The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  “You—shouldn’t have changed on my account,” he said, but it came out in a rough whisper, hoarse.

  “Tony—” Her voice said most of it, her expression the rest: concern, fear, confusion, and pain.

  He managed a smile as best he could. “I’m—I’m fine. And I’m going to get us out of here.”

  They started through the dim hall, and Crespi started to look for a way to end it; Church was a dead man.

  * * *

  Church grinned, silently applauding Crespi’s struggle. Such determination! It was amazing, how one could still hope, even knowing that hope was all they had.

  He frowned, remembering all too well how hard that could be.

  Dark, reeking tunnels, dark paths, dark mind, “Paul—” his mother’s scream and hope, only hope—

  …the scalpel enters cold flesh…

  Suddenly he didn’t feel like playing anymore. He sighed, disappointed that it would be cut short, but it was best. Like it or not, part of him was still human, could still relate to some of the display; it was a weakness, to be sure, but he could not deny it.

  It was over.

  “Good-bye, Doctor Crespi. Good-bye, McGuinness. It’s been—interesting.”

  With that, he punched the button to release the final drone.

  * * *

  Crespi seemed to be looking for something, his pained gaze searching the dark walls as they stumbled slowly down the sealed corridor.

  She was stunned and relieved that he could still function, could still move at all—but it couldn’t last long, whatever was driving him to continue; his back was torn open, the muscles clawed to tatters. A slick trail of blood followed them, pattering thickly, the back of his pants soaked with it.

  This part of the labyrinth had no exit, it seemed, the door at the opposite end sealed. It was lit darkly from another opening overhead, at least a meter beyond their reach, the light murky and shadowed.

  With a low grunt, Crespi started to kick at the wall, at the bolted electrical shock circuit. It was a small device, a little bigger than her fist perhaps, and torn from the cords it was useless as a weapon—

  “Help me,” he breathed, and stopped, his breath low and ragged, his waxen forehead beaded with sweat.

  She kicked at it, hitting at the supporting metal bar with the heel of her boot. They alternated, both of them sweating now, grunting with exertion.

  Crespi was kicking hard, his face livid now, beating at the straining metal with almost superhuman strength. He started to mutter, spitting out words with each impossible kick.

  “Church—wants to—show us, I’ll—show—him!”

  With a final rending crack the support bar clattered to the ground, the metal bent away at one of the heavy screws. The electrical cord was still tacked to the wall, but it hissed angrily at them, spit out tiny blue sparks from the small break they’d caused.

  Crespi bent with a cry of triumph and pain, scooped up the thick, heavy bar. It was maybe the length of his forearm, each end bent slightly where it had been bolted to the circuit panel.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Crespi said, and he meant it, heart and soul; his eyes were black, focused in hate, his mouth an angry white line.

  McGuinness nodded, knew that’s what carried him now. He was sure as hell going to try, she could see that. Watching his eyes, she hoped to God that she didn’t happen to get in the way; he was in bad shape, but so concentrated in his fury that he didn’t seem to notice anymore.

  She looked back at the sealed door behind them, then to the one ahead. “Where to now?”

  Crespi started to respond, but she never found out what he meant to suggest. From overhead, a shriek, the running clatter of a drone’s movement, close.

  Crespi raised the metal bar, faced the hole in the ceiling. “Get back,” he said, his voice commanding, powerful.

  The clattering, heavy steps louder now. A shadow fell across the opening, blotting out the already dim light.

  A strange chittering sound, then an expectant, greedy hiss.

  It dropped down into the corridor ready to attack, its body tensed in a crouch, about to pounce—

  And Crespi stepped in to meet it, eyes burning.

  He swung the bar, a cry of pure rage erupting from his throat, aimed for the drone’s gleaming, slick head, his whole body following through—

  SMACK, the metal connected solidly, cracked against the long skull with a wet sound, its blood spewing—

  “No!” McGuinness stumbled back, screaming.

