Marc Cerasini - AVP - Alien vs. Predator

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.

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 trouble.”

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.”

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.”