AVP: Alien vs. Predator Read online

  What Sven first saw as a blur was now framed by cordite smoke—the silhouette of an impossibly large, humanoid creature. The ex-Navy SEAL took a step backwards and aimed the MP-5. But before he could pull the trigger, a blow sent him spinning to the floor.

  Nose smashed and gushing blood, Sven fumbled for the gun that had been knocked from his hand. Instead he burned his fingers on the pot of boiling water still simmering on the camp stove. With both hands he hurled it, dousing the specter with scalding water.

  The aluminum pot bounced harmlessly away, but the water elicited an angry roar as electric charges silhouetted the humanoid shape. Then, in a shower of rapid blue sparks, the Predator’s cloaking device shorted out for an instant—long enough for Sven to see his own terrified reflection in the mirrored eyes of the creature’s armored face plate.

  The shots were loud enough to be heard over the storm. Quinn, returning from inspecting the Hagglunds, threw open the door.

  “What’s all the damn noise about—”

  Quinn’s mouth stopped. Bloody bodies and hacked-off limbs greeted him, as did something massive, formless and invisible. Wielding twin blades tinged with human blood, the phantom was in the process of ripping great chunks of flesh from a howling man cowering in the corner. As snow billowed into the mess hall, Quinn dimly perceived a blur of motion. The silhouette was altering its shape again.

  Suddenly the razor-edged tip of a spear materialized right in front of Quinn’s face. He slammed the door and ducked as the weapon passed through the thick wood and gouged a chunk of muscle from his left arm.

  He choked back a cry. Then he turned and ran.

  Stumbling through white-out conditions, Quinn heard the mess hall door ripped off its hinges. He traipsed around the corner of the building, pushing through deep drifts. His breath came in hot gasps while splatters of his warm blood left a crimson trail in the snow.

  Fearing pursuit, Quinn peered over his shoulder—and blundered into something dangling from the overhanging roof above. He fell backwards, staring up at what was left of Klaus—identifiable only by the name tag on his Polartec overcoat. The dead man was strung up by his ankles, and where his head used to be there were now only long, red-black icicles flowing from a ragged stump.

  Through the white haze, beyond Klaus, Quinn saw more shapes—he didn’t need to see their faces to recognize their clothing. It was the rest of his team. Reichel, Klapp, Tinker and the others, strung up by their feet, swaying in the wind.

  Gagging, Quinn looked away and spied something gleaming in the snow—Klaus’s Desert Eagle handgun.

  No sooner did Quinn’s fingers close on the handle than he sensed something at his back. Instinctively, Quinn flopped over in the snow and squeezed off a shot. The revolver bucked in his hand, and over the raging tempest he heard a satisfying roar of pain and rage. Eerily, Quinn saw the bullet punch a green hole into the invisible shape trudging out of the storm. At his feet, steaming, phosphorescent-green gore stained the ice.

  Quinn lurched to his feet and tried to run. He didn’t even take two steps before something swatted him back down to the ground. Pitching headlong, Quinn grabbed for something to stop his fall. His fingers closed on a ribbon of tattered red canvas—what remained of the apple tent that had been erected over the pit. Since he’d been here last, something had shredded the tent to pieces.

  Hearing the ice crunch behind him, Quinn rolled onto his back and aimed the handgun, which was just as quickly slapped out of his grip by a spectral hand. Quinn tried to crawl away when an invisible foot slammed down on his lower leg, snapping the bone in two with a crack so loud it could be heard over the roar of the wind.

  The invisible foot lashed out again, the fresh blow cracking Quinn’s ribs and sending him spinning into the pit and down the two-thousand-foot shaft.

  The cloaked Predator hopped onto the tripod mounted above the pit and peered into the abyss. With powerful legs braced against the storm, its ghostly outline flickered and changed with the intensity of the wind and pelting snow. The creature could hear Quinn’s muffled screams as he bounced off the icy walls, despite the howling storm.

  A steady stream of green ooze still bubbled up from the now-visible cavity in the creature’s chest. But if the Predator felt pain, it did not show it. Throwing its massive head back and its thick-muscled arms wide, the hunter from the depths of space bellowed out an unearthly battle cry that reverberated throughout the whaling station.

