Alan Dean Foster - Alien - 3

His companion hadn’t noticed. Straining, he knelt to retrieve it, let out a sigh of relief. .

As the alien appeared behind the grate on which the flare lay poised precariously, and reached for him.

The man managed to scream, the flare flipping from his fingers to fall to the ground below.

Where it flowered brightly.

Aaron heard and saw the explosion simultaneously. His eyes widened. ‘No, goddamn it! Wait for the fucking signal! Shit!’

Then he saw the alien and forgot about the flames.

They spread as rapidly as the desperate planners had hoped, shooting down QTC-painted corridors, licking up air vents, frying soaked floors and walkways. In her own corridor Ripley heard the approaching flames and pressed herself against unpainted ground as the air vents overhead caught. A convict nearby wasn’t as fast. He screamed as heat ignited his clothing.

Morse rolled wildly away from the licking flames, in time to see the alien scuttle past overhead.

‘It’s over here! Hey, it’s here!’ No one had the inclination or ability to respond to his alarm.

It was impossible to keep track of half of what was happening. Injured men flung themselves from burning railings or dropped from the hot ceiling. Prisoner Eric saw the fire reaching for him and darted at the last possible instant into the safety of an uncoated service pipe, barely squeezing through in time to avoid the blast of fire that seared the bottoms of his feet. Another man died as the alien emerged from a steaming ventilation duct to land directly on him.

Running like mad, Aaron and one of the convicts raced for the waste disposal chamber, trying to stay ahead of the flames.

The assistant superintendent made it; his companion wasn’t quite as fast. . or as lucky. The fire engulfed but did not stop him.

As they stumbled into the storage chamber junction, Ripley, Dillon, and prisoner Junior managed to knock the burning man to the floor and beat at the flames on his back. Aaron fought to catch his breath. As he did so a scuttling sound overhead caught his attention. With unexpected presence of mind he grabbed a QTC-soaked mop and jabbed it into the nearby flames. Holding the makeshift torch aloft, he jammed it into the gaping overhead duct port. The scuttling noise faded.

The prisoner died in Junior’s arms, his mouth working without producing words. Junior rose and charged into the smoke and fire, screaming.

‘Come and get me, chino! Come and get me!’

In the main access corridor smoke inhalation toppled another man. The last thing he saw as he went down was the alien rising before him, silhouetted by the flames and incredible heat. He tried to scream too, but failed.

Junior turned a corner and skidded to a halt. As he did so the alien whirled.

‘Run, run!’ The grieving prisoner charged past the monster, which gave chase without hesitation.

They all converged near the entrance to the toxic storage facility; Ripley and Dillon, Aaron and Morse, the other surviving prisoners. As the alien turned to confront them they emulated Aaron’s example, lighting mops and heaving the makeshift missiles at the beast. Junior took the opportunity to move up close behind it.

‘Here! Take a shot, fucker!’

Where quarry was concerned the alien once again demonstrated its inclination to choose proximity over proliferation. Whirling, it pounced on Junior. The two tumbled backward. . into the storage chamber.

Struggling to ward of the intense heat, Dillon continued to extinguish flaming companions. When the last man was merely smouldering, he turned and tried to penetrate the flames to reach the back wall.

Ripley reached the control box and fumbled for the red button as Aaron jammed still another flaming mop into the entrance. A moment later Dillon managed to activate the sprinkler system.

Junior uttered a last, faint, hopeless cry as the heavy door slammed shut in front of him, sealing off the storage chamber.

At the same time the showers opened up. Exhausted, terrified men, all with varying degrees of smoke or burn damage, hovered motionless in the corridor as the water poured down.

A noise from behind the door then, a distant skittering sound. Things that were not hands exploring, not-fingers scraping at their surroundings. The trapped alien was hunting, searching, for a way out. Gradually the noise ceased.

A couple of the survivors looked at one another as if about to burst into cheers. Ripley anticipated them curtly.

‘It’s not over.’

One of the men retorted angrily, ‘Bullshit. It’s inside, the door worked. We’ve got it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Aaron challenged her. ‘We got the bastard trapped, just like you planned it.’

Ripley didn’t even look at him. She didn’t have to explain herself because the silence was suddenly rocked by an ear-splitting concussion. A few of the men winced and a couple turned to run.

The rest gaped in amazement at the door, in which a huge convex dent had suddenly appeared. The echo of contact continued to cannonade along the multiple corridors. Before it had faded entirely a second thunderous boom reverberated through the antechamber and a second bulge appeared in the door.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Aaron muttered aloud, ‘that’s a ceramocarbide door.’

Dillon wasn’t listening to him. A survivor of another kind, he was watching Ripley. She hadn’t moved, so neither did he. If she started running he’d follow close on her heels, without any intention of stopping.

But she continued to hold her ground as a third dent manifested itself. His ears rang. This is a lady I wish I’d knownbefore, he mused silently. A lady who could change a man, alter thecourse and direction of his life. She could have changed mine. But thatwas before. Too late now. Been too late for a long time.

No more concussive vibrations rattled his eardrums. No fourth bulge appeared in the barrier. Dead silence ruled the corridor. Gradually everyone’s attention shifted from that no longer perfect but still intact doorway back to the single woman in their midst.

When she slowly sat down and closed her eyes, back against one wall, the unified sigh of relief that filled the room was like the last failing breeze that marks the passing of a recent storm.

The survivors gathered in the assembly hall, reduced in number but expanded in spirit. Dillon stood before them, waiting to make sure all were present. Only then did he begin.

‘Rejoice, brothers! Even for those who have fallen this is a time of rejoicing. Even as we mourn their passing we salute their courage. Because of their sacrifice, we live, and who is to say which of us, the living or the dead, has the better deal’

‘Of one thing we are certain: they have their reward. They are in a far better place because there can be no worse one.

They will live forever. Rejoice. Those who are dead but go on, freed of their restraints, free from the excoriations of a thoughtless society. It abandoned them, and now they have abandoned it. They have moved up. They have moved higher.

Rejoice and give thanks!’

The men bowed their heads and began to murmur softly to themselves.

Ripley and Aaron watched from the gallery above.

Eventually the assistant superintendent glanced over at his companion. Both had spent time in the showers. They were far from refreshed, but at least they were clean. Ripley had delighted in the hot, pounding spray, knowing that this time she could enjoy it without having to keep a wary eye on the sealtight or the vents.

‘What do you think of this?’ He indicated the ragged, makeshift assemblage below.

She’d been listening with only half a mind, the rest of her thoughts elsewhere. ‘Not much. I guess if they take pleasure in it. .’