[AVP] - Aliens vs. Predator Read online

  AVP

  Alien vs. Predator

  Marc Cerasini

  PROLOGUE

  Northern Cambodia, 2000 B.C.

  The first columns of sunlight stabbed through the canopy of tangled branches. Birds took flight, cawing a greeting to the dawn, their scarlet wings staining the pale sky as they skimmed the hard gray angles of a massive stone pyramid. Nearby, the air quaked with the incessant rumble of the river as it pulsed over a serrated cliff then broke on the ragged rocks far below.

  Along the jungle floor, where thick vegetation muted the waterfall’s roar, a wet snout parted a knot of vines and branches. Leaves stirred, sending a rustling hiss down an overgrown trail. The wild pig sniffed, then listened. With a satisfied grunt, it penetrated the underbrush and burst into the clearing.

  Short tail swishing, the pig trotted onto a carpet of moss near a grove of ancient trees. Aggressively it snuffled the damp, fetid ground. At the twisted base of a mammoth trunk, its body stilled. Then its spotted hide quivered with excitement, and its front paws dug into the soft, black soil, spilling chunks of fungus and a knot of squirming worms onto the green moss. Finally, with loud snorting gulps, the animal began consuming its prey.

  Behind the gorging pig, leaves parted again, this time without a sound. A pair of mud-brown eyes peered through the opening in the tight branches, focusing on the wild pig’s twitching hide. Funan the Hunter lifted his paint-streaked face to the sky. Like the pig had before him, he sniffed the air and listened.

  Monkeys chattered on high and a single bird cried out, but not in alarm. In the lower branches tree apes leaped and chattered, sending twigs and foliage raining down on the jungle floor. Closer to the cool, moist earth, insects crawled, squirmed, cackled and buzzed through the curling fingers of mist.

  Funan smiled. He and his hunt mates had patiently stalked their prey. The time for the kill was almost upon them. But not yet. Only when Funan was satisfied that all conditions were right would he signal his men with his sun-bronzed hand.

  Slipping like shadows out of the underbrush, twin brothers Fan Shih and Pol Shih moved to either side of Funan. Like their chief, they clutched wooden spears tipped with chipped obsidian. Camouflaged for the hunt, their faces, torsos and chests were darkened by ash and slashed with brown and green mud. Leafy vines encircled their arms and legs and crowned their heads.

  Adorning their hips, untreated leather thongs displayed trophies of previous hunts—skulls, bones, rows of sharp teeth and curved fangs belonging to a dozen species. Dangling from cords around their necks were bits of fur, feather and quartz, magical charms meant to ensure a successful hunt.

  As a breeze moved over him, Funan stroked a dried monkey’s tail hanging at his throat and sniffed the air once more. He could smell the pig, the vegetation, and the river in the distance—but nothing else. Yet tension preyed upon his nerves, and his men seemed on edge, too.

  Never before had they hunted this close to the sacred temple. Although the jungle around the stone pyramid teemed with wildlife, hunters always shunned this forbidden place. Only during the time of sacrifice, when the local tribes offered up their young men and women to the gods, would the people enter these grounds.

  Funan knew he was reckless to hunt near a site deemed so sacred. The hunt should really end now, but he decided otherwise, signaling the last member of their group.

  A giant of a man called Jawa moved forward in a crouch, then ducked behind a lump of ropy vines. He clutched a long spear that seemed tiny in his immense hand, and a stout club hung from the leather thong at his hip. Like the others, Jawa was camouflaged with mud and vegetation, and from his belt hung bear’s teeth and a piece of bone from a large jungle cat. His powerful chest still bore the angry scars from the cat’s savage combat.

  Unseen at Jawa’s feet, another hunt had reached its lethal climax. A ruddy, gray-green lizard and a horned, black beetle were locked in a death struggle on the jungle floor, oblivious to the giant in whose shadow they warred. When Funan made a chopping motion with his left hand, Jawa stepped out of his hiding place, crushing both lizard and beetle under his brown, calloused foot.

  Slipping through the brush, Jawa moved to his position, flanking the pig. He cackled once, imitating the call of the red-and-green bird that inhabited this region. From their own hiding places, Funan and the two Shih brothers rose, spidery mist hugging their legs as they moved.