  A few moments later, four shimmering wraiths melted out of the snowstorm to join their leader at the mouth of the abyss. As fingers of energy crawled across their formless shapes, the creatures uncloaked.

  Ignoring the hole in its armored chest plate—a hole that still oozed gore—the leader activated his wrist computer. With a high-pitched hum, a holographic image appeared among them, glowing faintly, and the Predators huddled close to examine the map of the pyramid complex far below.

  In the center of that three-dimensional grid, inside the heart of the large, central pyramid, an electronic pulse throbbed. Grunting with satisfaction, the Predators cloaked again and vanished from sight.

  Inside the pit, Quinn opened his eyes, surprised to be alive. His relief ended when he realized he was still plunging down the icy shaft, gaining speed with each passing second.

  Desperately, he felt for any kind of purchase. His fingers slid along the ice, then nicked the wires running from the generator to the lights at the bases. Quinn quickly yanked them back, for he was falling too fast to stop himself that way. He would have to find a way to slow his fall a bit more before he grabbed the cable again.

  Reaching for his belt, Quinn drew his ice axe and swung it. As the tip bit into the frozen wall, white shards sprayed Quinn’s face, blinding him. He still did not slow down.

  The Piper Maru

  Captain Leighton heard a sudden crack above him, like the sound of a tremendous bough breaking off an oak tree. Instinctively tucking in his head, Leighton raised a dented bullhorn.

  “Take cover on deck!”

  His voice boomed, loud enough to be heard over wind that whistled through the masts. Crewmen scattered as hundreds of pounds of gray-white ice dashed itself to pieces on the steel deck—ice that had accumulated on the ship’s superstructure, only to break free when it had become too heavy to stick.

  Men dropped behind lifeboats and down stairwells as great chunks of frozen snow bounced across the deck. One piece the size of a football took out the bow light. Another shattered the glass covering a porthole.

  “Clear it all away, double-time!” Leighton commanded. “More snow is on the way.”

  On catwalks along the superstructure, crewmen chipped away at crystal-encased safety rails and knocked down massive icicles from stairways, cranes and cables. Suddenly a frigid blast cut across the deck, catching a seaman and nearly carrying him over the side.

  “Mind your safety tether,” a deck officer bellowed. Without the benefit of a bullhorn, his cry was snatched away by the tempest.

  Swathed in a fur-lined parka, with ice crusting his eyelashes and oil staining his faded white parka, the ship’s radar specialist appeared at Captain Leighton’s side.

  “I’ve checked the upper decks,” he yelled. “The radar antennae are fouled and can’t be cleared until the storm is over. My instruments seem to be working, but I wouldn’t try to power up the radar anytime soon—the dome is frozen solid and you might damage the dish mechanism.”

  “So what’s the good news?”

  The man offered Leighton a half-smile. “The Giants won in extra innings.”

  Leighton called to his deck officer. “Another fifteen minutes of work, then clear the decks of all personnel. It’s too dangerous for the crew to be out here.”

  With that, Captain Leighton headed for the bridge, where his executive officer and a crewman from the radio hut were waiting for him.

  “Sir, communications has just received a message fragment from Quinn’s team. I think they’re in some kind of trou
ble.”

  Leighton’s shoulders sagged under the weight of yet more disturbing news. “How’s the storm progressing?”

  “We’re caught in the windfly, and the wind speeds are still picking up,” Gordon said as he gazed through the frosted windows. “We’re going to have a hard time weathering this storm ourselves, Captain. Whatever’s happening on the ice, Weyland and his team are on their own for five or six hours—at least.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Inside the Pyramid

  Flashlight beams stabbed the darkness as Sebastian and Lex cautiously entered the new chamber. From the cavernous way their footsteps echoed, they deduced the room was vast.

  “We’re at the heart of the pyramid,” Sebastian declared.

  Lex spied a soft glow ahead of them. As she moved closer, she realized it was a flare. Looking up to the ceiling, she saw a stone grate and realized that the chamber they were in was directly beneath the sacrificial chamber.