  The door at the end of the hall slid open as the drone shrieked, a bubbling, thick sound, its fluids a sizzling gush, poured across the metal bar, the walls—

  And onto Crespi.

  Incredibly, the drone turned and ran through the open door. Crespi crumpled to the floor.

  * * *

  Crespi felt the alien acid hit him, the thick, viscous gush land against his chest in a dull splash as McGuinness screamed.

  —not like this—

  His last truly coherent thought before his clothes were eaten away, the acid burning into his flesh, branding him with white-hot intensity.

  He fell, his knees giving way beneath the incredible burning agony, landed on his back, and could not scream, the pain blinding, his fingers curled, knotted in front of him.

  —dead I’m not dead yet—Church—

  Somewhere, he found the strength; he opened his mouth and screamed, a horrible, frustrated cry, all of his anger and pain combined, poured his very soul into the long, terrible sound.

  He was dying, and Church was still alive.

  He had failed.

  * * *

  McGuinness covered her face with her hands at Crespi’s tortured cry, the tears springing unbidden to her eyes. Such torment in that awful sound, such bleak despair.

  She stumbled to him, careful even in her grief to avoid the hissing splatters of acid, knelt beside him. He was still alive. Church’s experiments must have done something to their defense mechanisms, weakened their blood—

  She hoped blindly, for one agonizing second, that he could survive, could be saved.

  It’s not as bad as it looks, can’t be, he can make it—

  She lifted his head gently, rested it against one shaking leg, looked down at his chest and abdomen—and then quickly looked away. The front of his torso was a smoking puddle, a frothy mass of blood and disintegrating bone.

  She reached for his hand, felt his fingers weakly curl around hers. He was barely conscious; she saw sickly that each breath bubbled in his gut, and when he opened his mouth, blood poured out over his pale lips, reddening them.

  He rolled his eyes, gazed up at her glassily, as if he saw something else, somewhere else. He was dying.

  She felt tears trickle down her cheeks, didn’t think he’d be able to speak—but he did, his voice the barest whisper. She leaned closer, her hair sticking to her wet face.

  “Guess… this is it,” he slurred out. “I’m—cold…”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, the tears coming harder now, the truth a lump in her throat. “I can’t do anything for you—”

  He had closed his eyes but now opened them again, a tiny flicker of life behind his shiny wet gaze. “Yes,” he breathed, then coughed, sprayed her with tiny droplets of bloody mist.

  “Don’t… don’t let them…” He coughed again, tried to turn his head but couldn’t. “Don’t let him… please, kill me…”

  Somehow she’d known what he would ask, but his question was just as terrifying, as disturbing as she’d feared it would be. Her heart cried out in anguish, her mind reeling.

  “No, I can’t, don’t make me—”

  It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “Then… kill Church… got to… kill him…”

  He kept her gaze with his, the effort of speaking obviously an agony.

  “Please… Sharon, please…”

  The word became a litany, a soft, dying chant, over and over. She could see the rest of it in
his eyes, the plea they held.

  Don’t let it be for nothing, Sharon. Don’t let me die for nothing.

  “Please… please…”

  She leaned over him, kissed his forehead with trembling lips, her tears falling into his hair. She moved back, cradled his head and chin in her hands, her mind blank, her strength gathering.

  Tony Crespi closed his eyes, his brow smooth now, unfettered.

  “Rest now,” she whispered, and with a single, swift movement, turned his head, the sickening crack of his spine loud in the silent corridor.

  28

  She just sat there for a moment, holding him, lacking the strength to even cry for him. He had been a good man, an honest man—and in the end, he’d had to beg for death, cradled in the arms of a woman he hardly even knew.

  She keened, a high, wailing note that made her want to weep—and yet only a single tear escaped, the pain suddenly too great for mere sobs. Regrets for the friendship they might have had, sorrow for his painful death—she was exhausted, felt immersed in her misery.

