Sanchez burst into the Control Room. His chest burned as he sucked air into his lungs, although he forced himself to remain upright, hiding his exhaustion, while Sloan and Doctor Yau followed close behind. The doctor doubled over as he gasped for air. Sloan, being the youngest, had barely even broken a sweat, despite his constant smoking.

  “Commander on deck,” barked the senior warrant officer.

  “As you were,” ordered Sanchez, as he strode over to the nearest station and snatched up the receiver. “Station-wide alarm, now,” he ordered, staring down at the junior warrant officer. With the press of a button, lights began to flash red and a piercing siren echoed through the corridors of the base. He placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Partially to reassure him, but also partially for balance. “Put this on the public PA system.”

  “You’re patched in, sir,” said the operator with the press of a few buttons.

  “Attention all staff. This is not a drill. This is Colonel Sanchez. We have an emergency situation. I am ordering an immediate and complete evacuation of Rayleigh’s Rest. All civilian personnel, drop what you are doing and leave now. Make your way directly to Hangar 1.” He covered the receiver with his hand and took a much-needed breath. “All Marines, report to the armoury on the double. I want everyone in locked and loaded and I want it now. Full combat gear, weapons included. I repeat, all weapons are now free.” It would make them viable targets for the yautja, but he did not see any other choice. “Further orders to follow,” he barked before turning to the operator.

  “Play that back and put it on loop over the PA, and connect me to Lieutenant Gutierrez,” he ordered, and there was an audible click from the receiver.

  “Lieutenant, this is Sanchez, come in.” He waited a moment for the response, but none came. “Lieutenant, this is Colonel Sanchez, respond,” he said in a firmer tone, but the only reply was the eerie sound of static filling his ear. “Lieutenant, you are to abandon the cordon and proceed directly to the armoury, confirm. That is an order,” he growled through gritted teeth. Nothing. Just the same dead, static hiss. His heart sank as his mind began to race with possibilities. None of them good.

  “Sir, we have another problem,” called another operator from across the room. “Something is taking out external security cameras. It started just north of Delta, and it’s moving counterclockwise, so it’s heading this way.”

  “It’s the yautja,” explained Sanchez. “It doesn’t want us tracking it.” Two operators exchanged a concerned look. “It doesn’t matter,” he reassured them. Frankly, it was a relief; as long as it was hunting cameras, it wasn’t killing Marines. “Right now, our priority is to get everyone out. I need Control to coordinate the evac from here, then double-time it to the hangar. I want everyone here on the last flight out, understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the room answered in unison.

  “Doc, you stay here. We might need you. Sloan, you come with me,” he ordered before turning to the senior operator. “Lock this door behind me.”

  *

  By the time he reached the armoury, he felt every one of his sixty-four years. His bones ached, his lungs burned, sweat soaked his back despite cutting across open ground in the freezing night air and howling wind of LV-784. Twenty-five years younger, Sloan didn’t even look out of breath. But still, he kept his composure. He already knew they called him “the old man” behind his back, and did not want to give them more reason than they already had. He made a mental note. When this was over, he was going to do a lot more PT. The armoury hummed with activity. Crowded, with every Marine on station crammed into the relativity small space as Heller and the quartermaster tossed out carbines and ammunition with machine-like efficiency. Armour was clipped into place and checked, and magazines were slammed home.

  “Is this everyone?” he asked Heller. He eyeballed the crowd, and estimated perhaps sixty. Even counting the operators in Control, he was missing almost twenty Marines.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Heller, still handing out mags as fast as he could.

  “Have you seen or heard from Lieutenant Gutierrez?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shit,” he swore under his breath.

  Sixty Marines to corral and evacuate five hundred scared civilians. In his long service, he had done more with less. With an ease that belied his age, he hopped up on to the counter, serving as a makeshift podium as his head almost scraped the ceiling.

  “Ten-hut!” he shouted, and every Marine in the room instantly snapped to attention. They could not have been more motionless if they were carved out of stone. “As you were, Marines,” he said, and the crowd relaxed a little, but did not take their eyes off him. “We don’t have time, so I’ll make this quick. We have a confirmed xenomorph presence on base.” A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Some stiffened, a few exchanged confused looks, some of the older ones didn’t flinch. Not one of them had ever seen a xenomorph. Forty-six years in the Corps, he had known only one Marine whom he could say for sure had faced them. More than a few probably thought they were a myth, so he gave them a moment to process the full weight of what he had just said.

  “In fact, based on estimated enemy numbers, we’re looking at a full-blown infestation. Therefore, I am ordering the entire base evacuated. We’re abandoning Rayleigh’s Rest.” He paused again, allowing the full magnitude of the situation to sink in. “But we are Colonial Marines, and that means we are the first ones in, and the last ones out. Is that understood?”

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  An enthusiastic “Oorah” erupted from the assembly.

  “I can’t hear you. I thought you were Marines?” he hollered, making himself sound angrier than he was.

  “Oorah,” the crowd repeated, more forcefully this time.

  “That’s more like it,” he said approvingly. “Now, the point of origin is Delta Wing, therefore I’m considering everything east of the civilian research buildings to be lost. What’s most important now, is Hangar 1. Sergeant Heller, I want you taking the lead on this. Take Alpha and Bravo squads, and secure the hangar. It’s ours, and it stays ours at all costs. We’ve got some APCs. Use them. I want them manned and covering the eastern approach. Use them to block any ground level chokepoints.”

  “Yes, sir,” barked the sergeant.