  Funan took the lead. Soon he would be near enough to strike a fatal blow with the first throw—or be gouged by the creature’s tusks should he miss. In a flashing spasm, his muscles quivered, his heart raced. Then, as suddenly as it came, the tension evaporated and a cold calm washed over him.

  Lifting his spear, Funan was about to take aim when something went wrong. The pig’s snout, black with dirt, jerked high to sniff the air. Ears twitching, the pig snorted nervously.

  Funan did not dare breathe. Behind him, Fan and Pol Shih paused in mid-stride. As a fly buzzed around his head, Funan drew back his weapon. But before he could strike, the startled pig ducked under a log, then vanished in the bush. The echo of the pig’s crashing retreat lingered for a moment, then faded.

  Funan looked at Jawa in bewilderment. They had done everything right—yet somehow they had spooked their prey. Behind their chief, Fan and Pol lowered their weapons, perplexed.

  Then, abruptly, all sound in the jungle ceased. Every bird, every insect seemed to fall silent. Only the distant pounding of the falling river water penetrated the thick vegetation. In the quiet echo of the thundering pulse, Funan warily scanned the clearing but saw nothing. Fan and Pol Shih also raised their spears, poised to attack. But attack what?

  With a loud crack, a black, whiplike appendage shot out from the underbrush and encircled Fan Shih’s legs. Without even a cry of alarm, the hunter was dragged into the bushes, quivering leaves the only sign of his violent passage.

  Pol Shih raised his spear, ready to avenge his brother. But suddenly the spear was torn from the man’s hand. Kicking helplessly, he, too, was hauled across the clearing and into the bush. Only after Pol vanished from sight did he scream—once, twice, three times, the last a sustained howl of agony.

  Pol’s terror-filled shriek broke the courage of the others. Jawa bolted into the undergrowth, followed a moment later by Funan.

  Like the pig before him, Jawa fled blindly through the trees, ignoring the trail to trample through the jungle. Vines caught his arms, and he dropped his spear to move faster, fright driving him on.

  Finally out of breath, Jawa stumbled into a clearing domed by interlocking vines. He braced his heaving form against a tree trunk. Panting, legs wide, Jawa listened in the heavy shade for the sound of pursuit. Behind him, he heard Funan’s whipping movements through the jungle, but nothing else.

  The black, formless shadow dropped out of the tree with no warning. Landing in a crouch, the large, insectlike beast unfolded itself and faced Jawa. A doglike whimper escaped the warrior as he took a step backwards. He fumbled for the stout wood-and-stone club that dangled from his rawhide belt. But there was no time to fight, only to die. The final imprinting on Jawa’s senses were sharp teeth and gnashing jaws, hot drool and red blood.

  Seconds later, Funan stumbled into the same shaded clearing—in time to see Jawa hauled helplessly into the vines above. A scarlet rain sprinkled the ground, and warm drops splashed Funan. The chief hunter, his fist still choking the neck of his spear, searched the branches above for any sign of Jawa.

  But the man was gone.

  Spear raised, Funan scanned his surroundings. He stood in a cove of ancient, thick-boled trees, the largest covered with shiny black bark. Struggling for calm, Funan halted his anxious wh
eezing to listen for his enemy’s approach. Only then did Funan hear a wet, ripping sound from behind. He spun, his spear thrusting forward.

  With mounting horror, Funan watched the dark, oily bark begin to move, peeling itself away from the trunk. With a fleshy, popping sound the shapeless mass sprouted limbs. Then an oblong head emerged, the appendage covered with glistening, near-translucent skin. A bony, segmented tail unwound itself from a heavy branch, and with a wet thump, the writhing obscenity dropped to the ground.

  The creature, chattering like some terrible giant insect, rose to its full, immense height and shambled toward the cowering hunter. Gnashing jaws parted to extend a long, veined mandible tipped with yet another snapping, drooling orifice.