  “…Sharon, please…”

  After a time she gently lay his head on the floor and stood, looking down at his still form. The lines of pain were gone, at least, his expression one of peace—

  From somewhere beyond the open door, she heard the piteous scream of the wounded drone echo through the labyrinth, a sound as bereaved as her own, anguished and in pain. Another victim…

  McGuinness straightened and turned, felt a huge, sudden unnameable thing well up inside of her, something like rage but more. This was a cold thing, an icy hand that gripped her heart and sent pulses of liquid nitrogen coursing through her veins. She wasn’t overwhelmed by it; it simply engulfed her, swallowed her up. She became the thing, felt her sadness disappear as if it had never been.

  McGuinness walked for the door, unhurried, her steps firm and deliberate.

  She had a promise to keep.

  * * *

  Church studied the monitor closely, confused. The drone had run. His perfect killing machine had run, and he didn’t know why, it was unprecedented, unheard of—

  He saw McGuinness snap the dying man’s neck and then mourn for him, her lament almost painful to watch—except that the sight was infuriating, the waste devastating; Crespi’s brain would be a patternless mush by the time he could get to it. The drone should have killed them both; he could have been there in less than a minute to collect his specimens…

  He tracked the drone on a smaller screen, saw it cowering at a dead end in one of the tunnels, its head dripping diluted acid on the alloyed floor, its muted shrieks pathetic from pain. Why had it fled? Drones were driven by pain, by everything, single-minded in their purpose. It simply wasn’t possible—

  And yet it had happened; there had to be a reason, some fluke, an anomaly, surely…

  Yes, that was it. He nodded to himself, relieved. A freak occurrence, a rarity—the drone’s instinctual behavior had been altered somehow by the damaging blow; perhaps it had destroyed the psychic center, rendering the creature blind—

  “Church!”

  Startled, he looked back to the main tracker, the camera on McGuinness. She stared straight at him, her fists clenched at her sides, her face cold and unblinking. “Church, do you hear me?! I’m going to kill you, you bastard!”

  He stared back at her, tried to find his confidence, the knowledge of the Truth, suddenly lost in a cool wave of—

  Fear?

  No. He wouldn’t have it, would not.

  Church stabbed at another button, raised the door to the first chamber. The two drones there moved quickly, past Crespi’s dead body, their senses seeking out the live, moving prey.

  He wanted her dead.

  Now.

  * * *

  She jogged through the labyrinth, still that cold thing, choosing her path by instinct. She didn’t know what had happened to her, and she didn’t care; it was what she was now and she would achieve her goal by it—

  A machine, a drone, I have become an instrument for something beyond what I know…

  Yes. And it was unimportant; all that mattered was that she get to Church and do what must be done. Behind her, she heard the hisses and shrieks of at least two of the drones, their hard bodies clattering, reverberating through the dark, lonely halls.

  Have to circle back, get to that pen, get to Church—

  She had no doubts, no fear, except for a detached, almost clinical concern that she would be killed before she could finish—it was analyzed and discarded quickly, set aside as an improbability. Her hot, desperate terror from before was nothing but a hazy dream, as if it had happened to somebody else.

  No decisive plan came to mind as she hurried along, no great revelations as to how she would make it. She wouldn’t be able to outrun the aliens, probably couldn’t hide as they went past—they’d sense her, or Church would simply shock her out of whatever cranny she could find.

  She wondered coolly why he hadn’t already killed her that way, fried her to death—but even as she thought it, she knew why. His ego wouldn’t allow for it, wouldn’t allow for such an anticlimactic ending. He wanted her to die screaming, struggling beneath the nightmare creatures…

  He’d be disappointed. But, then, he’d be dead.

  She only hoped that he’d be cocky enough to unseal that first door, his desire to watch her die in person overriding his caution. She thought it was probable—though if she was wrong…

  If I’m wrong, I’ll find another way.