  “I’m sending all civilian traffic your way, so for God’s sake watch your fire.”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “Lieutenant Pryce, go with him. You have Bravo squad. I want you and Bravo on the first flight out. You are to coordinate at the LZ. An FTL capable ship was already on route. I’ve sent the distress call, but it will still take them two weeks to get here. So, we’re setting up a tent city, five hundred kilometres due west. Pilots, you will be given landing coordinates by Control. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the lieutenant.

  “Sergeant Davis, take a squad, get a couple of vehicles. I want you to hit the kitchen stores. Load up on as much emergency food and as many blankets as you can. We’re gonna have a lot of cold, hungry people to feed over the next few weeks.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Corporal Jennings?” he hollered, trying to spot the young man in the crowd.

  “Yessir?” answered the young man nervously.

  “Congratulations, son, you’re promoted to squad leader. You’re now in charge of Charlie Squad. I want you to hit the civilian medical wing, and grab as much as you can. Antibiotics, painkillers, antiseptic bandages, whatever you can carry, and be careful. The medical building was pretty close to Delta.”

  He paused, and took one last, proud look at the Marines in front of him.

  “You all have your assignments, so move like you’ve got a purpose. Dismissed!”

  *

  The corridor was dark as they advanced, the clanking of their boots against the metal grated floor impossible to silence, despite their best efforts to be quiet. Their orders had been simple enough, bag as much medical supplies as they could, but this was close to Delta, and he had heard the stories of the xenomorphs. He had always dismissed them as tall tales. A ghost story the old vets would tell to spook the rookies. A bogeyman. He had always laughed it off. Now, Jennings was taking no chances. The dimly lit, deserted corridor was oppressively foreboding. No staff, no patients, nothing. They approached the main door to Medical, and he gestured for the team to stop. The door was busted, and slightly ajar, a tiny sliver of red light seeping out into the corridor. A cold chill crept into his bones, and his mind flashed back to the massacre that had been Hangar 7. The blood, the carnage, and the skinless bodies hanging like so much meat.

  “Lowry, get the door,” he whispered, pulling his carbine up to his shoulder, and the private pulled the door open with barely a sound. Darkness inside, except for the dark red of the emergency lighting. Not a good sign. He slid inside, his finger on the trigger. A row of empty medical beds lined the wall, separated by translucent curtains. The squad filed in behind him.

  “Quarter and search by twos. Clean sweep,” he whispered, and the teams budded off, silently slinking through the darkness, weapons drawn. His eyes drifted across the ceiling, and under the beds, across the large vent grates. If the attack was going to come, it would not be head on. Cold sweat enveloped him as he gripped his carbine tighter. Picturing long, black clawed fingers reaching up and pulling him through the floor, away from his squad, back down into the dark. There were signs of a struggle. Broken glass here, a clipboard lying on the floor there, but not a single sign of life.

  “Psst, psst!” Molina whistled through tight lips, waving him over. As he came around the end of the bed, every muscle in his body tensed. It was a med-tech, judging by his lab coat, lying sprawled in a pool of drying blood. One lifeless eye staring at the ceiling, and a gaping hole where his right eye and cheekbone had been. It looked, crushed, or caved in, like he had taken a sledgehammer to the face. Or maybe an icepick.

  “Stay frosty,” he said through clenched jaws.

  They rounded the corner, heading towards the ICU and surgical theatre. Blood, black under the dark red lighting, spread across the floor. Jennings knelt, dipping his fingertips. It was still warm. His eyes followed a trail of sprinkled blood drops that led away from them, towards the back of the bay.

  “Move up,” he gestured with his hand. “Watch your fire and check your targets. Remember, we’re still looking for civvies in here,” he whispered aloud, risking the noise. The blood trail led behind another bank of beds, disappearing behind a curtain. With Lowry at his side and approaching cautiously, the two men closed in.

  The curtain moved. Both men froze. It moved again, as something pressed against the material. It could have been human. In the low light it was impossible to tell, and the curtain was opaque enough to obscure the overall shape.

  “Hello?” said Jennings. The shape stopped moving. A tense silence filled the air as no answer came. “Doctor?” he ventured again, pulling his carbine tighter against his shoulder as he aimed down the sights. The curtain moved again, black mass pressed against the material, and a long, low hiss grew louder, and louder.

  “Hostile!” he screamed, and the curtain exploded in an inhuman shriek. Lowry’s carbine roared with a staccato pulse, panic firing as the rounds tore through the sheet and slammed harmlessly into the wall. Jennings dodged the curtain and refocused on the target just in time to see what had been a human body in a medical gown fly up into an overhead vent.

  “Did I get it?” asked Lowry, shaking as the other six members of Charlie squad came barrelling towards them, weapons ready.

  “I don’t know, I didn’t even see it,” said Jennings, his heart racing.

  “Where the hell did it go?” asked Molina.

  “Up there somewhere,” he said, pointing to the ceiling. “Man, that thing was fast. I’ve never seen anything move like that. Did you get a look at it?” he asked, turning to Lowry who was still staring at the bloodied vent, eyes wide.

  “No, not a good look. Just a flash. Looked, I don’t know, like a fuckin’ chainsaw with a tail,” he said, struggling to get the words out.

  A sharp hiss filled the air, accompanied by a burning, acrid smoke. They looked down to see the small hole forming in the tiled floor, rapidly widening to the size of a tennis ball as a sickly, greenish-yellow fluid frothed and bubbled, melting its way through ceramic and steel like wet tissue.

  “Looks like you winged it,” said Molina, as the squad exchanged uneasy glances.

  All of the old stories crystallised in his mind. Tales of creatures too nightmarish to possibly be real. One detail in particular had always struck him as too farfetched. Too much of a dead giveaway. The one that confirmed it was just a campfire story to scare new recruits. But here it was. Undeniably, terrifyingly real.

  “Acid for blood.”