying the sound of distant screams and gunfire. He could only watch as, pulse rifle in hand, the Colonel charged out into the downpour.

  *

  His lungs and legs burned as he powered through the mud and pouring rain. A thick fog had descended over the outpost, and he struggled to see more than a dozen metres, but he knew the way like the back of his hand. One way or another, he had to finish it. A distant orange glow bled through the fog, faint at first, but sharpening as he drew closer. He slowed his pace, and raised his pulse rifle. His approach cautious. As if it would make a difference, he chided himself. The fog affected him, not the yautja. It could see him clear as day, if it was still nearby. The orange glow materialised into the flaming wreckage of the other APC. Hissing and crackling as rain struck burning metal.

  The mud was stained with blood. Everywhere he looked, the rainwater ran red. Pools of it forming in giant footprints, bubbling away as rain beat the water to a froth and thunder rolled in the distance. A pair of legs. An arm. An unrecognisable head. Half a dozen pulse rifles, or pieces of them. Enormous gashes carved into the armoured hull of the APC itself. But no bodies.

  He was too late. Again.

  He tensed. A sound. Barely audible above the sound of the rain, but it had been there. He hadn’t imagined it, had he? It had sounded like a moan. A survivor, perhaps. He moved slowly, deliberately, and found himself standing between two buildings, effectively forming a narrow alleyway. Perfect spot for an ambush. The sound came again, and this time he was certain he had heard it, and that it was human. He was also certain that he was walking into a trap.

  He crept forward, carbine at the ready, his boots squelching unnaturally loud in the narrow confines of the alley, and eyes fixed on the unmistakable bloody drag marks that laid out a path in front of him. His stomach turned at the thought of what he might find, but there was no turning back. It had to end here. Is that not what he wanted? To be punished? For the yautja to finish what it should have, all those years ago? If that was true, why was he so afraid? He almost didn’t see the hanging Marine until he was right on top of him.

  The young Private was strung up by his ankles, dangling helplessly in the middle of the alley. It felt staged. The yautja had run a crossbeam between the two buildings, positioning the Marine dead centre for him to find. His clothes were bloodied, and a gaping crack on his helmet suggested a more serious injury, but even in the low light, Sanchez could see that he was breathing. More than that, despite being upside down, he could see the young man bore something of a resemblance to Danny Alvarez.

  “Colonel?” muttered the young man, voice strained and teetering on the edge of consciousness.

  “Stay with me, son. I’m going to get you out of here,” reassured Sanchez, slinging his carbine as he glanced around for anything he could use as a ladder. He was just about to settle on a small, civilian excursion vehicle carelessly parked at the far end when three red dots appeared on the hanging Marine’s chest.

  “No!” was all Sanchez had time to scream before the blue bolt of plasma obliterated the man’s torso in a shower of blood, knocking him to the ground as a wave of heat washed over him.

  “You sick, twisted bastard!” he screamed at the sky as he rose to his feet, caked in mud and gore and wiping the blood and rainwater from his eyes with his free hand. His pulse rifle in the other.

  “Enough,” he demanded. “Come out and face me, you coward!”

  His eyes scanned the edges of the rooftops for any telltale sign of a shimmer, and his ears strained, but there was nothing but the drumming of the rain.

  “Mijo…” the sound of Danny’s voice echoed through the alleyway. It was above him. Ahead of him, maybe. It was hard to tell. He squeezed tighter. His pulse hammering.

  “Mijo…” it repeated, from behind this time. He spun, carbine at the ready, but there was still nothing there. It was everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. Surrounding him. Taunting him.

  “Mijo,” the voice whispered sharply in his ear.

  He whirled and thrust his carbine forward, but the yautja, uncloaked, effortlessly caught the barrel with its right hand, redirecting the volley to slam into the wall. The movement was lightning fast as its palm struck him in the chest, shattering his chest plate and knocking him back fifteen feet. If not for his armour, the blow would have killed him. Aching, he struggled to his hands and knees, gasping for breath as he sucked in lungfuls of cold air.

  “No more,” he muttered quietly. The words snatched between ragged breaths. Fingers digging into the blood-drenched mud. “No more. You win.”

  He looked up. The yautja was just standing there, a mere fifteen feet away. A towering demon, filling the alleyway, and still holding his rifle by the barrel.

  “Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? You win.”

  The yautja stared back. Motionless.

  “What are you waiting for? Do it. You’ve waited forty years for this. Do it,” he demanded, his voice rising.

  Still, it did not react. Its metallic mask expressionless. Silent.

  “Damn you! Do it! Just end it!” he screamed, slamming his fist into the mud. He could not hold back any longer. A lifetime of guilt. Of sleepless nights. Of waiting for a reckoning that might never come. No more. The tears welled in his eyes.

  “Please just kill me,” he pleaded.

  Finally, a sound came from behind the mask, but it wasn’t a recording. A voice. A deep, guttural, inhuman tenor. The sound of air being pushed through alien anatomy that was never meant to produce words, resulting in a chilling, garbled approximation of human speech.

  “Not…yet,” said the yautja.

  He stared in mute disbelief, freezing and soaked, as it inspected his carbine before casually tossing it towards him, conveniently landing just outside of easy reach. Turning on its heel, dreadlocks spinning, the creature walked away. Blue sparks dancing across its body as it recloaked, before those too faded and died, leaving him alone.