  The thought instantly quelled her vague concern; if there was a way, it would be done.

  She reached another split in the labyrinth, veered right without even thinking about it. Behind, the sounds of the running drones came closer.

  * * *

  Church watched as McGuinness ran, seemingly choosing her path at random. The two slavering creatures stumbled along not far behind, slowed by their hunger, but they were still faster than she was; it wouldn’t be long now…

  He felt some of the lost confidence returning, settle back over him comfortably. Now that the end of the experiment was drawing near, he felt a momentary regret, that he had given in to his weakness earlier. If he’d held out, Crespi might not have been wasted…

  McGuinness took another passage, once again without hesitation—and he saw where she was headed.

  Church grinned, punched at the entry button for the kennel. Marvelous! She’d be joining him for a last hurrah, perhaps make up for having ruined Crespi’s chemical analysis…

  She paused suddenly, stood still in corridor D, her face not expressing the uncertainty she must be feeling. Her chest heaved, her hair slick with sweat. She was tiring quickly, was probably almost done running—

  Church laughed brightly, hoping that she’d make it back to the open enclosure before his little pets caught up to her…

  He wanted to see her pleading eyes when she begged him for a quick death.

  * * *

  McGuinness made another turn, running easily now having caught her second wind. She didn’t question the instinctual drive that had taken her this far, didn’t wonder how she knew; she just did, in no uncertain terms. She was headed back to Church.

  Suddenly the instinct spoke, a single word.

  Wait.

  She stopped where she was, breathing heavily, her mind clear and open. Just the one word, and she obeyed, knew as surely as she knew her name that it wouldn’t steer her wrong.

  It had sounded a lot like Crespi.

  * * *

  The drones moved closer to her, their shadowy forms loping through the maze, tracking her fear—

  They were almost to the opening to D corridor, seconds away from her unmoving form. Church gave up on seeing it live, leaned closer to the monitor—

  The drones turned down the wrong passage.

  Church half rose from his seat, shocked. “WHAT—”

  They ran through the empty passage, hissing and screaming, headed away from her, headed—

&nb
sp; The damaged drone, still crouching, bleeding, moaning in pain.

  It had no psychic ability.

  It was blind, afraid.

  And they didn’t recognize it as one of their own.

  He watched, horrified, stunned, as they fell on the injured creature, their talons ripping into it, their jaws snapping. The drone shrieked, fought back in its terror, gripped one of its attackers by the harness and twisted, the harnessed creature falling, its screams of pain—

  Of death.

  It crumpled to the cold floor, twitching spasmodically.

  The second attacker leapt forward, clawed at the killer’s back, at the dorsal nerve center. The killer faltered, fell across the dead thing in front of it, too injured now to fight anymore.

  And then there was one…

  Church was numb, astonished. He’d never considered the possibility—

  Movement again, a flicker at the corner of his vision. He looked back at the D monitor, suddenly afraid again, this was not happening!

  McGuinness was coming.

  * * *

  She heard the voice again, accepted it.

  —go—

  She went.

  * * *

  Church slammed his hand against the electrical pulse, shocking the last drone out of its halted crouch.

  It screamed, pivoted its head, searching—

  —and found its mark. She was moving again and the other drones were dead; it ran back down the passage, frenzied in its hunt.

  Church exhaled raggedly. He was in control again. And McGuinness was as good as dead.

  * * *

  McGuinness circled right, then ran straight ahead, the light growing brighter, almost blindingly so. A final turn—

  She ran into the kennel, panting, just in time to see Church step to the railing, a smile on his despicable, ugly face.

  She’d made it.

  She started for him, walking across the floor of the large pen, could feel the ice inside that was more than anger, the snarl that formed across her features. There were no coherent thoughts, no words, nothing that could describe the depths of loathing and hatred that filled her at the sight of him, still so cold, unemotional in their pure intensity—

  From the chamber behind her, an alien screamed, coming fast.