  Weapon forgotten, Funan attempted to flee. In his panic, he stumbled over the entangling vines. Twisting his ankle, Funan struck the ground hard, spear flying from his numbed fist. Then the mightiest hunter of his tribe curled up into a cowering ball and waited for death to claim him. This, he knew, was his punishment for encroaching on the sacred ground around the Temple of the Gods.

  Hot spittle splashed his cheek and burned his skin. Chattering jaws snapped at his throat, and a deadly shadow, black as death itself, loomed over him, ready to strike, when an astounding thing happened.

  Another abomination emerged from the jungle.

  Funan first saw the creature as a blur—for the world seemed to shimmer with its passing. Wherever the apparition stalked, the jungle melted and reformed itself. In a blinding flash of movement, the translucent figure shot across the clearing and struck the black monster at Funan’s throat, penetrating its segmented armored shell with a bone-crushing stab and tossing it away.

  The black monster’s exoskeleton clattered as it hit the ground, and Funan saw that the armored plates at the creature’s throat had indeed been pierced and shattered. Fountains of green, acidic blood spurted from the black monster’s wound, spraying leaves and branches and vines. Every place the venomous fluid touched began to smoke and burn. The molten hot drops struck Funan, too, and he rolled on the ground and cried out with raw agony.

  The phantom paused to hover over the fallen hunter, and as Funan pulled his hands away from his face and looked up, the ghostly blur formed into a solid thing—a nightmare that appeared part man, part reptile, part demonic beast. The phantom stood on two legs as thick as logs. Its torso was scaled, its wide face covered by a metal mask. Barbarous eyes burned from behind that mask—eyes Funan desperately tried to avoid.

  Then the phantom stepped past the human, moving with giant strides toward the black monster still writhing on the ground. Funan watched as the phantom raised its enormous arms. Then, with a sharp and sudden click, a trio of silver blades burst out of the band around the creature’s wrist. Sunlight glinted off razor-sharp tips. The phantom grunted in satisfaction and looked down at Funan once again.

  Funan covered his eyes and prayed to all the ancestors of his people. He begged for mercy from a dozen tribal deities, great and small. And to Funan’s eternal surprise, one of those gods answered his pleas.

  Shaking its head in pity, as if the fallen human was not worth the time or effort to kill, the Predator turned once again to face its real prey.

  The chattering black monster, its ragged neck wound still spewing poisonous green bile, put its back against a tree. Tail whipping, claws extended, the monster prepared for its final battle.

  Legs braced, the Predator tossed its head and let loose with a savage howl that shook the jungle. Then it charged.

  Funan heard flesh rip and chitinous armor crack. Then came the wet sound of green phosphorescent blood and acidic poisonous venom as both splattered the clearing.

  Branches shook and trees quaked in the wake of the terrible life-and-death struggle. While the jungle smoked and burned around him, Funan watched in helpless fascination as two primeval creatures, whose unearthly origins were beyond his comprehension, fought savagely to the death.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bouvetoya Whaling Station,

  Antarctica, 1904

  The Emma sailed for the shores of Bouvetoya Island at the start of the 1904 whaling season with a full complement of sailors, harpooners, boats and oil processing equipment—enough to slaughter whales and extract their oil for a full year on the Antarctic ice before returning to Norway the following year.

  Emma’s newest skipper and part-owner Sven Nyberg intended to make his first and last voyage as a whaler a profitable one. Sven’s brother, Bjorn, had been the Emma’s captain for nineteen seasons, but Bjorn had died of a fever during last year’s return voyage, which had compelled his brother to assume command on this, the final commercial venture of the Nyberg Brothers Oil Company of Oslo. Upon his return to Norway, Sven fully intended to sell his family’s business to the highest bidder.

  The dawn of this new century was bringing an end to traditional whaling. Magnate Christian Christensen had opened a modern processing facility in Grytviken that would eventually edge out smaller Antarctic whaling concerns like the Nyberg brothers—men who’d followed methods practiced by Norwegians since the days of the Vikings. Like seal hunting, an activity that had made many a family fortune back in the 1870s, whaling was becoming an unprofitable enterprise. Declining herds and rising competition from British and Scottish whalers—and recently even the Japanese—along with giant conglomerates like the Christensen corporation were gradually ending the era of the self-sufficient, independent whaler.