  Passing the sputtering flare, Lex moved forward, Sebastian at her side. Weyland, Max and Miller came next, with Verheiden and Connors bringing up the rear. Weyland played his light along the tiled floor, then up at the high, ornate stone walls and the vaulted ceiling. Sebastian paused to study the inscription on a clay urn as Lex continued to move toward the center of the chamber.

  “My God,” she cried.

  Immediately, everyone trained their flashlights in her direction—to illuminate a large, bullet-shaped crate sitting on a slightly raised platform made of tiled stone. The object was constructed of dully gleaming metal coated by a thin film of glimmering ice. Fifteen feet long, four feet wide, it looked like a coffin. No hinges or joints were readily discernable, but the shape was unmistakable.

  “Some kind of sarcophagus,” Sebastian speculated. “Egyptian in design. These were built to protect the dead for their journey to the afterworld.”

  Weyland touched the cold surface. His fingers came away glittering with ice crystals. “Can you open it?” he asked.

  Sebastian examined the sarcophagus. On what he first thought was a smooth surface, he noticed shallow etchings on the lid—a series of circular symbols, all virtually identical.

  Sebastian looked around, to find a larger version of the same design pattern on the wall.

  “Look,” he cried. “The symbols on the wall correspond to the face on the lid of the sarcophagus.”

  “So it’s a burial decoration to honor the dead—maybe an inscription,” Miller suggested.

  But Sebastian shook his head. “It’s a combination.”

  “Like on a safe?” said Connors.

  “How are we going to get this open?” Weyland demanded.

  “I have an idea,” Sebastian replied. He wiped the ice away from the sarcophagus lid. Then, for what seemed like quite a long time, Sebastian compared the pattern on the wall to the one etched into the coffin. As his mind raced, he spoke his thoughts out loud.

  “These ancient people would have based the combination on something they could see. It wouldn’t be a number. But what could they have seen? The planets?” Sebastian shook his head. “Only nine planets… the stars, perhaps. But how would they use stars as a combination? Wouldn’t the sky always change—”

  “There’s only one clear constellation visible this far south that lasts year round,” Miller interrupted. “That would be Orion.”

  “Orion!” Sebastian cried.

  Then he reached out his hand and touched one of the circles on the wall. To everyone’s surprise it began to glow with a dull white light. Sebastian pressed another circle, then another, until a map of the constellation of Orion glowed faintly on the wall.

  Everyone parted to make room for Sebastian as he crossed the chamber to the sarcophagus. Touching the circles etched on the metal lid, they began to glow like their cousins on the wall. Then the lid began to open.

  Miller moved in to get a better look. “How is that possible?”

  Sebastian grabbed Miller’s coat and pulled him aside. He pushed the others away as well. “Stand back. We have no idea what is in there.”

  From a safe distance, they watched as the lid opened completely and slid to a smooth stop.

  Weyland arched an eyebrow. “Well, Professor De Rosa. You’re the expert. What do you suggest now?”

  From a safe vantage point, Sebastian tried to probe the black interior of the sarcophagus, but there was no way to see without peering over the edge.

  “Everybody else, stay back,” Sebastian commanded as he cautiously moved forward. At the coffin, he paused. Then, leading with his flashlight, he cautiously peeked inside.

  “I… I don’t believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Take a look for yourself, Mr. Weyland.”

  The sarcophagus contained three futuristic-looking artifacts, probably weapons.

  Sebastian locked eyes with Charles Weyland. “The master culture,” he whispered ominously.

  In the Grotto

  Sprawled on the icy floor, a coating of frost already shrouding his motionless body, Quinn twinkled like a spun jewel in the harsh glare of the halogen lamps. Light stands and wooden crates were scattered about—otherwise the grotto was deserted.

  A chilly gust of air spilled out of the mouth of the tunnel. As soon as it passed across his face, Quinn’s eyes opened. He tried to move, but his limbs were numb. He was virtually frozen in place. While unconscious, spittle had run from his slack jaws, and blood had flowed from the gash in his shoulder. The liquids had frozen and now he was glued to the icy floor like a bug stuck to the bottom of a roach motel.