  Still, Sven Nyberg would try to make the Nyberg Brothers a viable oil company for a little while longer. It was the only way to ensure a profitable sale of his family’s interests. To that end Sven had offered Oslo’s most experienced whale hunter, Karl Johanssen, a position as first mate, with a five-percent share of the expedition’s profits. If successful, the Emma’s journey to the South Pole would make Karl a very wealthy man.

  The offer could not have come at a better time for Karl Johanssen. A whaler since he’d been twelve years old, Johanssen had weathered twenty-seven seasons on the ice and survived them with all of his limbs, fingers and toes intact—no mean feat where temperatures could reach 50 degrees below zero. From past voyages with brother Bjorn, Johanssen was also familiar with the Nyberg Brothers’ oil processing facility on Bouvetoya Island, one of the world’s most remote locations.

  A few years before, in 1897, Karl Johanssen thought he’d given up the sea for good. Lured to northern California by his brother’s promises of wealth, Karl had squandered his meager savings trying to strike it rich in the Alaska gold rush. Forced to return to whaling out of financial desperation, he’d been ready to sign onto one of Christensen’s ships for a paltry one-half of one percent share when Sven Nyberg had made his offer. A berth as first mate with a full five-percent share was Karl’s lucky second chance at a comfortable retirement.

  Of course, Karl would work hard for the money. Sven Nyberg was an indifferent seaman, and he’d never spent even a single season on the Antarctic ice. Fortunately, during their long twelve months of back-breaking labor, Sven had been wise enough to defer to Karl’s judgment in nearly every situation. Under the harpooner’s tutelage, the younger Nyberg brother had learned secrets of the whale hunting trade that it would have taken him years to discover on his own. The result, after a year, was an incredibly successful hunt, with Emma towing over three hundred carcasses into the cove at Bouvetoya Island. There the remains of blues, minkes and sperms would be cut up and the blubber rendered for its oil.

  It was during the grimy rendering process, when the men were outside for lengths of time attending the huge iron vat dominating the harbor, that the whalers began to see strange lights in the sky, and not the southern lights they were used to seeing.

  Over Lykke Peak and the taller, three-thousand-foot Olav Peak that overshadowed the oil processing facility, bursts like distant cannon fire lit the sky, and explosions on the ice could be heard in the distance. Then a strange reddish glow appeared on the horizon, illuminating the ceaseless twili
ght with the brilliance of a thousand cook fires. The light danced crimson off the ice and tinged the millions of whalebones that littered the beach a sickly hue. Often—but not always—the eerie lights were accompanied by tremors deep beneath the ground under their feet.

  While volcanic activity on the island was not unusual—sometime in 1896 part of the island had even been destroyed by a volcanic eruption—the phenomena unsettled the whalers, who were trapped on Bouvetoya until the spring thaw no matter what happened. So after a few days of these strange events, in an effort to calm the whalers’ fears and discover the cause of the eerie pyrotechnics, Karl led a group of sailors away from the harbor’s ramshackle wooden buildings and onto the glacial ice that covered the fifty-square-mile island.

  On a vast frozen plain, they recovered a large, metallic object shaped like a coffin built for a giant. The object was embedded in the ice in the middle of a huge crater. Its silvery surface was smooth and bullet-shaped, with no visible joints or openings. There were markings etched into the metal—a strange, alien scrimshaw no whaler in the party could read or even recognize. Though the metal coffin appeared to be hollow, no one could figure out how to open it, or what was inside.

  Karl Johanssen thought it best to leave the thing where it lay, but in this one instance the skipper overruled him. Captain Nyberg was eager to find another way to make the voyage profitable, so he ordered the sailors to load the object onto a sledge and use a dog team to drag it back to camp. It took five men and fifteen dogs a full day to fulfill the captain’s wishes, but when they were finished, the shining metal coffin was stored in the warehouse, among the barrels of whale oil waiting to be loaded into the ship’s hold. In just a few weeks, moderate temperatures would slowly free the Emma from the icy prison of the frozen bay. Then the crew could return to Norway and claim the reward for twelve long months of labor.