  Too cold and too weak to shiver, Quinn opened his mouth to moan for help, but the cry died in his throat when he spied an ominously familiar optical distortion rippling near the mouth of the shaft. The monster that had attacked him on the surface had followed him here—and he’d brought a friend. The two of them had probably come to finish the job they’d started.

  Quinn trembled as the shimmering wraiths glided toward him. Moving as one, their invisible feet left their mark in the hoarfrost. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. A heavy boot crunched the ice next to his head as Quinn waited for the fatal blow.

  To his amazement, it never came. Long moments passed before Quinn opened his eyes again, but when he did it seemed as if the ghostly killers had gone, their tracks forming a trail that led to the ice-encrusted pyramid on the horizon.

  Using fingers nearly paralyzed by frostbite, Quinn tore himself loose from the ice floor. Frozen saliva shredded the skin off his cheek, and the scab that covered his shoulder wound was also ripped away.

  He didn’t care much about the pain he felt—not his broken leg, his shattered ribs, or even the frostbite that had claimed his fingers and toes. Quinn simply could not believe his luck: He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

  But as he rolled over onto his back, his eyes went wide. A third Predator stood over him, wrist blades unsheathed. Before the roughneck could even scream, the twin blades scythed down, carving deep into his brain.

  In the Sarcophagus Chamber

  To Weyland, the found objects looked like guns, but impossibly large ones, making them all the more impressive. The keen eye of the industrialist noted a recoiling barrel configuration swivel-mounted on a rather broad shoulder plate. Two other weapons were in the coffin as well, similar in construction but smaller, and minus the shoulder armor.

  Miller leaned close and studied the devices. “Any idea what those are?”

  “Nope,” said Sebastian. “You?”

  Miller shrugged, then shook his head.

  Max Stafford scoffed. “Good thing we brought in the experts.”

  “Hey,” Miller cried defensively. “We just found the equivalent of a DVD player in Moses’s living room. Why don’t you give us a second to figure it out.”

  Lex noticed Weyland was having difficulty breathing. He signaled Max, who brought him a portable oxygen tank. With shaky hands Weyland held the mask to his face and took great gulps of
air.

  “Is he okay?”

  Lex faced Sebastian. “It’s just asthma. He’s fine,” she said, covering for Weyland.

  “Let me see if I can get a base reading off the metal,” Miller said, producing his spectral analysis kit and tablet PC. While they waited for the results of Miller’s test, a debate raged among them.

  “Who made these things, and why?” Weyland wheezed. Max remained at his side, feeding the billionaire oxygen.

  “Well, if you ask me, the ergonomics are all wrong for these things to have been designed for us,” said Miller. “Whoever made this stuff probably wasn’t human.”

  Weyland pulled the mask away from his face. “Spare us your science fictional explanations, Dr. Miller.”

  Suddenly Miller’s PC beeped and he studied the readout.

  “There are two chemicals here. Tilanium and cadmium 240.”

  “Never heard of them,” said Sebastian.

  “They’re found in meteorites.”

  “Meteorites?” Sebastian cried.

  Miller smiled in triumph. “Whatever these are, they weren’t made here.”

  “When you say ‘here,’ you mean…?” Weyland’s voice trailed away.

  “I mean Earth,” said Miller.

  Weyland moved the oxygen mask away from his mouth to speak, but he started wheezing immediately.

  “How you doing?” Lex asked.

  Weyland nodded up at her, but Lex could see he was not doing well at all.

  “We’ve been out long enough for today,” Lex announced. “We’re going to set up base camp tonight at the whaling station on the surface, and we’ll get back at it first thing tomorrow.”

  Max Stafford rose and blocked Lex.

  “You can go back to base camp, Ms. Woods.” He placed his large hand on Weyland’s frail shoulder. “We’re going to stay here.”

  Lex ignored Max and spoke directly to Weyland.

  “You wanted to leave without proper prep and we did,” she cried. “You wanted to be the first here, we are. You’ve claimed the find. It’s yours. Now we move as a team, and we’re done for today.”